"I would."
"Excellent. So be it."
Herliss coughed, clearing his throat. "Now, about your leaving today. Your helmet's plain enough and undistinguished, but roll up that black cloak you are wearing and cover it with a plain blanket, then tie it behind your saddle. It's too easy to see, too noticeable. We have nothing like it in Cornwall; all our cloaks are either brown or grey. We will lend you one of ours, in my colours, for riding out. You came in during darkness, but you're going out in daylight, and the countryside is swarming with Lot's people. Lagan will go with you, riding your horse—he is known for his love of large horses— and you'll go along as one of his escort, a hunting party of twelve men all riding plain garrons. You'll stop in the forest, to hunt, of course, and they'll ride back without you, later tonight. By that time, in the darkness, no one should notice that Lagan comes back riding a different horse from the one he rode away on." The old man stood up and stretched his arm across the table to Uther. "And to that end, may the gods ride with you, and may we, between us, be able to topple our enemy within the coming year. Farewell." He turned to bow briefly to the Queen, offered the same bend of the waist to Uther, and then left.
Uther was grinning as he watched Herliss depart, but when he turned to Ygraine, the grin faded swiftly. "Lady," he said, "I must thank you for your hospitality." He heard the sound of feet behind him and turned his head to see Lagan leaving the room, heading for the main entrance and according them, he presumed, a moment of privacy.
Ygraine moved to approach him, but Uther waved her back with a tiny, tight gesture of the hand at his belt. "No, lady," he murmured, pitching his voice so that none but she could possibly hear what he was saying. "Come no closer. I thank you again for your hospitality . . . all of it. . . and I shall carry the memory of your smile, your kiss, the scent of your hair and the touch of your skin with me until we meet again. Farewell." He bowed deeply to her, straightened himself to his full height, then spun on his heel and strode out of the hall, heading directly towards the main doors where he knew Lagan would be waiting for him.
The Cornishman was there and clasped hands with him briefly before giving him a few final instructions, pointing him towards the main gates and telling him about the group that would ride out with him. They were his own best men. Lagan said, chosen for this task because of their loyalty and their often demonstrated ability to follow his commands without question or debate. He had told them only that Uther was an important personal ally to his father and to him, and he assured Uther that none of them would speak to him or even pay him much attention. However, should any outsider seek to approach the party or to interfere with them in any way, including an outright attack, they would fight for him as they would fight for Lagan. He himself would follow them alone within the hour. He would catch up with Uther sometime later that morning, a safe distance from the Crag Fort and from prying eyes belonging to any of Lot's spies who might be prowling about.
Moments later, Uther was outside the main gates and approaching the group of horsemen who sat there, already mounted, awaiting his arrival, holding the sturdy and unremarkable garron he would ride. They were an ill-matched group of varying sizes, and their weaponry was as diverse as their appearance. The only element they had in common was that they all wore long, grey cloaks like the one Uther himself had been given by Lagan.
One man sat slightly apart from the others, tall and upright on his garron's back, and his helmet, more ornate than any of his companions', marked him as the leader of the party. Uther ignored him and went directly to the main body of the group, nodding to them briefly in a general greeting and being careful to catch no one's eye. He took the reins of the extra horse from the man who held them out to him and vaulted cleanly onto the animal's low, broad back, holding the reins easily and gripping the stocky beast tightly with his knees, reflecting with some amusement that it had been many years since he had straddled a similar mount and thanking the gods that the Camulodian horses were all far bigger than the Celtic garrons, for his long legs almost touched the ground on either side. The garron raised its head, and its ears swivelled from side to side as it assessed the presence of the stranger on its back. It snorted and shook its head, preparing to question his authority further, but found itself quickly curbed and mastered, its head dragged downward and held there by the strength of the arm controlling the bit in its mouth. Uther glanced towards the man in command and nodded almost imperceptibly. The fellow nodded briefly and swung his mount around, kicking its barrel with his heels.
Their outward ride was uneventful and, as far as Uther could tell, unnoticed by anyone. As Lagan had promised, none of his companions made any attempt to speak to him, and in fact none of them seemed to pay him any attention at all, so that he was aware of only three of them who had glanced in his direction since they had moved away from the Crag Fort. Their route led them northwards at first, until they had crossed the humpback spine of the narrow peninsula that was little more than a score of miles wide at that point, the sea lying slightly more than ten miles ahead of them, northwest of the Crag Fort. As soon as they were beyond the ridge of high land, they headed downward into a tree-filled valley and waited there for Lagan to catch up to them. It took a little over an hour, and Uther spent the time making up for some of the sleep he had forfeited the previous night.
Once Lagan had arrived, however, they wasted no time on civilities. He dismounted and adjusted Uther's stirrups back to their proper length, which was clearly indicated by the deep-grooved buckle marks on the leather straps. Uther watched him, smiling but saying nothing, then swung himself up into his saddle and leaned down to clasp the other's hand one last time. A brief word of thanks and a wish to meet again soon, and he turned his horse around and headed northward, taking care to remain well below the skyline of the high land on his right, since on the other side of it, some score of miles again northeast of the Crag Fort and close to the seacoast, lay Gulrhys Lot's home stronghold of Golant.
Almost four hours later, two of which had been spent cursing uselessly at the bitter, gale-force wind that had sprung up from nowhere and had several times battered him with gusts strong enough to threaten to blow him off his horse, Uther caught sight of the long, transverse ridge that swept inland and upward from the estuary of the western river the local people called the Cam. The ridge concealed his own encampment from the southward, but nothing could have concealed the enormous, wind-torn clouds of black, heavy smoke that swept along the horizon. Fighting against the alarm that flared in his breast, he put the spurs to his horse and drove forward in a flat-out gallop, wondering what had gone wrong this time.
What had gone wrong was soon clear. A raiding party of seagoing marauders, Ersemen or perhaps Franks—Uther had no way of knowing what they were, other than Outlanders—had sailed up the small river estuary and landed looking for plunder. They had seen the cavalry encampment with a single double squadron in residence, and estimating their own strength against the party they could see, they had guessed that the wind blowing from their backs would give them a fine advantage and decrease the odds they would be fighting against. And so they had fired the long grass, thinking that the grazing horses would scatter in fright and be lost, and that they themselves could then charge right into the enemy encampment under cover of the smoke that would be blowing ahead of them. What they had failed to see was the second double squadron of Dragons riding back towards them from a patrol to the northwest, over their shoulders, and the camp of Popilius Cirro's thousand men in the bottom of a well-watered but narrow valley just beyond the cavalry encampment.