Death of an Empire (26 page)

Myrddion had been raised to be scrupulously honest and would normally have rejected the idea of stealing food from his master as an unmanly and dishonest act. But the oaths he had given to King Merovech had been severed by death, and Bridie’s humiliation had changed everything. He owed Flavius Aetius nothing, neither loyalty nor honesty, and would take payment for his medical expertise in food and supplies rather than gold. Not that he expected Aetius to even consider paying for the services the healers had rendered. The Roman might have been a skilled general, but in Myrddion’s opinion he lacked the dignitas and the scruples essential to his class.

Midnight had come and gone, and no moonlight betrayed Myrddion’s stealthy return to the Roman quarter of the depleted bivouac. Thick cloud obscured the stars and the rising humidity was thick enough to cut with a knife. The thunder peals were closer now, and the air had the charged heaviness of a storm. Myrddion felt the fine, fair hairs on his arms rise and stir. Good, he thought. The rain and the wind will destroy our tracks. All I need do is to find as many supplies as I can carry.

When he reached the supply tent he realised how over-confident Aetius had become, for it was unguarded. Now that the Hun had retreated, who was there to fear? Tiny, two-man tents encircled the stores but the night was quiet and unnaturally still. Even the fires had died, so that Myrddion left no shadow as he moved swiftly from one deep pool of blackness to another.

On the highest point of the ridge, Aetius’s tent was in darkness. Guards patrolled the perimeter, but their main purpose was to protect the many wagons that were heavily laden with plunder.
Myrddion smiled. Let Aetius have his precious treasure trove. The healer preferred grain and dried meat.

Soundlessly, he crossed the bare ground between himself and the heavy canvas tent. Rather than risk a frontal entry, he wormed his way under the bottom of the rear wall where a small hole flawed the heavy, oiled cloth. Then he spent the five minutes necessary to rip a large breach at its base where the canvas was already weakened. With luck, if he moved some barrels in front of the tear, the commissar would never notice his stores had been plundered, because Myrddion needed time to put as many miles as possible between himself and the Catalaunian Plain before his absence was discovered.

In his first foray, he hefted a bag of wheat, wrapped several strings of spiced sausage round his neck, and slung a large section of dried goat meat over his other shoulder. Then, as quietly as he had come, he slid back into the shadows once more. In the lee of a small coppice of scrawny shrubs, he dumped his haul and made two more trips, reasoning that he could move the lot more easily once he had completed his theft.

By the time he had finished, Myrddion had purloined dried fish, a string of onions, a bag of withered apples and some dried jerky, as well as three bags of grain, from the supply tent. Dried figs, a jar of honey and an amphora of pressed olive oil completed the provisions necessary to help his party to survive the journey to Italia. Pausing only to rearrange the huge pile of supplies that remained in the tent so that his theft was disguised, Myrddion left the Roman camp as silently and as deftly as he had come. Thankful that the ground was dry and rock hard, the healer left no tracks as he began the physically taxing transport of his ill-gotten gains back to the site of the field hospital. Once the supplies were loaded in the first wagon, Myrddion felt confident that his party could survive for weeks without the need to forage for food.

Brangaine’s eyes widened with pleasure as Myrddion stored his booty in the larger wagon. She exclaimed over the barley and apples, although she was puzzled by his selection of figs. But she entered into the spirit of the theft, and carefully stowed the breakable jars so that nothing could be jarred loose as the wagons jolted along the rough road.

Then the two of them moved the horses into the traces of the larger wagon with as little noise as possible, despite the fact that there were no guards to see or hear their preparations. The horses were restive as if they could sense the advance of the storm, and Myrddion had to use all his strength to manhandle the beasts into position. Then master and widows used the remainder of the time for one final check on the patients while awaiting the return of Cadoc and Finn Truthteller.

For Myrddion, the hour that they spent sitting beside the wagons was the hardest and most nerve-stretching part of the whole enterprise. The healer imagined any number of disasters, ranging from the capture of Cadoc and Finn during the theft to accidents through misadventure in the wild darkness. As the fat raindrops began to splatter into the dust, Myrddion began to think that he had sent his two faithful servants to their deaths.

