Clash of Kings (46 page)

‘If you serve me well, perhaps I’ll tell you the name of your father.’

CHAPTER XIX

CIVIL WAR

Sabrina Aest gleamed like a silver mirror in the watery, pallid sunshine. The great channel was near its narrowest point, just below the valley where two great rivers embraced and ran together into the sea. The fabled Roman port, ancient and protected gateway to the sea for generations before the Romans came, hunkered at the far side of the channel where the river swept into the shallows in mud, detritus and dirty sand.

From his vantage point above, Myrddion looked down at a scene that was both grand and a little frightening in its vast scope.

‘I can believe that the Father dug a great ditch into the land and all the rivers poured their waters gratefully into the salt, just so that the Great Ones could drink fresh water while they carved this land out of the ocean.’

At his shoulder, Cadoc snorted and Finn shuddered. Myrddion cursed himself for his thoughtlessness, for Finn was unable to sleep for thinking of buried men and, every night, he dreamed of being interred alive with rotting corpses. Each morning, he awoke with a throat seared from silent screaming. Unable to go home, Finn had sat in Vortigern’s camp in a profound despair that seemed to rob him of the will to eat and drink. Myrddion had taken Finn as his responsibility, perhaps out of a sense of guilt. After all, Myrddion had survived his own collection of dead and was relatively unscathed. And so Finn Truthteller, the name the warrior insisted on using, became an assistant in the tents of the healer.

Vortigern had raged through Powys, Gwent and the petty kingdoms of the south, demanding troops and provisions with the high-handed fury of a much younger man. With persuasion and outright threat, he terrified the princelings into stripping their kingdoms bare. The old, neurotically frightened High King of the past was gone, vanished with the news of the death of his bastard son, and the princelings cowered in the wake of Vortigern’s furious energy.

And so they had marched, thousands of men and wains groaning with supplies, heading for the south where Vortimer was harrying and begging Ambrosius in turn, so that two great forces could meet, touch, and tear each other to pieces for the sake of transitory power. Myrddion was swept along in the train of Vortigern’s war machine, so he had ample opportunity to ponder how some men live lives of quiet ordinariness while others rise and rise, crushing life’s spear carriers and banner-men to seize the golden prize, a crown or a lasting monument.

‘I’ll have none of it,’ Myrddion whispered, looking down towards Abone across the fast-flowing river, and up towards Glevum, situated inland and pregnant with power. ‘I’ll remain just a simple healer, and keep my soul.’

‘Healer you may be, Master Myrddion, and I’ve the scars to prove your skills, but
just
a healer? Don’t make me laugh, master. You’re little more than a boy, but I can feel the power in you, like a fish swimming in your blood. Up here, we can watch and feel separate from what is going to happen, but we’ll still be up to our elbows in shite soon enough. You’re a healer, perhaps, but you’ll be something else as well. You draw us to you, you see.’

And no matter how Myrddion tried to force Cadoc to expand on his words, the sharp, scarred ex-warrior professed to know nothing more.

The hill rose out of the Forest of Dean, high above dense woodland and ancient oaks, beech, ash and alder. Vortigern had amassed his army during the depths of winter, breaking with tradition and moving huge numbers of men through snow and the icy cold. Myrddion looked behind him at the wide Roman road that ran from Burrium, skirting the forest to eventually reach Glevum. From that great town it travelled as straight as the landscape permitted to Corinium and Calleva Atrebatum where the road divided. One road headed south to Ambrosius’s capital, Venta Belgarum, while another branched to the south-west, terminating at Durnovaria and the coast. The last branch headed eastwards to reach Londinium, the city where all roads terminated. At Corinium, another branch moved south to Aquae Sulis, Lindinis and Isca Dumnoniorum, while to the north-west the Fosse Way, as the Romans had called it, plunged into the mountain spine, linking Venonae, Ratae, Lindum and onward to the pivotal fortresses of the north.

