Clash of Kings (52 page)

Vortimer fell onto his back and felt every muscle start to spasm until his body arched like a bow.

Rowena turned away, shamed and weak despite the iron truth in her words. We are betrayed by our own natures, which are made for love rather than hate, the queen thought sadly as her unravelling hair fell like a curtain over her swollen face to hide the evidence of her injuries. But try as she might, she couldn’t avoid the snuffling sounds, the grinding of teeth and the drumming of Vortimer’s heels on the floor.

‘I loved you . . . in my way. You were the only . . . mother . . . I remembered.’

The convulsion had ended and Vortimer forced the words out through his numbed lips and tongue. A tear snaked down from his eye.

A small bundle of fury exploded through the door and stamped on his face with one sandaled foot. The queen watched the sudden violence with horror. Vortimer was unable to avoid Willow’s blows, because another convulsion was beginning to stretch his mouth into a rictus of terror.

‘He’s lying! He’s lying, mistress. He threw away his own sons without love or thought,’ Willow panted as she aimed another kick at the prince’s genitals with all the strength at her disposal. ‘His idea of love is to take what he wants because he’s the son of a king. He took my boys away and then ordered my breasts to be bound so their shape wouldn’t be ruined – or so he said. He wants what he wants when he wants it.’

‘He’s a man,’ Rowena replied, straightening her spine and putting aside her sympathy for her stepson. ‘He’s not dead yet. Send for his captains as fast as you can, but find me a decent robe before you go. Men are dying as we chatter about the motives that impel a rapist, and I’ll not waste more lives. All that remains is to convince Glevum to surrender to Vortigern’s army.’

With one last, vicious grinding of her sandalled heel into Vortimer’s contorted face, Willow complied. She brought a warmed robe to her mistress and wrapped it round Rowena’s trembling body.

‘Send for Grannie Edda and a manservant first, to move this carrion to a place where he can be left until he dies. But no torture, hear? Then I want everything harmful removed from this room with great care and burned to ensure that no danger threatens other innocents. No one else should have to suffer so filthy a death, especially by accident.’

From somewhere, the queen in Rowena’s nature had rediscovered its voice. Surprised, Willow scurried away to obey her orders. Shortly afterwards, two large men entered the room, picked up the still convulsing Vortimer and carried him out of sight. Grannie Edda, who had accompanied them, would have followed, but was stopped by a single peremptory gesture. She looked up, a little nervously, at the tall woman who wore her injuries as if they were jewels.

‘Make my stepson comfortable, Mistress Edda. To kill is one matter, especially to save many lives. But to deny the comfort of poppy juice to a dying human being would be a stain on my honour. Do not disobey me, and send word to me when the prince has succumbed to the illness that afflicts him.

‘Aye, Queen Rowena,’ Grannie Edda replied respectfully. ‘As you wish.’

Shortly afterwards, Willow returned with three maids who were instructed to remove all contaminated objects, replace all linen, scrub the floors and make the apartments as clean as possible. Despite the probability that rumours would swiftly follow, the servants were told to use tongs, gloves and rags to remove every trace of food and drink. Fully aware of the perils associated with the task, the servants were scrupulously careful in their disposal of the contaminated food and drink.

While the cleaning women toiled, Rowena sat and observed their labours with folded hands and a serene face that hid the turmoil of her thoughts. She had killed and she could never be the same again.

Five minutes later, two bearded warriors were admitted through the ruined door, and their eyes widened as they noted the injuries to the queen’s face. They had seen the blinded eye and scratched cheek of their master, but now they could see with their own eyes the indignities that the prince had inflicted on his stepmother. Both soldiers successfully hid their revulsion.

‘You asked to see us, your highness?’ the older man asked. A senior officer, his eyes roved around the apartment and his mind recorded every tiny sign of violence on the couch, the walls and the door.

‘My stepson, Prince Vortimer, is dying. As there is no clear successor, I am making it your responsibility to assume interim command of his army. I order you to protect the innocent citizens of Glevum from King Vortigern’s wrath by ending this siege as quickly as possible. There must be no further damage to the town. Nor will any harm be inflicted on the citizenry of this place by neighbour fighting against neighbour. You will send a message to King Vortigern immediately to acquaint him with what has taken place on this day and advise him that you will petition for peace.’