Then, as the rain began to fall in earnest with a fierce drumming sound on the dry earth and the thunder began to peal in almost continuous dull rumbles, a darker series of shapes began to detach itself from the edge of the ridgeline, having taken a wide route around the Roman bivouac to avoid detection. As Myrddion stared, the figures resolved themselves into a string of ten horses, three of which were fully saddled. The others were strung together on long leads and all ten wore skins tied over their hooves to muffle the betraying sounds of their movement.

Myrddion ran to the two servants and gripped Cadoc’s hand in thanks before leaping into the saddle of one of the riding horses.
‘Harness a team to the smaller wagon and tie the other three to the rear,’ he shouted over the drumming of the downpour. He turned to the widows. ‘Brangaine, take the reins of the lead wagon; Rhedyn can manage the second. Bridie will nurse Willa for you, Brangaine, and that will keep her occupied during the journey. Let’s make a hasty departure while the rains last, and with luck our tracks will be washed away.’

And so, for the first time in his life, Myrddion stole another man’s property.

With two teams of horses, the healers were able to travel fast and hard for the first two days until Châlons was far behind them and Myrddion allowed the group to stop for a true rest. During the thirty-six hours that had elapsed, they had stopped only long enough to feed and water the horses and attend to personal bodily needs, so the women were exhausted by the time Myrddion ordered the wagons to halt beside a slow-moving river late on the second afternoon. At last, they could sleep, cook hot food and treat the small injuries that the group had collected while on the road.

As he eased the bandages from Bridie’s wound, Myrddion could see that it hadn’t healed properly. Perhaps the jolting of the wagon or the stress of being unable to rest properly had caused the gaping, suppurating hole that had begun to form at one end of the stitched gash. Myrddion sniffed the wound carefully, but as yet the distinctive, sweetish smell of putrefaction wasn’t present. With a sigh of relief, he began the necessary preparation to reopen the wound and treat the damage.

Cadoc sterilised the instruments while Finn prepared the herbs and the poppy needed for the operation. Both apprentices were well trained, for Finn had now absorbed all the herbal knowledge that Annwynn had passed on to Myrddion so long ago, while Cadoc had developed a deft hand with a knife and a needle. Now, as a
well-trained team, they prepared an area for Myrddion’s ministrations, avoiding the worried eyes of the widows. Surgery in the open air was never an ideal option, but the day was clear and fine without a hint of rain, although the afternoon light was shrinking with the approach of dusk. If Myrddion was going to treat Bridie’s infection in a safe environment, now was as good a time as any other.

Finn administered a measured dose of poppy tincture to the patient and Bridie soon fell asleep, ensuring that Myrddion could work with little chance of her waking. However, Myrddion was a superior healer because of his reluctance to take chances. With her face turned to ensure that her breathing was unimpeded, Bridie was gently placed on her stomach and tied down on the surgery table. Once the limb was immobilised, Myrddion took a deep breath and cut the stitches with a swift movement of his sharpest knife. Only three days had elapsed since the original operation, but most of the wound seemed to be holding together.

Without pausing, Myrddion’s scalpel reopened half of the long gash. A vile oozing of yellow pus began to well at one end of the wound, so Cadoc leaned forward to mop up the mess with clean rags.

‘Burn them and wash your hands thoroughly with hot water and sand before you touch her again,’ Myrddion ordered briskly, and used his flask of fruit brandy, now much depleted, to wash out the cavity that he had exposed. Then, as Cadoc and Finn watched closely, he began to remove some of the flesh around the abscess until fresh, clean blood oozed from the pink tissue.

‘I’m going to pack the wound with rags soaked in the special salve. You know the one I mean, Finn? Do we have enough of the radish paste? Good. Don’t use your hands, Finn. I know you wouldn’t do anything to deliberately harm Bridie, but I’m worried. I’m not going to close the abscess – just cover it, so it can release any further poisons that might build up again. I don’t know if my
surgery will work, so I think we should immobilise the leg with a splint. If Bridie can’t move, perhaps she’ll heal faster.’

The apprentices moved smoothly to obey their master and Myrddion felt a moment of pride in their efficiency, before anxiety for Bridie chased all other thoughts out of his head.

