Clash of Kings (49 page)

Piece by piece, the heavy beams were manoeuvred into position before being anchored to each bank by a network of heavy ropes. In the deeper waters, the shaky rafts were lashed together to minimise the exposure of non-swimmers to the currents.

Myrddion would have approved the design, had he had the luxury of time to watch the activity that was taking place beyond the bend in the river. As the stream was wide, the platforms couldn’t hope to span the whole distance from shore to shore, but the long ropes created linkages so that warriors could drag themselves to the platforms, make their way across the deeper waters in relative safety, and then finish the crossing to the other side along further rope linkages.

Compared with Vortimer’s bridge upstream, Vortigern’s span was primitive, but it was effective. Vortigern knew that the bridge controlled by the prince would be under constant guard, and any attempt at crossing by his army would necessitate a bloody, preliminary battle for control of that structure.

As soon as the makeshift bridge was created, Vortigern’s scouts crossed to the far side and began to hunt for sentries and enemy outposts. At the same time, other warriors undertook the crossing to form a defensive perimeter on the far side that would protect the bridgehead.

Like the wily, ancient fox he was, Vortigern sent over a third of his army under cover of darkness without any obvious movement of his forces. Myrddion only discovered the ruse for himself when the old king called for his healer to join him on the riverbank.

Once Myrddion reached the front line, he found the king pacing on a small mound in a full-length body shield of toughened leather. The original campfires had been allowed to die to mere glowing coals, so Myrddion failed to realise that the ranks of soldiers had thinned until he asked a guard where the platforms were set.

‘Gone, healer,’ the guard answered. ‘They’ve all gone.’

Vortigern turned to face Myrddion. ‘Can you move all your equipment to the far bank before dawn?’

‘Aye, lord, I could do it. But healers have no place in the middle of a battle, for we can’t guarantee the safety of our patients or ourselves. I’m unable to defend myself while I’m cutting off a man’s leg and I’m bound by Hippocrates to do no harm to my patients. We’ll set up on this side of the river, at the foot of your bridge.’

‘How old are you, Myrddion?’ Vortigern asked, bringing his face down to the level of the young healer’s.

‘Fifteen, I think, my lord.’

‘Fifteen! If I didn’t know better, I’d swear you
were
a Demon Seed. So young and yet so old. Yes, you are your father’s son.’

‘What do you mean, lord? What does my father have to do with moving my tents over the river?’

Vortigern smiled broadly. Even in the low, ruddy light, Myrddion could see the gaps in the yellowed teeth and the king suddenly looked every day of his age.

‘By dawn, half my army will have crossed the river downstream and reached the far bank, courtesy of your excellent platforms. The rest of my army will swim across. Yes, there’ll be losses, not just from the carnage I expect on the far bank, but also from drowning accidents, although I have kept back my strongest swimmers to carry lines with them as they cross. I expect the death toll to be high, but Vortimer’s warriors are already nervous and they doubt his power to defeat me in open battle, so I can promise you that the little turd has no chance. I should never have married a Roman woman in the first place.’

Myrddion’s mind raced. He could see the effectiveness of Vortigern’s plan and he smiled ironically at the brilliant use to which the king had put his platforms. As he listened, he began to understand why Vortigern had held his throne for so long – for only clever, unscrupulous and totally flexible rulers live to be old men.

A picture of his great-grandfather Melvig flashed briefly through Myrddion’s mind.

‘I’ll move a tent downriver and we’ll prepare for the kind of injuries you describe. I have ample servants.’

‘Why only one tent?’

‘Men are dying in the other tent, my lord. And I’ll not leave them exposed to the elements. Rain is coming. I can smell it in the air.’

Vortigern looked up, but he could see nothing but stars out in the deepest reaches of the night. Clearly, if he hadn’t been aware of Myrddion’s prescience, the king would have laughed aloud. Instead, he immediately factored the likelihood of mud and rain into his battle plans.

‘Get to it then, healer. We’ll meet again after the battle, at which time I’ll tell you a little more about your father.’