The grizzled commander contrived to look grave and relieved at the same time. He nodded his acquiescence and the two men backed away from the queen, bowing low as they did so. They knew that Vortigern’s rage would be explosive when he saw the injuries that had been inflicted upon his wife, and both warriors were terrified at the possibility of being blamed for any perceived failure to protect her. With heartfelt sighs of relief, they left the room and its regal occupant. Outside, the air seemed sweeter and easier to breathe.

‘What are your orders, sir?’ the younger man asked his commander as they strode along the colonnade of the villa and out into the dusty air. The night was lit by the reflection of fires from burning buildings and Glevum was like a disturbed ant heap as it struggled to survive.

‘So it’s going to be like that, is it, Collen Blackhair? As the commander, I am to face Vortigern’s wrath!’

‘The risks of command, Aelwyn, the risks of command! Still, Vortigern will be pleased to take Glevum with so little loss of life, so we must act quickly and pre-empt his revenge.’

Aelwyn sighed with resignation. In Collen’s place, he would have acted in the same manner. ‘I will send a messenger to Vortigern and open the gates before the damned things fall down. Timing is everything at the moment. What a mess!’ he added under his breath. ‘The day was cursed when Vortigern’s sons decided to supplant their father on the throne. Ambrosius has successfully undermined the north-west, so he’ll be the only winner who survives this fiasco.’

‘What?’

‘Nothing. Get to it, Blackhair. We have a town to save, and our own skins, if it’s at all possible.’

When the gates of Glevum were opened during the second evening of the siege, Vortigern’s troops were taken completely by surprise. The army was in a festive mood and the foot soldiers were already counting the spoils they would loot from Glevum when the city fell, so the sudden emergence of an unarmed officer under a flag of truce was not entirely welcome. However, no man was quite brave enough to stand between King Vortigern and Glevum’s emissary, although some stones were thrown as the enemy officer was taken into custody.

Soon, bleeding from superficial cuts and bruises, Collen Blackhair was ushered into the presence of King Vortigern. The young officer had decided that to volunteer for such a perilous mission offered him the best chance of survival.

‘Does Glevum surrender, young man?’ Vortigern asked without preamble. ‘If so, why?’ He, too, was irritated, for he clearly relished the prospect of besting his son in the coming battle for control of the town.

‘The commander of the troops of Glevum, Aelwyn ap Beynon, surrenders the town to you without reservation. He begs that you welcome those men of Glywising and Dyfed who followed your son into battle without the luxury of choice. He begs your forgiveness for the sins committed by Prince Vortimer and Prince Catigern in their attempt to wrest power from the legitimate High King.’

‘Aelwyn is to be congratulated, for he has sent you with a very compelling apology for the treachery committed by my sons. But I am not an idiot, Collen Blackhair. Where is my son?’

Collen bit his lip and Myrddion, who had been ordered to the king’s tent in order to learn the status of Glevum, knew at once that Prince Vortimer had been swept off the chessboard.

‘Your son was near to death when I left Glevum, my lord. I do not know the full details, but Queen Rowena ordered us to surrender the city to your forces, and Aelwyn obeyed her without question.’

Vortigern’s brows lowered dangerously. ‘What has the queen to do with the siege of Glevum?’

‘I am here at her express command, my lord, through the orders of Commander Aelwyn. The queen is concerned that the innocent people of Glevum should not be forced to suffer for the sins of your son.’

Vortigern rose so suddenly that his seat crashed to the ground behind him. ‘What sins? Is the queen well?’

Collen’s face paled a little, but he squared his shoulders and continued manfully. ‘The queen has been badly beaten, and has been under the care of one of the healers of Glevum. She is well, but eagerly awaits being reunited with her lord and master.’

‘Who laid hands upon the person of the queen?’ Vortigern demanded in a quiet, expressionless voice. Myrddion immediately recognised the threat in those quiet words and prayed that Prince Vortimer was safely dead.

‘The prince attacked the queen and beat her.’ Collen coughed awkwardly. ‘I believe he may have forced himself upon her.’

‘Where is my son now?’

Vortigern’s expression was impossible to read, but Collen Blackhair visibly shrank away from the old man in an attempt to remain out of the reach of his sword.

