Clash of Kings (45 page)

As his eyes darted from one Saxon face to another, Catigern screamed thinly and struggled with his bonds until his wrists and elbows bled as freely as the wounds behind his knees.

Hengist ordered five warriors to bring Finn into the ruins of the villa. There, in the abandoned triclinium where the Roman family had dined with their guests, a slab of white marble still remained. Broken along one edge, it was probably too heavy to have been looted over the years. Finn recognised it as a part of the low table used by Roman families to display the delicate feasts prepared for wealthy epicures. In one corner of the slab, like a cartouche or a family symbol, was carved the worn image of a galloping horse.

‘Use whatever manpower is needed to carry this slab outside, then harness two of the Celt horses to drag it to the burial site near the riverbank. Don’t break it, for I will be very angry if you do. Horsa must have a marker for his grave and this stone is sent by Baldur to honour him.’

Finn was forced to travel the mile or so to the burial site, a slight rise overlooking the river, while Catigern was carried, struggling all the way, behind him. Other warriors set to work with a will, chopping into the cold, early-winter earth to form a deep trench for the grave. Once they had broken the cold crust of soil, the work was much easier, although Finn was prepared to swear that there would be some blunted axes in Saxon hands before the task was completed.

Once Hengist was satisfied with the depth of the hole, Catigern was thrust into it, still struggling. Two warriors leaped in after him and lashed his thighs together, telling him he should be grateful that he had a grave at all, when so many of their brother Saxons had been given none. They climbed out, and respectful hands lowered Horsa’s tightly bound corpse down into the trench, directly over the writhing, screaming figure of Catigern.

‘Open your eyes, Finn Truthteller, for you will watch this execution through to the end,’ Hengist ordered and, because the thane had judged Catigern with wisdom, Finn obeyed. The Saxon warriors used their shields as shovels to fill the trench with earth until, eventually, Catigern’s screams were muffled by the weight of soil that covered him.

The end of the headstone was lowered into position before the grave was completely filled, allowing earth to be packed around the monument as it was held upright by Saxon muscle. Sickened by what he had seen, Finn could still hear Catigern’s cries in his head, although logic told him that the screams now existed only in his imagination.

Or so he hoped.

‘Take a horse and go,’ Hengist ordered. Gagging and dizzy, Finn obeyed, riding until he could no longer see the white stone rising out of the earth, its carved horse angled to gallop into the first flush of dawn.

When Finn Truthteller ran out of words and sat, dejected and lost, at the feet of the old king, even Vortigern could find no humour in his son’s death. As a healer, Myrddion was sickened at the thought of Horsa’s fate. All that vitality and joy had gone into the earth before time had decreed that he should perish, so even Hengist’s gruesome justice had a grim aptness. But the thought of lying under the rotting corpse of an enemy, while breathing in the crumbling earth and straining to find any isolated pocket of air, was almost more than Myrddion could bear.

‘Go home, Finn ap Finnbarr,’ Vortigern ordered, his face almost gentle as he looked at the broken man before him. ‘Go home until I have need of you. And you, woman,’ he added, pointing to Annwynn. ‘You may now return to Segontium with my thanks. My steward will release three gold coins to you in payment for your services.’ He smiled enigmatically. ‘But your apprentice rides with me.’

‘But, lord, I am needed with my family in Segontium,’ Myrddion protested, rising to his feet and preparing to accompany his mistress. ‘I cannot accompany you anywhere.’

‘You will comply with my wishes or, by the goddess, I’ll tie you to a horse and take you with me anyway. I am going into the south to gather my levies and take back my throne before my traitorous son has a chance to beg more troops from Ambrosius. At the very least, I expect to win back Rowena and secure my kingdom. If you fail to do your duty, many men will die needlessly, so gather together whatever men and women you believe will be adequate as servants during my campaign. I’d not rob Segontium of both its healers, but by the gods I’ll have one of you. For what it’s worth, if you serve me well, perhaps I’ll tell you the name of your father.’

Myrddion surged to his feet with unexpected speed, leaving Vortigern’s guards flatfooted and gaping. Annwynn stopped at the entrance flap of the tent and turned back, her mouth framing a soundless cry of warning.

‘What do you know of my father?’ Myrddion cried, his voice hoarse with passion. ‘How could you know anything of him, when I don’t even know who he was?’

