known.' Uther coughed and felt a wave of dizziness flow through him. He closed his eyes and felt himself drift back into a sleep filled with memories of the past. Once again he was a boy sitting by the flickering flames of the huge central fire in the meeting house back in his village, surrounded by his family and friends. Calvador was beside him, and he could feel the rise of excitement and awe as the bard who had arrived at the village earlier that day began the telling of his story, arms waving sending his shadow climbing the wall like a great, dark spirit, his eyes flashing around to include everyone in his tale. This bard was good, better maybe than most that had visited the village, but any bard, good or bad, was cause for the villagers to congregate and be entertained, but this bard was an exceptionally good one…
Chapter 7
Night of the Long Knives
The bard was an older man with grey in his long beard, which he wore twisted together in a thick plait. To the amusement of the children and many in the room it was decorated with any number of sticks, bones, and shiny things. A mass of wild, unkempt hair sprouted from his head, giving the appearance that it had a life of its own. It floated and flowed in waves and clumps and through the flickering light of the fire, it seemed as if a cloud had been attached to his head.
A Druid trained upon Ynys Mon through twelve long years of study; this bard had served his time and some. He had travelled through the tribal lands for more than twenty years since leaving the island, practising and perfecting his craft.
Jumping and spinning to gather their attention, he had called his introductions and given news and greetings from the tribes and villages through which he had travelled, and now he was promising to tell a tale to entertain all those who had assembled and were now suitably hushed, save for the passing of ale and mead and a few nervous whispers. As the bard stood and raised his arms all became even quieter. He turned a slow, full circle to view his gathered audience and to signal that he was ready to begin.
'Tonight my friends, I bring you a story that you may think that you know well, but it is a tale that needs repeating lest we all forget. For tonight I shall tell you an account that truly took place, I offer no invention. I shall tell you a story of trust broken, of the hope for a peace destroyed. This is a story of black-hearted murder and slaughter. Tonight… I shall recall… the Night of the Long Knives.
You may well recall from other telling's that the party of King Vortigern had travelled long and hard for many days through forest and tribal lands to reach the agreed meeting place. An assignation with the Saxons to end the fighting between our peoples, to talk of truce and friendship. But as they neared the end of their journey, they began to walk more slowly as if their feet had become heavy. Their heads were bent low against the constant wind and rain that drove across the wet, open, desolate moors of the middle-land, this was the final stage of the journey before they would arrive at their destination.
King Vortigern and the Britons had risen early from their overnight camp on that last morning before the sun had risen and given light to their path. They set out across the moors and now their horses and the carts laboured hard across the hilly ground of the middle-land. Forty carts filled with all the materials necessary to build a hall and with food enough for a great feast to celebrate the new union. Yet, as they neared, each man and cart were moving no faster than they had to, for they marched carrying dread and anxiety, for it was a meeting few in the party wished for or had faith in, yet they followed their King.'
The bard shrunk in on himself and plodded slowly around the floor; his face creased in agony and despair, his back bent is if crippled by the heavy burden he carried. After two circuits of the room he straightened.
'The negotiations
Chapter 7
Night of the Long Knives
The bard was an older man with grey in his long beard, which he wore twisted together in a thick plait. To the amusement of the children and many in the room it was decorated with any number of sticks, bones, and shiny things. A mass of wild, unkempt hair sprouted from his head, giving the appearance that it had a life of its own. It floated and flowed in waves and clumps and through the flickering light of the fire, it seemed as if a cloud had been attached to his head.
A Druid trained upon Ynys Mon through twelve long years of study; this bard had served his time and some. He had travelled through the tribal lands for more than twenty years since leaving the island, practising and perfecting his craft.
Jumping and spinning to gather their attention, he had called his introductions and given news and greetings from the tribes and villages through which he had travelled, and now he was promising to tell a tale to entertain all those who had assembled and were now suitably hushed, save for the passing of ale and mead and a few nervous whispers. As the bard stood and raised his arms all became even quieter. He turned a slow, full circle to view his gathered audience and to signal that he was ready to begin.
'Tonight my friends, I bring you a story that you may think that you know well, but it is a tale that needs repeating lest we all forget. For tonight I shall tell you an account that truly took place, I offer no invention. I shall tell you a story of trust broken, of the hope for a peace destroyed. This is a story of black-hearted murder and slaughter. Tonight… I shall recall… the Night of the Long Knives.
You may well recall from other telling's that the party of King Vortigern had travelled long and hard for many days through forest and tribal lands to reach the agreed meeting place. An assignation with the Saxons to end the fighting between our peoples, to talk of truce and friendship. But as they neared the end of their journey, they began to walk more slowly as if their feet had become heavy. Their heads were bent low against the constant wind and rain that drove across the wet, open, desolate moors of the middle-land, this was the final stage of the journey before they would arrive at their destination.
King Vortigern and the Britons had risen early from their overnight camp on that last morning before the sun had risen and given light to their path. They set out across the moors and now their horses and the carts laboured hard across the hilly ground of the middle-land. Forty carts filled with all the materials necessary to build a hall and with food enough for a great feast to celebrate the new union. Yet, as they neared, each man and cart were moving no faster than they had to, for they marched carrying dread and anxiety, for it was a meeting few in the party wished for or had faith in, yet they followed their King.'
The bard shrunk in on himself and plodded slowly around the floor; his face creased in agony and despair, his back bent is if crippled by the heavy burden he carried. After two circuits of the room he straightened.
'The negotiations
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