Uther

He reached out and touched her shoulder, turning her gently to face the direction from which she had arrived.

"Come, lady, let me walk back with you." He left his helmet lying on the tabletop as he turned and moved away slowly, deep in thought and making no attempt to touch her again, so that she followed him, walking quickly until she had gained his side. He spoke to her as they went, his tone conversational.

"Tomorrow, the Queen and her other women will leave here and travel northward, back to Camulod. We have a wagon for them, so they will not have to walk. There they will be lodged in comfort and in far more safety than I can offer them in the middle of a raiding campaign until Gulrhys Lot has come to terms with me. Should he turn out to be the man you have described to me. then . . . I know not what I might do. That's a bridge I won't cross till I need to, as they say. But that's it. I have made up my mind. So please tell the other women what I intend to do and that they need to be ready. And some time later, you and the Lady Dyllis will leave in search of Lot, to acquaint him with my terms for the Queen's return. When he and I have agreed upon those terms, the Queen and all her women will be freed to return home. Ah, there they all are. They must have been concerned for you. I'll stop here."

He did so immediately, and Ygraine, on the point of hurrying forward to where the other women awaited her, turned suddenly and raised one hand to prevent him from leaving immediately. He paused, one eyebrow raised as he waited for her question, but she had to cast about before she could find the words with which to phrase it.

"My worn—, the women, my friends, and the Queen . . . should Gulrhys Lot refuse to discuss . . . what did you call it, terms for them? Should that occur, would you . . . will you . . . kill them?"

Uther Pendragon looked at her solemnly and then drew himself erect, heaving a huge sigh. "Barbarian," he said. "Is that the kindest word you might have for me, perhaps? No, lady, I would not kill your friends, nor would I feed them to my dogs or even give them to my men for sport. I would not even keep them prisoners, adding a further insult to their own King's disregard for them. Now, were you to tell that to Gulrhys Lot, then he would certainly refuse to treat with me on their behalf, but you yourself would be betraying your Queen and your friends in the telling, so dwell upon that if you will. And now farewell, lady, until I send for you again." He bowed and walked away, back towards his horse, leaving her staring after him.

Ygraine did not sleep well that night, because the word she took back to the women's tent regarding their impending move northward to Camulod set off a storm of fearful speculation among them that not even her authority could have quelled, and it did not die down until long after the lights had been lit and supper had been brought to them.

What would the Cambrian King's reaction be when he discovered how he had been duped? Ygraine told them of his promise, but surely, if he was the ogre he was said to be, his anger would be boundless and unrestrained. Would any of their lives be safe from his fury? They began to whisper stories and dimly remembered rumours of the savagery of the Camulodian raiders who had first penetrated Cornwall several years earlier, and the atrocities they had reportedly committed against peaceful Cornish farmers and residents, and there was little sleep in the command tent that night.

There was little sleep in Uther's tent, either, for the King lay awake for hours, fretting in spite of his own admonitions to himself. It had been important to him that day, far more important than he had known at the time, to assure Ygraine of his good intentions and to dispel the image of the fearsome villain that Gulrhys Lot had hung about his neck. He tossed and turned incessantly, fighting that lifelong war within himself, the struggle between who and what he was and who and what he ought to be, brandishing a torch against the darkness he felt inside, trying to banish the ogre that raged inside him. He had seen fear in her eyes. And in the darkness of his tent he recalled, though he tried not to, the fears of his mother, who would not bear another child lest it be branded with the hatreds of the Pendragon clan. And so he lay awake until the morning light crept in to chase the shadows away.

Chapter TWENTY-SEVEN

Come morning, the guards were everywhere, under the unsmiling eye of the surly one called Nemo, shepherding the women as they gathered up all their belongings and made shift to decamp northward. Bemused, Ygraine watched all of their preparations, amazed at how, after mere days in strictly confined seclusion, such a small number of women could have gathered and dispersed so great an array of clothing and belongings. After little more than an hour of chaos, however, everything had been gathered up and packed, and a stream of troopers had carried the cases from the enormous command tent to the equally gigantic commissary wagon that had been placed at the disposal of the women for their journey.

Six matched horses, all of them larger than any horse Ygraine had ever seen before, were tethered in the traces of the huge wagon, which sat upon shaped layers of leafed, iron springs fastened to its axles and rode on four vast wheels bound with broad, thick tires of solid iron greater in width than the entire span of her hand. So massive was this vehicle and so high its bed above the ground that the women had to use a ladder to climb up into it.

Ygraine and Dyllis embraced each of the women in turn as they climbed up into the high wagon, and Ygraine was one of the few who remained dry-eyed at the parting, although she attributed most of the flowing tears to her companions' natural and understandable fears rather than to any grief over leaving her and Dyllis behind. Then, as the teamster gathered the reins together in one huge hand and cracked his whip over the beasts' heads for the first time, she stepped back and away, holding her hand high in a gesture of farewell but watching the straining muscles of the enormous animals as they threw their weight into the traces and pulled the heavy wagon into rumbling motion. She stood there motionless for some time after that, aware of Dyllis's closeness and watching the receding wagon until it turned and was lost to sight behind a bank of trees.

Over by the King's Tent, she knew, guards would be loading Morgas and the other women, along with their possessions, into the cart. Ygraine wished she had been able to speak with her before their separation, but she had had no opportunity even to approach the other woman since learning that they were to be moved. She had, however, sent one of the others, Fyrgas, as her messenger, with advice and instructions for Morgas on how to behave in her role as Queen.

Shaking her head slightly at the thought that the headstrong Morgas was now beyond her control, Ygraine hooked her arm through Dyllis's and began to walk back towards the now empty command tent. Nemo, the captain of the guard, stood waiting for them beside two troopers, whose arms were filled with the few possessions she and Dyllis had retained. As soon as the women came into view. Nemo turned quickly and led the two men away, plainly expecting her to follow.

Ygraine fell into step behind them, moving at her own pace. But when she saw where they were leading her, she stopped dead in her tracks. Nemo turned and came back to where she stood, staring, then took her none too gently by the upper arm and propelled her firmly the rest of the way to the King's Tent. The two tall, helmeted and uniformly cloaked and armoured guards who flanked the entrance paid her not the slightest glance of interest or attention as Nemo pushed her roughly between them and through the doorway.

"Wait here." She was pushed again, this time towards a chair, and she sat obediently, sensing that she would end up tied to it if she offered any resistance. Nemo gazed at her for a moment with eyes so empty that the sight of them made her suppress a shudder, then turned away to beckon to the two men carrying their belongings. They each moved directly into one of the two sleeping cubicles and laid down their burdens, then came out and saluted Nemo, who waved them away. Turning back to the women. Nemo ignored Dyllis and swept Ygraine from head to toe with a look that was neither interested nor curious.

"Wait here. Don't move." Nemo marched out of the tent, leaving them alone again.

Ygraine turned to Dyllis and asked her to go into her sleeping cubicle so that she could be alone. With her companion gone, Ygraine sat quietly for a while, adjusting to her new situation, letting her eyes drift around the tent with its sparse furnishings.

It was exactly as she had seen it on her earlier visits to Morgas: bare, functional and showing no sign at all of human occupancy. The poles of the frame for holding armour were bare; the footlockers were closed. She crossed to the washstand and lifted the jug, noting that the surface beneath it was dry.

"It's empty."

The words came from close behind her and she almost dropped the ewer in her shock and surprise. She swung around immediately, anger and resentment welling up in her, only to discover that the Cambrian had not, as she had assumed, crept up on her while her back was turned. He stood framed in the tent's entrance, balancing his weight lazily on one straight leg, with the other knee bent and one hand gripping the hanging flap. The sun at his back turned him into a looming silhouette.

"Shall I send for water for you, lady?" Now she saw that he was almost smiling.

"No." She shook her head and crossed quickly back to her chair. "Do you intend to keep me here now, a prisoner like—?"

"Queen Ygraine?" He shrugged his shoulders and moved into the tent. "What other choice have I? You can hardly remain all alone in the big tent, can you?" He glanced around him. "You are alone, though. Where is the other woman, Dyllis?"

"She is here, behind the partition."

He nodded. "Good. So you will stay here. You will be comfortable, and it should not be for long."

"Too long, I think. This is your tent. Where will you be sleeping?"

He raised a mocking eyebrow. "As you say, lady, it is my tent. I had thought to place my cot in here in the front. Would you rather have me sleep outside upon the ground?"

"Lacking another alternative, yes, I would. But I would have thought you might sleep in the tent that you were using yesterday."

"That tent belongs to my subordinate commander, Huw Strong- arm. He sleeps there."

Ygraine tossed her head. "There should be ample room for both of you. Besides, I venture to think he might be safer sharing a tent with you than any woman—or any two women—would be."

"Tut, lady, you have a jagged tongue—" he dipped his head in a gesture of acknowledgment, his lips twisted in a rueful little grin "—but little consideration for junior commanders. I will not dispossess young Huw to please your whim, no matter how well he might adjust to it. That's not my way. But I will do as you request and sleep outside, not on the ground, but on my cot. So you may rest easy."

"Did my lady the Queen rest easy here?"

Uther made a face and spread his hands in a shrug. "She did not suffer, to my knowledge. Did she complain to you?"

When Ygraine made no reply, Uther looked around him again and raised his voice slightly. "Lady Dyllis?"

Dyllis poked her head out from behind the partition. "Yes?"

"Look to your lady here." He turned back to Ygraine, smiling. "I must leave for a day or two to scout out the lie of the land and make sure there are no unsuspected threats out there, but I shall return. In the meantime, Nemo will look after you and provide you with anything you require."

He saluted quickly and walked out, leaving Ygraine to turn to Dyllis, open-mouthed.

'"Look to your lady,' is that what he said?" Dyllis nodded, unable to respond, and Ygraine shook her head in a frowning, troubled negative. "We must have misunderstood him."

Uther was as good as his word and returned two days later to find Ygraine and Dyllis sitting outside in the spring sunlight, their guards close by, deeply involved in repairing some of their outer clothing that was the worse for wear. He paid no attention to what they were doing and insisted that they come into the tent with him immediately. Discovering that there was no place to sit, he strode back outside to fetch the chairs they had been using, and when they were seated, he picked up one of the two low footlockers set against the partition and placed it atop the other, then sat on both.

"Have you been well treated while I was away?" They acknowledged that they had and he nodded, evidently having expected nothing less. "Well, it's time I let you in on more of the details of your situation. You should know now that when I first captured you, I sent off envoys to Gulrhys Lot with the authority to discuss terms for your release."

"And . . . ?"

He shrugged. "And I thought at that time that if all went well. I might expect to hear something from them within two weeks . . . by today or tomorrow at the latest."

"And . . . ?" This time he made no response, merely raising an eyebrow, and Ygraine continued. "What if all did not go well? What if Lot has killed your envoys or holds them prisoner? He is capable of that. He has his mercenaries, and he has no fear of consequences."

"Aye, I have no doubt he's capable of it. But would he do such a thing in this instance, d'you think, knowing that his Queen and her women would bear the brunt of such behaviour? Is he that low?"

Ygraine allowed her face to betray nothing. Instead, she answered him in measured, level tones. "He is a man and a King. You are a man and a King. Ask yourself that question, therefore, not me. Would you do such a thing?"

Uther's face grew dark so suddenly that the sight of it chilled her. "No, lady, I would not," he hissed, almost snarling with anger.

He stood up then, sudden and forceful, and moved angrily about the tent, looking at neither woman. He braced himself in the doorway with a white-knuckled grip on the leather flaps and gazed fiercely out into the bright afternoon light. The women looked at each other and exchanged glances of baffled wonderment, but neither made any attempt to speak. Finally Uther sighed, deep and hard, and turned back to face them, looking at Ygraine.

"I would never consider such a thing, lady. But Gulrhys Lot did. He killed my messengers, all of them, when they were guarded by his oath of protection and safe passage. And for that, I promise you, I will have his foul guts stretched and dried to string my men's longbows. You must be fell proud of your husband, lady."

"What?" Ygraine felt the blood drain from her face. "What did you say?"

Uther looked at her and sucked in a mighty breath, then held it long before he let it go again. "I said 'your husband,' Gulrhys Lot, the man to whom you stand condemned to wife—"

He stopped abruptly as she jumped to her feet, the colour draining from her face, and his scowl deepened as he saw what he took to be fear filling her wide eyes.

"What?" he growled, exasperated. "Are you to scream now? Think you I'm going to flog you for being your husband's wife? You scoffed when Huw Strongarm told you I do not war on women, but he spoke the truth. Gulrhys Lot does enough of that for both of us. It is his nature, part of what sets him apart from ordinary, human folk. I hold no blame over you for the actions of that man, and none, either, for having wedded him. I know your story, and it leaves you blameless."

She took one hand in the other and squeezed with all her strength, digging her nails into the side of her palm and forcing herself to be calm and to think clearly. He knew her, there was no avoiding or gainsaying that. . . but that was unimportant. What was important was . . . She swallowed hard, fighting down panic. What was important was that Lot had killed his messengers, slaughtered them under promise of safe conduct.

"When did you discover this . . . treachery?"

"Several days ago, lady. I heard the tidings several days ago."

"And why have you said nothing until now? Why this mummery of sending me with messages to Lot? You knew then that would be worse than useless."

"Aye, lady, I did."

"And did you know then who I am?"

"Aye, that, too."

"And when did you discover that?"

"The first time I set eyes on you by the roadside, after the ambush in which Huw Strongarm captured you and your train."

"Then what of Morgas, who was supposed to be the Queen? Why did you permit that pretence?"

"Because it suited my purpose. It did me no harm to have you think your secret was secure."

"But you were bedding her!"

He shrugged. "I was bedding a woman, not a Queen. That was no hardship, for her or for me. We both enjoyed it, I think."

"But. . . but then, why send her away and keep me here ?"

"Because I had to separate you from the rest of the women. Once I heard that Lot had scorned his chance to gain you back, they became an encumbrance, and you took on a new importance."

She cocked her head to one side. "Even though you knew he would not treat for me?"

"Most particularly so."

Ygraine shook her head in denial. "You say you knew me when you first set eyes on me, but that is simply not possible, it means that you must have seen me somewhere before. But I have never been beyond Cornwall since first I set foot in Britain."

He shook his head. "I did not say I had seen you before. I simply recognized you for who you are. That's why I mentioned Deirdre of the Violet Eyes."

So astounded was she at hearing him use the name a second time that she could not even think to protest. "Explain that." she whispered.

He glanced quickly from her to Dyllis and then back to Ygraine.

"Deirdre was your sister, who suffered a strange childhood illness and died many years ago, is that not correct?"

She nodded, too stunned to speak.

"Aye, well, she did not die when your family thought she had. She survived for many years, though she was deaf and mute, and she travelled eventually to Britain, where she met and wed my beloved cousin, Merlyn Britannicus of Camulod. He and I found her alone and lost one day in the woods while we were on patrol—actually, I found her, or Nemo did, to be strictly truthful—and we took her back with us to Camulod. She had your face, unmistakably."

"She had my face . . ."

"Aye, she did. She is dead now, killed, murdered, almost a year ago, and we never discovered who did it. She died carrying my cousin Merlyn's child."

"But—"Ygraine looked away, trying to find words. Her head was reeling, her shock overwhelming her ability to deal with all the information that had come at her so swiftly. She shook her head, hard, and forced herself to think clearly, grasping at the one incongruous though! that had occurred to her in listening to what he had said. "But wait. . . she was deaf and mute from childhood. Her world was one of silence. How, then, could she have told you who she was?"

"She did not tell us. It was your brother Donuil who told Merlyn her real name, when the two, brother and sister, met again in Camulod—Lady!"

Strange noises had been buzzing in Ygraine's head for what seemed to be a long time, but when she heard her brother's name on this man's lips, suddenly everything about her began to spin. And then she felt as though she were flying through the air, weightless and without substance, with only a roaring in her ears, filling her head.

With a red haze fading quickly from in front of her eyes, she regained her senses moments later to find Uther Pendragon's face close to her own, his brows knitted in a ferocious scowl, while from above his shoulder Dyllis peered down at her, wide-eyed. Somewhat frantically, Ygraine struggled to sit upright, realizing only as she did so that the man's arm was completely encircling her, supporting her weight as though he had been carrying her. She realized then that she had fainted, and that he must have caught her as she fell, then borne her to the cot on which she now reclined with his support. Her heart fluttering, close to the edge of panic, she sat bolt upright and swung her feet around and down until they were solidly on the ground, pushing him away from her as she did so, protesting that she was perfectly well and required no assistance.

Uther stood upright immediately and took a long pace backwards, and she concentrated hard upon not looking at him as she brought herself back to order and decorum. Finally, when she felt that she was in command of herself again, she nodded once, curtly, in tacit acknowledgment of his assistance and courtesy.

