Uther Pendragon

By Rob Stuart

410 AD. The Roman Empire is in flames as the Barbarians break through the frontier and flood the land. Rome needs every soldier she has to protect the Empire and so the Legions are withdrawn from Britain, leaving the British to defend themselves as best they can. Uther Pendragon is the last prince of the Belgae when Rome withdraws the Legions from Britain. Tutored by Merlin he is thrust into manhood by the tumultuous times into which he is born. Betrayed by his allies he is forced to flee to the Roman province of Brittany where he is recruited by the Roman warlord Aetius. He becomes a player in the drama of the Decline and Fall of Rome in the West: a lover of the Empress Dowager and the father of the Once and Future king: Arthur.

• Language: English
• Publisher: The Conrad Press
• Release date: Feb 1, 2023
• ISBN: 9781839781889

Book preview

PROLOGUE

The Rhine Frontier of the Western Roman Empire

Winter AD 406/7

It was the hardest winter in living memory. Birds froze on their perches and fell stiff from the trees. The wolves, crazed with hunger, ran howling day and night fearlessly through the human settlements in their desperate search for food. And the humans huddled in whatever shelter they had, trying to conserve their body heat, eking out their meagre supplies of food and fuel and praying that they might survive until the spring. Many would not. The children and the old would die first, leaving the strong, the rich, the powerful to hunker down in the cities and the forts.

The past year had been marked by struggles for control of Gaul and Spain while the emperor Honorius cowered behind the walls of Ravenna, the new imperial capital in the West, and bred his prize chickens. Great men rose and fell, rose and died while the humble endured and hoped desperately that the marauding armies might pass them by unnoticed and unmolested. But the smoke from burning villages smeared the sky and the corpses lay unburied.

The wind blew snow and frost from the plains of the East and the temperature fell and fell. The streams and the wells turned to ice. And then the tributary rivers froze. And then the unbelievable happened; the great river Rhine froze and froze hard. All the shipping became ice-bound, trapped where they were moored. The military garrisons in the great forts, Bonn, Xanten, Mainz, and the satellite forts all along the west bank of the Rhine closed their gates and sat snug around their braziers in their barrack blocks and prepared to wait the winter out. In the cities the dogs and cats and eventually the rats and mice began to disappear as food grew scares.

In the great forests of Germania that stretched away for hundreds of miles on the right bank of the Rhine there was movement. A pressure in the air and a physical pressure from the east, from the horse soldiers pushing across the plains, pushing and displacing, raiding, burning crops and stealing women and children. And from the west, like a gigantic magnetic attraction, drawing, luring like the siren’s song, the promise of a better life, of land for the taking, of wealth to be made. Of safety.

The frozen Rhine drew a river of people, a river of migrants to her. The streams of folk leaving, driven by fear, by hunger, by dreams of a better future, by a spirit of adventure, by desperation, by loyalty to their clan chieftains. Most on foot, shuffling along in family groups, their possessions and their babies on their backs. Others with handcarts, loaded with the few belongings of the clan. Some drove animals, sheep or oxen, thin now with the deprivation of winter but carrying in their wombs the hope for the coming year. Small bands of men rode ponies and carried swords, the chieftains and the war leaders with their retinues. They would be the men who would negotiate with the Roman authorities on the left bank for permission to settle so it was in their hands that the fate of the migrants rested.

And the stream became a flood. And the clans became a tribe. And the tribe became a nation. And the nations acquired names: Frank; Alan; Vandal; Goth; Sueves; Burgundian. And on New Year’s Eve, on the last day of the year 406 this mass of humanity stood shivering in the snow and ice all along the right bank of the Rhine and staring into the blizzard of snow straining to see their new home on the far bank.

Night was falling; the people made camps out in the open air. Some had kindling, sticks, pine cones, branches ripped from trees. They made fires and tried to warm their limbs.

Had any Roman soldier, unlucky enough to have drawn sentry duty on this foul night, been able to see the opposite bank of the river through the snow, he would have seen a carpet of tiny pin-pricks of light stretching far away into the distance.

As a dirty grey smear of daylight announced the first day of their New Year, the masses started to cross the ice bridge into the Roman Empire, slipping, falling, some breaking bones on the unforgiving ice, but always pushing on, crossing in the hope of a new life that, sadly, for many would be no different than the old world of fear, hunger and oppression.

The crossings lasted a month before the thaw set in. The Roman authorities became aware of the incursions by the second day of the New Year but by then the tribes had established a bridgehead and were flooding into Gaul and fanning out along the river banks. The bitter winter weather showed no sign of easing that first month and the frontier army showed little enthusiasm for the task of venturing out from safety to throw the migrants back over the river.

And so the borders of the Roman Empire in the West, borders that had stood inviolate since the far away days of the emperor Tiberius were breached and the river of migrants spread like a delta across Gaul and down into Spain and Italy until, ultimately, it washed up at the Gates of Rome itself.

