Clash of Kings (36 page)

They were wrong.

Jealous of his damaged reputation, Balbas had asked for an audience with Vortigern and had accused the Segontium healers of consorting with demons to save the lives of the wounded warriors from Vortigern’s army while stealing their souls and their allegiances. Although the charges appeared entirely crazed, Vortigern was so suspicious of treachery within the ranks that he was eager to question the healers in case he was nurturing threats from within his own camp.

When Balbas repeated his accusations with an oily, confident smile on his greasy face, Myrddion felt the hot blood of fury rush to his cheekbones. Recognising the signs of anger exacerbated by the boy’s exhaustion, Annwynn placed one hand on her apprentice’s arm and took a step forward towards the king, making a full obeisance.

‘My lord king, I ask that you send your most trusted servants to our hospices to observe what we have done. Let them question the patients and ask if any prayers have been made over them to any god, let alone the agents of chaos. Balbas lies, because his patients die from his ministrations while others demand to be treated by us. He loses those fees that he considers to be his due because we charge our patients nothing and bear all costs ourselves. Lord king, malice has come close to you in this fine tent, because Balbas’s spite will keep your army weak and unable to defend itself if you accept his tainted words.’

Vortigern was shrewd, so he sent his trusted horse captain to check the truth of Annwynn’s explanations. Then while Balbas began to sweat profusely, Vortigern bared his lower leg to expose a bandage that covered the fleshy part of his calf from knee to ankle.

‘If you speak the truth, Annwynn, you should be able to explain why this scratch refuses to heal. Balbas maintains that the weapon that nicked me was poisoned and that I risk serious illness unless I find a priest of Mithras to cleanse the wound with water from the secret underground temple where the god presides. What is your opinion?’

While Annwynn carefully unwrapped the dressings, Myrddion asked the king if he had any pain or swelling in his groin. Vortigern nodded, rather nervously.

‘Then you have a deep-seated infection in your leg, lord king. I don’t need to see the wound to assure you that it cannot heal without skilful intervention.’

Vortigern shot a malevolent glance at Balbas, who tried to look sceptical and superior. Meanwhile, Annwynn had removed the stained bandages, and asked if she could wash her hands in hot water.

‘Why?’ Vortigern’s head reared back in the action that the healers realised was habitual with him.

‘If I touch clean bandages with these fouled hands, I’ll only reinfect your wound. We try to remain as clean as possible and always use tongs rather than our hands if we come into contact with infections. We always boil our wrappings.’

‘Balbas?’ Vortigern snapped. His dark eyes had become hard and suspicious.

‘These healers follow the Egyptian and Alexandrine methods which have no standing with either the legions or the recognised philosophers. I ascribe to Galen and his methods.

‘Then we shall see!’ Vortigern warned darkly. ‘The Demon Seed hates me, so it’s possible that he could try to kill me while I am ill. But if his words are true, Balbas, then you are a proven liar.’

‘Lord,’ Myrddion interrupted, ‘may we collect our tools of trade to treat this wound? It’s already corrupted by the humours in the air and will soon become gangrenous if we don’t lance it immediately.’

‘Get on with it, Demon Seed. Collect what you need, but the herb teacher will treat me herself. I’ll not trust you anywhere near me with a naked blade in your hand.’

A servant was instructed to bring a bowl of very hot water and some clean cloth. When it arrived, Annwynn allowed some of the liquid to drizzle over the wound. What she saw gave her no pleasure.

‘I’m afraid that you’ll need to trust my young colleague, my lord, for this wound must be reopened by a healer with great skills. See the red swelling? There’s no green flesh as yet, nor is there a red line heading towards the groin, gods be praised, or we’d have to remove your leg. But the damaged and dead flesh must be removed from this injury.’

‘Don’t listen to them, lord.’ Balbas whined. ‘See? New flesh already seals the wound.’

‘Then why is it shiny, red and swollen to twice its normal size?’ Annwynn countered.

Vortigern peered at his calf, which was indeed red and angry in appearance and swollen to almost twice the size of his other leg. Annwynn could imagine the thoughts that were chasing each other behind the king’s slate-green eyes, and she was glad she wasn’t standing in Balbas’s place.

As a silence charged with menace began to develop, Myrddion arrived back at the king’s quarters at a run, followed almost immediately by Vortigern’s cavalry captain, who was looking a little green and appeared to be on the point of vomiting. The king stared at him.

‘Caradoc, what did you find in the tents of the healers?’

Balbas gave every impression of a man eager to cut and run, but Vortigern lifted a finger and Caradoc blocked the entrance to the tent.

‘What did you find in the tents, Caradoc?’ the king snapped again. ‘Be brief, because my leg pains me greatly.’

‘Both sets of tents contain seriously wounded men, but the stink in Balbas’s tent would make a sound stomach empty. It was disgusting. There were only six men in the Roman’s tent to care for the many dozens of wounded – who all seemed close to death. However, there were a large number of workers in the tents of the Segontium healers. In fact, there seemed to be at least one volunteer caring for every seriously wounded patient, while the air and surroundings seemed congenial. The patients were eating and seemed to be mostly free of pain.’

Vortigern grinned like a wolf. ‘If I were to stab you in the shoulder this very second, Caradoc, and you were forced to choose your healer, whose tent would you attend for your treatment? I can easily organise the wound if you have any difficulty in making up your mind.’

Caradoc looked slightly apprehensive, knowing his master as he did, and decided that truth was the best policy.

‘I would go to Annwynn’s tent without hesitation, my lord.’