"Lady, I said too much, too soon. You will have much to think about now. I will leave you to the questions that must be bubbling in your mind, and I will come back later. At least then I might be able to answer some of your questions. When I do come back, let there be no more talk between us two of Gulrhys Lot. His crime is committed, his foulness demonstrated, and neither you nor I can hold the other one responsible for his degeneracy. So let his name lie cursed and unspoken from this time between you and me." He raised his clenched fist to his breast in salute, then bowed stiffly from the waist and turned. Just before he left, however, he hesitated and half turned back to speak over his shoulder. "Forgive me, lady, if my bluntness has angered you. I had not intended saying all I said, and I had not considered how it might offend you to learn of it so suddenly and unexpectedly. In truth, I did not think at all . . . So now I, too, must spend some time alone, considering all the many complex strangenesses that are involved in this."

They watched him leave the tent, dipping his head as he passed through the doorway, and then Dyllis turned, her eyes filled with wonder, and opened her mouth to speak, but Ygraine cut her short.

"Leave me alone now, Dyllis, if you would. Go you and find you something to keep you occupied. As our jailer said, I have many questions calling to be answered, and I don't even know how to ask most of them. I have to think, and the last thing I need is to have you hovering there, gazing at me wide-eyed."

As soon as the other woman had gone, Ygraine adjusted her girdle until it was slack, arranged her gown loosely about her for comfort and lay down on her cot, closing her eyes against the light. Her mind was buzzing with long-repressed memories of her childhood in Eire and the swarm of siblings and cousins and relatives among whom she had grown up. Some of their names and faces had been lost to her for years. Even Deirdre, her younger sister, whose name she had borrowed in her vain attempt to deceive the Cambrian, had remained walled up until now in some vault in her memory; she had chosen the name simply because it was one she thought to be safe and beyond any random association with her own. Now, however, she allowed her thoughts to drift to the terror she and all her kin had felt when the child had suffered for so long and then survived the terrifying illness that had stricken her. an illness that resembled no other sickness known to anyone, not even the eldest and most learned Druids in her father's lands.

Deirdre had clung stubbornly to life and in the end had survived, but at a terrible cost. The magnificent violet eyes that had given her her name had been faded and permanently dimmed, leached of their colour in some frightening manner by the severity of the fevers that had consumed her tiny body, so that they were pale grey forever after. Even her rich, chestnut hair had lost its lustrous colour. She had lost her voice, too, in that illness, and her hearing, and thinking back on it again, Ygraine shuddered afresh, thinking it was no wonder that the people of her father's kingdom had eyed the child uneasily thereafter and whispered among themselves of witchcraft and the interference of the dark gods of night and death.

Several years after that illness, little Deirdre fell ill again, and this time she wandered away unnoticed from their father's encampment one night in the grip of a high fever and was never seen again. Everyone mourned her then as dead, for it had been inconceivable that the child—she was a mere twelve years old, even then -might survive a second time, unable to hear or speak or to fend for herself in the wild forest that surrounded their home.

And now this upstart Cambrian Outlander brought word that Deirdre had not only survived but had married his cousin, Merlyn Britannicus of Camulod. It was inconceivable! For years now, since the days before she had come to Britain to be bride to Gulrhys Lot, she had been imbued with the tales of Uther Pendragon's savagery, his sullen, violent malevolence, and his furious lusts for blood and conquest. And hand in glove with those tales, she had heard much about the cowardly behaviour of his cousin, Merlyn of Camulod, a bird of the same plumage, fed on the same seeds of depravity since childhood, but less brave, although no less malicious, than his kinsman. And now she was being asked to believe that her own sister had married this same Merlyn Britannicus, and that her brother Donuil also lived in Camulod on friendly terms with these people? It was a ridiculous thing to suggest.

Ygraine found that she was frowning, even though her eyes were closed, and grinding her teeth as she dug deep to find and bolster the hatred that had always lain within her breast for Uther Pendragon. She could remember Gulrhys Lot describing to her father all the reasons why it was necessary for the two Kings and their two peoples to form a strong and enduring alliance. United, they would be able to withstand the advances and thwart the ambitions of this brash, hybrid tribe who called themselves Camulodians and who had but recently emerged from an alliance between the Pendragon clans of Cambria and the upstart dregs, deserters and leavings of the Roman armies that had fled Britain. Uther Pendragon and Merlyn of Camulod had always been among her greatest personal foes, the avowed enemies of the people of Cornwall.

Why then, she found herself wondering now, could she not summon up the anger and hatred that she knew was there inside her? She found herself shaking, as though she was in a fever, and she suddenly realized that she was shaking with fury, and that her rage was not directed at her captors. She sat completely upright, her eyes staring blankly at the wall, and shouted for Dyllis.

The flaps at the front of the tent were ripped open and two guards sprang in, bare blades already raised and ready to strike. Seeing her alone on her cot, sitting upright, they paused, frozen in mid-step.

"Lady?" growled one of the guards, while the other, Nemo, looked all around the tent. Ygraine shook her head, swallowing to free her voice.

"A dream," she said, huskily. "It frightened me. I was asleep. A dream, no more. My thanks."

The guards retreated slowly and went back outside, sheathing their swords and looking all about them, not yet convinced that all was well. Dyllis stood by the gap in the partition, her troubled gaze on Ygraine's face.

"Don't be concerned, Dyllis. Come over here and sit with me. I need to talk with you."

Ygraine turned sideways on her cot so that she could place her feet on the floor of the tent, which was no more than the grassy surface of the meadow surrounding them. She slipped her hands beneath her legs, palms downward between her thighs and the cot, and leaned forward to gaze directly into Dyllis's eyes.

"You are from Cornwall, Dyllis," she said. "Tell me, then, about Gulrhys Lot, my husband. But tell me as you would a friend, not as you would his wife or his Queen."

"My lady?" Dyllis's head was tilted slightly in confusion. Ygraine tried again.

"Dyllis, listen to me carefully, my dear . . . We have been together now for, what, three years? In all that time, I have never heard you or any of my women say anything about my lord and husband that might be taken as defamatory or treasonous or malicious. Or even honest, for that matter. Have I?" She shook her head and closed her eyes to shut out Dyllis's agonized look. "And yet I know that Morgas has been Gulrhys Lot's mistress since before I wed him, and so remains, from time to time. And I know, too, that this husband of mine has possessed every other one of my women, including you, since he wedded me. I know, in fact, that of all of us thirteen women, I am one of the least frequently blessed by his lustful potency." She heard a whimper from the other woman and opened her eyes quickly to see the pitiful expression on her face, a mixture of grief, fear and pain. "No, Dyllis. no, I am not angry. By all the gods, I swear I am happy for this, because—" She stopped short and drew a deep breath, conscious of the enormity of what she was about to say next and anticipating the pleasure she would gain from saying it.

"Because, Dyllis," she continued, "I, Ygraine Mac Athol of Eire, loathe and detest and hate my so-called lord and master, Gulrhys Lot of Cornwall. He is a foul and repulsive toad of a creature, for all his false, gentle smiles and winning ways. He is an evil, treacherous and overweening blot upon the earth. And it has taken me three years to acknowledge it. Since I have come to Cornwall, my ignoble lord has lain with me a total of five times. The first time, I was ecstatic, virginal, excited and afraid, and filled with wonder—and he brutalized me. The second time, more than a month later, I was no longer virgin, but even more afraid, and he tied me down and beat me and abused me, left me whimpering and terrified and sick . . . On the last three of those times I lay beneath him like a rotted log, my soul writhing in disgust and shame at what I had to do in being his wife.

"Two times, Dyllis. That was all he needed to convert his wife from a trembling novice into a disdainful, dutiful vessel into which he might relieve himself at his leisure. I have thanked all the gods in silence ever since then—the gods of Cambria and Eire and of everywhere else that gods might lurk—that there are many women willing to appease a King's lusts at any time. And I thanked the same gods doubly that he chose to send me off to live in exile with our friend Herliss in his white fortress of Tir Gwyn. There, away from his lusts and his bestiality, I have found a kind of happiness."

Ygraine sat silent then for several moments before withdrawing both her hands and holding them out impulsively towards Dyllis. The smaller woman took both of them in hers and leaned closer to her mistress, although she was still manifestly unwilling to speak, perhaps unsure of what to say.

"And yet," the Queen continued, "I have been at pains . . . have gone to extreme lengths . . . to maintain an outward show of loyalty and duty to this—thing that was my husband. Why? Can you tell me that Dyllis? Can you tell me why I should strive so hard to do that when the creature has debauched every one of my women, overcoming any loyalty they might have had to me by striking terror into them, if not for themselves, then for their families and loved ones? Or can you tell me why I have remained silent for as long as I have, knowing in my heart that my friends and their families were being abused and betrayed and terrorized by his outrageous and inhuman behaviour? Dyllis, I have spent years now wed to a creature beside whom a serpent would seem admirable and upright. Can you tell me how and why I have permitted that to be?" She squeezed the other woman's hands. "Fear not, my dear, I do not expect an answer . . . I am but talking aloud to myself at last, with open eyes and without fear.

"But listen carefully now. I would like you to number for me, if you will, every single instance you have seen or heard of the famous savagery and brutal depravity of this King Uther Pendragon. Point out to me, if you will, how and when and where he has abused us, any of us or any of our Cornish people, since we fell into his hands." She made a gesture with open hands, inviting comment, then fell silent, waiting.

Dyllis sat blinking at her for a long time before she, too, nodded and spread her hands.

"My lady, I cannot."

"No, you cannot. Nor can I, Dyllis, nor can I. And there is something else I cannot do, something of far greater import: I cannot remember ever having heard a single report of Uther Pendragon's foulness that did not come, in one way or another, from Gulrhys Lot."

She rose to her feet and crossed to the front of the tent where she pulled open the flaps and called for the guard. A moment later. Nemo pulled back the flaps and looked at her inquiringly. Ygraine nodded and spoke quietly and with courtesy.

"Your King said he would return here later to talk with me. Would you inform him that I would like to speak with him, if he has time?"

Nemo blinked once, glanced incuriously towards the other woman, then turned and left without a word.

A very short time later, Uther's voice sounded from the front of the tent, asking if he might come in. When Ygraine invited him to enter, he did so, stooping automatically to clear the lintel even though he wore no helmet and there was ample room above his head. Once inside, he stopped and looked from Ygraine to Dyllis, then back to Ygraine.

"You wish to speak to me?"

"Yes. I want to ask you some questions. Will you sit?"

The two footlockers still sat as he had arranged them earlier, one atop the other, and he moved to sit on them again. Ygraine remained standing, watching him as he moved. When he was settled, she moved closer to him, holding her hands clasped behind her back.

"Tell me how my brother Donuil came to be in Camulod."

Uther gazed calmly at her, then nodded. "Merlyn captured him three years ago when your people attacked us from the north as Lot attacked from the south. Merlyn captured, then released, almost two thousand of your folk and kept Donuil as hostage against your father's promise to remain uninvolved. It was to be for five years, but Merlyn and Donuil became friends, and Merlyn freed him from his oath as a hostage a year later. Donuil chose to stay in Camulod after his release to work with Merlyn."

"He chose to stay?"

Uther shrugged. "Aye, he did. Wanted to become Merlyn's adjutant. I thought they were both mad and told Merlyn so, but he paid no attention."

"What is an add—?"

"An adjutant. It is a Roman rank, administrative . . . an army officer."

"An army officer. A Roman army officer. My brother. Why do I find that difficult to credit?"

He shook his head. "No more so for you than it was for me, lady. But then, there are no Romans in Britain today. Your brother is in the army of Camulod, and as I said, he and Merlyn are friends."

"And what about Deirdre? Tell me of her."

"I have already told you almost all I know. Much of what happened occurred while I was in Cambria, not in Camulod."

"Tell me again, if you would."

Briefly, Uther retold all that he knew of the story, ending with the discovery of Deirdre's body in her hidden valley. As he was speaking, Ygraine finally sat down in one of the two chairs, listening closely, and when he had finished, she sat silent for a few moments more.

"And Merlyn of Camulod, what has he done to solve the mystery of her murder and avenge her death?"

Uther drew a deep breath. "It was right at that time that Lot launched his invasion of our territories—Cambria by sea and Camulod by land. Merlyn had been away for some time on Camulod's affairs and knew nothing about that until he was on his way home. He rode into an ambush in the Mendip hills, near Camulod, and was almost killed.

"I was close by there at the time with my cavalry, chasing a group of Lot's German mercenaries, cavalry troops that he had found somewhere in Gaul. I knew that this was the biggest danger facing us in the invasion, because having cavalry of any kind offered Lot an opportunity to equal our potential, and I had listened all my life to tales my grandfather told of the magnificent German light cavalry used by the Caesars in ancient times. I did not think he was aware of what he had there . . . not yet. . . but I knew that if those people were to win a single victory of any substance, Lot would turn the world upside down to find more of them and we, in Cambria and Camulod, would be in danger of being swamped and stamped out.

"So we were there. We had been chasing these mounted mercenaries halfway across Britain for weeks, trying to herd them into a place where we could trap them and wipe them out, and we were getting ready to bring them to battle finally when Merlyn and his party blundered across their path. Thank the gods we were as close as we were, for Merlyn's people were hugely outnumbered and caught in a death trap, and if we hadn't been there none of them would have survived. We smashed the German cavalry and managed to save the lives of most of Merlyn's men." Uther paused, realizing then that he and the captive Queen both had grief and loss to share between them. "Merlyn himself took a heavy blow on the head and hasn't recovered from it yet. Probably never will. He has no memory of who he was. Doesn't know me or anyone else. Doesn't remember who his wife was or even that he had a wife. He is alive, but he is not. . . He's not my Cousin Merlyn any more."

Ygraine stood up and moved slowly to the door of the tent, where she opened the flaps and stood looking out into the late-afternoon sunlight for a while, as Uther had done earlier in the day. Finally she straightened slightly and turned again to face him.

"Tell me exactly what took place when your envoys went to meet with Gulrhys Lot."

"Aye. One of my best scouts, a man called Owain, went right into Lot's encampment and lived there for days until he had found out everything there was to know about what happened in Lot's hall that night." He told the story swiftly and succinctly, omitting nothing and including the information about Lagan Longhead's mission to find and arrest his father Herliss.

When the sorry tale was done, Ygraine shook her head as though in disbelief.

"I know Lagan," she murmured, but when she spoke again it was with furious conviction. "This is iniquitous. Damnable. Lot has—Lot had—no followers more faithful or loyal than Herliss and his son. Lagan Longhead. And now he holds the man's wife and son, threatened with death, to ensure Lagan's continuing friendship. He is insane."

She was quiet again for a long time, then asked, "Tell me now honestly, if it pleases you, what was in your mind when you decided to keep me here and send my women away?"

He sat staring at her after that, his lips pursed and his eyes wrinkled at the corners as he mulled over her question. She stared back at him, her face expressionless, and made no attempt to speak again, content to wait. Across from her, Dyllis fidgeted slightly, then sat straight-backed, tucking in her chin and staring off into the distance.

"I'm tempted to answer your question with a question, to ask you what you thought was in my mind. But neither of us would be happy with that. So I will tell you the truth, even though it might make me look foolish in your eyes. It was in my mind that you might be . . . more valuable to me as a hostage to your father in Eire than you could ever be in any dealings I might have with Lot."

"Valuable . . . in what way?"

Uther shrugged his wide shoulders, shaking his head slightly at the same time. "It was a foolish, passing thought, and short-lived, although I fancy something might have come of it in time. But it had occurred to me that your father, on being convinced of how Lot had left you thus to your fate in enemy hands, might be sufficiently angered to withdraw his friendship and support from Lot as the price of your safe return to his hall. We have a precedent, in Donuil's case, and it seemed to me that your father might be willing to deal once again with Camulod, knowing we deal more honestly than does his current ally."

"Does he know that? Does my father know that Donuil chose to remain in Camulod after being freed?"

Uther blinked at her, plainly at a loss for a response, and then he nodded, although uncertainly. "I think so. Yes, he must."

"Must he? He thinks his son is bound for five years, you said. Are those five years complete?"

"No." Uther did a quick calculation. "It has been three years, but Donuil has been free for two of those."

"Yes, but my father might not know that, and that would make your logic faulty when it comes to your dealings with him on my behalf."

Uther nodded, his gaze reflective. "Aye, you might be right. But I could always send Donuil to him as my envoy and Merlyn's friend. That much is feasible."

"Aye, and my father would be much impressed." Ygraine paused. " You said I might think you foolish over this. I do not."

He smiled. "No, the foolish part was when I allowed myself to think that he might be persuaded to reverse his alliance and throw his weight into this war on our side. And yet, even with your presence here, I suspect he might be reluctant to commit again to Lot."

"So you would sell me back to my own father?"

"Aye, I would, but not for coin. It would be advantageous to my cause were he to withhold aid to Cornwall." He raised an eyebrow. "Would that displease you, to return home to Eire?"

"No."

"Good. Your bodyguard would be freed to go with you, of course, for I presume they are all your father's men and not Lot's?"

"They are. But what of poor Herliss? He is an old man now and would not come to Eire. I think he would have little love for starting a new life in a new land at his age. And he could not stay here in Cornwall, for as you say, Lot has already marked him for death. What might you have in mind for him? He has done wrong to no man, neither you nor Lot, and ill deserves to die for simply guarding me."

Uther shook his head. "I have nothing in mind for Herliss."