Part One

Britain. 415 CE

ONE

It is the hour before dawn when the moon has set and the night is at its darkest. A light dusting of snow sprinkles the ground, unusual for early March. The cold pinches at the ears and noses of the men gathered inside the walls of Portchester Castle. They stamp their feet and blow on their hands and pull their cloaks tight around their bodies. Breath streams from the horses’ nostrils like eruptions of steam as they toss their heads and make their tack ornaments jingle. The men move quietly in the enclosed space of the castle, making last minute preparations, checking kit and weapons. An armourer puts a last edge on a spear or sword, tiny sparks flashing off his whetstone. A handful of women, their faces drawn with the cold and with worry, are there to bid their menfolk farewell and good luck, all desperately hoping they will not be left widowed with young mouths to feed. They are careful to hide their fear from the men; a man going into battle cannot allow himself to dwell on the fears of a woman. A man going into battle must only have one thought: kill the enemy and gain renown. For most of the assembled men this will be their first taste of war and whilst any man with any imagination is apprehensive, none wish to show it.

Aulus Tiberius Claudius moves among his people, speaking words of encouragement, making promises of booty and wealth. He is a tall man, wearing a coat of mail over his wooden shirt. At forty-three years old he is in the prime of life. His short hair, worn in Roman style, nestles under a wooden cap, over which he wears a helmet. He traces his ancestry to the old kings of the Belgae but nearly four hundred years of Roman rule have discouraged the use of the title. Instead, he is known as the chief magistrate, the principal duuvir of the region, but the family have not lived in Winchester for almost two generations. Since the Roman evacuation five years ago Aulus and his family have lived in the ancestral palace at Fishbourne and farmed the surrounding countryside. When the Duke of the Saxon Shore and the Saxon Shore garrisons were ordered over to Gaul to try and stem the tide of the German tribes pouring over the Rhine, Aulus has become the de facto military commander of the local militia and it is in this capacity that he has gathered the men here in the old Saxon Shore fort tonight. When the dawn breaks he will lead his small army against Vortigern of the Canti, a man already calling himself king in Kent and East Sussex.

Since the last galleys ferried the regular army out from Dover and Ribchester, Vortigern has been flexing his muscles. Where other local magistrates have been content to try and defend the shores of Britain against the raids of the German sea pirates, Vortigern has taken to raiding himself against his fellow Britons. In the past year he has probed as far north as London and west along the Thames valley, taking cattle and slaves and laying claim to territory. Aulus, in consultation with his fellow landowners, has resolved upon a preventive strike. By moving now, well before the regular campaigning season, he is hoping to catch Vortigern unaware and give him a bloody nose His spies have informed him that Vortigern is assembling a war band on the river Ouse in East Sussex, close to an old abandoned villa. Here he will lay up supplies ready for the coming spring and then launch an attack on the West. Aulus cannot let that happen. Lambing has started and soon the grass will provide fodder for the cattle. Spring sowing will demand labour in the fields if the people are to eat this year. Aulus has a small window of opportunity to gather soldiers and that time is now.

Dawn is beginning to break with the first line of light low on the horizon. Aulus gathers his officers for a last briefing, half a dozen men much his own age. These are men he has known all his life and trusts implicitly but amongst them stands a young man of fifteen, his son, Marcus. In keeping with the old Roman tradition, Marcus has just shaved his first beard and donned the toga viralis with its thin purple stripe of nobility. He is as tall as his father, with the same blue eyes and confident manner but he wears his dark hair long in the fashion of the Britons and prefers to go by the British name of Uther. He is cold, even though he wears a mail coat like his father over his shirt. He is desperately trying not to shiver lest it be misinterpreted as fear by the older men. All his young life he has trained for war, long hours spent with Corvax, his father’s master of arms, working with spear, shield and sword that broadened his shoulders and built muscles on his arms. He has learnt to ride and hunt game; he has faced down a wild boar and had his face smeared with the hot blood of the kill. He has proved his courage in the hunt but has yet to face and kill a man. His father has every faith in his ability and swatted aside his mother’s fears that Uther is not yet ready for war.

‘When will he be ready?’ Aulus demanded. ‘If not now, when?’ And she has no answer, only a mother’s love and protection and concern.

‘Marcus,’ says Aulus now.

‘Uther,’ Uther corrects him and his father smiles. It seems that the veneer of Roman customs is thin. Perhaps the Roman will never return to Britain, despite the promises of the Emperor tucked away safe in his palace in Ravenna that the withdrawal is only a temporary expedient until the crisis is past.

‘Uther. You will take a small band and ride on the flank of the main force. Corvax will go with you to advise you.’

Corvax has been briefed on his role earlier.