‘Your son is probably dead by now. He has been poisoned.’

Vortigern pressed his lips together, but he said nothing more other than to order his men to prepare for the occupation of Glevum. As for Collen, he was ordered to return to his commander with instructions to ready his warriors for the entrance of the High King into the city.

So, on a morning that promised the arrival of another spring, when the distant Sabrina Aest shone blue and the sky was pale and clean with weak sunshine, the siege of Glevum was lifted. Slowly, and with due ceremony, Vortigern and a guard of several hundred men rode and marched through the splintered gates of the city. Aelwyn ap Beynon and the city fathers awaited the High King’s arrival on bended knees, their weapons laid out ceremoniously before them in total surrender.

‘Hail, Vortigern, rightful High King of the Britons,’ Aelwyn roared, and the voices of Vortimer’s foot soldiers shouted the greeting in turn, frightening the carrion birds that had been drawn to the battlefield outside the walls, causing them to rise in great spirals towards the sun.

Dressed in the palest of bleached-white wool, Queen Rowena came forward, her bruises worn proudly on her golden throat and face, to abase herself on the cobblestones before her husband. When Vortigern assisted his queen to her feet, she kissed the palm of his hand in gratitude. As she bent over her master’s hand, Myrddion wondered just how sincere her passive, loving expression actually was. A collective, sentimental sigh rippled through the ranks as the king kissed his wife on her blackening cheek.

‘And so another war ends,’ Myrddion whispered to Cadoc, who grinned irrepressibly back at his master. ‘The north is at peace once more.’

‘You’ve forgotten that King Ambrosius is still alive and well, master. He’s lost nothing during the past year, but Vortigern has been deeply wounded and his resources have been sorely tested and wasted. Surely, the Roman waits for a propitious sign to demonstrate that he can safely remove Vortigern, and our autonomy, once and for all.’

‘Your vocabulary is improving,’ Myrddion hissed back at his cheerful companion, his eyes torn between the last fingers of smoke rising over Glevum’s walls and the squabbling crows and ravens in the sky. His thoughts were as bleak as the freshening wind that threatened to scour away the warmth of the morning. ‘Vortigern is a dangerous man, so Ambrosius will not permit him to live. We will remember today because it offered us foolish hope for the future.’

Cadoc grinned to show his understanding, and Myrddion looked down into the scarred, stretched skin around his servant’s eyes, eyes that saw humour in the foibles of weaker humans.

‘Men like us are carrion birds, Myrddion, for we follow the scent of fresh blood. We’ll have new patients soon enough.’

‘Aye, soon enough,’ Myrddion replied, and the day was suddenly cold. The sunshine wavered as cloud cover sent Glevum into shadow, while the queen shivered within her husband’s embrace.

CHAPTER XXI

ENDINGS AND BEGINNINGS

Like a long chain of irregular beads, Vortigern’s army had been strung out along the Roman road for nearly two weeks. Eager to be home, the marching foot soldiers were progressively discharged from their duties at Caerleon, Venta Silurum and Caer Fyrddin as the levies returned to their farms, their forges and their safe, ordinary lives. Men had died, but not so many that the spring planting would be compromised. The world rolled on irrevocably for the towns and hamlets of the west, just as it always had.

Myrddion was describing the promise of their new life in Segontium to Cadoc and Finn Truthteller when a warrior thrust his head into their tent to deliver a message that Vortigern demanded his presence. The three men were preparing to devour a stew made of lamb that had been purchased from a local farmer, and was now simmering in a broth of vegetables. Myrddion could almost taste the tender nettles, new carrots and sweet, greasy flesh, so he sighed with impatience as he excused himself from his companions.

‘Some days I’m convinced I was born to be Vortigern’s dog,’ the fifteen-year-old complained grumpily, while the messenger escorting him to the king’s tent darted a horrified look at the young man for speaking such blasphemy. ‘Hades knows that Vortigern expects me to jump through whatever hoop he has found for his amusement – usually when I’m about to eat.’

‘No, lord! There’s been a courier come from the north,’ the warrior protested, shaking the long braids that marked his status as a man and as a master of weapons. ‘I believe the message is for you. Indeed, the High King does his duty by you.’