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Authors: Alice Borchardt
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any dared to strike so murderously at our own realm.”
“Yes,” Uther said. “But once the campaign is completed, the south will be no further trouble to the rest of us for a generation or two, and it will give us time to reinvent the High Kingship and rebuild our ancient alliances. When I took the road with the greater part of our warriors, it was my intention to do this. But I can’t bring myself to be the cause of the destruction of so many innocent lives. So much that remains good in our realm. Morgana, I can’t. I must try to find some other solution.”
“It would be a . . . solution. Of sorts,” she said.
“A solution, a savage crime. A nightmare from which our people might never recover,” Uther said. “If we move now, the big estates, the Saxons guarding the shores, will never be able to muster an opposing force. And make no mistake. If I die, I die the last high king of the Britons. There will likely never be another. So, Morgana, if I fall, carry out my orders. I have spent my life as you have, building this army. Use it to do as I ask.”
Morgana sat on her horse, feeling the chill in her bones. In her heart she knew Uther was right. Her people would never be able to muster an army like this again.
While she watched, the young men came straggling back, laughing, from the grove. Someone had surprised a sleeping deer. She and her fawn were slung over the saddle of the priestess, while the woman walked, leading her mount.
She grinned at Morgana. “We have a good start on supper,” she said, poking the empty-eyed doe.
An arrow protruded from the neck of the doe. She’d been field-dressed and was still dripping blood on the ground.
Morgana bowed her head down to her horse’s mane and clenched her fist in the long, coarse hair.
“Are you ill, my lady?” the war priestess asked.
Morgana pulled herself upright. “No. No. Merely tired. It’s been a hard ride.”
“Well,” the priestess said. “We can camp here safely. I got the deer and saw the tracks of wild cattle. But no trace of humans, though there is a ruin there.” The woman made a sign against the evil eye. “It’s near the spring. Someone worshiped there . . . once. There is a pillar and a tree with a face in the wood. But nothing more.”
Then she continued on, leaving Morgana and Uther standing there.
The rest of the army was catching up. Some were exploring the grove, others preparing to light cooking fires. A few shouts and whoops in the distance suggested the soldiers had located the wild cattle.
The two leaders sat side by side. Morgana was working out the logistics.
Invest the hill-forts. She could easily take them by surprise. Few, if any, were adequately defended.
Then she could use them as a base to raid the farms and villas all summer. No, she couldn’t take the fortified places, but she could lay waste the countryside. Like Bodiccia, she would run wild for a few months.
But then! Retreat back into the heavily wooded countryside of Wales and Dumnonia. Uther was right; it would take years for the south to recover. If she were sufficiently remorseless, two generations or more.
She shivered. To accomplish that, she would have to do as the Romans had done after the Iceni revolt: slaughter the men, sell the women and children into slavery. There would be buyers aplenty; the slave trade was booming.
“I want you to give me your word that you will do as I ask,” Uther said.
Morgana swallowed. She really had no choice; he was her king and she was sworn to obey him to the death.
“I’m not sure I can,” she whispered.
“Your word, Morgana,” he demanded. “I want your word, as you are my chief consular. Promise me you will do as I ask. Harden your heart and do as I command.”
All around them the army swirled, lighting fires, unsaddling horses, setting up pickets for the pack animals, a cheerful babble of noise as they laid out their encampment. The two still sat alone together, mounted, speaking in low
“Yes,” Uther said. “But once the campaign is completed, the south will be no further trouble to the rest of us for a generation or two, and it will give us time to reinvent the High Kingship and rebuild our ancient alliances. When I took the road with the greater part of our warriors, it was my intention to do this. But I can’t bring myself to be the cause of the destruction of so many innocent lives. So much that remains good in our realm. Morgana, I can’t. I must try to find some other solution.”
“It would be a . . . solution. Of sorts,” she said.
“A solution, a savage crime. A nightmare from which our people might never recover,” Uther said. “If we move now, the big estates, the Saxons guarding the shores, will never be able to muster an opposing force. And make no mistake. If I die, I die the last high king of the Britons. There will likely never be another. So, Morgana, if I fall, carry out my orders. I have spent my life as you have, building this army. Use it to do as I ask.”
Morgana sat on her horse, feeling the chill in her bones. In her heart she knew Uther was right. Her people would never be able to muster an army like this again.
While she watched, the young men came straggling back, laughing, from the grove. Someone had surprised a sleeping deer. She and her fawn were slung over the saddle of the priestess, while the woman walked, leading her mount.
She grinned at Morgana. “We have a good start on supper,” she said, poking the empty-eyed doe.
An arrow protruded from the neck of the doe. She’d been field-dressed and was still dripping blood on the ground.
Morgana bowed her head down to her horse’s mane and clenched her fist in the long, coarse hair.
“Are you ill, my lady?” the war priestess asked.
Morgana pulled herself upright. “No. No. Merely tired. It’s been a hard ride.”
“Well,” the priestess said. “We can camp here safely. I got the deer and saw the tracks of wild cattle. But no trace of humans, though there is a ruin there.” The woman made a sign against the evil eye. “It’s near the spring. Someone worshiped there . . . once. There is a pillar and a tree with a face in the wood. But nothing more.”
Then she continued on, leaving Morgana and Uther standing there.
The rest of the army was catching up. Some were exploring the grove, others preparing to light cooking fires. A few shouts and whoops in the distance suggested the soldiers had located the wild cattle.
The two leaders sat side by side. Morgana was working out the logistics.
Invest the hill-forts. She could easily take them by surprise. Few, if any, were adequately defended.
Then she could use them as a base to raid the farms and villas all summer. No, she couldn’t take the fortified places, but she could lay waste the countryside. Like Bodiccia, she would run wild for a few months.
But then! Retreat back into the heavily wooded countryside of Wales and Dumnonia. Uther was right; it would take years for the south to recover. If she were sufficiently remorseless, two generations or more.
She shivered. To accomplish that, she would have to do as the Romans had done after the Iceni revolt: slaughter the men, sell the women and children into slavery. There would be buyers aplenty; the slave trade was booming.
“I want you to give me your word that you will do as I ask,” Uther said.
Morgana swallowed. She really had no choice; he was her king and she was sworn to obey him to the death.
“I’m not sure I can,” she whispered.
“Your word, Morgana,” he demanded. “I want your word, as you are my chief consular. Promise me you will do as I ask. Harden your heart and do as I command.”
All around them the army swirled, lighting fires, unsaddling horses, setting up pickets for the pack animals, a cheerful babble of noise as they laid out their encampment. The two still sat alone together, mounted, speaking in low
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