‘He who rules the roads owns the land,’ Myrddion said quietly, as he withdrew a piece of vellum from his tunic. He made charcoal marks upon it that could be transposed into a more permanent form in the hours after the evening meal, when he had the time to concentrate on the task of map-making.

Charts and maps consumed Myrddion’s thoughts, almost supplanting his study of the healers’ scrolls. He had already recorded Vortigern’s movements throughout the entire campaign, including details of the villages, natural formations and peculiarities of the countryside through which they had passed. The young man had no idea why he felt compelled to keep a record of his journeys, but he imagined that, like all pastimes, he would find a use for it eventually.

‘Vortigern is clever, Cadoc. Vortimer must come to him now, and join battle before Vortigern reaches Glevum, because from there the old man controls all movements along the Roman road, both north and south.’

The irreverent warrior grinned like the young man he still was, despite the ugly burn scars that turned one side of his face into a puckered travesty. ‘Vortimer and Ambrosius will be shitting themselves, for the old wolf is back with a vengeance. Vortigern may have taken the throne by treason and invited the Saxons into Dyfed but, by Ban’s balls, he is magnificent when he’s determining a fighting strategy.’

‘Where do you think Vortimer will meet him?’ Myrddion asked, but it was Finn who answered.

‘My master Vortimer will wait outside Glevum. I know it. He thinks to force his father to come to him so he can crush our men without having to depend on long supply lines. Glevum will follow Vortimer’s standard because they know him, and he brings wealth to the town fathers through southern trade links with Ambrosius. He’ll choose his ground on the plains north-west of the town and hope to crush his father in one final battle.’

Myrddion looked towards the east. Behind them, the Roman road was crowded with levied peasants on the march. The men of Dyfed, Powys, Gwynedd, Glywising and the petty kingdoms moved along the rock-hard gravel and cobblestone road with the type of workmanlike march that was out of step, but disciplined and purposeful. From the point of view of the farmers and artisans of Glywising, Vortimer had allied himself with a southern king who had sent the prince to resolve his problems in the east. The death of Prince Catigern, regardless of the rumours that surrounded the circumstances, was laid at the door of Ambrosius. If he had wanted the Saxons gone from his lands, then Ambrosius should have done the fighting and the removing.

‘Vortimer’s a right fool, sucked in by lust for his father’s throne before the old bastard died,’ one grizzled old warrior from Dyfed told a brother soldier from Caer Fyrddin as they marched over the cold stones. ‘The prince doesn’t really understand us, nor care much for what we want. Why couldn’t he chase the Saxons out of Dyfed, if he’s so determined to free the land of that lot?’

‘Shite, this road’s still slippery with ice. It’s a damned stupid time to march into battle, if you ask me. But old Vortigern’s cunning as a starving wolf and his back is to the wall, if you take my meaning. Gods, but it’s cold!’

‘Stop whining,’ one of the men from Glywising muttered in the rank behind them. Vortigern had mixed the troops to avoid any problems with divided loyalties and the strategy created a variety of viewpoints that never had the opportunity to grow into insuperable differences. ‘Vortimer’s a decent king, but he’s not able to fill his father’s boots. Sometimes that’s a good thing, especially when Vortigern’s pissed off with the world. That old wolf has been known to kill a whole village because the headman didn’t bow low enough. On the other hand, Vortimer fiddles around like a girl with a new ribbon for her hair when he’s trying to make up his mind. I’m not saying he’s not mostly right in what he does – but what are we doing here? He always looks to someone like his father to tell him what to do.’

The Dyfed foot soldier snorted with incredulity. ‘You’re full of shite, man! Why would Vortimer want someone like his father to bolster him up if there’s so much hate between them? It don’t make sense to me.’

‘March, you sons of bitches!’ A tall sergeant ranged up behind them. ‘Who said any of this mess makes sense? We’ll be fighting people who’re neighbours, maybe even friends. Just do what you’re told to do and pray that we all get to go home.’