‘I want you to ride with the boy and keep him safe.’ Aulus told him. ‘Let him have a taste of the action but do not let anything happen to him. My wife will never forgive me if her darling son is hurt or worse. And, in truth, I could not forgive myself either. I love the boy too much.’

‘He will be safe with me, Lord. He’s a fine boy. I’ll watch over him with my life.’

‘I know you will, old friend. A father worries.’

‘But he must have his head, Lord. This is his time to test himself. To become a man.’

‘You are right, of course,’ Aulus conceded.

And now it was time.

The sky is red, an omen of blood to be spilled. The gates of Portchester Castle swing open. Men bid a final farewell to their loved ones, fling their oval shields across their backs and mount their horses, spears gripped in their right hands. The column exits the fort at a walk, two hundred and eighteen mounted men and twenty pack horses loaded with supplies of food and spare weapons, Aulus Tiberius Claudius at their head. The mood is somber and there is little banter between the men. They know the importance of this expedition; if they do not hit Vortigern hard, his power will grow as his army attracts recruits. It is their farms and crops; their wives and children, that they are fighting to protect. The Legions have gone and anarchy stalks the land.

By midday they have covered twenty miles, following the road along the coast, The temperature is rising and the thin covering of snow is turning to slush. Aulus calls for a break and the men dismount to ease their legs, munch oatcakes, answer calls of nature and converse in hushed tones. The scouts are back and report no signs of the enemy. The smoke from isolated settlements smudges the overcast sky but there is no sign of activity in the fields. Some uncanny sense has warned the peasants of the presence of armed men and they are wisely keeping their heads down and their kine indoors. To the north are the Downs, curving like a bow across the land.

Aulus repeats his instructions to his son.

‘You are to take the high ground. Ride just below the crests of the hills. Stay off the skyline. The main army will follow the coast road until it is time to strike inland. You will form a reserve and come to the aid of the army when and if you are needed. Remember, an enemy attacked in the rear is a defeated enemy. That will be your role. A swift punch in his back. You have Corvax to advise you and twenty of our best men. I am relying on you. The whole army is relying on you.’

‘I won’t let you down, father,’ Uther promises, despite the butterflies whirling in his stomach.

‘I know you won’t,’ says his father, giving him a bear hug. ‘Now, take your men and go up into the hills.’

While the main body of the army made its way slowly and cautiously along the coast road, Uther led his small detachment up onto the Downs. Below, it was relatively sheltered, but up here a chill wind blew and the snow still lay on the ground. They kept to the lee slopes, their cloaks wrapped tightly around them but the cold bit into the iron of Uther’s armour. Most of his men wore leather corselets, giving them a degree of warmth; Uther envied them until he rationalised that mail had a better chance of turning aside a blade than leather. But still, he had to make an effort to clench his teeth hard to stop them chattering. Corvax, who seemed immune to both heat and cold, rode up beside him.

‘Grand view from up here, eh, Lord.’

‘It’s bloody cold!’

‘Yes, a bit nippy,’ Corvax smiled happily. He was a man who lived his life outdoors in all weathers and had the ruddy complexion to show for it. ‘But that’s a good thing, see. That bastard Vortigen won’t be expecting us. Too early to go off to war, see. He’ll be tucked up nice and snug with a bottle of wine and a slave girl or two to keep him warm.’

The image of being tucked up with a slave girl or two almost made Uther moan out loud; he could think of nothing he’d like more as his horse trudged with its head down into the wind. In particular, an eighteen year old Vandal girl called Gytha who his father had bought for him off some Spaniards who traded slaves and wine to the south coast of Britain. She had been warming his bed since the beginning of the winter and teaching him something of her language, to the approval of his tutor, Myrlyn.

Myrlyn, now he was a strange one. His father had found him in London working as a scribe for hire. At twenty-one he was only six years older than Uther but had already lived what seemed to Uther a full life. Born in the west near the city of Gloucester, his father had been a functionary in the Roman administration and his mother a woman of the Silures from the mountains in the far west. He had been raised as a Roman and taught to read and write with the aim of following in his father’s footsteps in the civil service. When it became clear that the Roman administration was collapsing, he had opted to join a community of monks but the austerity and discipline of the religious life had not suited him and he had run away to try his luck in London where commerce with the Continent still existed in sufficient volume to provide employment for a likely lad with a quick brain and a neat hand with the letters. There Aulus had come across him working in a warehouse belonging to the man Aulus had come to do business with. A brief conversation with Myrlyn had convinced Aulus that this might be the person he needed as a tutor for his young son and Myrlyn himself was getting bored with being a book-keeper and was eager for a change. Thus it was that he joined the household of Aulus Tiberius Claudius and set about drumming a classical education into the young Marcus. He also taught the lore of the West Britons, learnt at his mother’s knee, to a receptive Marcus, who soon decided that he wished henceforth to be known as Uther. He had now been Uther’s tutor for three years and the two had formed a close bond. Unwarlike, he had been left behind in Fishbourne to continue the education of Uther’s younger sister, Morgana.