Before dawn, the force that had crossed the river during the night fell on Vortimer’s unsuspecting warriors like ravenous wolves. Vortigern’s men were desperate, for they were fighting a better equipped, superior force and they could easily be defeated without the element of surprise, good leadership and perfect timing for their attack.

And then the rain came, just as Myrddion had predicted. A heavy downpour fell from a bank of thick cloud that at times reduced visibility to less than fifty feet and caused Vortimer’s sentries to huddle in any available shelter.

A hundred of Vortigern’s finest warriors hid patiently in the willows on the shore and shivered in their wet clothes as reinforcements dragged themselves through the swiftly running current to join them. Had Vortimer’s sentries not been wholly absorbed by the sudden attack on their left flank and the opening of the heavens, they would have seen that the river was alive with the heads of men dragging themselves along heavy ropes that had been tethered between the trees on both sides of the river.

As soon as Vortigern joined his men on the eastern bank, he ordered the two hundred men with him to prepare for a frontal attack. Before even half the rearguard had reached Vortimer’s army, battle was joined on two fronts.

Myrddion peered across the swiftly flowing stream, and through the sheets of rain that lashed friend and foe alike the healer watched a dim sunrise reveal the desperate struggle to determine who held the crown. Foot soldiers were still swimming across the river while a small group of warriors protected the rope lines at the willow trees. From Myrddion’s restricted view of the battlefield, it was impossible to untangle the struggling melee of men or to ascertain which side had the advantage. Vortimer had the initial advantage through sheer weight of numbers, but every moment that passed meant that fresh enemy warriors arrived from the river crossing to redress the numerical imbalance. Besides, against all odds, Vortigern retained the element of surprise, so the attack on the enemy’s flank, which ought to have been a failure, had penetrated deeply into Vortimer’s defensive line through sheer audacity.

Gradually, and inexorably, Vortimer’s warriors were forced into an unplanned retreat.

When the main elements of Vortigern’s fighting force had all crossed the river, Myrddion ordered half of his team to accompany him to the far side, where they would establish a dressing station to treat the walking wounded who made it back to the rope bridge. But within minutes of observing the suffering of the injured, Myrddion changed his mind.

‘Finn! You and Cadoc, get back to the tent! I want all our equipment repacked into the wagons and brought over the upstream bridge so we can set up on this side of the river. I don’t care how much time it takes, as long as you’re over here in two hours. No excuses, for Vortimer’s guards will have deserted their posts by now. Get to it!’

Cadoc was back in the water before Myrddion had finished speaking.

At least the wounds can be cleaned and kept dry now the dressing station is over here, Myrddion thought irritably. Let’s hope no one bleeds to death while I wait for Cadoc to arrive.

The grey rain continued to fall, men died in bloody individual combats while, inexorably, Vortimer continued to give ground.

Cadoc and Finn returned in less than the stipulated two hours with the tent, plus all the supplies that Cadoc considered would be crucial to Myrddion during the coming day. As he dealt with hideous slash and stab wounds, cleaning, stitching and bandaging where possible, the healer had ample opportunity to assess the crushing weight of the rain as it caused the leather tent to balloon under the weight. Myrddion feared it would collapse, so Cadoc pushed upwards with a long pole, allowing cold water to cascade down the sides of the heavy leather where it crept in under the flaps and turned the earth into a slurry of mud that soon reddened with blood. The cold began to seep up through Myrddion’s boots until his legs were chilled, but he pushed the discomfort away from his conscious thoughts so that he could concentrate on the work to be performed by his busy, deft fingers.

Finn Truthteller provided hot water in a constant supply, although his master had no idea how the warrior conjured up a fire in such impossible conditions. In fact, a scavenger at heart, Finn had found an abandoned fisherman’s hut close to the river. Inside, he found a supply of dry timber suitable for burning and, amazingly, recovered a large metal pot that he washed and dried thoroughly. Removing his finds to the dressing station, he built his fire under the large cauldron.

As the stream of wounded began to slow to a trickle, Myrddion sent Cadoc to discover what was happening to Vortigern’s forces as they continued their advance.

Cadoc soon returned, has face creased in a wide grin.

‘Good news, master! Vortimer’s army seems to have vanished. If the prince was winning the battle, his warriors would be on top of us by now.’

