Clash of Kings (25 page)

Vortigern must have known that his explanation was callous and ill considered, because his face began to flush unbecomingly.

‘Husband, you cannot send a dead princess back to her family slung over the back of a horse,’ Rowena begged, one hand on his shoulder. ‘I know you never meant to kill her, but a blood price will stand between you and the Deceangli king. Please be sensible about this matter. She must be returned by wagon under escort, at the very least.’

Plautenes was still rocking and weeping over his mistress’s still form, clutching her warm hands in his. Except for her unnatural stillness and the blood that had trickled from one nostril, Olwyn could easily have been asleep. Her flesh made Plautenes feel sick with its memory of once rushing blood and fierce life.

‘She died without knowing what happened to her grandson. Dear heavens, she loved Myrddion more than life, so if you’ve killed him my lady would have chosen to be dead.’ The tear-stained face of the servant lifted to fix on Vortigern with huge, wet eyes. For all his protestations, even the stern, selfish Vortigern felt a moment of guilt.

‘Very well. As a mark of respect to the goddess and the Deceangli king, my guard will see to your mistress. Lady Olwyn will be securely wrapped for the journey and Hengist, as captain of my guard, will personally escort the cart that returns her to her kin. As for the Demon Seed, I have no idea where he is, but he lives. These two magicians are dying in his place.’

‘They are already dead, my lord,’ Hengist interrupted. ‘Rhun stopped breathing a moment ago, while Apollonius has been dead for five minutes. What do you want done with the bodies and the blood?’

‘Didn’t I speak clearly enough? I thought every person present understood my edict that the corpses would be buried under the flagging of my new tower, while their blood will be used to mortar the stones. The death of a woman, no matter how well born, is no reason for my orders to be changed. I trust you, Hengist, to set all to rights with the Deceangli king.’

‘Melvig will kill me and send my corpse back to you in payment for the death of his daughter at our hands,’ Hengist said quietly. He realised that a stranger in Gwynedd, on such an errand, had as much chance of survival as a rooster in a fox’s den.

‘Then you must think of some way to save your neck.’ Vortigern shrugged casually. ‘I’ve done everything I can do to provide reparation.’ He turned his back on his captain. ‘Rowena?’

His wife rose from a small stool that had been provided for her comfort during the long hours since darkness had fallen. She had retreated back into the shadows once Vortigern had been convinced to see sense, tousled, frightened and disconcerted by her husband’s random cruelty and casual lack of humanity.

‘How may I help, my husband?’ she asked in a rather stilted voice.

‘The bangle with the pearl,’ Vortigern growled, without even looking at her. He held out one hand while still facing Hengist. ‘The gold ring with the large river pearl that came from the north. I gave it to you three years ago at Olicana. It was with the treasure in the Pict war chest we captured when we routed the blue barbarians in the north. I want it back . . . now!’

Rowena looked down at the many bangles and bracelets that adorned her arms. They clattered and rang as she struggled to isolate a thick, solid band of pure orange gold. Her face was furrowed in concentration, as well as an almost invisible disgust, as her fingers wrestled with the huge, pearl-studded clasp. Finally, the hinge snapped open and the bangle slid into her hand. Without looking at Vortigern, she placed the jewel in his waiting palm. Anticlimactically, Vortigern tossed the bangle at Hengist, who barely had time to react and catch it.

‘For the woman’s family. The price of her spilled blood is paid.’

Vortigern is no king, Hengist should have snarled, before dropping the bangle in the mud and walking away. He could taste the rebuff building in his mouth, but self-preservation and the knowledge that the trinket now belonged to Olwyn’s kin held his temper in check. This man is a brute, for all that it is we northerners who are supposed to be barbarians. I am ashamed that I must be the one to carry such a gift to Myrddion, but it shall be the last task I carry out for this king of straw. He has acted dishonourably, thrown away my loyalty and freed me from his service.

Hengist nodded and bowed to Vortigern, who scarcely bothered to acknowledge the warrior’s respectful gesture. The captain looked up into Rowena’s eyes over Vortigern’s shoulder and saw in her face a certain rigidity that spoke of dislike and forbearance.