"Then you should have, Sir King. I have. Would you be willing to listen to a woman's thoughts on that matter?"

"Happily, if the woman should have some thoughts worth listening to."

"One more question, then. Why are you here in Cornwall with your army?"

He sat back as though she had swung a slap at him, but his expression was good-humoured. "Is that a real question, one that you expect me to answer honestly?"

"Of course it is."

"Of course it is. Well, then, let me answer it briefly and truthfully. I could say I am come here to rid the world of a foul pestilence, but I need not be so grand, since the truth is far stronger. I am here to prevent Gulrhys Lot from leading, or sending anyone else to lead, any more invasions into my territories and killing any more of my people. I am here to ensure that he will never again send armies to invade my cousin's territory of Camulod and slaughter any more of its people. I am here to make sure that he will never again cause the death of any member of my family or, incidentally, of yours, since your brother Donuil now rides with us. That is why I am here in Cambria with my army, and the moment Gulrhys Lot lies dead by my hand or through my efforts, I will withdraw, taking my army with me, and never venture here again."

"You are speaking of the man to whom I am wed."

"I know that, lady. Would you have preferred it had I lied?"

"No. You could not have given me an answer that would please me better than the one you gave." She saw his brows go taut with surprise as his eyes widened, and she spoke into his startlement. "If I were a man, a King, feeling about a wife as I, a simple wife, think now about my husband, I should send her away, divorce her and set her aside. I am no King, but I am a Queen, and thus I choose to divorce Gulrhys Lot. In my eyes, he is dead, part of my life no more. So be it." She ignored the Pendragon King's open-mouthed stare and continued speaking. "I have a stratagem concerning Herliss that I think might succeed, even for you, and me and my father's men. And for Dyllis here and the rest of my women, of course. It is still largely unformed, but it is there, in my mind. Let me think on it tonight, and I will lay it out for you tomorrow morning."

Uther rose to his feet, grinning openly now, his eyes filled with admiration and wry amusement, and he bowed deeply to her, his clenched fist at his breast in a salute.

"Lady," he said, "I wish you may sleep well and thoughtfully. I will come by in the morning." He turned then to Dyllis, bowing to her, too. "And you. Lady Dyllis. Sleep well."

When he had gone, Ygraine sat straight upright and looked intently at Dyllis.

"It will be dark soon, and we have changed sides, and I have renounced an unfit husband. Are you hungry, child? I could eat King Uther's large horse."

Chapter TWENTY-EIGHT

The following morning they were awakened by the noise of great comings and goings beyond the walls of their tent. It was evident that large numbers of men were either arriving at camp or leaving it, but try as they would, they could see nothing beyond the looming shoulders of the guards who flanked the entrance to their tent and who would not deign answer their questions. Uther arrived soon after that, however, asking if they were astir, and although they assured him that they were, they refused him entry, holding him at bay until they had had time to perform their morning ablutions and make themselves fit to be seen.

The King finally strode into their tent bare-headed and smiling, followed by a trooper carrying a wooden bucket that was covered with a length of cloth. He loosened the ornate clasp fastening his great war cloak and removed the garment, folding it carelessly before dropping it on the floor of the tent, and then he moved to take the bucket from the trooper, dismissing the man with a nod of thanks. He carried the bucket across the tent and busied himself at the table in the corner, keeping his back to the two women to mask what he was doing.

Ygraine watched him, noticing the way his hair curled on the nape of his neck and how his great, wide shoulders stretched the fabric of his white woollen tunic. This was the first time, she realized, that she had seen this man completely unarmoured, and a little voice within her head whispered that it was, in fact, the first time she had seen this man at ease in her company. There was little of the warrior King about Uther Pendragon this morning, apart from his massive Celtic tore, the collar of solid, hand-worked gold that circled the thick column of his neck. Although she had never seen a living Roman, she had an image in her mind of what they must look like, and what she saw in Uther suited that image. He wore a simple but rich tunic of heavy, snow- white wool, with a square-cut neck and elbow-length sleeves, and the edges—bottom hem, neck line and cuffs—were all worked with a Greek key design in blood red. A wide leather belt cinched the tunic at his waist and held a short, sheathed dagger, his only weapon, and under the tunic he wore some kind of tight-fitting trousers of the same white wool that encased his legs to just above the ankle, where they were tied with plaited woollen strings. On his feet, he wore thick, knitted socks that she could see between the broad straps of his heavy sandalled boots, military boots, with massive soles of layered leather studded with hobnails that left dents in the ground as he walked.

She lowered her eyes quickly when he finally turned around, holding two earthenware cups, and offered one to each of them. Ygraine looked into the bowl of her cup, which was startlingly cold, and saw that the liquid inside looked black and viscous.

"What is it?"

Uther smiled. He had picked up a cup for himself and now held it up at eye level. "Taste it and see." He sipped his own, delicately for such a large man, and his smile returned, wider than before. "Go on, try it."

Ygraine sipped, and Dyllis followed her example, and then both women were gazing at him, delighted. Dyllis identified the drink first.

"Brambles! It's bramble juice."

"Aye, it is, but there's more . . . there's honey in it, too," Ygraine added.

Uther's smile was enormous now. "Right, both of you, bramble juice and honey and a little water. Just enough to dilute the juice and the honey very slightly."

"But how can it be so cold ?"

"A trick we learned from the Romans, lady. We brought it down from Cambria, packed in snow and ice from our Cambrian mountains."

"Snow? But it is almost high summer—"

"Aye, it is, but there are hills in Cambria to the north of our territories where the snow remains on the hilltops all the year round. We do not go there often, but when we do have need to go, we always take the time to cut large blocks of ice and transport them home to Tir Manha—my home base—in wagons that we take with us for that purpose. We wrap up the individual blocks in straw, then stack them together and cover them tightly. That keeps them cold and stops them from melting too quickly. The Romans also taught us that chipped ice, mixed with sawdust and some ordinary salt, grows somehow even colder, and liquids packed in such a mixture will stay cold for great lengths of time, so be it they are kept sealed and the vessels holding them intact."

He sipped again before continuing. "You heard the commotion this morning? Well, my main army—my infantry—has arrived from Cambria. They brought this with them in their commissary train, and I thought you might enjoy some of it. We rarely have such luxuries, and there is little of it, but enough, I thought, to be shared with you. Now, may we sit?"

A short time later, when he had finished his drink, he placed the empty cup on the floor by his feet.

"Last night you asked for time to think about a stratagem that might save Herliss's life and serve my ends as well. It sounds impossible to me, and I fail to see why I should even care, but I stand prepared to be amazed. Are you ready to share it with me?"

Ygraine nodded and came straight to the point that had been circling in her brain all night. "He must escape. Herliss must escape."

"Escape . . . How, and to what, lady? Lot will have him hanged as soon as he sees him, if Herliss survives long enough to be taken back that far. Don't forget he has already been outlawed and named a traitor. Anyone who sees him now is free to strike him down on sight."

"That will not happen, not if he is with me and my guards. No one would dare approach us then, and Lot would be powerless to act against us, if we were to win home free."

"Ah! You are to escape, then, too, and your Erse bodyguard. Forgive me, I missed seeing that." Uther covered the entire lower part of his face with his hand, but he could not conceal the mirth in his dancing eyes.

Ygraine ignored his sarcastic tone completely. She frowned. "You disbelieve me?"

"No, no, lady, truly, I believe you." He waved his hand in denial. "I believe you absolutely . . ." He paused, struggling against his own amusement. "What. . . forgive me . . . what I fail to understand, though, is how you can expect me to accept what you are saying, because if I understand you correctly, you are suggesting that I should simply permit you and all your people to ride off from here, unhampered and unharmed."

"You distrust me, then."

He blinked once, slowly and deliberately, and then shook his head. "It is not a matter of trust, lady. It is common sense. Why should I do such a thing as to allow you to escape? You are my prisoner. My only hostage. I would be mad to let you simply walk away."

"Of course you would be, were there no advantage to you in doing so." There was no trace of humour in the Queen's face or bearing.

"Ah! Then you believe it would be to my advantage to permit this . . . escape?"

"Of course it would. If, of course, you believe me and trust me."

"I see. Well, let me think on that for a moment or two . . . you must see that it is a novel adventure for me to consider placing either trust or belief in anyone or anything having anything to do, however remotely, with Lot of Cornwall . . . And what about your women, on the road to Camulod since yesterday? Are they to be abandoned, or are they to escape, too, while on the road?"

"Yes—"

"Of course they are. I could see that coming. But how? How are they to escape? And then where will you all go once you have won free? To Eire?"

"No, I have already said Herliss is too old to leave his homeland. We will return to Lot, wherever he may be now."

"To Lot? You will return to Lot. Despite everything you said last night about divorcing him?"

"No, I will return to Lot because of everything I said last night about divorcing him."

Uther's his eyes flicked from Ygraine to Dyllis and then back again. "Explain that, if you would."

Ygraine stood up quickly, her face flushed suddenly with anger. "Gods, man! Can you not see? I should not have to explain something so obvious—" She stopped as suddenly as she had begun and stood glaring at him, clenching and unclenching her fists and breathing deeply through pinched nostrils. Then she spun to look at Dyllis, who was staring at her, her eyes wide with awe and something else that might have been consternation. "How many men are guarding this tent right now?" Her back was to Uther, but there was no doubt that she was speaking to him.

"Two. And their captain, Nemo, is close by."

"Then will you send them away? Ask them to escort Dyllis while she takes a walk for half an hour. You and I must talk alone."

Plainly mystified, Uther rose to his feet and crossed to the flap of the tent, where he stuck his head out and ordered one of the guards to bring Nemo to him immediately. Nemo could have been no more than ten paces distant for she was there almost before Uther had swung his head back into the tent, and she stepped directly inside and snapped to attention. Uther kept his gaze steadily on Ygraine as he ordered the captain to take the Lady Dyllis and her two guards and to conduct all three on a long walk that would keep them clear of the tent for at least an hour.

When they had all gone, he perched himself on top of the two footlockers again and sat gazing at Ygraine, who stared directly back at him, making no attempt to speak. The silence between them stretched and grew until it began to approach the point at which it would become a challenge and a matter of stubbornness, but before it did so, Uther grinned wryly and nodded, as though conceding victory.

"Well, lady? You wanted to talk . . ."

"How well do you know my brother, Donuil?"

"Not well. I barely know him at all. He is my cousin Merlyn's friend."

"A friend, you say. But is he a true friend? Or is he a coddled favourite, a pampered pet? What are you smiling at? Do you find me amusing?"

He held up a hand as though to fend her off. "No, lady, I do not, but by the gods you are prickly. What was amusing me was the thought of your enormous brother bowing his head meekly to be petted like a puppy." He shook his head, all sign of humour vanishing. "No, lady, they are friends and I can tell you positively that your brother Donuil must have earned that ranking and the privilege that goes with it. The trust between the two of them is solid and deep- rooted. That I know."

When Ygraine responded to that, her voice sounded slightly mollified, but she was still plainly unconvinced. "You know, you say. But how much do you know, in truth? How well do you really know this cousin of yours, this Merlyn?"

Now Uther was sombre. "Better than any other person in the world. We were raised almost as twins. There is no man in the world more dear to me than he is."

"And he feels the same way towards you?"

There was no mistaking the pain that underlay the long hesitation that stretched between that question and its answer; she saw it in his eyes and heard it in his voice when he finally responded. "He—he used to . . . It is my hope that he still does."

"Why would you doubt it?"

"I . . . I told you yesterday, he is not himself. . ."

"But there is something else that makes you hesitate . . ."

He shrugged again, dismissing the thought. "It was long ago, and he suspected me of a misdeed—one that was evil, worthy of punishment . . . But I doubt that I would have judged the event as harshly as Merlyn did. He could be very narrow-minded in his judgments. In my case, I was innocent of the crime. I took more pain from thinking he could believe I might do such a thing than from anything he ever did or said to me concerning it."

"Very well, then." She sat gazing at him, clearly thinking about what she would say next. "You obviously admire your cousin greatly, so I must ask you this: why does Lot call him a coward?"

To her astonishment, Uther Pendragon threw back his head and laughed, a great, booming shout of enjoyment. "A coward! Caius Merlyn Britannicus, a coward? Ah, lady. Lot calls Merlyn a coward because he cannot suffer people to suspect the simple truth: that Merlyn Britannicus is everything that Gulrhys Lot can never hope to be. Lot would shit himself with fear if ever he found himself within a mile of coming face to face with Merlyn of Camulod. He hates Merlyn, not simply for being a formidable enemy and an upstanding man, but for being the person that he is. Oh, he fears him, too, but mainly he hates him, because Merlyn stood by and witnessed Lot's first downfall at my hands, when he and I were twelve years old and Lot was fourteen or fifteen, bigger than both of us."

"What are you talking about? Did you know Lot that long ago?"

Uther sat straight up and looked away from her as he came to grips with what he had just heard. She watched him closely, seeing the puzzled frown on his brow, and then the way his face lightened as he turned back to her.

"Yes, my cousin Merlyn and I first met Lot that long ago, and that is what?—twelve years? thirteen? It was no meeting of like minds, I promise you. He came to Camulod with his father, the old Duke Emrys, and he was loathsome from the outset, trying to dominate and bully Merlyn and me. He was not simply nasty, he was . . ." Uther paused, groping for words. "He was intolerably foul: foul-mouthed and foul-natured; loathsome in all he said and did—and then, on top of and in addition to all of that, he was a braggart and a bully. Well, Merlyn and I had never met a bully we couldn't thrash together, so we were not abashed by this lout from Cornwall. But then he insulted my mother, viciously and inexcusably and in such a way that I could not ignore it, and we fought. He left Camulod right after that, as soon as he grew well enough."

"Did you thrash him that badly?"

"Thrash him? No, lady, I didn't thrash him. We fought with Roman swords. I stabbed him, but unfortunately for everyone, I didn't do the job properly—we were interrupted and stopped by my father before I could finish it."

Ygraine's eyes had grown round. "You would have killed him?"

"I should have killed him. Now there are hundreds dead who might have lived, had I done so." He checked himself, seeing her expression. "What is wrong? Lady?"

She shook her head, a terse, dismissive little gesture. "Nothing is wrong, I think. But much has been wrong, including my own foolish, willful blindness." Her eyes drifted away from him and she sat staring into the middle distance, looking at nothing and seeing only what was in her mind. After a while, she breathed in deeply through her nostrils and sat up straighten "I have been cursing you and everyone in Camulod for three years now, in utter ignorance that my own brother and sister were living happily there with you and your family while I suffered shame and outrage and indignities here, from my own husband." She paused again, frowning, and then turned her frown on him. "You are . . . you are nothing like the monster I was told you were."

Uther held her gaze, his features softened now, and let out a small sigh. When he spoke next, his voice was easy and quiet. You said we two needed to talk, and so I sent the guards away with Lady Dyllis. What, then, did you want to talk about?"

"Just this: Lot will not negotiate to gain me back. He will not, because I mean nothing to him and he has no need of me, so he will count himself fortunate to be thus rid of me, without blame to him. But that also makes me an encumbrance to you—something for which he will be grateful. The only option you can see facing you is to send me back home to my father in Eire in the hope that he will withdraw his support from Lot. Well, that might serve you, but no more than slightly, for my father's few people could hardly be considered a major contribution to Lot's forces. Returning me to Lot, however, is another very real option, one that is potentially invaluable."

"What? I don't follow you."

"Then hear me plainly. I would now return to Lot as a willing spy, on your behalf. In doing so, I could save the life of Herliss—a dear friend for whom I feel responsible—and bring about the downfall of this loathsome man to whom I have been wed. It is a choice easily made, and made already. I see no disloyalty involved in it. In order to command loyalty, one must understand what it is and return it openly in like measure. Gulrhys Lot has never shown a trace of loyalty to anyone that I know of—not to me, not to any of his most faithful followers and most certainly not to any of those over whom he claims kingship. His people live in terror of him and his sick fancies, afraid that some imagined slight of theirs will bring his mercenaries down about their ears, dealing death and destruction to their families, their homes and their few, pathetic possessions."

She had been almost talking to herself, but now she moved her head and looked into Uther's eyes. "These are not idle fears, you must understand that. Lot and this pestilence he has inspired have blighted all of Cornwall. He has surrounded himself with a living wall of mercenary killers who have no regard for anything or anyone, and whose atrocities do not simply go unpunished, but originate, more often than not, with the man who employs them." Again she paused and looked directly at him, her eyes flashing.

"You perhaps believe that my conversion to your viewpoint has been too facile. I can do nothing to alter that or influence your thinking. But until yesterday . . . until now, today . . . I have been able to conceive of no way to make things better. Not only am I a woman, weak enough at the best of times, but I am a woman with no vestige of power or influence. I have been a prisoner for two years now, since long before you captured me. My prison was Herliss's White Fort, to which I had been banished by my husband, and until mere days before we moved into your path I was comfortable there, and thankful to be removed from all my consort's evil. In Tir Gwyn, I was able to avoid my own conscience. There I was able to close my eyes willfully to what was going on in this bright and lovely land in which I now live. I was able to pretend, in truth, that I was in no wise associated with the man who called himself my husband." She stopped abruptly, and a single tear broke from her lashes and cascaded down her right cheek. Angrily she dashed it away.

