the muddy shore, he could see his family, followed by Colvarth, ascending the bank of the large island. Blackbirds called from the shore, and the croaking of the frogs meant the evening was upon them.
He thought about hiding the boat from prying eyes but surmised there was little danger and decided to lash it to a tree. Who would suspect that the High King and his family had gone to the big island in the marsh?
Uther grabbed the tie rope and attempted to pull it out, but he found it wrapped around an anchor. Pulling the anchor out, he saw that it was none other than the rusty head of a pickaxe that had lost its handle long ago, probably cast away by a tin miner and procured by a local fisherman. Winding this twice around an apple tree, one of hundreds that covered this end of the island, he gave a tug to make sure it was secure.
As he turned back to survey the marsh, he unstrapped the mead skin from his belt, removed the stag horn stopper, and took a quick sip. Whether he looked south beyond the broad end of the island or north beside the long shoreline, all he set his gaze upon were reeds and sedge grasses clumped amid lethargic water channels. The receding rains and the stilling of the winds had brought forth a mist that rose upon the marsh in twisting, white fingers.
Ah, the fishing must be excellent here! Not since his youth had Uther found time to enjoy the simple pleasures of life, such as fishing. All these he’d denied himself since taking on the mantle of leadership, both as a warrior guarding the people of Britain and later as High King when his father, Aurelianus, had died — Jesu bless his spirit. An old tune his father had hummed one rare day when they did fish came to Uther, and he whistled it now.
Looking back east past the marsh, he scanned the immediate hills, where his campaign tent stood among the warriors’ smaller tents, and a distant ridge far beyond them, where a faint line of smoke rose. This marked the camp of the druidow, no doubt, and their pagan stone circle. Soon Vortigern would carry out swift justice there, and this shortsighted rebellion would be over.
Taking a longer swig of mead, Uther found that the drink flowed across his tongue more sweetly than what he’d become accustomed to on the trail. But as Vortigern declared, this was of premium stock.
He replaced the stopper and slung the skin over his shoulder. Hefting the extra tent from the boat, he limped up the thick, grassy shore, where his family waited for him. Myrgwen ran and hugged his waist while Eilyne balanced on a log nearby. Igerna, smiling, sat on a large rock holding the food basket and young Arthur. The boy leaned forward from her lap, grabbed a twig, and broke it from a length of dead branch sitting at her feet.
Uther patted Myrgwen on the head. “Where’s Colvarth?”
“At the tower.”
Igerna stood and reached out her left hand to him. “Shall we follow?”
Soon they approached the ruined blocks of a small fortress, and within that, the old tower. Dark granite stones lay scattered across the ground as if a giant of old had risen from the marsh and broken them with massive hands. Moss clung like leeches to their northward faces, and Uther imagined the centuries of wind whistling across the flat marshlands that had worn smooth their other sides.
Although Uther had passed many flower-adorned apple trees while walking up to the ruins, here their ancestors stood as dead sentinels to a distant age. Each tree bore its fate gauntly, back bent and withered, broken branches outstretched in a fruitless, mocking display.
He found a level place hidden behind a large brush-covered stone and set their temporary lodgings up while Igerna gathered the old applewood for a fire. This gave him time to sip more of the sweet mead as well as study the tower, a marvel of engineering. Uther had seen plenty of fortresses in his time, either supervising their construction or else besieging them. The stones had been fit expertly as the tower tapered from a base of sixteen feet wide to — what Uther estimated — about eight feet wide at the top. Its height rose to nearly forty feet, and vines choked each other on their way to reach the crown like moldy skeletal arms protruding from a grave.
The