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with them, were all clean shaven. Pennons and banners flew in the breeze, and he noticed that more warriors held identical shields that were decorated with the mark or sign of their clan, tribe or lord. The majority still carried an assortment of mismatched weapons and shields, with most still favouring the spear. Uther could see the horses, chariots and warriors daubed with white or blue handprints, swirls and spirals as the tribes had always done to set them apart.
    His chin dropped to his chest and he snapped it back up, was he already dead, or was he somehow still alive? It all seemed like a dream he felt so removed from everything, so remote; Uther Pendragon lost this one battle, this time with consciousness, and slept.
    * * *
    'A woman demands to see you, we found her, riding alone… a woman, she…' The Saxon warrior who had just burst through the wooden door and ducked beneath the thatch of the entrance, now stood shuffling uncertainly upon the reed-strewn floor. He had left his spear and shield outside and was rubbing his hands together absently to dispel the cold. A simple round helmet was clamped down over his head and beneath his thick wool cloak, he wore the green tunic edged in red that marked him as from one of the northern Germanic tribes. Tearing his eyes away from his lord and protector, he glanced about at the other occupants of the large wooden hall.
    As a newcomer to these shores, he had never had reason to enter this structure before. It was of far bigger construction and of a more ornate design than any of the other thirty or so huts that surrounded it in the centre of the village and was, therefore, quite a distraction. Glancing to his side, he confirmed the presence on the doorframe of brightly painted carvings. His eyes followed the twisting, moving shapes up the doorpost and then along beams, following them where they were most plentiful on the heavy beam that fronted the upper sleeping platform. Patterns and rune carvings painted in bright, vivid colours that seemed to jump and dance in the flickering firelight forcing his eyes to follow the scene. He could see bears prowling through vines and trees, wolves and deer running, battles raging and twisting and turning, and throughout, were intricate patterns and swirls.
    He became vaguely aware of children's laughter, but as he looked to see where they were his eyes were stopped once more by the sight of several impressive shields leaning against the wall. The laughter sounded again, and his exploring eyes finally made it to the far corner of the hut where three small boys were watching him, distracted from their play with an old dog, its muzzle grey with age, its flapping ears were shredded in testament to its years of faithful service as a hound of war. He swallowed and tried to gather his wits, looking now for the familiar figure of his lord.
    Close to the boys, two women were working a handloom; they had ignored his entrance, their heads still bent low to their tasks. Tending a large cooking pot that was suspended by a chain over the central cooking fire was another woman. She was staring at him, still frowning at the unwelcome draught that he had admitted into the hall just moments before, the waft of air having released a flurry of sparks in front of her.
    The warrior realised with a sense of alarm that his mouth was hanging open and he quickly closed it with an audible click, which made the boys laugh again, they were still watching him, waiting expectantly for the exchange that was about to take place with their father. Feeling a flush of shame, he quickly turned back to his lord, who sat on a bench on the other side of the fire, watching him, waiting for an answer to a question he hadn't heard.
    'I said, you found who riding alone? What are you spluttering about? What woman makes demands upon me at any time, especially now at the end of my day?' Octa scowled at the intrusion, but he was warm and content, and truth be told, he was intrigued by