"And that's where they hit you from!" My father could stand it no longer. "They took you from the gorse!"
Uther narrowed his eyes at him and pursed his lips, saying nothing for several moments. Then, "No, Uncle, I told you it wasn't thick enough or tall enough to hide even a prostrate man. They took us from die grass. From out of the ground!"
"That's impossible! Am I to believe in magic, now?"
"That's exactly what I wondered when I saw them appear. I thought, 'That's impossible!' and then I thought, 'It's magic.* Let me admit, it put the fear of death into me in more ways than one. But it wasn't impossible, and it wasn't magic. It was brilliant strategy. And I remembered that you had used it yourself, years ago.
"We were down in a dip—a hollow between two headlands, that must have been half a mile from crest to crest. I discovered later that some upheaval in the past—God knows how long ago—had torn a great crack in the earth that stretched for almost the full half-mile. It was as though the whole cliff there had leaned sideways, towards the sea. In some spots the crack dropped seemingly for miles, but for most of the way it was filled with rubble, and even had grass growing on the bottom.
"The thing—this ambush—had been long in the planning. The gorse and bracken grew down to the upper edge of the crack, but the entire length of the chasm was completely covered by a long, narrow, tightly meshed net on top of which they had spread turf mid sunk gorse and bracken plants. Then they merely climbed down beneath their net, completely hidden, and waited for us to come to them."
My father's face was grim. "How many of them were there?"
"More than two hundred."
"How did they fight?"
"Effectively, and from a distance. They were all bowmen."
"What did you do?"
"What could I do? After the initial surprise I led a charge up the hill."
"And?"
"They broke and ran. To left and right. In alternating squads, each half laying down fire to cover the others in withdrawal. They were deadly. We were lucky we lost as few as we did."
"You mean they beat you completely? How many of them did you get?"
"Four."
"Four! Out of two hundred?"
"Yes, Uncle. I had other things to occupy me and I decided to call off the chase."
"Other things? What other things?"
"The screams of my men and horses."
There was silence for a few moments.
"Uther, you are not making sense. What screams? Why should screams be of any import in the pursuit of a fleeing enemy?"
Uther leaned over and refilled his cup, his face expressionless. When he had finished, he took a sip and then resettled himself on the table's edge, where he remained, silent for a while, gazing into his cup. Finally he spoke, and his words chilled us. "Uncle Picus, every man, and every horse, who was as much as scratched by one of those arrows, died screaming as though being burned alive. They died in mortal agony, their muscles locked in spasm. There were no exceptions."
"Good God!" This was my father. I could find no words.
Uther continued speaking. "I knew quickly that there was something wrong with what was happening. There are always screams in battle, particularly when horses are injured, but there was an aura of dementia about the tenor and the volume of this screaming. So even at the charge, I looked to see the cause, and there was a trooper, a stolid man I have known for years, screaming like a ravished girl and shaking a bleeding hand as though trying to tear it off his arm. And beside him, kicking and screaming on the ground, lay another, with an arrow clean through the fleshy part of his upper arm. It was a flesh wound. There was no cause for reactions such as I was seeing. Only a very few men lay dead, Uncle, but the others were all going mad. I had my trumpeter sound the recall, but even after we had stopped the hunt, the whoresons kept on firing as they ran, and every time an arrow found a mark, the screaming grew." He shook his head in disgust. "I lost sixty-three men and seventy-two horses. All dead. All wounds were fatal. No one recovered. That's why I say we were lucky to have lost no more. Even after I had called off the pursuit, they could have returned to the slaughter."
"Why didn't they?".
Uther took another pull at his drink, then answered, "Because they had been too eager. They ran out of arrows. They knew at the outset that, thanks to the venom on their barbs, they had no need to shoot to kill, so they were letting fly at random, hoping to do the maximum damage in the shortest possible time. They overshot, that's all."
"And you did not pursue them?"
"Not immediately. As I told you, I had other things to concern me. I didn't know then that every wounded man was going to die the way they did. We were concerned with trying to help them. It was only later we realized how useless our efforts were. By that time, the assassins were gone. They had galleys concealed below the overhang of the cliffs ahead of us and behind us."
"What kind of galleys?" My father's voice was sharp with interest.
"Big ones. Biremes."
"What about the thirty casualties you reported having left at our perimeter? Why didn't they die, too?"
"They were wounded honestly, in fair battle."
My father got up and walked about the room, thinking over what he had heard. "This Lot has much to answer for, when he and I come face to face."
Uther shook his head, a wry look on his face. "Apparently not, Uncle. His two crows outside deny any knowledge of venomed arrows. They claim that our attackers were not Lot's men."
"How can that be? It was Lot's land, was it not? And they were waiting for you."
"Aye, that they were. But Lot claims to have lost sixty men in battle against sea raiders. And these bowmen left by sea."
"Pshaw! Do you believe him?"
"No. I don't. But that proves nothing." Uther finished his wine and placed the cup on the table beside his left hip.
I spoke for the first time. 'Then who were the men you found dead? And who were the ten others you found executed?"
Uther grunted his disdain. "As far as I'm concerned, they could all have been Lot's own men. He's a cold-blooded beast. It wouldn't be beyond him to bait his trap by killing some of his own, especially if they were enemies from his jails, or malcontents. Dead like that, they would be useful to him. Alive, they'd be a nuisance."
"You really think he'd do that?" I asked.
Uther's look of wry amazement was eloquent. "Don't be ingenuous, Caius. Of course he would! He used those poisoned arrows, didn't he? His trap worked, didn't it? I tell you, it had been long in the planning. The swine would use anything to gain his ends."
"And what are his ends, Uther?" My father's voice was low. "What is this self-styled King of Cornwall really after?"
"You want me to hazard a guess?" Uther pushed himself erect, away from the table. "I would say dominion."
"Over what?"
"Over this whole land, starting with Camulod, and over every person living in it."
My father received this in silence, resuming his seat and steepling his fingertips beneath the end of his nose. I shifted in my chair, saying nothing, waiting, as was Uther, for him to resume. Finally he straightened and sniffed audibly, looking at me.
"Dominion.. .to conquer all of us. Does that sound familiar?"
I nodded, recalling him saying those very words. But he was already speaking to Uther.
"These ambassadors. Tell us more about them."
"There's not much more to tell. We rode on to Lot's main camp—it's a log-walled fort, primitive but well- sited—and met only token resistance along the way. When we arrived, we found the fort sealed and everyone inside. We drew up outside the walls and a party came out to parley with us. They asked us why we had invaded their domain? They had given us no provocation. I demanded to speak with Lot, but he would not honour us with his presence. We made camp within a mile of the fort. That night, these fellows came out to us with the bishop, and what they had to say convinced me that there was little to be gained, for the time being, in simply sitting there. The place can be supplied by sea. I decided to come home and regroup, after reporting and having the benefit of your advice.