Clash of Kings (42 page)

Annwynn saw no inconsistency in melding Don, the Mother, and the Roman Fortuna together as one deity. All sensible Celts accepted the goddess in any form she chose to take.

Tegwen nodded her acceptance, and smiled a lazy, wholly feminine smile that spoke of many things that even Annwynn couldn’t understand. But in that transformed, numinous face, Annwynn beheld the features of the Mother transformed into the Maiden.

She was content.

A month had passed since the healers had arrived, during which time Vortigern’s camp had developed an almost festive air, despite the brutal sting of winter. Good rations, a daily mug of ale for each man and the time to rest and become whole in mind and body all contributed to the morale of the Celtic warriors.

Myrddion was changing a small dressing over the last of Vortigen’s ugly wounds. Satisfied with his handiwork, he examined the fresh pink tissue that had formed spectacular scars along the old king’s leg.

‘You’ve survived this injury, and you’ll have little more pain from the wound,’ the young healer informed the king as he bound a fresh poultice into position. Even after weeks of tending Vortigern’s cursed flesh, he felt his stomach clench and unclench at the sharp smell the man carried with him, which was composed equally of sweat, old blood and the faint tang of rotted teeth. The healer had learned not to gag on the hatred and disgust he felt, but still the loathing never left him.

Myrddion would never forgive.

‘I’ll allot you your due, healer. You could have killed me easily and no one here would be any the wiser for your treachery. Perhaps my luck was in when I chose to let you live.’

Myrddion struggled to maintain his usual impassive face as Vortigern filled a mug with fresh beer.

‘Will you join me in a drink, healer?’

‘Any man of medicine who drinks would soon prove to be a worse danger to his patients than a fully armed warrior,’ Myrddion retorted, using a smile to deflect Vortigern’s mercurial temper.

Vortigern snickered then, just as an armed warrior burst into his tent, knocking over a map case in his haste to gain entry. With a vicious oath, the king leaped to his feet with a curse and a wince of pain.

‘By all the dead druids on Mona! What do you think you’re doing, you oaf, by charging into my presence without warning or apology?’

‘I beg your pardon, my lord, but a warrior has ridden all the way from Durovernum to bring news to you. Your son Catigern is dead.’

‘Dead?’ Vortigern’s face was quite blank for an instant. ‘Catigern is dead?’

Then Vortigern began to roar with long peals of coarse, ribald laughter that were shocking given the nature of the message that he was receiving.

‘Send the courier to me, then, you dolt. I welcome the news that my treasonous, turncoat son is dead. If the messenger is telling the truth, I’d like to hear all the grisly details at first hand.’

As the warrior bowed and slipped out of the tent, Myrddion and Annwynn packed their satchels and prepared to make their escape, but Vortigern’s sudden good mood prompted him to insist that they share his enjoyment of his son’s untimely death.

‘Stay, healers, and eat a little stew. My slave will see to it.’

As wine was pressed into their hands in finely carved horn cups, the healers seated themselves in the farthest corner of the tent. Their faces were creased with a disgust that they hid as well as they were able. Vortigern was unnatural in every way the mattered, for even a traitorous son was part of the father’s blood. Who could forget that an infant had once lain in Vortigern’s arms and now the king was glorying in its destruction?

The messenger who entered and kneeled respectfully at Vortigern’s feet wore a cloak pin and arm-rings marked with Vortimer’s hawk insignia. Vortigern rose to his feet and dashed his mug of ale into the warrior’s upturned face. The warrior accepted the insult with a bowed head, and the beer ran through his long black curls.

‘Your markings tell me that you are from Dyfed and that you slew my warriors in battle. You risk death to come to my encampment. Do you or your cursed master expect to trick me into trusting you again? I’ll kill you myself with my bare hands if you play me false.’

‘Please, my lord. Since Prince Vortimer raised his hand against you, many of us have been sickened by the slaughter of our brothers in cowardly traps and treasonous battles. I was sent to my Lord Vortimer to deliver the news of Prince Catigern’s death, but I chose to bring the information to you instead. Should my disobedience become known to Vortimer, he will surely execute me.’

‘And so he should, if he’s got any sense,’ Vortigern retorted, his face twisted with the internal fires of fury that seemed to keep the blood running through his ageing veins. ‘Why should I trust another turncoat?’