His horse stumbled, jerking Uther out of his daydreams. Corvax was immediately at his side, catching his arm to steady him. The thin winters sun was setting and the sky was overcast and black. Down below Uther could just make out that the main force had halted. Aulus had insisted that each man carry two pointed wooden staves, with more on the pack animals. These the men were now planting into the hard ground to form a makeshift palisade behind which the men and horses could shelter for the night with some degree of protection against a night attack.

‘Call a halt, Lord?’ Corvax suggested, as if the idea had come from Uther himself.

‘Yes,’ Uther agreed. Corvax raised his hand and the little war cavalcade gratefully reigned in their horses and swung off their backs. They hobbled the horses and left them to try and crop grass already cropped down by sheep and covered in a thin coat of snow. Aulus had given Uther strict instructions that no fires were to be lit, lest their light be seen twinkling on the hill, a beacon of warning to any scouts Vortigern might have out prowling the night. It was going to be a hard night.

The men made do with a meal of oatcakes, smoked meat, winter apples and a small drink of fermented honey and water, enough to take off the chill of the evening but not enough to dull the senses. Corvax appointed two sentries, each to keep the other awake for the first shift of the night. He would take the dawn shift, the most dangerous, the time when an enemy might strike at an encampment of men in the deep sleep that comes before the dawn. The men lay down on their blankets wrapped in their cloaks of lanolin-rich, water proof wool, standard kit for the northern legions for centuries. They wore their shields on their backs and tucked their spears under their bodies. Where the horses lay down, men snuggled up against them for their body heat. Snow began to fall.

Uther lay awake on the iron-hard ground listening to the snores of the sleeping men around him and the small whickering noises of the horses. How could they sleep? It was not just the cold and discomfort - this was not the first night he had spent out in the open by a long chalk: he had been inured to sleeping under the stars from an early age. No, it was the prospect of the coming action. He was trained in the art of weaponry, knew the theory, knew the moves, had the muscle memory that comes with hours of practice with sword and spear and shield. But that always stopped short of the killing blow, the thrust that ripped open a man’s throat or guts, that sprayed the hot blood. How would he do in real action? He determined that he would not run or turn aside; he would not be able to live with himself if he did so. And worse, he would never be able to face his father again if he proved a coward. Corvax and his father and some of the older men had seen action against German pirates under the command of the Duke of the Saxon Shore in the increasing raids on the south coast of Britain but the coast, at least in this part of the country, had been quiet in recent years, despite the withdrawal of the regular army. From the reports he had heard, the focus of the raids seemed to have shifted to the east coast.

‘Let us pray that they stay there, if we must have them at all,’ his father, by nature a peace-loving man, had commented. ‘We need peace in these uncertain times.’

‘Amen to that,’ his mother, Roweena. said, taking Uther and Morgana into her embrace as if by the simple act of hugging them she could keep them safe forever.

And it is with the memory of his mother’s embrace that Uther finally falls asleep.

TWO

Day two: dawn. The men in Uther’s small band are hauling themselves out of sleep, stretching cramped and stiff limbs, scratching their groins, moving off a little way from the makeshift camp to relieve themselves. Below, and to the east Uther can see that his father’s force is getting ready to move. Corvax shouts to the men to hurry and mount up.

‘You can eat your breakfast on the move,’ he tells them.

‘Do you think we will find Vortigern today?’ Uther asks.

‘We can’t be too far away now, Lord. Perhaps a day’s march at most. Looking forward to it, Lord?’

‘I can’t honestly say, Corvax. You have been there, you know what to expect; I don’t. I promise I will not shirk. But...’

‘You are a wise man. Lord. It is a fool who brags about things he knows nothing about. Let the poets sing your praises and laud your courage after the event. That is the proper thing to do.’

‘If I come back,’ says Uther with a wry smile.

‘You will come back, Lord, never fear. As long as I have breath, I will be your shield. Your good lady mother would have me skinned alive if I let anything happen to you.’

The column move off in single file, Uther leading. As the sun climbs in the sky, the snow melts and runs off the slopes in the tiny riverlets called winterbournes. Spring on the chalk hills is not far away. Soon the grass will start to grow again after the long winter sleep and the shepherds will bring the flocks onto the hills to graze and fatten. The hills will be bejeweled with buttercups and daisys, pink campions and vetches, yellow archangel. Lapwings and partridge will build their nests on the ground and the cycle of life quicken after the hard times of the winter. It is a time Uther loves the best, better than the russet time of autumn and the long yellow days of summer when the swallows and the skylarks soar. It is the season when the world greens.

Midday. They stop to eat and rest the horses. A rider approaches up the hill from the direction of the main body. Uther and Corvax step forward to meet him.

‘A message from