‘Brangaine! Rhedyn! Set up a soft bed in the wagon with the medical supplies. We won’t want to disturb Bridie, so make sure that any items we might need for the treatment of villagers aren’t under her pallet. I want her to remain in a reclining position for at least a week to give that wound time to heal. No movement at all, do you hear? She must lie on her side or her stomach, so we’ll need some kind of cushion to put between her good leg and her wounded knee. Do you understand?’

‘Aye, master,’ they said, but Brangaine put into words what both women were thinking. ‘But what if she needs to go to the privy?’ She coughed in some confusion. ‘The privy . . . you know, master?’

Myrddion smiled at their embarrassment. ‘Find an old receptacle of some kind, ladies. I’m afraid that Bridie must remain in the wagon, regardless of her sensibilities. I know it won’t be pleasant for her, or for you, but you’ve done these tasks before when you’ve cared for wounded warriors. I trust you to care for her needs, to wash her and to make her comfortable. Finn will be in charge of preparing dressings for her at least twice a day. I know such frequency seems excessive – and certainly more than usual – but I don’t want to take any chances. As for Willa – she’ll need to travel with you, Brangaine. You can use your sling, although she’s almost well enough to sit beside you. But Bridie must have no distractions that might harm her leg, even the care of a small child.’

Little Willa had healed slowly and Myrddion had laboured hard to mitigate the extent of her scarring. But the wounds of the mind are deeper and more lasting than physical pain, and the child was silent and needy. She would welcome travelling on Brangaine’s lap
because she craved close contact with her rescuer, although it would make the task of driving the cart more difficult.

‘I’m sorry that I’ve made your days more trying, Brangaine, but Bridie could lose her leg, or even her life, unless we’re very careful.’ Myrddion’s voice was regretful and he ruffled Willa’s black hair distractedly. Brangaine scowled at him.

‘How could I complain when you’ve saved my girl from death? Of course poor Bridie must be our first concern, and Willa will enjoy watching the horses, won’t you, petal? See, she’s nodding. My girl won’t be a moment’s trouble, will you, darling?’

The child nodded again, gazing at Brangaine with huge green eyes that were shiny with adoration. One problem solved, Myrddion thought, as his mind ranged out to the next problem that would require a solution.

He turned his attention back to Cadoc. ‘Can you find more herbs and raw radishes? Oh, and some brandy or like spirit? Our supplies are low, and I need to check the wound regularly until it begins to heal naturally.’

‘Will it knit properly if it’s not stitched, master?’ Cadoc asked reasonably.

Myrddion shrugged. ‘I don’t know, but I’ll seal in the poison if I stitch this gash. I’m certain that Bridie would rather have a nasty scar and keep her leg.’

They lingered by the side of the road for a day, although they could ill afford the time. Bridie needed a chance to recover, and although she was teary about delaying their departure and placing the party in danger, Myrddion insisted that they could catch up the lost hours after the horses had rested.

Cadoc took a horse and sought out an isolated community where a wise woman provided the raw materials that he sought for their medications. As he told his master, the woman was none too clean and her blackening teeth and dirty nails inspired little
confidence, but herbs and radishes could be washed, and the spirit, made from some kind of root vegetable, made Cadoc’s eyes water when he tasted it, speaking eloquently of its potency.

After a short rest and some light toil completing the many tedious but necessary chores involved in maintaining the wagons, the small party continued its journey. Finn was assiduous in his treatment of Bridie’s leg. When Myrddion checked the wound every evening, he was pleased to see the shiny, pink growth of healthy new flesh. Finn contrived to spend all his spare time in the medical wagon. Myrddion would hear him telling Bridie stories or singing to her late at night when she couldn’t sleep, and was happy when he saw the glow return to Bridie’s small, ordinary face whenever she saw Finn moving his horse close to the wagon.

As for Finn, the secretive, damaged Celt seemed as happy as his melancholy nature permitted. He would always carry the memories of Hengist’s revenge on the Night of the Long Knives, following the defilement of his brother Horsa. He had earned the title of Truthteller for bearing the dire news of his son’s death to Vortigern, and since there was no escaping it, Myrddion had advised him to embrace the name and to employ his remaining days living up to the demanding description. So far, Finn had remained true to the great responsibility of his title in every aspect of his life, and not just in Hengist’s cruel requirement that he should describe the Saxon revenge as payment for his life.