‘This land will suffer, my lord. King Ambrosius is no friend to our people, because he sets his sights on all the lands throughout Britain. Prince Vortimer doesn’t see the dangers in the Roman’s larger plan, but many of us are afraid that we’ll be betrayed by Ambrosius and his brother Uther.’

The warrior flinched as Vortigern’s face darkened, but although he gulped visibly he managed to keep his eyes riveted on the face of his liege lord. The old king must be forced to recognise that the message he carried was true.

‘Who can our warriors turn to, other than a wise king who kept our land free of war for twenty years?’

Mollified, Vortigern seated himself, snapped his fingers for more ale and ordered that the messenger should be given a stool, dried meat and a mug of foaming ale to recover his composure. The courier’s face was pale with fatigue, and deep, purple shadows surrounded hazel eyes that were sunk deeply into their sockets. Even his cheekbones were overly prominent, as if he had starved himself on the long ride from the east.

‘Now, tell me!’ Vortigern ordered after the messenger had finished his ale with one convulsive swallow. ‘I’m starved for information of my sons.’

May the Mother protect us, Myrddion thought with contempt. The death of this man’s child is trivialised into a desire for good intelligence. This king is a monster!

‘What is your name, cur? I demand to know the history of the traitor who tells me of my son’s murder.’

‘My name is Finn, your majesty, and I am a warrior born into a prominent farming family in the south whose name I am no longer comfortable even voicing. When so many better men than I are dead, I have shamed my ancestors because I am still alive. I served at the Battle of the Mount where Prince Vortimer destroyed the Saxon invaders, so I was selected to be part of Prince Catigern’s force that hunted the last of the Saxon stragglers. I had thought myself to be a man of honour, but now my name is soiled in the dust.’

‘I don’t give a shit about your honour, so just recount the events that you saw,’ Vortigern snapped irritably. ‘Get on with it, or I’ll order my men to encourage you.’

The messenger swallowed as he prepared to tell his story. As a man of sense, he realised that he could not permit himself one careless word, or this volatile king would order his execution. His life was over anyway, for harbingers of bad news invariably suffered for the truths that they told.

‘A man, a Saxon warrior, came to our camp at Durovernum ten days ago,’ he began. ‘We were aware that a small group of Saxons had been hiding in a ruined villa some miles from the battlefield, but our spies told us that only a dozen or so men were taking refuge there, so Lord Catigern chose to leave them be until he had rooted out the larger nest at Rutupiae. He called them a last, tasty morsel.’ The courier’s face flushed. ‘In retrospect, it was a serious error of judgement. When we reached Rutupiae, the port was empty of Saxons and the ceols had sailed for the shores of Belgica before we arrived. We returned to Durovernum, and that was when this particular Saxon came into Catigern’s camp. He was unarmed and was carrying a simple wooden box containing a huge nugget of gold.’

‘Obviously a brave man,’ Vortigern murmured. ‘But suicidal, unless he had a specific mission to perform.’

‘So Lord Catigern thought,’ Finn agreed, more relaxed now that he was recounting events. ‘He toyed with this Gunter, as he called himself, and gave him to the guards to soften up before commencing his interrogation. The Saxon took beatings and burnings with stoicism, as if he knew we weren’t going to kill him until we obtained what we wanted to know.’

‘Don’t ever underestimate Saxons,’ Vortigern told the occupants of the room. ‘They are hard men, turned into barbarians by the loss of their lands and family. They are clever, in an uneducated fashion, and almost insanely obsessed with personal honour and courage.’

‘Aye, lord king, so we learned,’ Finn agreed respectfully. The courier’s fingers were dirty and the nails were stained with old blood and grime. They twisted and flexed with minds of their own, separate from the calm, reasonable voice that he used to impart his news.

‘Your full name, messenger,’ Vortigern demanded. ‘I like to know the history of the men I talk to. Don’t put me off with maunderings about shame or dishonour. Answer like a man . . . unless you lack respect for your forebears.’

‘He treats everyone as things until he discerns a useful purpose for them,’ Annwynn whispered to her apprentice, almost as if she could read his mind. ‘Then they become real.’

