Winter's Blossom: The Seasons of Arthur

Chapter 1

I never knew my father.

He, the Lord Gerient, younger brother of the mighty warlord Enniaun Girt, had died not long after I was born. He is said to have been a great warrior, and had been successful in his campaigns as his elder brother's captain. However, all of his success came to nothing more than seldom sung songs and stories when a mere arrow, courtesy of Hibernian raiders, killed him.

Nor can I remember my mother, for she too died when I was very young. I know that her name was Anna, I have vague recollections of a slight, sometimes smiling woman, and that fits with the stories that I have been told of her. Ector, my uncle's steward, told me that she was a sad woman; unable to shake the grief of her husband's death from her, and that she was only happy when I laughed in a certain way that was apparently similar to my father.

Finally she died. Of a broken heart said Ector. Of a weak heart, said Merlin.

I remember my maternal uncle more: Bagdamagus, a bright faced youthful nobleman who brought me a wooden sword on one of his many visits. He would take me out into the yard and we'd play at sword fighting. I would try to hack at him, get cross and scowl because I could never seem to hit him. When Bagdamagus was not there I would charge around the house, hitting the guardsmen to try and get them to fight with me instead.

My mother tried to admonish me when I did so, but she was tired and heartbroken, with the life having gone out of her, and finally she just died. My mother had resisted my uncle trying to bring her, or more accurately me into his household, and even now with her death my mother's family tried claim me, rather than have me go to my father's family.

With her death, Bagdamagus quickly packed a wagon load of her possessions and me, five years old, shivering with cold and grief, clutching my wooden sword and demanding to know where my mother was. I remember wondering why my uncle seemed so fearful. Who could he be afraid of? He was a nobleman and had guards holding round shields and long spears that protected him and fascinated me.

I sat on the bench of the wagon beside the driver while my uncle rode ahead. His men trudged beside the wagon. I could see all of them kept looking back over their shoulders nervously. I had little time to wonder at this though. Perhaps I did not really notice, young as I was.

Two men rode up out of seemingly nowhere, just two men against the dozen spearmen that were here, and the smaller of the two was even slightly bent backed in his advancing age though the hilt of his sword still shone brightly in the cold sunlight. The man next to him though was tall and strong looking, like a hero of old riding out of legend with a sword over his shoulder and a look as cold as a winter night upon his face. His very presence emanated power.

The spearmen made a line between us and the two riders, but they simply ignored them and rode through and the spearmen made no move to react to them. Bagdamagus rode up to face them. 'He is my nephew!' He protested weakly. Even at that age I noticed he gave great care to make sure his hands were away from his sword, perhaps because I was expecting him to draw his sword and fight off these two wicked men.

Like they had the line of spearmen, the riders just ignored him too. Instead they closed up to me. The bigger of the two leaned in to look at me, cold and wrapped up in the blankets, nose dripping with snot and my eyes slightly bloodshot.

'He looks like Gerient at least.' He grunted, and I sensed there was an insult in that. In response I felt a stubborn surge of pride, like there was something to be expected of me. I wiped my nose with the sleeve of my hand and stood, letting the blankets fall from my thin frame as I drew my shoulders back. 'He used to sniffle all the bloody time.'

'My father,' I said, with all the lordly authority I could muster in child's voice, 'Was a great man, and I am not sniffling.' And with that, I used my wooden sword and swung it with every bit of childish strength I had at the giant man.

The two men burst out laughing. 'That's Gerient's son all right.' The elder chortled. I swung at them again, enraged by their laughter.

'Your father was an idiot.' The big man told me, this time catching my wooden blade as I angrily swung it again. 'But he was my brother, and you're coming with me.'

My anger faded as I looked at him then with fascination. So this was my father's brother, the one my mother had dreaded and her noble brother had been so terrified of.

He was a big man, tall on his horse and broad shouldered, with long thick arms. His beard was black, and the strong jaw beneath it was split into wry smile. I noted though, that the smile didn't reach his eyes, which were like chips of flint in his face. I was both intrigued and intimidated, and suddenly I flushed as I realised that I had tried to hit him with my wooden sword.

'Ector, take him.' The tall man instructed, turning his horse around, and the older man helped me over onto his horse, sitting in front of him as we rode away, the two men not having said a word to my uncle, and me feebly holding out my hand in a bemused wave.

And so I met my father's brother, Enniaun Girt. The man who would raise me, the man who would terrify me, and the man who helped shape my life, known by the name that meant the Terrible Head Dragon.

Uther Pendragon.