"And so, Sir King of Cambria, I am now come to the point where I will gladly and willingly make pact with you to end this man's . . . dominion. His tyranny. Gladly and willingly. But if we are to make the most of this opportunity, then it had best be soon." She stopped and peered at him again, her head tilted to one side as though challenging him to take issue with her logic. "Cornwall is not that big a place, and if Lagan is out there as you claim, scouring the country for his father in order to protect his wife and son, he is bound to find you here sooner or later."

Uther nodded. "But I have my cavalry out there harassing him, keeping him away from here."

"I know you have, but how long will they be able to contain him? How large is Lagan's army? Do you know? And how much does he know of your own strength? Does he believe that your entire force is attacking him? Surrounding him? Or might he think, perhaps, that you but play with him to keep him captive wherever he is?"

Uther screwed up his face and shrugged. "I cannot answer that, not yet, although I expect to have that information soon."

Ygraine nodded. "And what about this army of your own that has just arrived, how big is it?"

"Three thousand men."

"You will never keep that secret. Three thousand mouths consume a deal of food."

Uther nodded sombrely. "Aye, they do . . . So, go on with your stratagem. If you escape, what then, and how could it save Herliss?"

"We would seek to avoid Lagan and win back to Lot's stronghold before Lagan can come to grips with you. We could then pretend that Herliss came up with the plan himself and brought Alasdair, the captain of my bodyguard, into it. That way, when Alasdair backs him with no prospect of gain for his own ends, no one could gainsay Herliss's heroism, and Lot would be forced to readmit Herliss to his favour . . .

"Besides, I think Lot would not dare take the risk of offending Lagan any more deeply at this time. Lagan and Herliss have both power and influence, and between them they have many friends. If Lot has taken Lydda and Cardoc, Lagan's wife and son, as hostages, he will not have harmed either one of them, and being Lot, he'll still believe that he is capable of convincing Lagan that it was all a misunderstanding, once Herliss has been restored to favour. The man's monstrous arrogance is not to be believed."

Uther twisted his face up into an exaggerated expression of doubt. "Well, I think you might be wrong there—about Lot's reception of Herliss after the escape. And how could Herliss manage such a coup without it being perceived as obviously false?"

"By using the tools Lot uses all the time: bribery, corruption and treachery. We could say that he suborned some of your guards, offering them large rewards for their assistance."

"But Herliss is a prisoner, and even Lot would not believe my men fools enough to deal in future promises. If they are to be bribed, they'll want their hot hands on the bribe as soon as it is offered . . . immediately. So where would Herliss have found these large rewards?"

"Among the chests belonging to me and my women . . . jewels and line clothing and other precious items."

Uther sat back, his eyes wide with surprise. "And do you have such things?"

"Of course we have such things. No one deprived us of them after our capture."

"Aye, well, that may be, but now they are on their way to Camulod with their owners."

"Of course they are, but we are making up a tale, King Cambria! We are discussing subterfuge . . . a false bribing."

"Aye, you're right." Uther broke into a grin. "I had forgotten that already. But—" His face grew sober again as a new thought occurred to him. "But can you then trust your own women and your guards not to reveal the deception? Bear in mind the women will be returned from Camulod with all their jewels intact."

"The women . . . some of them I would trust. Others I would not. But they are on the road to Camulod, as you say, and may remain there in comfort for some time. If you and I agree, they will be well looked after and may come home safely later. My bodyguard, on the other hand, I trust implicitly. They are my kinsmen, sworn to my father for my protection and well-being. And yet they are but men, and men will talk in drink. There must be a way to safeguard against that. . ."

"There is, but Herliss would have to be let in on our plan."

She looked at him in surprise. "How so? What mean you?"

"Well, if Herliss were to agree, then we could arrange matters so that he would conduct the escape as though it were genuine, without anyone else having to be involved. That way your bodyguard need never know the truth and could go back to Gulrhys Lot's domain with their heads held high and boast thereafter to their hearts' content, when they are in their cups, of how they won free of the Cambrians."

"And what if Herliss refuses?"

"Then he must remain here, unfortunately. Herliss is a man of honour, by your own assessment, and honour, once entrenched, is massive difficult to unseat or change."

"Aye, but true honour is ever open wide to ethical challenge." She turned and looked at him, her face a picture of wonder and amused excitement. "Do you not agree?"

He grimaced and shrugged. "Lady, it matters not what I might think. The decision of what to do lies firm within the options open to Herliss."

"Will you send him here to me and keep the guards away?"

"I will, right now."

"No!"

Uther stopped on the point of rising, his face blank with surprise at her vehemence, and she felt a tide of colour begin to surge in her cheeks. She moderated her tone, speaking more quietly. "No, not right now. Not yet. First you and I must strike an agreement."

He began to move again, rising slowly to his feet. "Aye, and what would that be, lady?"

"That we two be allies from this moment forth, trusting in and relying upon each other, and that we will work together henceforth to remove Gulrhys Lot from the ruling of Cornwall."

"That will mean killing him, lady."

"So be it, if it must. And you will call me by my name, Ygraine, or Lady Ygraine, if you prefer, so be it you no longer call me 'lady' alone."

He nodded slowly, his face breaking into a broad smile that she watched grow with distinct feelings of pleasure. "So be it, Lady Ygraine," he murmured. "Will you shake hands with me to seal our pact?"

Ygraine extended her hand and felt it enveloped in his, not as a man might grasp another's hand, but as a large, warm blanket that enwrapped her slowly and gently, almost caressing the skin of her wrist, so that involuntarily, all the tiny hairs along her arm stood up on end. He raised his hand then, carrying her captive hand gently towards his mouth, where he held it short of his face yet close enough for her to feel the soft warmth of his breath against her lingers. Then, slowly, his other hand came up to grasp her forearm, its touch, too, a caress, and her heart began to pound in her chest. He stooped his head slightly towards her, keeping his eye fixed on hers, and then released her.

"I will bring Herliss to you now. Don't go away."

She made no response but watched him closely as he collected his great cloak and shook out its folds before swirling it up and letting it fall across his shoulders. He fastened its clasp, then bowed slightly to her from the waist and left her standing alone, watching him vanish from sight.

Uther found Herliss in the small compound in which he was being held and waited patiently while he shrugged his way into his tunic and swept his cloak over his shoulders. They had barely left the enclosure when the veteran warrior found his voice.

"Where are you taking me?"

"To the Lady Ygraine."

"The Queen left yesterday with her women." Herliss's voice was a low growl.

"You are well informed for a prisoner, but aye, you're right. . . that one did, at least. But this is the real one. Through there." Uther pointed and stepped aside, then followed Herliss as the other dipped his head and shouldered his way through a screen of hanging willow branches that opened on to the grassy clearing in front of the King's Tent. Herliss noticed the lack of guards immediately and hesitated, looking back over his shoulder at Uther.

"Aye, no guards, I know. No witnesses. Don't worry, Herliss, did I wish to kill you, you would now be dead. I am no Gulrhys Lot.

Your Queen is in there, waiting for you. I'll wait out here until you call for me, and I will not be listening, so call loudly."

Uther turned and walked away without another glance, aware that the older man was standing stupefied, staring at his retreating back. Then, just at the far range of his hearing, he heard Ygraine's voice calling Herliss's name from inside the tent.

Uther half smiled to himself and kept moving until he reached a short, thick log that lay beside a shallow firepit, about twenty paces from the entrance to the tent, and lowered himself to sit on it, aware that the only sounds he could hear were made by soldiery somewhere behind him and to his right. No slightest sound reached him from the direction of the King's Tent where Ygraine and Herliss were in the earliest stages of what was bound to be a most important conversation.

Swallowing his impatience and aware that he was ill at ease simply sitting still with nothing in particular to do, Uther looked about him, searching for something, anything, that might hold his interest while he awaited the outcome of what was going on between his two prisoners. For a while he fought the nagging urge to rise and move about, but then he gave in and stood up abruptly, moving away through the fringe of willows to stand by the river's edge. He stood gazing down into the water, thinking that he should be able to see trout moving down there, until he remembered that he had brought upwards of a hundred men here only weeks before, many of whom had been fishing along the entire length of this stream at every spare moment since they arrived. He grinned and shook his head, then sat on a mossy stone on the riverbank, where he undid the leather thongs that fastened his heavy boots and kicked the cumbersome footwear off. Moments later he had removed his thick socks, too, and pulled up the legs of his woollen trousers until they were above his knees, so that he could plunge his bare feet into the cold waters of the river, flinching against the sudden shock and immediately relaxing and remembering with pleasure doing exactly the same thing as a boy.

That memory prompted him to wonder when he had last done such a mundane thing for the simple pleasure of doing it, and he winced to recall that it had been more than ten years. He eased himself forward off the bank, balancing precariously, and stood up in the stream bed. The water surged once above his knees, wetting the lower extremities of his pulled-up trouser legs, then settled back to flow steadily by the tops of his shins. Awkwardly, almost teetering as he did so, he unfastened his cloak and swung it quickly up and over his head, whirling it around to twist it upon itself before he threw it to land on the grassy bank. He had not been quick enough, however, and the hem of the garment scattered an arc of water drops as it swung upwards, and as he turned to watch it spin towards the bank, his foot stuck in the sandy bottom of the stream bed, he almost overbalanced, swaying dangerously and waving his arms as he fought to retain equilibrium. He managed to save himself from falling, although barely, and as he straightened up, splayfooted and tentative, he found himself wondering what Ygraine might have thought had she seen him swaying there so ludicrously on the point of toppling headlong into the water.

Carefully then, moving slowly and deliberately on the treacherously muddy slope of the riverbank, he clambered back up onto the grass, where he sat down again and dangled his feet in the water to wash the mud of the river's edge from between his toes. When he was satisfied that they were clean, he dried them roughly with an edge of his cloak before pulling down the wet lower legs of his trousers and retying them, allowing his thoughts to drift to this Lady Ygraine, who had fallen into his hands without his volition.

At first glance, beside the golden, long-haired beauty of the tall and voluptuous Morgas, Ygraine's beauty had been barely noticeable: quiet and restrained, understated and gently but effectively concealed almost completely beneath an air of modesty and shyness. Once he had adjusted to the fact that her role in his camp dictated such an attitude and air, however, Uther had looked beyond and seen the woman herself, finding her to be surprisingly spectacular in her own way. Her hair was a deep, dark, chestnut red with golden highlights that shone when she moved in bright light. Her face, small and oval, was fair-skinned and placid, yet surmounted by green eyes that could blaze and flicker when her temper was aroused—and that the woman had a temper was a matter that he never held in doubt, once he had seen beyond her air of quiet reserve. She had a wide, mobile mouth that smiled and laughed easily, although he had seen her do so only from a distance, and her teeth were white and regular, free of blemish or weakness. Her nose was neither straight nor hooked, but clean- edged in profile, with pleasing, smoothly flaring nostrils. Her eyes, perfectly spaced above high, wide cheekbones that looked as though they had been chiselled from smooth stone, were surmounted by smooth brows of a lighter red than her thick tresses. All in all, he thought, a woman of fine beauty, worthy to be wife to a King. And he angrily pushed that thought from his mind.

Much had changed since Lot's Queen had first become his prisoner, so that now he had left her alone and unsupervised with one of her own men . . . potentially the most dangerous of all the enemies he held confined here in his camp. She was Cambria's ally now, Camulod's and his. He blinked, thinking about that, and visualized her as she had looked when he left her to bring Herliss to meet with her. She was pleasant to visualize, even in the plain, unadorned brown gown that she had been wearing that morning. Unrelieved by highlight or by jewelled brooch or belt, it had simply clung to her, hanging in drapes and flowing folds that brushed the grass at her feet and revealed every curve and every hollow in her shape.

Feeling himself begin to respond physically to his thoughts, he abruptly sat upright and coughed, clearing his throat and his mind simultaneously, and reached for the socks he had discarded. He pulled them on, stretching them over the ends of his trouser legs, and then pulled on his heavy boots again, tying the lacing thongs tightly and then standing up and stamping his feel until they fell comfortable. No sooner had he done so than he heard Herliss calling his name. He scooped up his cloak and settled it about his shoulders, then made his way back to where the older man stood outside the lent, waiting for him.

As Uther emerged from the screen of willows, Herliss saw him and began striding towards him, holding up a peremptory hand so that Uther stopped in surprise and waited for the other man to reach him.

"What's wrong?"

Herliss was glowering at him. "Nothing, but you and I have to talk, alone. I need to know, where do we go from here?"

Uther grinned in satisfaction. "You mean you are in favour?"

"Do you take me for a complete fool? Of course I am in favour, and not merely because mine is the first life that will be saved." The old man looked about him. "I need a drink of something, something cold. Do you people drink beer?"

"Come."

Uther turned immediately and led the way along the riverside towards the main body of the camp. They came to a fallen tree, shorn of its limbs, that stretched across the stream, and crossed it in single file. When they reached the commissary tents, Uther went directly to the second one in line and called for beer, and moments later turned back to Herliss, a large flagon topped with foam in each hand.

"Here. Cambria's best."

They drank, and Herliss swallowed enormously, draining half his flagon, then nodded judiciously and belched loudly.

Close by them, in front of one of the commissary tents, was a trestle table flanked by a long bench on either side. Uther nodded towards the benches and moved to sit on one of them. Herliss sat opposite him and placed his tankard on the tabletop.

"Good beer. Now let's talk about how to proceed from here."

"You made your mind up quickly."

Herliss's response to that was swift and keen-eyed. "You think I'm gulling you?" Uther kept his face expressionless and made no attempt to speak, and finally the other man grunted and growled in his deep, rough voice, "Either that, or you think me an idiot and a facile coat-changer."

He waited, cocking one eyebrow in defiance, but when Uther again failed to respond, he continued. "I spent most of my life being loyal and obedient to Lot's father, and, in the old Duke's memory, I have been loyal to his son. Not always obedient, though, and not recently. Loyalty, however, I've given. Too much. It is a strange word, loyalty. Loyalty is honour, or it was where I was raised . . . and when I was raised . . .

"Where loyalty and honour and even obedience are passionately involved, people can go blind and deaf from time to time, and things can happen that don't get looked at too closely. But loyalty makes demands of its own. It has to be two-way, otherwise it can't live long. It's a give-and-take thing, and there's no getting around that. And if people don't get loyalty in return for their own loyalty, sooner or later they stop being loyal. And then they start to see things they didn't see before, and to hear things they never heard, and they start to pay attention to what's going on around them . . . Things like having their own sons sent out to bring them back in chains and being forced to do that under the threat of danger to their families. Lot is holding my grandson's life over my head as a threat . . . Ach!" He spun away and spat. "But why should I be surprised? He's been doing the same thing for years to almost everyone I know. That is how he ensures their loyalty."

Herliss picked up his tankard again and emptied it. "Tell me, what are your plans for Cornwall?"

Uther gazed at him blank-faced for a long count and then shook his head. "For Cornwall? I have no plans for Cornwall, other than to kill this creature who kings it and then get back to my own home as quickly as I can. I have hundreds of plans for Cambria, for my own home, all of them urgent, but I can tend to none of them since every time I turn around this rabid animal who calls himself your King is sneaking and snarling at my back. I want him dead. Dead and dismembered. I want his loathsome hide nailed to a wall for everyone to see and spit upon. I want him gone from this world, never to harm another living soul, his maggot-eaten skull impaled before my tent, a grinning warning to all men who would be like him. What I want, in the end, is the opportunity to live my life among my own, in peace and comfort. I want a wife of my own, and sons to bear my name, and I want them to live contentedly in Tir Manha in Cambria."

Herliss had sat gazing at Uther throughout this declaration, his eyebrows rising slightly as the outpouring increased in fervour and in vehemence, and when it was done, he sat with pouting lips for a count of live heartbeats. Then he nodded.

"Fine. We both want the same thing: Lot dead and you gone back to Cambria or Camulod or wherever you want to be, so that Cornwall can recover from the chaos and the damage he has caused. Lot is a rabid animal and must be treated as one, struck down swiftly, immediately and lethally. To do that, though, we'll have to be close to him and in a position of trust. Closeness we can achieve, but that last is near impossible. He trusts no one. This nonsense with Lagan and my grandson proves the truth of that."

"But if you win free from here and take the Queen back with you in a spectacular escape, then he will have to welcome you for the sake of appearances. Is that not so?"

"Aye, it is . . . at least it would be so, were he a normal man. But I believe he's crazed, and growing more so all the time. So what will actually happen once we do win back is in the hands of the gods. But if we succeed without disaster blasting us, what then? Will the Queen start sending you intelligence of what Lot intends to do? Will you need me to do that, too?"

"Aye, but only as and when you learn, or the Queen learns, of developments in Lot's planning. And we must take great care as to how we go about such things. If we are to rid ourselves of this monster, then we need to work closely together and yet take as few risks as possible, for you and your people will be unable to trust or depend upon any of Lot's mercenaries."

"Agreed. So how will we go about this?"