‘What are you saying, Cadoc?’ Myrddion asked, as he cleaned an ugly sword cut across the chest of a warrior. Fortunately, the patient was unconscious, so Myrddion was able to draw together the gaping edges of the deep wound and begin to stitch them without causing undue pain to the wounded man.

‘The warriors I spoke to told me that Vortimer has retreated to Glevum. Somehow, against all the odds, Vortigern has won and, as a bonus, he has captured the catapults and the siege machines. Glevum will be shaken to its roots.’

‘There’ll be a siege now,’ Myrddion muttered, and then his fingers resumed their stitching. ‘God help us all!’

CHAPTER XX

AN UNTIMELY END

To reap a field ere it is ripe, Is it right, O stars’ High King? It is eating ere the hour Flower of hazel, white with spring.

An early anonymous Celtic poet

Vortimer raged through the villa like a crazed bull that has been stung to madness by a hive of bees. Furniture, cloth hangings and precious alabaster jars were smashed, torn and powdered underfoot as he made his way towards the sleeping chamber of the queen. Rowena heard him coming and seated herself on a stool with some of Willow’s mending in her hands to quiet her trembling fingers. The glide of the needle through coarse wool was sweet, soothing and useful as she hid herself within the calm centre of her mind.

The door crashed open on its hinges as Vortimer struck it with his shoulder. It swung inward and hit the wall so hard that plaster cracked and fell in shards onto the tiled floor.

Rowena kept the needle sliding through the rough wool – in and out, then pull tight – in and out, and then pull tight – like a mantra or a prayer.

‘Lord Vortimer, why are you so out of temper? What is amiss?’

‘Look at me, you bitch. Stop that . . . that rubbish, and look at me!’

‘Of course, Lord Vortimer.’ Rowena laid down the coarse tunic, neatly pushed the needle through the cloth and placed her sewing on the floor. Her eyes rose and she forced herself to face Vortimer as calmly as she could, folding her graceful hands in her lap.

Her stepson’s face was congested and red with impotent fury, his eyes were almost inhuman in the lamplight and a streak of his own blood marked his knuckles from where he had struck out blindly at a wall while rampaging through the villa.

‘You bleed, Vortimer,’ she murmured. ‘Allow me to clean the split on your knuckles.’

Her body was submissively tender, but her gaze was direct, fearless and chill. Vortimer couldn’t see the terror she hid so successfully.

‘Your fucking husband is already encircling Glevum, stepmother. He’s captured my own siege machines, so he’ll start battering down my walls with the arrival of the dawn.’

In defiance of all the established rules of war, a whistling noise shattered the still of the night, as if on queue. It was followed by a dull thud.

The earth shuddered under their feet.

‘Shite! Shite! Shite!’ Vortimer continued to swear and added several epithets that described his father’s parentage and courage.

‘You think it’s funny, don’t you, Saxon whore! You sit there, like a prim Christian saint, but you spread your legs for an old man willingly enough, to turn him against his own sons. You caused the death of Catigern, and you found a way to send spies to my father, didn’t you?’

Vortimer’s voice had risen to a scream and he leaned over the queen, his face only inches from her own. Every fibre of Rowena’s being urged her to spit into his twisted, beet-red face, but she kept her features calm and reasonable although it required a concentrated strength of will.

‘The walls of Glevum are strong, lord, and the men of Dyfed are unlikely to bow their heads in submission to Vortigern. My husband will have to fight for every street and every filthy back alley before this city surrenders. I didn’t spy for my husband. What could I have told him, Vortimer? I am not permitted to stir from this room. I am unaware of anything that occurs in the world outside.’

Her stepson’s shoulders had begun to relax as her reasonable voice soothed him, but her final words caused him to raise his fist and strike her, for the first time, across her face where the blow would show. Rowena felt her nose break and she cursed her stupidity even as she began to fall. She had been critical and Vortimer was very sensitive.

‘You bitch! You wanted me, you led me into sin and you seduced me. You sit there, all innocence, with your long hair unbound, inviting any man with red blood in his veins to fuck you.’