‘I realise now that you have your father’s eyes, healer, though why I am bothering to explain this to you surprises me. I have puzzled over those eyes for weeks, and I have finally remembered.’

‘Tell me!’ Myrddion howled, as two guards gripped his elbows and bodily picked him up.

‘Not yet,’ Vortigern retorted dismissively. ‘Serve me, and I may change my mind. But, for now, get out of my sight.’

Somehow, Myrddion found himself in the open air with Annwynn pressing his hand, promising him that she’d take care of everything at home, but saying that he must obey Vortigern, who was capable of any violence imaginable.

Somehow, he found himself leading Finn the Truthteller back through the camp, which was starting to stir like a disturbed ants nest. He went to Cadoc and three widows who had become his assistants in the weeks since he had first arrived at Vortigern’s camp, and heard himself ordering that the tents be struck and packed in the wagon along with all their supplies. Annwynn was already at work organising warriors to move the last of the wounded warriors into one of Vortigern’s wagons to travel with her to Segontium.

The afternoon was long and bleak, and Myrddion walked through his duties like a man asleep. He was dazed and angry by turn, his mind stretched by Finn Truthteller’s recollections of horror, Vortigern’s unreasonable demands and his imminent parting from Annwynn.

‘Everybody I love goes away,’ he whispered, as he packed containers of herbs into large wicker baskets. Annwynn heard his despairing voice, turned and saw her apprentice’s heartbroken face, and enfolded him in her warm arms.

‘Oh, my darling boy, what am I going to do without you?’ She pulled back from his embrace and looked up into his moist eyes. ‘You’re so dear to me, Myrddion – you are my son of the heart. I never bore a child, for I never had the time or the man, but had I been so fortunate, I would have wanted my son to be exactly like you. Be brave, darling boy, and take very great care of yourself until you return to Segontium once again. I’ll be waiting for you, no matter how long you are away or how many miles you travel.’

‘Vortigern will harm you, or Cadoc, or Tegwen, if I don’t obey. But I don’t want to serve him, Annwynn, and I don’t know how I can bear to be near him, especially if you’re not with me.’

Annwynn drew him close to her once more. If she could have done so, she would have pressed his warm flesh into the essence of her being and held him there, but regretfully she pulled herself away from him.

‘I will watch over Eddius and his boys, I promise. And I’ll take Tegwen with me as well. The poor girl has only briefly known a family, and now she’s distraught at the fracturing of her new security. Don’t fear for her – I’ll find her someone she can work for, someone who’ll be kind and care for her.’

Myrddion’s eyes clouded and he passed one hand over his face. He had forgotten his assistant and her fire-red hair.

‘Tegwen! I must explain to her.’

‘Aye, Myrddion. Calm her fears and explain that she must be ready in the morning to join me on the wagon. It’s not so far to Segontium, but I want to start at dawn or I’ll never be able to leave you.’

‘I’ll talk to her, Annwynn. I’m feeling the loneliness already.’

Annwynn patted the boy’s face and shooed him away so she could continue her packing.

Nervously, Myrddion went searching for Tegwen. The afternoon light was dim and clouds had obscured the sun, adding to the gloom of the young healer’s mood. Beyond Tomen-y-mur, a thunderhead was building, and Myrddion smelled the tang of the sea brought to him by the ocean breezes. When he had thoroughly searched the camp, he walked down a long slope of lightly wooded ground, calling Tegwen’s name. Despite himself, the misty trees with their delicate traces of skeletal branches, the golden gorse and the long dry grasses did something to calm his angry spirit.

In the dense sky above, a storm bird called its eerie, repetitive warning. Myrddion stood and turned in a full circle so he could survey the wild and beautiful scene, and caught a flash of bright red right at the periphery of his vision. Then he saw her, a twist of red rag holding back her vivid curls as she sat against a sun-warmed rock and stared out towards the distant sea.

‘What are you doing out here by yourself, Tegwen? I’ve been calling for you.’

Tegwen turned towards him, surreptitiously wiping her eyes with the knuckles of her hand and snuffling endearingly in distress. Most women look terrible when they’ve been weeping, but Tegwen was one of those rare few who appear softer and more feminine with a red nose and puffy eyes. Myrddion felt an irrational urge to kiss her swollen lids.