"You will start by bribing my people, immediately and lavishly, so that they will arrange for you to visit the Queen's bodyguard. Once there, you will tell Alasdair, their captain, that the Queen has provided you with treasures from her and her women in order that you might suborn our troopers and arrange a mass escape. It will be obvious that you have made a successful start on your planning. I'll provide the people to be bribed, and they will be my best and most trusted. They will go along with everything, and your own troops will be none the wiser. You'll achieve your escape and return to Lot, avoiding any encounter with your own son on the way, and once you are safely reinstalled in your own home and your own responsibilities, I will find a way of coming to you and we can work out ways and means of remaining in touch with each other."

"Good. I'll wager that Lagan will be our main liaison."

Uther smiled and nodded. "I hope you are right. I would enjoy meeting him. And we have a mutual friend in Cambria, the Lady Mairidh."

"Lydda's sister. Aye. She is married to my brother, Balin."

Uther called for two more tankards of beer before turning to smile at the grizzled Cornish veteran. "We have agreed on mighty things here, you and I. Our world will not remain the same, I think, in the aftermath of what has occurred today."

Their beer came quickly, and as they tipped an offering onto the ground to appease and thank the gods, Herliss nodded, his eyes on the foam atop his tankard.

"Aye . . . Uther, Ygraine and Herliss. A strange mix, I think. I wonder, will anyone take note of it in times to come?"

Chapter TWENTY-NINE

Until the moment he found himself kissing her, Uther had had no conscious intention of bedding Ygraine of Cornwall. She was a hostage for one thing, and his honour as her captor and her value as a commodity both dictated that he treat her with care, consideration and courtesy, returning her undamaged at the end of her captivity. That her husband had refused to trade for her was a setback, but Uther had almost expected Lot's indifference and had been thinking, from the moment of the woman's capture, that he could surely trade her with advantage back to her father, Athol Mac lain, King of the Hibernian Scots in Eire. For that reason alone, therefore, Uther would have regarded any contemplation of Ygraine in a sexual light as a foolish, irresponsible and reprehensible waste of time. Besides, he was fresh from the bed of the magnificent Morgas, who, if she lacked many of the attributes of the ideal wife, lacked none of the requirements of the ideal mistress.

There was one other factor, however, over and above all others that would have prevented him from ever making advances to Ygraine of Cornwall, and that was his own sense of culpability over what had happened to her unfortunate sister Deirdre. Even now, years removed from the tragic events that had estranged him from his cousin Merlyn, the memory of what took place that night in the games room at Camulod still had the power to make Uther writhe and cringe within his own mind.

Uther Pendragon had little experience of guilt in his life; it was an alien emotion to him and one that he was ill-equipped to handle.

He could be awe-inspiring in his rages and utterly implacable in his anger, but he seldom had cause to regret or to reconsider the consequences of his actions at such times. He had not fought in anger since the incident with Nemo's three assailants. Instead, he had learned to give his rage full rein, vociferously, concealing his displeasure from no one, but once his initial anger had spent itself, he would then act calmly, dealing out redress dispassionately for the wrongs he had suffered. He had no truck with guilt, and no need to bear it.

Shame, however, was an entirely different matter, and sufficiently close to guilt to be indistinguishable from it in Uther's mind. His sense of shame was highly developed, despite the fact that he had never consciously recognized its overriding presence in his life, and it was shame and not guilt that made him squirm and brought him his worst mental anguish. He would struggle awake at night sometimes, drenched in sweat and writhing with half-remembered sensations of the aftermath of follies he had committed as a boy, in his hare-brained, determined and unnecessary attempts to perform wonderful deeds that would earn his Grandfather Ullic's approval. His grandfather and his father had been men of great probity, and he could well remember their stern disapproval of people who brought shame of any kind close to them or theirs. What had happened that night in the games room—his precipitation of the ensuing events—appalled Uther and was his darkest, most shameful secret.

He had ridden away from Camulod that night in the blackest of foul moods, spurring his horse savagely and plunging the few men he had conscripted into reckless, careering danger, leading them blindly through a stormy night that was as black as his own despair, a swirling, wind-churned chaos of cold, rainy squalls. And as he rode, rowelling his unfortunate horse and driving it far more savagely than his needs dictated, he raved and cursed silently in his head, damning and condemning the girl for daring to bite him, for scorning him, for rejecting him. As his first unsustainable rage ebbed away, he realized, from the pain in his chilled, clenched hand, that he was brandishing his sword for no reason, behaving like a madman, and the shame began to well up in him.

The child had done no wrong. She had merely defended herself in the only way open to her. She was a frightened, threatened little animal—mute, deaf and defenceless. He, in willful arrogance, had thrust his penis into her unwilling mouth, and when she had bitten him deservedly, he had been swept up by an insensate fury and attempted to thrash her. Only Merlyn had stopped him. Uther shuddered with revulsion at his own behaviour and flushed with burning shame, despite the chilling, wind-swept rain.

Thereafter, he rode his mount more gently and thought more penetratingly than he had thought in many a year, stripping himself of false protestations and facing the unpalatable truth. His mother lay sick, perhaps dying, and he had been avoiding his obligation to return home to her, vainly seeking to convince himself that his true duty lay in Camulod. To that end, he had sought diversion in the games room that night with willing women . . . willing but ineffectual in distracting his mind from the knowledge that he was behaving abominably, betraying himself with his fear of returning to bleak, inhospitable Cambria and Tir Manha, the home he resented and the people he despised for their dour, bleak lack of tolerance and compassion. Recognizing the truth now that he had faced it, he was horrified by the knowledge that his own vain, indefensible dislikes should have deprived his mother of his presence in a time of need, and he wondered, not for the first time, at the deep-buried, bitter harshness in him that had the power to make him behave as he sometimes did, against all the urgings and concerns of his better nature.

It was a long, miserable journey to Tir Manha, and he would never forget the aching relief he felt on arriving to discover that his mother had recovered from her sickness. His shame, however, did not abate. On the contrary, many weeks later, when he discovered the whole truth of what had happened in Camulod after he left, it grew enormously, for he knew beyond dispute that had he, in his rage, not driven the terrified girl out into the night, she would never have met the man, or men, who had savaged her, leaving her for dead, battered and bleeding, ravished and sodomized, so that she survived only by some miracle. So great was his self-loathing then that he was incapable of defending himself in the face of Merlyn's suspicions that he had been responsible. In Uther's own mind, he had been responsible for the girl's flight. But it pained him and saddened him more than he would have thought possible that Merlyn could suspect him of such foul baseness as had been perpetrated under the cover of darkness upon the poor little waif. That pain would remain with him for the rest of his life, and because of it, he would never have imposed himself knowingly upon another member of Cassandra's family. Whatever lusts he had, however intense, he would direct them elsewhere.

Ygraine, on the other hand, had no such scruples. But neither had she any sexual appetites—or so she believed. She would have ridiculed the notion that she might ever indulge in sexual pleasure with anyone, let alone her Cambrian captor. Ygraine of Cornwall had known no man in almost three years and believed that she had purged herself forever of the need to know another. Her few physical encounters with her own husband had been terrifying and depraved, and they had appalled and disgusted her, frightening her and scarring her deeply. She had come to believe, deep within her being, that no man could possibly be attracted to her after the defilements her husband had heaped upon her, and at the same lime she had convinced herself that all men were as he was, and that no man would ever again have occasion or opportunity to defile her as he had.

The two of them were destined to rut, nevertheless, and months later they would agree that the die was cast for both of them at some point on that first afternoon when they had admitted Herliss to their newly hatched plan to save his life. The huddled, conspiratorial intimacy brought them close enough to each other mentally and physically to ignite their awareness of each other, and it was like the explosive combustion that engulfs and consumes a moth that has fluttered too close to a candle flame—a completely unexpected turn of events that took both of them unawares and swept them irresistibly up and out of themselves as it hurled them into each other's arms with the inevitability of death.

Uther was vibrant with excitement over their plan, and at one point he reached out spontaneously and squeezed her forearm, easing the pressure of his grip almost immediately but making no attempt to remove his hand as he spoke earnestly to her, gazing directly into her eyes. That was when she first felt the awareness— the lusty thing, as she thought of it afterwards—stirring in her belly.

"This is going to work. Herliss has agreed to take part. Now we have to plan, all of us . . . and carefully. The worst thing that could happen here is for anyone but we three to find out what's afoot."

Ygraine sat staring at him as he went on to outline their next moves, but she barely absorbed half of what he said, for she had been thunderstruck, instantly dizzied, her whole being plunged into turmoil by the sudden, physical awareness of his hand upon her arm. All the reactions that she would have thought of as normal had been instantly routed by the incredible, undreamed-of sensations that the touch of his hand, even through the fabric of her sleeve, sent rushing and flushing through her entire body. Her skin rose up in tingling gooseflesh, her nipples hardened, her throat constricted, threatening her ability to breathe, and her head filled up with a roaring, rushing sound that made her feel nauseated.

She was appalled by her own body's tumultuous reactions, and she was excruciatingly aware of the hot flush that had suffused her face and neck. Had they seen? Was it possible they had not noticed? But Uther and Herliss were intent on their discussions, and as time passed, her pulse rate slowed down, her breathing gradually settled to an approximation of normal, and she felt the hectic colour subside slowly from her face and neck until she eventually reached the stage at which she knew they might look at her and see nothing beyond the normal.

Inside herself, however, Ygraine felt far from normal. Never before in her life had she been so unexpectedly overcome with lust, and the experience had shaken her, rattling her confidence and making her doubt her own perceptions. Since her escape to Herliss's White Fort, Ygraine had been celibate. But now she was convinced by the furious tide of sensations that had assailed her that she had but little true knowledge of her own body and its dictates. She heaved a deep breath, lighting to keep it silent, and then, struggling to appear natural and casual, she allowed herself to look again at her two companions.

They were deeply involved in the logistics of the escape, attempting to reconcile their needs and requirements with the realities facing them. They had to arrange the disappearance, silent and unnoticed, of approximately fifty people, almost all of whom would be afoot. Only Herliss, the Queen and Dyllis would ride horses in their flight. The others, mainly Ygraine's bodyguard, would march out as they always did. Ironically, however, all the normal difficulties of escape would be reversed in this instance. None of the obvious problems of organizing a large-scale breakout would cause the slightest difficulty here, since this was an engineered escape. The real difficulty, verging upon an impossibility, lay in the need to keep its true nature secret from the very people who would be escaping.

"We can't afford to overlook Popilius Cirro in all of this," Uther was saying to Herliss when Ygraine began to listen again.

"Who? You mean the fellow who came in this morning with your army?"

"Aye. Popilius is a good man—none better—but he's not really one of mine, and he is of the old ways, the old Roman ways."

"What do you mean?"

"Popilius is the senior soldier of Camulod, the highest-ranking soldier—as opposed to a trained staff officer—in all their army. In the Roman legions he would have been called the primus pilus, the First Spear, and to tell the truth, that's what they call him in Camulod to this day. I le actually served in the legions as a boy, in Asia Minor with my uncle Picus Britannicus, when Picus was senior cavalry legate to Stilicho—" He broke off, seeing the expression on Herliss's face. "You've heard of Stilicho, haven't you?"

"Aye, I think so, a long time ago. Wasn't he the Emperor'.'"

"Almost. He was imperial regent for the Emperor Honorius."

"Blabbety-blah-blah . . . what does that mean?"

"Imperial regent? It means a temporary ruler, governing in the name of an emperor too young to govern by or for himself. Stilicho did that after the death of Theodosius while the old man's son, Honorius, was still a little boy. Much good it did him, though. As soon as Honorius was old enough to stand on his own, he wiped out all his former friends and supporters—had Stilicho murdered with the rest of them. He would have killed Uncle Picus, too, as part of the same sweep, but Picus managed to escape and made his way back here to Britain. Merlyn and I were seven years old when he got back. He brought a small group of friends with him, and Popilius Cirro was the youngest of them, hardly more than a boy. But boy or not, he had saved Picus's life and stood by him throughout their flight, and so Picus trained him personally after that once he himself had taken over as Commander in Chief of Camulod. Now Popilius is answerable only to the Legate Commander of Camulod. And Popilius is so trustworthy that it makes him a danger to us . . ."

"How so?" It was the first time Ygraine had spoken and she was surprised that her voice betrayed no hint of a tremor.

Uther turned to her. "Because of you. lady. He has no idea who you really are, and I think we would be foolish to tell him."

"Why is that?"

"Well, to begin with, he might, and probably would, refuse to set you free, no matter how I tried to convince him otherwise. Consider this from his viewpoint. I am his ally in this war, but my priorities and his—Cambrian and Camulodian—might not be the same. You are a prize beyond value, the spouse of the enemy's Commander in Chief. Popilius would see it as culpable folly to release you, and he would judge me insane and perhaps even treacherous to be considering this plan of ours. But even if he were to go along with our designs and do all that we asked of him, he would still be duty bound to make report on his return to Camulod on what I had done. And once that report was lodged, our secret would be out. That kind of knowledge cannot be contained once it has been released, and Lot has spies and informers everywhere, even in Camulod, for we can't keep our gates closed against the world, and the place is always full of strangers coming and going. Mark my words, Lot would hear of it within days, one way or another, so I say we should tell Popilius nothing. We have already sent one Queen to Camulod. Let him believe she is the real one.

"Within the week, I'll ride with Popilius to raid the southern coast, as we had planned. By that time, your arrangements should be made. All of your dealings in this matter will be with my men alone, my Cambrian Dragons. While we are gone, leaving only a small holding force here, you and your people will make your escape and head northwestward, avoiding Lagan completely. Popilius will hear nothing of escape or flight, and if he asks where our female prisoners have gone, I'll tell him that I sent them home. I do not wage war on women. Popilius knows that."

My lord does not wage war on women. Ygraine remembered the scorn with which she had greeted Huw Strongarm's utterance of those words and was swept by a shudder.

Uther glanced sideways at her. "Are you cold. Lady Ygraine? You're shivering."

"No." She straightened up and shook her head vigorously, denying the possibility.

"Good. Well, are we done here?" Uther turned directly back to Herliss. "You know what to do from this point onward?" Herliss growled in affirmation, and Uther continued. "Excellent. I'll take you back to your own quarters now, and I'll talk to my people this afternoon. Nemo will be the one with whom you will have all your dealings—the most loyal and trustworthy trooper I have. Been with me for years, Nemo, ever since we were brats together. So be it. I've things to think about. I'll have Nemo assign two guards to look after you day and night. Their names will be Cadwyn and Lohal, and one of them will be with you at all times from now on. But think of them as hand-picked messengers, not guards. They are completely trustworthy. They'll carry word to you and from you, acting as go- betweens for myself and the Queen . . . and you, of course. To everyone but us, it will seem that you've been placed under heavy guard for some transgression or other, so you'd better come up with a good reason for it, because you're sure to be asked why you've been so suddenly upgraded . . ."

Shortly after the two men left, Dyllis returned from her long walk, almost breathless with excitement over the number of men now in the camp. Ygraine had heard Uther himself say that Popilius Cirro had brought a thousand men with him. but she had never seen a thousand men assembled in one place and could not begin to visualize what such a gathering would look like. Her own father, Athol Mac Iain, she had often been told, could assemble a thousand warriors from his own clansmen and put them into the field within three days, but Ygraine had never known him do so. And her husband, Lot, who dealt, she knew, in thousands of men, assembling armies of mercenaries time after time, had never dared to have that large a host, potentially hostile and uncontrollable, assemble anywhere close to him at any time.

Dyllis told her that behind their tent and facing down into the river valley, row upon row of infantry tents, each of them large enough to accommodate four men sleeping side by side, were laid out in grids and blocks, covering the hillside entirely on the south side of the river and filling up the valley. These tents had been rigorously paced out so that no tent was closer to or farther away from its neighbours than any other, and between these regular blocks of tents were much wider divisions that served as streets, broad enough to accommodate columns of men marching ten abreast or mounted troopers riding four abreast.

The two regular day guards had accompanied Dyllis, Cavan and the older Derek Split-Eye, named for the spectacular scar that bisected the left side of his face, a knife slash that had opened him from above the eyebrow down to the edge of his mouth. Somehow, savage as the blow had been, it had been shallow enough to miss the eyeball, merely slicing through the lid above and below the eye itself. It had deadened that side of Derek's face, however, paralysing the cheek and leaving patches of grey hair in his eyebrow and moustache. Derek Split-Eye was a veteran, one of Uther's original Dragons. Cavan, on the other hand, was much younger and far more comely, smooth-faced and bright-eyed, with teeth that were still white and sound. His shoulders were broad, his hands and arms almost hairless and strongly muscled. Cavan had never spoken to Dyllis before that day, but both women had known that he was strongly attracted to her, barely able from the first day of his assignment to keep his eyes off her as she went about her business. She and Ygraine had even laughed about it. Now it became plain to Ygraine that Dyllis had hardly been impervious to his charms, either.

Ygraine stood erect in the corner by the wash table, her back to Dyllis, who continued to chatter, oblivious to the fact that her mistress was no longer listening. Instead, the Queen was thinking of Uther Pendragon, bare-headed and smiling with that upward- curling lip that came so close to sneering yet did nothing of the kind.