‘Good enough!’ Vortigern muttered, before turning his attention back to Balbas. ‘You will remain here, my friend, for I have plans for you.’ Balbas paled.

‘My lord,’ Annwynn interrupted bravely, for she had no wish to see Balbas killed, despise him as she might. ‘Myrddion is the surgeon, so he must be the healer to open your wound.’

‘I’m bound by my oath, lord,’ Myrddion added, although every fibre of his being shouted that he should use his scalpel on the great vein in Vortigern’s thigh and watch him bleed to death in front of him. Character and the dictates of his craft pushed down the urge for revenge, but left his mouth dry and cottony with distaste. ‘Besides, I know you would take revenge on Annwynn if I moved against you by even the flicker of an eyelash. I’ll not risk my mistress, even if I hate you for ever.’

Vortigern nodded and ordered a bench seat to be placed under his foot. ‘I’ll be watching every move, Demon Seed. Don’t let that pretty knife slip.’

‘There’s no chance of that, King Vortigern.’

The young man stood over the swollen flesh where the two edges of the wound met, partly joined by tissue and partly gaping, and slashed the injury open with speed and accuracy. Except for a sigh of surprise, Vortigern didn’t react until he saw a viscous ooze of yellow pus pour out of the cut. He paled a little, and his fingers clenched with fury. As a warrior of many years, he understood the significance of this putrid flow of corruption.

‘I must cut deeply into your wound until I reach the healthy flesh and clean red blood comes to the surface,’ Myrddion told him. ‘Then I’ll thoroughly cleanse the wound before treating it with a salve and herbs. Later, when I’m satisfied with your progress, I’ll stitch it together again.’

‘Get on with it,’ Vortigern demanded, and Myrddion obeyed cheerfully, hoping that every necessary action caused some pain to the king. When the wound had been thoroughly cleansed, smeared with radish paste and seaweed and then bandaged by Annwynn’s gentle hands, the king’s face was a little pinched around the mouth, but he was visibly impressed with the competence of the healers. He was also angry with Balbas.

‘You might have killed me with your incompetence, Balbas. I have paid you well for your services in the past, but now I discover that you’re a fraud. Therefore, for the fate I might have suffered if I had relied on your tender mercies, your right hand will be severed at the wrist so that you aren’t tempted to harm any more of my loyal warriors. Heal yourself, surgeon! You have made enough red gold out of your position here to be able to pay for your own treatment. Then you will take your tent and depart this place quickly, before I decide that you should lose your other hand. For the sake of their lives, your patients will be cared for by the Segontium healers.’

A silence followed, until the Roman, recovering a little from the shock that had held him speechless, tearfully begged for mercy. Normally Myrddion would have remonstrated with the king, but Annwynn unobtrusively kicked his ankle to ensure he remained silent. Besides, Myrddion was sure that the loss of a hand was a trivial punishment for the sins Balbas had committed out of love for money.

Justice was done, and the Roman was packed off in his wagon after Annwynn had used fire and salve to seal the bleeding stump. Weeping, and only half conscious, Balbas had to endure the curses and thrown rubbish of Vortigern’s warriors. He was fortunate to leave the camp alive.

But the ravens and crows still waited in the forest, although they had been cheated of their prey. And Myrddion had passed an enormous test for any healer. Finally, he had come to accept that all suffering must be alleviated, regardless of the character of the patient. The healer has no right to choose, for every saint, hero, sinner and criminal has the right to be treated. Now, at last, Myrddion had won the right to claim that he was a true healer.

CHAPTER XVI

A GOOD DAY TO DIE

Then all the councillors, together with that proud tyrant Gurthrigern [Vortigern], the British king, were so blinded that as a protection to their country they sealed its doom by inviting in among them (like wolves into the sheep-fold) the fierce and impious Saxons, a race hateful both to God and men, to repel the invasions of the northern nations.

Gildas, On the Destruction and Conquest of Britain

Three years earlier, Hengist and Horsa had made their separate ways to Thanet Island, accompanied by a small army of the disaffected Saxons from Dyfed and Glywising. Horsa had been forced to travel slowly because of his healing leg, but Hengist’s warriors had raged through Cornwall to remind the young, newly returned Ambrosius that his lands would never be safe while Hengist drew breath.

The isle of Thanet crouched at the mouth of the Tamesis. To the south lay the green, tempting lands of Durovernum, Durobrivae, Rutupiae and Portus Dubris. With his wolf-like brain, Hengist compared the distance between these places and the lands of Gaul, Belgica and Lugdunensis. Smelling the tang of the salty Litus Saxonicum and its plentiful shoals of fish, he determined to thrust his warrior’s hands deep into the black soil of the south.

‘We wander no more, brother,’ he told Horsa, who grinned his boy’s smile in a man’s face. ‘Here we make our stand, and tempt the goddess of fate.’

Accustomed to existing cheek by jowl with the great Roman cities of Londinium and Durobrivae, the Cantii warriors were unprepared to stand against barbarian warriors who made lightning-fast, destructive raids deep into their homeland. The Cantii had greeted the arrival of Ambrosius, grandson of the legendary Magnus Maximus, with renewed hope, but Vortigern still held the entire north of the isle in his mailed fist, so Ambrosius’s benevolent reign seemed doomed to be transitory, making the Cantii elders cautious in their dealings with both kings. Fast couriers brought the news that Vortigern had been defeated in battle by his sons, but as the old tyrant still lived the Cantii dreaded that a civil war would shake the fragile peace. They had never expected an invasion so close to home – a barbarian attack designed to steal everything they possessed. Now the unthinkable had come to destroy the peace of generations.