‘I’m sorry, master. I was searching for somewhere quiet where I could cry in peace, because I really don’t want to leave this place. How will I find my Gartnait’s grave after the army has gone and the passage of time makes the grass grow tall?’

Her eyes began to fill again, so Myrddion dropped down to sit beside her on the grassy slope. Although the day was dim and the breeze was cool, Myrddion pointed out a black and white butterfly that had found a small cluster of daisies which were still flowering in a protected hollow. Affectionately, Myrddion watched Tegwen’s face lighten as she watched the insect flutter amid the white stars of petals.

‘Gartnait will always be with you, Tegwen, because he lives in your heart and in your memory. What does a grave matter? He’s done with his body now.’

Tegwen stared across at him through the veil of her tears.

‘We’re like that butterfly,’ Myrddion continued. ‘We seek out the flowers for their sweet honey, even though the storms will come and smash our wings.’

‘If that is true, our lives are pointless,’ Tegwen muttered. Something about her trembling lips and the tear that clung to the edge of a curled lower lash tore at Myrddion’s heart and he found himself kissing her swollen mouth and revelling in the sweetness of her lips and tongue. Without conscious thought or effort, he found himself undressing her until all of Tegwen’s hard muscular body was exposed to his gaze.

Her flesh was imperfect, with scars, ridged muscle, calluses and a scattering of freckles across her chest that matched the sprinkling across her nose. Unaccountably, the blemishes on her white skin moved him, and he felt a tide of affection building inside him spurred by the courage and travail that had been written on her flesh. Something within him wanted to weep for the sadness of those who are crushed by life, yet live on because life is precious and a butterfly on a daisy can move them to tears.

How long he luxuriated in Tegwen’s flesh, Myrddion would never be able to say. An hour? A day? She was generous and sweet, and gave her body freely and with a bitter joy, until Myrddion knew that he didn’t love this woman as she needed, yet loved her sufficiently to give a small part of himself.

Untutored in the arts of the body, Myrddion had no expectations, but he discovered that the fleshy pads on his fingers had a new purpose besides the sensitivity that helped him to heal ruined flesh. Now his hands could give pleasure, and accept pleasure in turn, so that their brief idyll was more than his first stumbling steps towards sexual awareness. He was learning about the soul of women and would be grateful to Tegwen all his life long for her generous warmth and the openness that permitted him to see into her wounded heart.

No, Myrddion didn’t love her, but perhaps the feelings he held for her were better and cleaner than physical desire. He gave her knowledge of himself, naked and defenceless, which was the greatest concession he could make.

Half dressed, he used the daisies to build a crown for her head and stole a kiss when he placed it on her curls. She smiled up at him with eyes that were painfully young, so that he wanted to protect and cherish her, although he knew that their time together was over.

‘Master?’ she asked. Her eyes were deep and mysterious, and he found it difficult to meet her gaze squarely. The Mother lived in those eyes. ‘We will never meet again – but I have loved you! Remember me when you are a great lord and the world bows at your feet. Remember that I loved the man, and not the power.’

‘We will meet again, Tegwen, I promise you.’

His mind was filled with daydreams of his own cottage, Tegwen beside the fire and children squirming like puppies on his hearth. She saw his dreams clearly in his shining black eyes.

‘No, my lord, we shall not. I know that one day you will marry another woman, one who is better, cleverer and more powerful than I could ever be. But remember me just a little when the daisies bloom, and I’ll be happy.’

‘You’re sentimental, girl,’ he chided her, and kissed her like a brother, for his mind had begun to consider the journey and the wonders that would start on the morrow. So quickly, Tegwen became his past, and although he felt a momentary guilt to relegate her so, he was still a young man with youth’s enthusiasm. As they walked companionably back to the tents, Tegwen watched the man once again become the Demon Seed, and was quietly sad.

Ah, lord of light, she thought, as he pressed her fingers. I will never be truly happy again, because you will be far away. You’ll forget me, she thought, and that is how it should be.

The sky was still winter grey, the sea was still the colour of polished metal and the winds still blew with sharp teeth of cold. But Myrddion felt and saw little of the breaking of camp that day. Even through a haze of happiness and the weary satiation of his body’s desires, an incredible, impossible refrain repeated through his mind as he considered Vortigern’s words over and over again.