"Lady?" she heard him say, smiling with his voice, and a rush of gooseflesh swept across her skin. She remembered how he had reached out one hand to her, saw the long, strong fingers with their square, blunt nails and the tiny black hairs that curled over the knuckles. She shuddered deliciously, feeling the now familiar sensation of breathlessness swelling in her chest. And then she inhaled sharply and deeply, willing herself to think of other things. Uther, she knew, harboured no such thoughts of her. She had long since learned to detect the slightest signs of attraction in the men around her, and how to ignore and discourage them. In Uther Pendragon's case, she had seen and felt nothing, not the slightest intimation of interest in her as a woman.

"Ygraine, my lady?"

She returned to her senses quickly, aware that Dyllis had been speaking to her, and swung back to face the other woman, banishing her dangerous thoughts. But she could not listen to Dyllis's rhapsodies about young Cavan—not if she wanted to keep her wits about her. The air suddenly seemed hot and humid, and Ygraine felt constrained and confined in the command tent. She wanted to be outside walking in the fresh air. Uncaring whether she might be bruising her friends' feelings, she sent the younger woman to her sleeping quarters with orders to mend a shawl that Ygraine had torn earlier, and then she crossed to the entrance of the tent, where she called to Cavan and asked him to take her to Uther.

Uther was not in his tent when she arrived there, and no guards stood outside it, but she knew he would not be far away, and so she decided to wait for him. She dismissed Cavan and sent him back to his post, although it was plain to see that he was not happy about leaving her there outside the King's Tent, unguarded. She smiled and asked him what he thought she might steal if left alone, or whether he thought, with so many troopers about, that she was planning to escape in broad daylight. Cavan nodded and left, flushed and flustered by her humour.

Left alone, Ygraine crossed her arms on her breast and looked about her. There was no place to sit down, but the air was cooler here outside the tent, for the site was pleasantly sheltered by the thick leaves of the surrounding trees, and so she lingered, looking up to the western sky. A heavy thundercloud had rolled in and now towered upwards for miles, flickering with lightning, an ominous tower of dark blue, black and purple, shot with malevolent highlights of yellowish brown. She stared up at it for a long time, trying to discern the direction of its drift, wondering if it would blow by or sweep closer to them and unleash its burden on their heads. She was still standing there with her head raised and her eyes closed, breathing deeply and slowly, when Uther arrived. She heard his approaching footsteps and opened her eyes just in time to experience one of those moments that are remembered forever by those who witness them. He was less than four paces from her by then, his surprised pleasure evident in his eyes, and seeing her look at him, he began to raise his hand to greet her or to question her, but then the world turned white in a blinding flash that seemed to explode directly between them with a solid, yet somehow silent concussion, like the mute crack of a mighty whip. They both felt the force of the explosion physically, and it left them stunned and badly frightened, their nostrils filled with a strange, almost salty smell, as though the very air had been singed. And then, before either of them could even begin to recover, a solid deluge of ice-cold rain hit them, soaking them instantly and depriving them of what little breath had been left to them.

Uther was the first to recover. He stepped towards her, scooped her up into his arms as though she were weightless and carried her into his tent in three long strides. He lowered her feet to the ground as soon as they were safely inside the tent and made to step back, but Ygraine clung to him, whimpering in her throat and quivering with what he took to be terror. In fact, she was shaking with an instantaneous resurgence of the same raging lust that had assailed her earlier, and it had consumed her so thoroughly that she shuddered with the strength of it.

Uther held her awkwardly in his arms, peering over her head into the dimness of the tent, highly aware of the soft pliancy of her body beneath the thin stuff of her gown and of the way her thighs pressed against his own, and debating foolishly with himself on what he ought to do. His eyes had still not recovered from the blinding white flash of the thunderbolt that had struck so close to them, and what remained of his hearing was overwhelmed by the drumming roar of the heavy rain on the leather roof panels above their heads. Ygraine moved again, almost writhing against him, and he distinctly felt the changing shape of the soft flesh of her thighs. He coughed, clearing his throat with embarrassment, and tried a second time to push himself away from her, but she clung more tightly to him than before, and he stopped, wishing that he had had the foresight to wear his armour, or at least a leather cuirass and studded loin guard that would have stopped the shape and softness of the woman from impressing itself against his body. For the first time since capturing her, he had become acutely conscious of her femaleness, and he raised one arm, cupping the back of her head in his open palm and holding her face gently against his shoulder. As he did so, however, she pulled her head back and looked up at him, her eyes enormous and her mouth open as though to speak. He dipped his head towards her and waited to hear what she would say, but she said nothing and simply continued to stare at him with those huge eyes. And as he gazed back at her, he felt her lean back further against his encircling arm, the movement, deliberate and unmistakable, pushing the lower half of her body against him, enflaming and engorging him, and he knew he had to get away from her. He reached up with his free hand to disengage her arms from about his neck, but as he did so, she rose upon the tips of her toes and grasped his head in both hands, pulling him down to where she could kiss him, her mouth closing over his and her tongue thrusting against his lips.

His surprise was a fleeting thing, real and startling and huge, but vanquished instantly by the urgency and reality of what was happening. He was lost within heartbeats, all his resolve and all his fine, noble intentions swept into nothingness by the unexpectedness of what had occurred and by the moist, living heat of her lips and mouth. Ygraine, for her part, had passed beyond any possibility of self-restraint the moment Uther had swept her up into his arms out in the rain, and in the searing, starving beauty of that first kiss she had, for a single evanescent moment, consciously sneered at herself for ever having thought that she could live without what she was feeling. Giving herself up completely to the storm inside her, she wrapped both arms around his neck and let herself go limp, her dead weight pulling him forward and off balance. On the point of falling, however, Uther rallied himself and looked around the tent, and then he half pulled, half carried her to the sturdy table that held the wash basin and ewer. He swept the tabletop clear and leaned her back against the edge of it, his hands on her waist and his mouth seeking hers again, and within moments her clothing seemed to have dissolved and her legs closed around his waist as he took her to him.

Their coupling was short and furious, to the accompaniment of drumming rain and heralded at the climax by a continuous chorus of thunderclaps, and when he had finished he remained standing in front of her, quivering all over, his body bent forward from the waist, his forehead between her breasts, while she lay back beneath him. her head dangling from the end of the table as she stroked the damp hair at the back of his neck and kneaded his hips gently and rhythmically between her knees.

Finally he sighed and braced himself up on one arm, reaching out with the other hand to cradle the back of her head.

"Lady," he said, his breathing still uneven, "I did not know that was going to happen."

"I know you didn't. I didn't either, until today."

He cocked his head on one side. "Today? When?"

"Earlier, when you gripped my arm."

"When I . . . I don't remember gripping your arm. Oh, yes, I do now. What was so special about that?"

She smiled at him. "It was . . . significant, and I'll say no more. Ah—!" The last sound was a tiny bleat of complaint at the unheralded withdrawal of his flaccid phallus. He grunted and moved his pelvis closer as though to reinsert himself despite the immediate impossibility of doing so, and she stirred against him.

"More," she murmured. "I want more of that."

He nodded, pretending to be serious. "That should be possible in a little while."

"And then I'll want more again after that."

He smiled and shook his head. "But I have things to do, lady, concerning your own plans. You charged me with certain duties, and I've not had time to do them yet. I still have not spoken to Popilius Cirro . . ." He paused, reflecting. "Still, I could talk to him tonight in the refectory when we go to eat. . ."

"No." She heaved her body lasciviously beneath him. "Go now, talk quickly and briefly, do whatever else you must do, and then come back here to me."

He cocked his head again, grinning down at her. "I thought you wanted to be alone tonight?"

"I did and I still do, you blind man. I want to be alone with you."

"Do you, indeed? That is wonderful. It's almost incredible, in truth, but I'm delighted to hear you say it. Now one more kiss, and I'll go and put old Cirro's mind to rest. After that, there's nothing else for me to do other than to tell Nemo that I mustn't be disturbed, and as soon as I've done that, I'll be back here."

"Good, then kiss me and go. Wait! What's that down there? Oh, that was quick . . ."

"Aye it was, wasn't it? Should I take it with me, or shall I leave it here?"

"Hmm. Leave it here with me, but swear me an oath that you'll come back for it."

"Oh, lady, I'll come back, I swear to you. Within the hour. Should I bring some food from the commissary wagons? Will you be hungry later?"

"No, you need bring no food. I might be hungry later, but only for you and the . . . gifts you bring to me . . . Now go, and come back soon. I shall go to bed and wait for you."

"No need for that, I'll carry you to bed. Here, hold me around the neck."

She interlaced her lingers behind his neck and moaned very gently as he entered her, and then he hooked one elbow behind each of her knees and lifted her effortlessly from the table. He hitched her slightly higher then, stretching the length of his arms along her thighs, and carried her, impaled, to his narrow cot, where he left her eventually to await his return.

Chapter THIRTY

That night with Ygraine, long and intensely pleasurable as it was, beginning and ending in full daylight, was the first of only four occasions on which the two of them would be able to lie together, and the last of those four times would not occur until after the birth of their son, Arthur.

In the morning, Uther left her alone and unguarded very briefly, as he had arranged to meet again with Popilius Cirro, and he knew that if he did not appear, Popilius would seek him out. And so he swallowed his resentment at having to get up and leave her alone in bed, acknowledging, as he always did, that his duty took precedence over all other things. When he stepped into Cirro's tent a short time later, he was the embodiment of a Camulodian cavalry commander, clad in gleaming, polished armour from head to foot.

He confirmed to Popilius Cirro that there was nothing at all to prevent them from setting out within thirty-six hours to execute the deep penetration raid that they had planned more than a month earlier in Camulod. His party had been camped here in this valley for more than a week, ever since capturing the Queen and her party, and yet his mounted scouts had seen no sign in all that time of any activity from Lot's people anywhere within a day's journey on horseback, which was the equivalent of almost two days' marching.

Popilius was surprised but well pleased to hear that and made no effort to conceal his relief. His thousand men created an enormous presence, almost impossibly difficult to conceal, and he had been greatly concerned by the need to insert them deeply into this hostile territory without being detected. For that reason, he had led them overland in night marches ever since quitting the great road west of Isca, and those harsh, punitive exercises were pleasurable to no one, particularly on moonless nights when the darkness was unrelieved and every minor dip in the ground could result in painful accidents and injuries to feet and ankles. He had brought his men through without being detected, however, and to reward them he had relieved them all of duty for the entire day. warning them that they would be back at the daily grind on the following morning, parading at dawn and drilling hard in preparation for the expedition they would undertake on the day after.

By the time Uther left him, they had agreed not only upon the drills and exercises their combined forces would undertake the following day, with Uther's cavalry and bowmen combining forces in an assault upon Cirro's two cohorts, but also upon the order of march for the day after that. Half of Uther's Dragons would form an advance guard and ride ahead of the main body of the infantry. The other half would ride as a rear guard, and Uther's Pendragon bowmen would range on either side of the main marching column, so that their line of march would be direct and no less than two hundred paces wide at any point.

He was satisfied that he had thought of everything long before he reached the tent where Ygraine awaited him. and thankful that he had dismissed her guards earlier that day. He was already tugging at the buckles on the straps of his armour as he entered, but he stopped short just inside the entrance, taken completely by surprise.

The interior of the large, leather-walled tent, after the brightness of the late-afternoon sun, was dark and yet paradoxically brilliant in places with blinding light. Bright shafts of solid light streamed through three Haps propped open in the roof panels, making the rest of the enclosed space seem much darker than it was. Then, while his sight was still blurred and hampered by the strange effect, he saw the bed that had been made in the centre of the front area of the tent. Squinting and blinking, trying to clear his vision, he saw that Ygraine had spread a heavy leather groundsheet beneath another of woven straw, and on that, side by side, she had laid the two thin palliasses from the cots in either sleeping area. On top of the straw mattresses she had then piled campaign sleeping skins, most of them taken from the tent's four footlockers.

All this he managed to see in the instant before he raised his eyes to look at the Queen, sitting motionless in one of the two chairs beyond the bed. A brilliant column of light at her back threw her almost completely into silhouette, transforming her into a phantasm of light-limned shadows. He could not see what she was wearing, but he could see that she was completely covered, the curves of her body broken up and angled by the drapes of a garment of some kind. She made no move to stand and she said nothing, merely looking at him. He straightened up to his full height, and when he had removed his helmet, he bowed slightly to her, inclining his head at the same time.

"Are you a goddess or a Queen? And if you are a Queen, who made the bed?"

She stood up, and he saw that she was wearing a single loose sheet of some fine fabric, covering her arms and shoulders and falling to the ground behind her. Now that she was standing, the light at her back revealed her fine figure in shadow.

"I made the bed," she said quietly. "And I am neither Queen nor goddess. I am a woman, and those cots are far too narrow."

She released the corners of the material and the sheet dropped away, falling to the ground without a sound and allowing the light from behind her to spill onto the curves of her hips, shoulders and neck.

Uther's eyes were adjusting rapidly to the light by that time and his heart began to race as he looked at her, seeing her clearly perhaps for the first time. In the utter silence of the tent he tried to swallow and found that his mouth had gone completely dry. He tried again, more successfully this time, and then sucked air audibly through his nostrils, holding it in for a count of five before expelling it explosively. He moved to step towards her then, and everything he was wearing seemed to creak loudly, except for the hilt of his short- sword, which clanked against the bottom of his cuirass. He stopped abruptly, clutching at the matched sheaths of his short-sword and dagger to keep them from rattling, realizing that he was ill-prepared to handle her nakedness. She read his expression and smiled, raising her hands and spreading her fingers to cover her breasts.

"I have been waiting for you and thinking of this moment and how I would greet you . . ." Her smile grew wider. "But everything I imagined was completely wrong. Who would have thought you would come back in armour? Do you believe you are in danger here. King Uther? I promise, I will not attack you." She covered both breasts then with one forearm and dropped her other hand to conceal the dark triangle at her centre, shaking her head. "At least, I will not while you are wearing that cold, metal breastplate and all those weapons and belts and buckles."

It seemed to him in the moments that followed that he had forgotten everything he had ever learned about removing armour quickly and efficiently, and he knew even as he was doing it that he would have drawn long spells on punishment duty during his early training for the careless and impatient way he now threw each single piece aside as it came loose. He had never behaved that way before, but then he had never before had such a prize in front of him, taunting him for his slowness.

Freed of his clothing at last, he stepped towards her, for she had made no move to approach him or to help him divest himself of weapons or armour, preferring to stand watching him as he stripped himself down. He felt the slippery, warm pelt of one of the bed- skins beneath his bare foot as he moved to her, and then his confidence evaporated all at once, and he stopped short again, abashed and suddenly awkward, his gaze fixed on her eyes.

She stared back at him, her face a picture of serene, slightly amused dignity. "What is it. King Uther?" Her voice was barely louder than a whisper. "Does your kingship stop short of what it desires? Reach out, sir, and take what is yours."

Slowly, gently, he placed his hands on her waist and pulled her towards him, stooping to her mouth and banishing the image of Merlyn Britannicus and his wife, Deirdre, that sprang instantly into his mind. Her arms came up behind his head, and everything but her mouth was forgotten as the moist warmth of her lips closed over his and she went limp again, simply dropping her dead weight into his arms as she had before. This time, however, he yielded to the slump, allowing the weight of her to pull him down to the bed.

He left her reluctantly before the sun had reached its zenith, making sure that she was escorted discreetly to her own tent.

Much as it pained him, he was obliged to spend some time with his subordinate commanders, infantry, cavalry and bowmen, ensuring that they were all prepared for the following day's march and the campaign it would launch. He met briefly again at the end of the afternoon with Ygraine and Herliss in the King's Tent, Dyllis having been dispatched with young Cavan to find their own amusements, and so comfortable were he and she in their new-found intimacy that they had no trouble at all in concealing it from the veteran Cornish commander.

They discussed the latest developments in their escape plan, and Uther explained to the others exactly what he had told his trooper Nemo. When the main strike force left the following day. Nemo would remain behind in camp with a small holding force of Dragons, to guard the remaining prisoners, the Queen's bodyguard and keep them safe pending Uther's return. Then, within the following few days, Nemo would make a move, along with four hand-picked companions, all five of them apparently suborned by Herliss and rewarded with gold and jewels. They would all five draw night guard duty, and after nightfall, when most of their companions had fallen asleep, they would attack and immobilize the others who stood guard with them. That done, they would next overpower and bind their sleeping comrades one at a time, before freeing Herliss and the Queen's bodyguard.

Uther assured them again that the escape would be smooth, since none of his men would offer any resistance when the lime came for them to be "overcome." Alasdair Mac lain and the Queen's bodyguard would know nothing of that, of course. They would see only the result. Nemo and the other four would flee with the escapees, and as soon as they were safely out of sight, the "bound" guards would free themselves and resume their duties as caretakers of the base camp. Nemo and the four men would later strike out from the escaping party on their own as they approached the coast.

where they would say they hoped to find access to a ship that would take them over to Gaul. Once on their own, however, they would immediately make their way back to the camp.

