The Shadow of a King

Chapter 1 Glastening Abbey - AD 472-2

'Go with God, Uther Pendragon, and I pray that the spirits may also be with you through this day. It seems your tasks among us may never be complete. I fear your people ask too much of you.' With a hand covering her mouth to stifle a sob, the Abbess stepped back into the company of the weeping nuns.

Armour was attached to the King; greaves for his legs and a breastplate to cover his chest. Over this was placed the heavy wool cloak that was tied in place around his body to protect him from the rain and also to shield the ropes that held him in place. The tribesmen all mounted, and in a final gesture, Sir Ector produced a golden crown from a bag set behind his saddle and tugged it firmly into place upon his King's lolling head. Preparations complete, he finally looked across to the Abbess.

'I am truly sorry, Morgana, but you know this is Merlyn's doing and not mine. I would let him die with dignity, here with you, but Merlyn says that he has communed with the spirits, and they call for the King to lead us in battle one final time. You know I cannot argue with either the spirits or the Druid.' Without waiting for a reply, he kicked his horse into motion, and the five mounted men clattered out into a cold grey dawn, the sound of their departure disturbing a host of crows into flight, the birds rising like winged smoke from an old dead elm to circle raucously above them.

The Abbess walked to the gateway and watched the riders go, four men moving at a trot, whilst the fifth bounced from side to side, appearing stiff and ungainly as they rounded the Tor and passed the muddy track that led up to holy Avalon.

'Close the gates.' She waved impatiently, and two nuns rushed to do her bidding, dragging the large, heavy gates closed with an echoing boom, shutting out the world of man.

One of the nuns stepped forward. 'Mother, we must pray for the King. Our Lord God shall cast his light of protection over…' The Abbess held up a hand as the rest of the nuns gathered around her expectantly.

'Sisters, you must indeed pray for our King, assemble in the chapel. However, I shall make my own preparations and then retire to my chambers and pray alone.' She clapped her hands, and the nuns moved off into the dark Abbey while the Abbess headed towards a separate doorway, intent upon devotions of her own.

His body did not feel his own. Shapes and sounds drifted to him as if through a fog. It felt as if he were constantly falling, turning around and around, yet never landing nor coming into contact with the ground, just a never-ending drop where he spun and spun yet felt no need to scream, it was as if he were watching from afar. The consciousness of Uther Pendragon sat well behind the clouded eyes letting the sounds of cheering, calling and crying wash around him; it was all a dream that he would either awake from and laugh at, the absurdity of it all… or, perhaps, he may never wake again, it mattered not to him.

'Is he dead?'

'No, he is not dead.' Sir Ector glared around, spat with distaste and then raised his voice above the murmuring of the gathering crowd. 'Uther Pendragon lives and has come to lead us to victory against the Saxons.' Standing up in his saddle, he shouted out above the heads of the gathered tribesmen, 'Step aside and make way for your King.' The growing huddle of battered warriors moved reluctantly to either side as Sir Ector, and his men led the horse carrying Uther Pendragon through their ranks and towards the cluster of pavilions set at the highest point on the hill. Wiping a sheen of wetness from his face, Sir Ector glanced up at the blue and white encampment on the hill above them, the wet pennons upon the pavilions as limp and lifeless as the gathered tribes.

There was less mud on the higher ground, but a direct route up the slope would mean more chance that the King might fall, and that could not be allowed to happen. He guided his charge towards a gentler, more winding path upward and they plodded on, trailing warriors that were keen to see the return of their King. Sir Ector looked back at the men traipsing after them through the mud. They were filthy and wore a ragtag assortment of armour, crests, and colours. Each man carried either a bow, a sword, or the majority, a spear; none walked unarmed. They were tired and disheartened, but not yet defeated. He realised that the sight of their King had already sent an energy amongst them that he had not seen for many long days. Glancing up he saw that even more men and women were running in from the outer shelters as news that the King had returned reached them and still more from the far woodland where those less fortunate had been sheltering. He glanced across at the white, unconscious Uther Pendragon as he swayed and rocked with the movement of the horse and wondered, not for the first time, what magic the Druid was about to unleash.