As the Frisian assisted Plautenes to lift Olwyn’s flaccid body and carry it to a rough cart in the stables, he lacked the words to express his shame at the lady’s death. While Plautenes straightened his mistress’s body, Hengist excused himself and jogged back towards the queen’s small apartments in the fortress. He expected to be forced to steal a shroud for Olwyn, but he discovered that the queen had already excused herself from the aftermath of the executions and was pacing through her small room, driving her maids to set the already tidy chests in order.

The captain skidded to a halt on the threshold and bowed low, cursing inwardly. Then, with a wry grin, he decided that honesty might work better than theft.

‘My queen, I seek a shroud to deck the Ordovice priestess. I confess that I’d have stolen it from you, for I am ignorant of any other source of a suitable length of cloth. You may order me to be flogged, if you wish, and I’ll deserve it.’

‘You do not need to steal from me, Thane Hengist. If I had acted sooner to save the boy, the poor woman would still be alive. You rescued him, didn’t you? Wait but a moment.’

She threw back the lid of a long, carved chest that always travelled with her, regardless of where Vortigern rode. Inside were precious robes, lengths of fine wool and valuable linens that were embroidered with fine, spidery stitches to suggest vines and flowers. One of these precious lengths of linen was lifted out of the chest with scant respect for the design of olive trees that edged the top and bottom of the old and slightly yellowed cloth.

‘Take this trifle to wrap the priestess. Perhaps her shade will forgive me for her murder. The trees, I’ve been told, are olives, not the sacred oaks, but they will serve. According to the Pict who owned it, the cloth came from Rome itself and was looted from the legions. Whether he spoke the truth or not, I cannot say.’ She paused. ‘When you see the Demon Seed, beg him to intercede for me with the Mother and the goddess, for I meant them no harm. I made vows to our own gods when I was taken as Vortigern’s second wife. I have borne him two sons whom I love dearly and will protect until my death, but my master has grown in arrogance until he cares for nothing but the power that he has gathered around him. He eats it from his enemy’s flesh, he sucks it in from the blood of his dead and he grows bloated with it. He will do anything to gain ever more power, and even countenances the murder of his elder sons. Understand me, Hengist, for we are kin through your grandmother’s line. I regret the monstrosities that the king espouses, but he is my husband and the lives of my own sons depend upon my compliance with his wishes.’

‘I understand, my queen.’ Hengist took the cloth from her hands, and then kissed the cabochon garnet on her thumb. ‘You will see me no more, my lady, for your husband has broken our mutual oath by ordering me to certain death. Instead, I will return to Thanet Island, where my family awaits me. Many of the guard will follow, so beware of Vortigern’s wrath and wait in silence. I think we will not meet again on this side of the Shadows, but I wish you well. Pray for our people, for the winds gather against us and the emperor stirs in the south. May Freya guard you and yours.’

Rowena straightened and Hengist recognised at last that she was something more than long, golden legs and plaited, glorious hair that could snare a man’s senses in its glittering waves. Like Mother Sea, her eyes were shadowed with storms under their peaceful blue sheen.

‘Go quickly, Thane Hengist. Vortigern will return soon, for the shedding of blood inflames him and he will surely seek me out. Be safe on your journey in the certainty that I’ll not betray your plans.’

As Hengist turned to go, Rowena’s robe slipped away from one golden shoulder and the Saxon saw a handprint bruise clearly marked on her fair flesh. Rather than shame his queen with pity, he straightened his spine and stared straight ahead. But he wished, with all a strong man’s contempt, that the High King of the north would learn that his vassals and his kin were not mindless slaves but creatures of flesh, blood and ill-will as real and as immediate as his own.

‘Ah, well,’ he confided to Plautenes as they wrapped Olwyn in her fabulous shroud. ‘The High King will learn soon enough that a strong right hand does not make a ruler.’

Plautenes stared at the bearded warrior as he set Olwyn’s horse between the shafts of the wagon. Then the servant tied his own mount to the rear of the cart and climbed into the driver’s seat to take up the reins.

‘Surely, Thane, you are like no other Saxon I have ever met.’

‘I’m a Frisian!’ Hengist joked, as he recalled Myrddion’s comments a day earlier. ‘Let us leave this place of blood and death before Vortigern changes his mind. The king’s more than half mad with the power of life and death that is his to use as he chooses. But we minnows plan to escape the pike, don’t we, my Greek friend? We are both strangers in a very strange land.’