Herliss nodded throughout all of this, plainly impressed with Uther's thoroughness and untroubled by any detail of what he was hearing.

When everything had been discussed, Uther excused himself to Herliss and Ygraine and made his way directly to the commissary, where he spoke with the head cook and obtained a heavy, lidded kitchen basket filled with fresh-cooked meat, both venison and fowl, a large loaf of new bread, a round of goat cheese and a small, cloth-wrapped bundle of apples that had been sliced and then dried in the sun. A jug of beer, sealed with a waxed covering, and two earthen mugs gave the basket a fine, substantial heft.

By the time Uther returned to the King's Tent, Herliss had gone and Ygraine was waiting for him. They ate slowly and without interruption, enjoying the meal and the beer, and when they were finished, Uther got up and carefully fastened the leather flaps that formed the doorway. Then, moving almost formally and being careful not to touch each other, they remade their bed together slowly, enjoying the deliberate and titillating build-up of anticipation. When the bed was ready and he would have kissed her, Ygraine held him off even longer, motioning him away from her as she began to remove her clothing, licking her lips lasciviously and motioning to him to take his clothes off, too. They watched each other hungrily, then collapsed slowly on to the bed-skins and made love continuously, with only minor intermissions when they recouped and talked in whispers, until darkness fell more than three hours later.

They had more sleep that second night, but not much. Twice in the night Ygraine woke him with lips and questing fingers, and twice more he wakened her by penetrating her gently as she slept and drawing her slowly to the surface of sleep with his caresses.

He was astir before dawn, however, bathing himself in water from the ewer on the wash table and refusing to allow her to come near him while he did so, since they both knew the dangers of her being too close to him when he was naked. She helped him to buckle on his armour, however, and she slipped the long-bladed cavalry sword through the iron ring that hung at his back, then held his helmet while he swirled the great red war cloak with the gold- embroidered dragon over his head and let it settle comfortably across his shoulders before fastening the clasps that held it securely in place. When he was ready, he stood in front of her bare-headed, holding his heavy helmet in the crook of his left arm, its rim propped against his hip beneath his cloak. She came close to him and wrapped her arms around his waist, sliding the right one between the helmet and his cuirass under the heavy cloak and shrugging the heavy, thick material over her shoulders to hang down her back. She was bare-skinned and smelled deliciously of their lovemaking. He pecked her with a gentle kiss and peered down at her.

"Well, lady, shall we meet again?"

She tilted her head back and looked at him. "If you do your part properly and well, and soon, ridding Cornwall of Gulrhys Lot, then yes, my lord, we will."

"Ridding Britain of Gulrhys Lot, you mean. He pollutes far more than Cornwall. Have no fear, lady, I will do my part."

"And I'll do mine. I know not how, but I will send you word by some trusted messenger whenever I hear anything that you might use to confound him and his foul ambitions . . . I find myself wishing now, for the first time in my life, that I could read and write, for I could then sit down and write to you all that is in my mind. Bui I never learned in Eire. Writing must be a Roman trick."

Uther snorted. "Aye, it is that. I learned it myself, but only barely. I read, but I never write, although I could, if I were forced. Merlyn's the scribe in our family."

"So I shall have to be content with sending messages by mouth and memory."

"My memories of your mouth will sustain me as I wait, lady."

"Aye . . ." She did not smile, her brow creased in thought. "As I told you, I cannot say when it might be, Uther, or who might be my messenger, but I will reach you somehow. And if ever you come close to where I am at any time, I will find a way to come to you or have you brought to me."

He grinned. "Then we would spend all our time in bed, lady, and little of it talking."

She smiled now, too. "What better way can time be spent? Time enough for talking when we grow old. Look at that little man of yours. There's nothing old about him, is there? Young and upstanding, yet he is stiff-backed and not nearly as hard-headed as he first appears. Over all, though, he communicates his meaning excellently well, considering he spoke not a single word in the entire two nights of our dealings with one other. He is a very clever and talented little fellow and I have grown to like him very much, so see you. King Uther Pendragon, keep him safe for me."

"Aye, lady, you can rely upon me for that," he replied, smiling. He stooped and kissed her, long and deeply, and then raised his head high, gazing into nothingness. "I have to go now. I don't want to, but I'm already late. Fare thee well, sweet Lady Ygraine, until we meet again. The day after tomorrow, you will be free again."

"And on my way back to my wondrous husband. Gods! I think I would rather die. But I will go, and I will tell him what he wants to hear. . . tales of your depravity and wanton cruelty. I will pretend I do not know that he refused to rescue me and set my very life at risk by killing peaceful envoys, and I'll scream at him for vengeance upon you. And then I will listen carefully at every moment, and whatever I may hear, you will hear shortly afterwards. When will you return to Cambria?"

"In October, if the weather holds. Everything in war depends upon the weather. As long as I can move my troops around without their freezing on me, I'll stay here."

"What if I have tidings for you in the meantime, how will my messenger find you, and where?"

"In Cambria, in my stronghold of Tir Manha in the southwest. I stay there during the winter, without moving much, unless I have to go and visit one of the other clans in the Federation. I am never absent long, however, and your messenger will find no hardship in waiting for me for a few days. Otherwise, if I am not expected to return soon, I might be in Camulod, four days distant."

"And will my messenger be safe searching for you?"

He looked back into her eyes now, his own eyes narrowing, and then he removed a ring from the smallest finger of his right hand. The ring was of solid gold, the main body of it carved into the likeness of a dragon with its wings folded and its tail coiled, tiny jewels set into its head as glittering, brilliant, blood-red eyes. He pressed it into her hand, closing her fist over it.

"My colours, gold and red. This ring was my father's and his father's before that. I'll pass the word among my people that anyone carrying this ring must be brought to me immediately, no matter where I am. Don't lose it."

She raised both eyebrows. "But I always lose things! Everything! I lost my heart and my chastity to you, did I not? Now kiss me and be gone, before I drag you back to bed."

He did so, thoroughly and well, and then turned and left her before he could be tempted to do it again.

The raid that Uther led out that morning with Ygraine's scent still clinging to his skin was spectacularly successful, for they had struck directly southwestward, avoiding detection almost until they had penetrated to the very end of the long finger of Cornwall that thrust out into the sea. There, on both sides of the spur of land, lay a profusion of bays and inlets, many of them with narrow beaches and high, protective cliffs that Lot's people used to great advantage, landing their mercenary troops in sheltered coves and beaching their seagoing vessels.

Like his father before him, Gulrhys Lot offered safe harbour and anchorage to anyone wishing to use the deep coves of Cornwall for shelter. He made no moral judgments, betrayed no interest in the activities of his visitors and made no demands on them other than one. In return for their safety, security and the right to come and go at will, the raiders must pay him a bounty of half their booty in the form of specie—coins and vessels and ornaments of gold, silver, copper and bronze, and any jewels that they might acquire. Coinage was seldom used anywhere nowadays. Now everything was barter, and once- precious metals were largely worthless. What point in having silver and gold coins if you couldn't use them to buy anything? And so Lot's coffers were always full of coinage, and the pirates were well pleased with the bargain.

What few of them knew, however, was that Lot melted the coins and pieces down into bullion. Thick, heavy bars of solid gold, silver and copper were always sure to stir the hearts and minds of greedy men wealthy enough to hunger for more. Few such men lived in Britain nowadays, but there were still enough of them in Gaul and throughout the other provinces on the mainland to provide a lucrative market for his endeavours. Thus Lot could transform his bullion into ships and men and weapons, and ensure an unending supply of mercenaries for his wars.

On the cliffs above the largest and most important of these inlets, those dedicated to the protection of the pirate fleets that earned him his bullion. Lot had constructed fortifications on the landward side. Many of these were little more than barricades: heaps of logs piled high upon each other and reinforced with sand, with perhaps a stepped ditch behind the crest where bowmen could stand in defence of the entrance to the narrow pathway to and from the beach below. Several, however, more than a score in all, were sophisticated enough to qualify as crude but real forts, lit to be manned most of the time, and a few of them were garrisoned full time.

Uther's raiding force fell upon these outposts like thunderbolts, striking terror into the defenders, since none of them had ever really expected to be attacked by hostile forces from within their own lands. It was beyond the power of their imaginations to envision an invading force strong enough to strike downward clean through the heart of Cornwall and reach the southwestern coast unbloodied. Their incredulity worked well on Uther's behalf, and he took full advantage of it, striking savagely and ruthlessly and driving the demoralized enemy out of their holes and back down onto the beaches, where they scattered and made their individual escapes as best they could. It frequently took his troopers longer to destroy the fortifications than it had to capture them.

Only one fort did Uther avoid on that expedition, and that was Tir Gwyn, Herliss's own White Fort, a massive construction that looked not only impregnable but inviolable since it was built entirely of a local, snow-white quartz. Uther halted his raiders on a nearby hill and allowed them to admire the castle from afar, blazing in the sunshine like a beacon of purity, but then he swung them around and put many miles between them and Tir Gwyn before night fell.

That raid marked the beginning of a season of warfare in which Uther's Dragons went from success to success and earned themselves a reputation among Lot's forces that often resulted in the Cornishmen throwing down their weapons and running away without attempting to strike a blow. Only the hardest of Lot's mercenaries stopped the year from becoming a complete rout for the Dragons. Several groups and divisions of those, mainly Germanic tribesmen who had trained and fought as imperial mercenaries, combined forces under a pair of talented generals called Cerdic and Tewdric and for a time came close to halting Uther's free-ranging progress.

The two armies met late one afternoon across a narrow valley with steep sides, and Uther knew that his were not the only guts squirming with fear and apprehension that day. But as the opposing forces eyed each other, waiting for the dispositions that their commanders would decree, a storm broke over them, battering both armies with terrifying power. Both hosts sat still, absorbing the blasts, waiting for them to blow over, but time passed and the tempest showed no sign of abating. The rain was icy, mixed with hail, and the temperature plummeted. The men were soaked, and then grew chilled, then frozen, and still the storm flared about them, with lightning bolts that shattered trees and scattered men. Night fell, and the world was a quagmire. Day came and the hillside opposite Uther's position was bare of men.

There were no crushing reversals for Uther's Dragons, no battles lost or defeats sustained by his forces, and most of the talk about the campaign, among the allies from Cambria and Camulod, continued to focus on the undeniable success of Uther's ideas about combining infantry with bowmen and cavalry in carefully planned manoeuvres against enemy forces that ought to have been overwhelmingly victorious simply by virtue of their numbers. Apart from that, however, things were going annoyingly wrong for Uther in other areas—piddling, insignificant little areas—and he became increasingly unable to understand why. It seemed to amount to no more than trivial annoyances at first, gadfly occurrences that demanded to be scratched: spies and scouts being caught and killed when they ought to have been safe and free from threat; messages and messengers going astray and never arriving at their destinations; shipments of supplies arriving from Camulod partially spoiled and in one instance totally unusable.

Hand in hand with that kind of thing, indications of incompetence and mismanagement among his own forces began to come to his notice. In the space of a single month, he received four separate reports of inaccurate information being provided to troop commanders and then acted upon without any attempt to obtain verification, resulting in time and effort wasted and men endangered without valid cause. On the worst of those occasions, a ten-man troop had been dispatched to scout a pathway through a dense growth of forest in the northernmost part of Cornwall, assured by their chief scout that the terrain between their departure point and the edge of the forest was wide open and free of hostile forces. It was not, on either count. Reconstructing the scene afterward, the troop commander had found clear indications that the troop had been ambushed by a party of not less than a hundred men who had left ample evidence to establish beyond doubt that they had been living openly and for some time in caverns among a jumble of large rocks close by the road the troopers used. All ten troopers had been killed and their horses stolen.

Incompetence and mismanagement, deplorable though they may be, are remediable, and Uther made it his prime urgency to put a stop to it. The remedy involved close scrutiny of several of his individual commanders, the execution of his chief scout, who was proved to have lied in order to cover his own laziness, and two swift demotions of intermediate commanders to the ranks, where they fared badly at the hands of their former subordinates. That not only clipped the pinions of the officers involved, it also served notice to everyone that high rank, forfeited, entailed a long, hard fall.

Against what most people called sheer misfortune and plain bad luck, however, Uther, like everyone else, was impotent: a scouting troop of twelve mounted men, caught unexpectedly in a narrow valley by a large band of Lot's mercenaries who ought not to have been there, broke and ran down the valley to the eastward in the reasonable hope that their horses' speed would carry them to safety. Instead, it led them into a dry, brush-choked ravine in which they all died when the enemy fired the brush with burning arrows. In another incident, an entire squadron of cavalry, thirty-six strong and operating independently of other support, found itself wiped out when one of the horses came down with some unknown kind of fever and infected all the others. The pestilence spread through the horse lines in the space of two days, and twenty-eight of a total of fifty horses died. The remaining twenty-two animals had all shown symptoms of the illness but had recovered by the end of the fifth day. The squadron commander, a young man called Rollo who had been born and raised around the stables of Camulod, had not dared assume the risk of taking potentially lethal animals back into the healthy herds remaining in Uther's base camp. Upon his own initiative, he ordered that every one of the surviving animals be slaughtered, and he and his men walked back twenty-three miles to rejoin the army, carrying their saddles and equipment.

It gradually became apparent to Uther and to those around him who enjoyed his confidence that something fundamental had changed within his army during the course of the year's campaigning. Had anyone chosen to consider such things prior to the start of that campaign, they might have said that Uther's was a lucky army; everyone had taken that for granted. During the latter part of that summer, however, that perception changed radically, and "Uther's Luck," as it came to be known, was regularly talked about around his army's campfires. The rate at which his best intentions and most careful planning went wrong soon began to generate a plainly noticeable kind of superstitious awe among his followers, and Uther himself eventually reached the stage where he could not blame his people for what they were thinking. He could not charge them openly with disloyalty, either, for the truth was that he, too, suspected some malign, supernatural intervention in his affairs.

From that first night with Ygraine, it seemed to him later, nothing that he planned had ever come to full fruition in quite the way he had envisioned, and he convinced himself eventually that lying with Ygraine had been the very worst thing he could have done. He was incapable of forgetting that Ygraine was sister to Deirdre, who had been Merlyn's wife and was now dead, and that before all that, Deirdre had been Cassandra. Forgetting the pleasure of their coupling, he could not banish the shame of having used his captive for his own desires, in contradiction of everything he had been taught about honourable conduct, acting in the basest possible way, giving full rein to the darkness in him. He felt sure he was being punished for this transgression with the falseness of those around him. And deep in his soul, it sometimes rankled when he gave way to his despair and remembered how he had renounced all his boyhood ties to Cambria—even to being Pendragon—because of his loyalty to Merlyn and to Camulod. A sacrifice that big. made in the name of loyalty, he told himself on the few occasions when he allowed himself to wallow in self-pity, should protect anyone against disloyalty in others . . .

Most of the time, however, Uther would have nothing to do with such thoughts. He had little patience for those who were forever looking back over their shoulders. Only at night would the shadows overtake him, subjecting him to superstitious fears and reminding him of the darkness he acknowledged in himself. It was hardly surprising, therefore, that he seldom permitted himself to dwell on such things, forcing himself instead to remain in the bright light of the approval of his people.

Chapter THIRTY-ONE

In the autumn of the year, towards the end of the campaigning season, an unknown warrior on a tall red horse rode into Uther's camp one evening and demanded to speak with King Uther Pendragon. He was detained but not disarmed, while Nemo, who was decurion of the guard that night, set out to find Uther. But Uther had seen the man arrive and had already come himself to find out who would dare to ride so boldly into his camp alone and on such a magnificent mount.

The King strode quickly towards the group clustered about the newcomer, and the stranger began to step forward to meet him, only to be seized and forced to his knees by the zealous guards. Uther barked an order, bidding them step away and allow the stranger to rise. The man then rose to his feet, squaring his shoulders and holding his head high, glaring around defiantly at his captors.

Uther walked right by him, ignoring him completely, and went to examine his horse, instead. He inspected the animal's teeth and ran his hand expertly over its withers, then turned to its master.

"A fine horse. Unusual for us to see horseflesh as good as our own in this part of the world. I'm Uther Pendragon. Who are you?"

Instead of answering, the stranger reached out and unfolded his left hand, palm upward, revealing Uther's own ring, worn facing inward, on his little finger. The King gazed at it in silence for a count of several heartbeats, his lips pursed, then turned to lay a hand on the arm of one of the guards.

"Marek, go you to the commissary if you will, and bring some cups and a jug of ale to my tent. . . a large jug, I think. Our friend here looks thirsty." He turned back to the newcomer and inclined his head. "Come with me. Your horse will be looked after while we talk." He glanced at Nemo, who stood glowering at the stranger. "See to it. Nemo, will you?" Then he strode away towards his tent without a backward glance, and the visitor walked close behind him, leaving the guards looking at each other in mute wonder, unable to decipher what had just happened.

Darkness had already begun to fall, and lamps and smoky, pitch-dipped torches were being lit everywhere. In the King's Tent, they found a trooper busily lighting the high, tallow candles that augmented Uther's dim, smoky campaign lamps. Uther waved the man to a chair and then leaned with his buttocks against the single table, his arms folded across his chest, waiting until the trooper had left the tent.