It was a terrible thing to be doing to a King, to the man he had stood beside, fought beside, eaten and laughed beside as he had risen from being a snotty kid with a big sword to the unifier of the tribes after his brother had died. The fact that Uther had been raised in an Iceni village was also a point of honour of course. As leader of the now landless Iceni, since the Saxons had forced the tribe to leave their ancestral lands, Ector knew his place was beside the King. He had known it was his place to bring him back if anyone was going to do it, but it hurt him to see the man, his friend, his King dying like this. To see him struck down, so close to death and yet not crossing into the Shadowland to be with those who had passed before him, it was not right, it was beyond his understanding, but he knew it was not right.

At the top of the hill, men had begun emerging from the pavilions, drawn by the commotion that the King's entrance had caused. As yet, he couldn't see the Druid, but he knew he would be there. They moved on.

It didn't take long to get to the top and more level ground, and as soon as they reached it, Sir Ector let out a sigh of relief that his King hadn't fallen backwards into the mud on the climb up. He tugged on the reins of Uther's horse so that it drew alongside him.

'Sire,' he hissed, trying to keep his voice from carrying. 'Uther… wake. Spirits help you, but wake Sire.' The King continued to sway in his saddle either asleep or dead; it was hard to tell which. Sir Ector muttered an oath and tugged on the reins again as his horse stepped forward. Three men had moved away from the group at the pavilions. They were walking towards them; the youngest already several strides in front of the others. Sir Ector saw the smile of joy turn to a frown of worry. The young man broke into a run and took the bridle of Uther's horse as soon as he reached them.

'Father? Oh, God, what have they done to you, Father?' He glared across at Sir Ector.

'My Lord, you were instructed to…' But the words died on his lips as the other two men arrived. Releasing the reins, Sir Ector sat taller in the saddle, fearing that he may now have displeased both the future King and also the Druid. Yet as he approached, the Druid was smiling, nodding at him.

'Well met, Sir Ector. Fear not, you have done well.' The old Druid moved forward, still smiling at them all warmly as if Uther were fit and well and strong enough to lead a horde of warriors against the whole Saxon nation. Sir Ector glanced at the King, just to be sure he was still the same dying man he had dragged from his death bed, and indeed, with eyes closed and lolling in the saddle, Uther still appeared to be far more dead than alive. The horse shifted, and Uther's head rolled alarmingly.

'Father! You… help me get him down.' The young man, aided by two warriors began to disentangle the King from his mount, while around them, several hundred tribesmen watched in silence. The only man who appeared delighted by the whole spectacle was Merlyn.

'Did you have any trouble at the Abbey, Sir Ector?' enquired Merlyn as Uther's hands were being untied. The King swayed backwards, but Sir Ector quickly reached across and held him upright again.

'No, Merlyn. All was as you said it would be.'

'And Morgana… the Abbess, how is she, did she delay you?'

'She was most vexed at us for retrieving the King,' Sir Ector stared into Merlyn's blue eyes – 'Most vexed indeed, but that was the whole of it.' Warriors were untying Uther's feet from the stirrups, and it was all Sir Ector could do to hold onto the King until he could be lowered gently to the ground.

'No, the King must stand.' Merlyn moved forward as the horses were led away and Sir Ector dismounted.

'My Lord Druid. The King, my father, cannot stand. Indeed, we still pray for some sign that he still lives. I shall want the reason and truth behind this or…'

'Patience Arthur. Have a little faith and find some patience. Believe in your father because he needs you now as much or possibly more than he has never needed you before.' The old Druid, white robes flapping in the breeze and long, grey hair wet and plastered to his scalp, approached the sad King as he slumped between the two tribesmen. Passing his staff to Arthur, he reached out, cupped the King's head between his two palms and then studied the King's face closely. He pressed his forehead against the King's.

'Wake up, Uther. It is time to come back and live in the world of man one last time; I'm sorry, old friend, but you must… awaken.'

As the Druid stepped back, Uther Pendragon opened his eyes, shook the two guards away groggily as if unsure how they came to be holding him and gazed about at the gathered men. A wave of murmurs and cries travelled back amongst the crowd until after just moments, cries of 'the King, the King', almost became deafening.

Merlyn stepped forward, took Uther's shoulders, and stared into the King's eyes once again. 'Welcome back Sire. I think it may be best if we had a little talk.'