‘My name is Finn, lord, son of Finnbarr of Caer Fyrddin. My family has dwelt in that town since the days when the Romans called it Moridunum. We have always been true to our Celtic ancestors, even when the Romans were our masters.’

‘Well, Finn, get on with your message,’ Vortigern drawled, and smiled his secretive, almost triangular smile. ‘I am agog!’

‘Gunter was dragged into Prince Catigern’s presence and forced to stand upright while he gave our lord a message from Hengist. The Saxon thane begged for the body of his brother, Horsa, which Catigern had nailed on the gates of Durovernum for the amusement of the citizens. Through this Gunter, Hengist offered a treasure of gold chests, similar to the gift in the small box, if the body of his brother was brought to the ruined villa of which I spoke. As well, he asked that the bodies of the Saxons who died during our victory at Durovernum should be buried or burned. The offer was made willingly and Hengist guaranteed that he would sail far from Rutupiae if the exchange was made.’

‘Did Vortimer kill Horsa?’ Vortigern asked incredulously.

‘No, my lord. Catigern slew the Saxon from behind, and then desecrated his body.’

Vortigern laughed again, with the grating note of contempt in his voice. ‘Don’t my sons understand the first thing about those men who stood behind them and guarded their backs for so many years?’

Finn shook his head and his hands became very busy as he tore the hem of his shirt to shreds. ‘I saw Horsa’s body. The common folk of Durovernum had thrown dung, mud and refuse of the filthiest kind at the corpse. Gunter also saw Horsa’s body when he was brought into the town. He growled deep in his throat, just like a wild dog, when he saw what the people had done to the remains.’

‘From what you are telling me, my son deserved everything he appears to have received,’ Vortigern snapped. ‘For stupidity, if for nothing else.’

‘After Catigern discovered the hour and the place of the intended exchange, he took pleasure in describing to this Gunter how he would now be given to the children of Durovernum for their blooding. I hated such disrespect, my king, for I knew no good could come of our dishonour.’

‘What happened to Gunter?’ Myrddion asked from his corner, his eyes already sad with foreknowledge.

‘He was dead before the children had the opportunity to touch him. We failed to check on him throughout the night, for we believed that no man would die by his own hand if even a small chance for life existed. He gnawed into the veins on his own wrists and bled to death.’

‘
Ave
, Gunter!’ Myrddion murmured. ‘He had much courage. Such a suicide wouldn’t be easy or painless.’

Vortigern stared across at Myrddion, but could read nothing in the young man’s chill, marble features. ‘Aye, he surely had courage and purpose. Knowing Hengist as I do, every detail would have been planned in advance by the Saxons. They knew how my son would react, so Gunter was more than Hengist’s pawn. He was Hengist’s justification.’

‘That’s true, my lord. Many of your son’s warriors were offended that a fighting man of any race could be given to small children who needed to practise their knife work and archery skills.’

‘So Catigern reacted by going to the ruined villa,’ Vortigern went on, dismissing Gunter’s death from his mind. ‘I assume he had treachery in mind?’

‘Yes, my lord. We were told that we were to attack and kill each and every Saxon present once the exchange was made and the killing signal was given. Catigern took twenty men with him for the initial meeting with Hengist and kept eighty of us in reserve either in the old orchard or across the river. Primed to await the signal from our prince to commence the attack, we arrived in our positions shortly after dusk. The villa seemed secure and quiet.’

Finn had feared the squat, still-sound building because fighting in tight, enclosed spaces was never a good proposition for seasoned warriors, but Catigern was unconcerned. A single light had burned in the atrium where a dead tree had been set aflame, but otherwise the Roman villa was too quiet, too brooding, as if something primal waited inside.

Catigern had felt no such qualms and had dismounted and swaggered into the courtyard, surrounded by his fully armed guard. The body of Horsa had been wrapped in oilcloth in all its filth and was dumped before the doorway to the house. The stench was terrible. Finn had been the forward scout of the second force and he had moved stealthily into the shelter of an old dairy to watch the initial confrontation between Hengist and Catigern.

‘So what happened, man?’ Vortigern demanded, his hoarse voice even more sardonic as he saw the tension in the messenger’s manner.

Finn raised his eyes and Myrddion could smell his fear and horror from across the tent. The healer realised that this man had witnessed violence that would travel with him to the grave, regardless of his life span.