As soon as they were alone, he spoke. "The Lady Ygraine is well, I hope?"

"Aye, she is. And nearby, too. She bade me bring you to her, if you can make the time to visit her."

Uther was staring at the stranger, assessing him as he had been doing since first he set eyes on him. The man was no ordinary warrior, nor was he a servant of any kind. Quite apart from the magnificent horse he rode, his speech and his clothing proclaimed him high-born to some degree.

"Who are you?"

"My name is Lagan. They call me Lagan Longhead."

The King smiled. "Of course, Herliss's son. I see the resemblance now. Is your father well? I have heard nothing of him since I saw him last."

Lagan inclined his head solemnly. "He is well and safely back in Tir Gwyn where he belongs. I am grateful to you for releasing him and for the way in which you did it. You saved his life, and perhaps my own and those of my wife and son. My entire clan is in your debt."

Uther smiled and shook his head. "No need for that, Lagan Longhead. I did what I did for my own benefit, believe me. I needed allies in the war against Lot, and your father and the Queen needed someone who could help them win back some portion of their lives. We all benefited equally."

He was interrupted by the arrival of the trooper Marek, bearing a jug of ale and two mugs. Uther took them from him and thanked the man, then poured. Lagan raised his mug immediately and drank down half of the contents in a single long swallow. Uther watched him, smiling faintly, then picked up the jug and refilled Lagan's before sipping his own. He made no move to sit in the other chair, content instead to remain lounging against the edge of the table, looking down at his seated guest.

"I thought you had the look of a thirsty man about you. How far from here is the Queen?"

Lagan wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and belched quietly, showing no awareness that Uther was looking down on him. "A three-hour ride—four in the dark, but there's a harvest moon tonight. She is in the Crag Fort, one of my father's smaller strongholds, the smallest of them, in fact, but warm and habitable. If you are able, we can leave immediately, for the Queen will be impatient. Tomorrow, she must be back in Tir Gwyn where her husband, our greatly beloved King, will join her. And while Lot is in Tir Gwyn during the next few days, less than a day's journey from where the Queen will lie tonight, my father hopes that you will burn the Crag Fort."

Uther frowned. "And why would I do that? Is your father so wealthy that he can afford to lose a castle for a gesture?"

"He may be. More to the point, however, he can't afford not to. Lot is beginning to wonder why so few of my father's holdings have been attacked this year."

"So few? You mean some of them have been attacked?"

"Aye, two."

"I did not know that."

"Aye, and for that we thank the gods. When every other castle in the land is being attacked, it becomes very noteworthy when those belonging to one single, powerful man sit safe and unthreatened. You attacked two of my father's castles recently, within a month of each other, and one of them you mauled quite badly, stealing all its stored grain and burning the empty granaries. That was just enough, and beautifully timed, to lull Lot's suspicions. Now another month has elapsed, and the complete destruction and loss of a third castle belonging to the noble Herliss should tip the balance—to Lot's eyes at least—back in the direction of uneasy trust."

"Hmm." Uther was bracing himself with one straight leg, holding his mug in one hand and drumming on the rim of it with the nails of his other hand, his head tilted slightly as though he listened to the rhythm of his fingers. Finally he jerked his head in a tight little nod. "So be it. If you will wait here for me, I have some people to talk to and some minor arrangements to put in place to cover my absence. I'll instruct my grooms to have your horse brushed down and prepared for a return journey, and I'll rejoin you here as quickly as I can. We'll leave immediately after that. Should I bring an escort of some kind?"

"Not unless you absolutely want to draw attention to yourself. But if you feel you must have an escort, then bring one."

Uther looked the other man straight in the eye, remembering what he had been told about him years earlier. The two of them were close in age. Lagan perhaps a couple of years older, and if his long-time friend the Lady Mairidh were to be believed, they were close in temperament as well. Lagan stared right back at him, one eyebrow slightly quirked, almost but not quite arrogant, and certainly not lacking in self-assurance.

Uther grinned. "No, I don't think so. No escort. Wait, I won't be long."

He turned quickly to leave, but before he could take a step, the other man stopped him with a word, bidding him wait. Uther turned back and looked at him curiously.

"What? What is it?"

Lagan looked him up and down and back again, head to foot, then motioned with his hand. "Appearances," he said quietly. "You might as well bring the escort if you're going to wear that."

"Wear what?"

"King Uther Pendragon's armour. I recognized you as soon as I saw you coming—bright-red and gold cloak, gold dragon, bronze armour with red enamelling, crimson horsehair crest on the helmet. It's hardly unobtrusive, is it? I simply thought you might want to bring a trumpeter with you, too, so that we can alert anyone who doesn't see you at first glance . . ."

Uther stood glaring at the man's effrontery, and then his face broke into a slow grin and he nodded. "You do have a point. Let me see what else I can find to wear. There are not too many men my size among our forces but there are a few. Wait for me. I'll be back as quickly as may be."

Lagan sat still for a moment, then looked down into his mug and drank deeply again before rising and moving to help himself from the jug. Armed with another brimming mug, he went back and sat in the chair, placed the mug carefully on the ground beside him and then stretched his muscles hugely, arms, back and legs, groaning softly with the pleasure of it.

When Uther returned some time later, dressed now in a plain black woollen cloak with a hood and a mixture of nondescript pieces of armour, he found his visitor asleep with his chin on his breast, his long legs stretched out in front of him and his body slouched deeply in the chair. The mug on the ground beside him was still full.

Uther learned more about Gulrhys Lot that night than he had previously been able to accumulate over a lifetime. Thinking back on it later, he would have no clear idea when during their journey the tenor of their talk had changed, but eventually everything Lagan Longhead had held lightly restrained inside him concerning Lot— all the anger, frustration, disillusioned bitterness and pain—hail poured out of him in some kind of cleansing catharsis.

Within the first few moments of their beginning to speak to each other once they were free of the camp, Uther felt a kind of bond between himself and Lagan, undefined and accepted without question or comment, that tacitly permitted them to speak openly without fear. It was a phenomenon that Uther had never encountered before, because it was not in his nature either to be garrulous among friends or to confide easily in strangers, but he merely accepted it and shrugged his shoulders mentally, while Lagan gave him no sign that he was even aware of anything unusual.

Uther started talking about Merlyn, and somehow the topic drifted naturally to his loyalty to his cousin, and then to Camulod and to his own Dragons. Always, however, it swung back to Merlyn, and loyalty and, at length, to betrayal by disbelief, with Uther even broaching the subject of his own doubts and uncertainties. And before long Lagan Longhead began laying bare his own soul in return, talking about his own experiences with loyalty and betrayal, and about his decades-long friendship with Gulrhys Lot.

"Gods, man!" Uther interrupted. "You sound as though you think you lost something of value!"

"I did lose something of value." Lagan glanced sideways and saw the disbelief on Uther's face, and he grinned and shook his head. "But we all see value differently at different times. You never knew Lot as I once did. He has a marvellous sense of the ridiculous, and we have had some wonderful times together, he and I. . . happy times, laughing ourselves sick, weeping tears of mirth until we fell on the floor clutching our ribs."

"Gulrhys Lot? Are you talking about Lot of Cornwall? You can't mean that."

"Oh yes I can, and why not? I stand against him now, but I was his true and devoted friend for nigh on twenty years, and that was not, I promise you, because he was a miserable, treacherous, inhumane bully. He could be all of those things and more when he wished to be, but he never was to me. Never. I never saw that side of him.

"I know people thought me foolish and blind and stupid—even Lydda, my own wife, thought so. She tried to warn me about it many times, but of course, I never listened. I was a man and she merely a woman, so I tried to be patient with her foolishness, told her that she was wrong. Well, she wasn't, and I was the one who proved to be the fool."

He stopped and rode without speaking for a while, and Uther held his peace, knowing that he had not finished.

"You would like him, Uther. You would like him mightily, whether you choose to believe me or not. You would respond to him instantly and enjoy him thoroughly—until you saw through and beyond the living mask he had put on for his dealings with you. He wears a different mask for everyone. Even for me. And he deluded me so well, so damned completely, that for most of my life I would not believe he wore a mask at all, no matter who told me otherwise."

Uther turned himself in the saddle to face Lagan. "How could he be that way with you for so long and not thus with everyone else? And how could you not see beyond it?"

"How indeed?" Lagan screwed up his face and nodded his head, affirming his own thoughts on the question. "When he took my wife and son as hostages against my good behaviour, he lost me forever, but he and I had been close friends as children, and we remained close throughout our growing up. The Lot I loved was the Lot of our boyhood."

Uther grunted his disgust. "I met him when he was a boy, and he was a loathsome pig. I tried to kill him."

"I know, Ygraine told me about that. I remember how sick he was when he came home that year. He was shut up for weeks before they'd let me see him, and I never did find out what really happened. But Lot was fourteen by then, at least fourteen. When I speak of our boyhood, I mean the days when we were children, seven, eight, nine and ten years old . . . the days when we were yet innocent of blood, or adulthood, or sexual corruption. Boyhood. Uther—you must remember boyhood? Surely you had one too?"

Uther smiled, then sobered quickly. "Aye, I had. But you and I were changed by all of those same things. Lagan, and yet you and I are not crazed madmen, pulling our whole world down around our ears."

"That's true. But no matter how low we might think he has sunk, Lot retains a bottomless well of attractiveness and warmth that he can draw from anytime he wishes. And when he finds someone who can be of use to him, or someone who is in a position to provide him with some new benefit, or even someone he wants to influence to his own ends for some specific purpose, there seems to be no limit to the efforts he will make to win them to his way of thinking." Lagan grimaced at the thought. "I've watched him doing it for years, and believe me, he can be incredibly seductive and alluring when it comes to making people do what he wants them to do. He could coax honey from a hungry bear. But you can guess at what must happen time and again: those people who found themselves basking in the warmth and enthusiasm of his attention and approval one week would find themselves abandoned and ignored the next, when his directions changed. And being suddenly removed from light and warmth, then thrown back into the cold shadows among which they had lived before, they felt the cold more keenly, and the dimness of their former lives now seemed like darkness. Do you wonder they became bitter?"

"No. And yet I was thinking that Lot must be too clever to allow that kind of thing to happen, to permit people to think of him that harshly when there's no need for it. It is bad leadership . . . bad kingship. It's bad policy, from every viewpoint." Uther thought about that for a moment, and then dismissed the subject offhandedly. "But then, he's Lot of Cornwall, and he's insane."

Lagan barked a laugh.

Full darkness had fallen on them suddenly, between one word and the next, and both men reined in their mounts and turned in their saddles to look up at the moon, which now lay behind them over their left shoulders. It had vanished behind the edge of a large, fast- moving cloud that blocked out the surrounding stars, but as they sat staring it emerged front its trailing skirts to bathe the world once again in light. Lagan turned away and was making tutting sounds between his teeth, scanning the skies to the northeast.

"Storm coming in. That cloud was moving very quickly, and it's only the first. Look over there, it's as black as Hades. Perhaps we should ride a little faster."

"How much farther do we have to go?"

"Five miles. An hour's ride, the way we were going. We'll be wet long before then."

"Then let's shorten that hour while the light's good."

They kicked their mounts into motion again and prodded them into a canter, riding in silence as they adjusted to the increased speed and the changing shadows. They were on the high moors, and there were no trees or bushes to impede their progress, but both of them knew that the ground under their horses' hooves could be treacherous, strewn with loose stones and pitted in places with the holes of burrowing animals. After about a quarter of an hour of this, the horses began to breathe more heavily and their riders slowed them again to a walk. The sky overhead was still clear, save for the occasional small, unthreatening cloud. The massed storm banks in the northeast seemed to be moving very slowly, despite the speed of the first cloud that had covered the moon.

Uther had been thinking about what Lagan said, and now there was one question remaining in his mind, one point on which he had to be certain.

"Would you still be his friend if he came back and asked you to?"

Lagan glanced quickly at Uther and then shook his head decisively. "No. It's gone far beyond redemption now."

"And does Lot know that?"

It took a long time for Lagan to answer that, but eventually he looked up and shook his head. "No. He has no idea that I feel the way I do."

"Are you sure about that?"

Now Lagan snapped his head round in scorn and his voice was a rebuke. "Of course I am sure of that! Were it otherwise, I would be dead, and so would my whole family, from my father to my youngest nieces." He stopped short, clenching his eyes tight shut and scratching at one eyebrow with a fingertip, and when he opened his eyes and spoke again his voice was under control once more.

"I am forced to live a lie, you see, in order to save lives. Not my own—I care nothing for that—but. . . others. I tell you, my friend, you can have no idea how much pleasure it would give me to march into his presence, among all his swarming guards, and tell him what I really think of him and his perverted ways. But do you know the most sickening part of all of this?" He glanced at Uther and then shook his head, answering his own question. "The worst of all of this is that, even as he was having me hunted down and killed with all my clan, he would be feeling hurt and ill-used. The thing you have to understand about Lot is the strange self-love he has. In Lot's own mind, he has no flaws; he can do nothing wrong. It's always the other people in his life who betray him, one way or another. There is never any possibility at all that he might be at fault—What was that? Did you hear something?"

Uther stopped dead, standing up in his stirrups and leaning forward to throw the lower edge of his cloak forward over the head of his horse, blinding it. The animal had been trained to stand quietly and make no sound when covered thus.

"Something," he said. "Sounded like a shout, cut short."

"That's what I thought, too. Can you see anything?"

"No. Shut up and listen."

For a long space of moments there was nothing, and then, from the far side of a slight rise ahead of them, came a clink of metal on metal, followed a short time later by another.

Both men dismounted quickly, Uther dropping his reins to the ground, knowing that would stop his well-trained horse from moving away. He then wrapped his borrowed black cloak around him and moved forward towards the top of the small rise that Lagan was already climbing, bending low and finally crawling forward on his belly to where he could see beyond the crest.

The ground fell away steeply on the other side of the little knoll, stretching down to the deep, dry bed of what must once have been a fair-sized stream, and the entire watercourse, as far as they could see on either side, was choked with heavily armed men, moving from north to south. Directly ahead of where the two watchers lay, between them and the traffic, one man sat apart, being aided by a couple of others, and it soon became obvious that he must have been the one who had shouted out, because one of his companions was holding the man's leg tightly while the other was binding up his ankle, ignoring the muttered litany of curses that poured from his lips. Seeing the fellow squatting there with his leg extended in front of him, Uther thought again about the burrowing animals that abounded on these moors, and how dangerous their excavations were to nighttime travellers.

Their binding finished, the two men hauled their comrade to his feet and then each took one of his arms across their shoulders and led him away, limping heavily between them. Neither of the watchers even glanced at the other, but Uther sensed Lagan's head coming close to his own, and he leaned closer to him to listen.

"Don't know who these people are, but they could be Lot's own mercenaries," Lagan mouthed, his lips almost touching Uther's ear. "They're headed due south, to Tir Gwyn. Lot is to be there tomorrow. But I don't know why they would be marching secretly at night, or so soundlessly. Unless, of course. Lot has sent them ahead to ensure that Herliss is not plotting to surprise his King when the great man arrives."

Uther spoke from the corner of his mouth, his voice as low as Lagan's. "Who else could they be, do you know? I mean, could they be other than Lot's people?"

"No, not unless they're yours. They must be Lot's. And they're going south, so they are headed for Tir Gwyn. The Crag Fort is to the east, directly ahead of us, so they can't be going there. We'll simply have to stay here and wait for them to pass, but we'd better move off a bit."

"Should you not make some attempt to warn your father that they're coming?"

"Aye, and I will when we reach the Crag Fort. He is there waiting for us."

Uther nodded and they withdrew, making their way backwards until they felt it was safe to stand upright again. Then they returned to their horses and sat down by their feet.

A short time after that, a single, heavy drop of rain landed on Uther's ear. He glanced up at the sky, which had turned completely black, stood up and thrust his heavy helmet back onto his head, then wrapped his cloak completely around himself. A moment later the skies opened and the thundering of heavy raindrops on the metal helmet shut out every other sound in the world.

There was no point in trying to go anywhere. They stood there like statues, two men and two horses, and the deluge inundated them completely, so that they could not have been seen from more than five paces away. In all, seven Hares of lightning lit up the darkness and revealed the black, empty land, obscured by driven lines of pelting rain, and then the worst of the storm passed over and the strength of the downpour abated slowly. Gradually, almost imperceptibly, the darkness lightened until the two men could see each other again, albeit dimly, and still they stood, waiting patiently for time to pass and for the rain to end.

When they moved forward slowly again, the river of men had vanished, as though the storm and the night had obliterated them. Uther's jaw was sore with biting down to keep his teeth from chattering, and he shuddered.

"Never mind," said Lagan. "We've still got a mile to go, but when we get to the Crag Fort they'll have firelight and warmth, and ale and roasted meat."

"Could we reach it in less than a mile if we move quickly?"

Lagan grinned and wiped a raindrop from the end of his nose with the back of his hand. "We might. . . they say there's a first time for everything."

Chapter THIRTY-TWO