In a burst of ironic laughter, the pair left the glowering fortress of Dinas Emrys as the last of the torches in the ruined tower guttered into darkness.

When the cart reached the point in the roadway where the narrow, overgrown track branched off into the forest towards the woodcutter’s isolated cottage, Hengist instructed Plautenes to wait while he fetched the young healer. Ducking to avoid overhanging branches, the captain grimaced as he considered the difficult task ahead of him, but he squared his shoulders and set his mount’s head along the almost invisible path that led through the dense trees. Plautenes watched the northerner go with impatience. Less than a week had passed since Myrddion had been stolen. How would his strange young master respond to the loss of the person he loved best?

Hengist was thinking along similar lines as his horse thrust its way through long grass, gorse and saplings, one arm protecting his face from low-hanging thickets. When a faint light flickered in the distance, the Saxon felt a wrench of dismay at the coming confrontation.

A simple conical hut and an equally ramshackle outhouse had been erected in a small clearing where a weed-choked vegetable plot bore witness to the slatternly natures of its occupants. When Hengist thumped on the flimsy door with his mailed fist, the wood shuddered and rattled and he heard scurrying sounds inside that sounded like rats stirring in straw. The door was opened a crack and a seamed, weathered face squinted out at him.

‘Yes?’

The woodcutter held a worn knife close to his belly and Hengist took a step backward and spread his arms wide to show that he held no weapons. ‘I’ve come for the boy,’ he explained in tones as curt as the greeting of the woodcutter. The door slammed shut and the captain heard a sharp slap followed by the sound of feet shuffling over bare sod. The door was pulled fully open to allow him to see into the hut.

‘Here he is, so where’s my pay? My wife’s tried to feed him but he’s wanting . . . you understand?’ The peasant whirled a finger beside his ear in the universal symbol that signifies madness.

‘You’ll get your coin. Just send him forth!’

Myrddion was pushed out of the door and stood blinking in the warning light of the moon. He seemed dazed and sick, as if his fit in Vortigern’s ruined tower had drained his body and his mind, so that he was only now beginning to recover.

‘Hengist!’ the boy murmured, as his eyes gradually began to focus.

‘By Baldur’s belt!’ Hengist swore bluffly with a shamefaced grin. ‘You look as sick as an old cat. What ails you, boy?’

‘I’ve been wandering in my wits, but I think I’m just hungry,’ Myrddion muttered. His face was even paler than usual, so the streak of white hair at his right brow was very pronounced. With a pang of guilt, Hengist realised that the boy hadn’t been fed for at least four days, largely because of the ignorance and superstition of the Saxon troop.

‘Never you mind, boy. We’ll get some food inside you and you’ll feel better quickly. Boys your age can eat more than an old man like me.’

Myrddion examined Hengist’s face and felt a presentiment of trouble at the captain’s hearty, unnatural manner.

‘Lordship?’ the woodcutter interrupted, exposing a mouthful of brown, broken teeth when he grinned. ‘My pay?’

Mildly revolted, Hengist tossed him a handful of Roman copper coins as he mounted his large horse and offered his other hand to Myrddion. While the woodcutter scrambled on the threshold for his spoils, Hengist swung the boy up in front of him.

‘Where’s the gold you promised?’ the woodcutter howled, using some uncouth words about Hengist’s female relatives.

‘Where’s the food you were supposed to give the boy? But, if you wish, you might ask King Vortigern for your due. We won’t care, but he might be interested in your concerns.’

With the curses of the woodcutter ringing in their ears, man and boy rode back into the brooding forest.

With his spine pressed against Hengist’s torso, Myrddion could feel the rigidity of the Frisian’s body through bronze-studded leather and coarse wool. Without the need for words, the young healer knew that some calamity had befallen and that, even now, Hengist was attempting to frame the words of explanation in his head. Myrddion didn’t need the curse of prophecy to warn him of approaching tragedy. The thane was transparent because, despite their birth roles as sworn enemies, Hengist respected the lad and agonised over imparting the unwelcome news to him. Myrddion’s heart grew heavier with each step of the horse towards the roadway.

The two companions came out into the full light of a dying moon almost on top of the cart, and Myrddion saw Plautenes gripping the reins loosely in one hand and wiping his watering eyes with the other.