When the army settled into bivouac that evening, the men had a good supply of firewood from the Forest of Dean. As the light faded, the healer and his two assistants had ridden down the hill and out of the forest to the smell of rabbit stew that wafted on the breeze from the direction of their wagon.

‘Those widows are truly good cooks and they’re dab hands at finding meat as well,’ Cadoc said, his voice warm with anticipation. ‘They’re not too bad to look at, either.’

‘In the dark,’ Finn grumbled irrascibly. As usual, Truthteller was very tired.

‘Did you hear that, Master Myrddion? Our glum friend made a joke. There’s hope for you yet, Finn.’

Finn stared at his boots and made nervous circles with his soles in the mud. ‘I doubt that, Cadoc.’

Myrddion smiled and said nothing, but after hobbling the horses he clapped both men on the back before breaking into a brisk walk to sample the stew. The night appeared to be free of rain and a tasty, filling meal awaited. What more could a young man desire? For a moment, he thought of the far-away Tegwen and he felt an unfamiliar ache in his loins, but he put all thoughts of her away from him, into the past with the other women he had lost, where she would remain safe with his blessed Olwyn.

However, Myrddion had barely started his rough pottery bowl of stew when he was interrupted apologetically by one of King Vortigern’s guards. The High King of the north required his presence – immediately! Myrddion stared at his slightly greasy but well-salted stew with a child’s anticipation, and reluctantly put it aside. Another reason to hate Vortigern’s guts.

‘Very well, I’ll come immediately. I’ll have my satchel, please, Cadoc.’

Armed with his tools of trade, Myrddion followed the guard at a brisk trot across the bivouac. Vortigern had replaced his vast, gaudy leather tent with a smaller version that could be packed and moved quite quickly, expressing his intention to pound his son into the dust more clearly than any angry words. Seated on a folding chair, he brooded over a series of simple drawings on vellum from his forward scouts, which described the landscape to the west of Glevum.

‘Well met, healer. I trust you’re prepared for action without your herbmaster?’

‘Aye, lord king. I had a fresh supply of herbs sent to me by courier while we travelled, and my assistants have stripped the villages and forests of anything we might need while we were on the road. I’m certain we can save as many of your men as possible.’

‘I’ve asked you here to discuss some of my concerns about this campaign, Myrddion of Segontium. I’d be a poor commander if I were to sacrifice any of my warriors through poor communication and a wanton lack of forward planning. Can you read a map?’

‘Of course, my lord.’ Myrddion’s confusion showed on his face. Vortigern’s proximity, as usual, made him feel sick.

‘See?’ Vortigern stabbed the vellum with one sword-calloused forefinger. ‘The higher land and forest almost meet before Glevum. Only the river and a small area of flat land on each bank separate the town from the last fringes of the Forest of Dean.’

‘Aye, lord, I understand. The road runs straight and true over the flat lands directly to Glevum.’ But why are you telling me, Myrddion thought?

‘Yes,’ Vortigern agreed. ‘The geography is against us, especially if we were to cross the river and risk getting caught between the water and Glevum. Vortimer could trap us there and smash our army, but I don’t think he will. Knowing my son’s need to be certain before he moves, I think he’ll prefer to bring his forces to our side of the river to give himself room to manoeuvre.’

Myrddion was mystified. He could imagine the devastating cost for any army that was left with no room to retreat if such a tactic became necessary. If Vortimer were as timid as his father described, he might never cross the river.

‘Lord, no one would deliberately place deep water at his back. They must have a reason.’ As you do, you son of a whore.

Vortigern grinned wolfishly. ‘As you so rightly point out, only a fool would expect his enemy to place himself in such a vulnerable position. And my eldest son is not a fool. You needn’t fear to say it, as I would be the first to admit that he’s bested me strategically once before. But Vortimer is nervous, and slow to make up his mind. He likes to consider all possible problems before he makes a move, as eventually he must, from the security of Glevum.’

Myrddion shrugged. What else was there to say, except to ask why the High King would discuss strategy with a mere healer, but he was not so foolish as to broach that question. He waited for the High King to explain himself in his own good time.