The cavalryman assessed matters. He could easily enough overpower this oaf and his companions and cross the river, but his horses were in no condition for a chase. A garrison officer eager for action or vengeful at the death of his men might well mount a serious pursuit, and Eboracum was still too far away for the Britons to escape. “We will wait, our horses need a rest,” he said loftily, inwardly cursing.
A few minutes later, a cavalry guard of a dozen riders trotted out of the fortress above them and wound down to the bridge. The exchange was polite, but brief. The travellers must accompany the guards into the fortress and have their goods examined in case there was customs duty to be paid. Privately seething, anxious at the delay and irritated with himself for not simply dropping a few coins on the oafish bridge guard, Grabelius allowed his squad to be escorted up and into the fortress.
The guard officer had done this before and swiftly separated Grabelius from his men, leading him into a chimneyd stone chamber bare except for a coal fire and two tables and benches. It appeared to be the officer’s business quarters. The troopers were invited to dismount and their horses led away, ostensibly to be watered, rubbed down and fed, but the additional armed guards who appeared signaled that no refusal of their hospitality would be brooked. The unhorsed Britons were led to a courtyard and given bread, cheese and thin wine, for which the officer planned to demand payment after he had settled a fee with Grabelius for allowing him to cross the Tyne.
The Briton recognised the petty blackmail and decided to play along. A gold piece would satisfy matters, but he must not appear too eager to be on his way, or the officer, who was already obviously wondering about the troop’s business, might decide to hold them for longer, and then word might arrive of the fleeing fugitives.
“Good to sit and rest for a moment,” Grabelius said cheerfully, stretching his booted feet towards the fire. “Get much traffic here?” The officer, a swarthy fellow descended from some long-ago Serbian legionary posted to Wall duty, shrugged. “Not enough,” he said curtly, wondering how much he could safely extract from this affluent-looking traveller.
Before he could continue, a clatter of hoofbeats sounded across the cobbled yard and the sentry at the officer’s door leaned in to announce the arrival of a messenger from along the Wall. “Send him in,” said the guard captain. Grabelius stood as casually as he could, ostentatiously easing his neck and back. His hidden punching knife lay waiting there for an over the shoulder draw. He turned away from the door to gaze out of the unscreened window, the messenger came in and handed the officer a leather cylinder containing his missive. Even as he considered the dangerous message that might be in the container, Grabelius incongruously thought how the Romans’ operations and practices yet remained. The message cylinders they employed were still in use by the Pict tribes along the Wall the Romans had left.
“Have some wine,” said the guard captain to the courier, gesturing to the table where a few leather cups and a wineskin were heaped. Muttering a grateful thanks, the courier turned aside to jet a spurt of wine, Grabelius, knowing full well what was the message he brought, stretched, drew his knife and, as the officer pored over the message, mouthing its import under the light from the window, he quietly stalked the messenger from behind, clapped his hand over the man’s mouth and pulled him onto his blade. The steel went up and into the man’s vitals and he collapsed gurgling to the floor. Grabelius, cat-quick, stepped over him and put the knife point at the officer’s throat as the man turned. “One shout and it is your last sound,” he said. To further emphasise his point, he clapped his hand over the Pict’s gaping mouth and pushed him against the wall.
The officer’s eyes widened, Grabelius scrabbled at the man’s belt and unhitched his short stabbing sword, which clattered to the flagstones. He patted him down and grunted as he found the concealed boot knife he expected, withdrew it and slid it into his own belt. “We’re going for a walk,” he said. “Call out and you will spend your last moments watching your life blood pump onto the stones.” He pulled the dead messenger behind the door of the bare room, he gave the Pict some careful instructions, fastened the man’s right wrist to his own belt with the messenger’s leather belt and pushed him out of the chamber, locking the door behind him with the officer’s own iron key.
To a casual onlooker, the guard captain was walking freely, but a closer look would have shown that his right hand was tethered and there was a dagger held at his kidneys by the Briton who followed him. The officer led Grabelius to his own men, who started up, surprised at the brevity of their break. “We’re moving now. Our friends are helping us,” said Grabelius, lifting an eyebrow that one trooper instantly comprehended. At the Pict officer’s orders, fresh horses for the Britons were brought out of the stable block, and the Britons’ own tired Frisians were put on leading reins. Grabelius had no intention of leaving such valuable war horses, even if they did slow his escape..
Soon the Britons and the Pict officer were mounted, and the puzzled guards dismissed. “I’ll show them the route,” said the officer, after a prod from Grabelius’ knife point. “Watch for my return in a short while.” The party trotted sedately out of the fortress’ high gates and began the winding descent to the bridge when the officer tried to pull aside, and twisted to shout to his squad.
A Briton knocked him sideways with a blow from the flat of his sword and the troop left him in the sand as they began a canter towards the waiting watchmen at the bridge’s end. The slovenly Pict who had called in the fortress guard was waiting and held up his hand importantly. He evidently had not seen the officer felled. Grabelius kicked his mount forward, leaned down as if to speak to the watchman, and, still moving forward, punched him full in the face, pitching the man over with the force of the blow and the added impetus of his horse.
In moments, the whole troop was cantering, the bridge boards were thundering under their horses’ hoofbeats and they were up onto the far bank of the Tyne. “How soon before they chase us, sir?” a trooper asked Grabelius.
“We’ll have a good start,” said the cavalryman. “Balcus over there,” indicating an evil-visaged villain, “cut all the reins he could find in their stables.”
Balcus, who wore the rare, coveted chevron of Arthur’s originals, grinned. “Slashed the lot,” he said proudly. “And I nicked their wineskin.”
XV - Grief
The news that Grabelius’ messenger brought made my heart feel as if it were gripped and squeezed by an icy fist. Milo was dead. Milo had been murdered by the king with whom I had sealed a treaty in blood. I had not truly believed it but a day later, two of my own men arrived, bearing the shirt that Guinevia had made for Milo. They told how they had seen him die, how they had been sent with a false tale they had sworn to tell, but an oath made under threat is no oath, and they were my handfast men. Numbly, I took what they gave me, and held the blood-stiff linen of a tunic that had become Milo’s shroud. My son was no longer on this earth.
The roaring in my ears was like the surf of the Atlanticus dragging over shoreline shingle. I wanted to cry out for my boy, I wanted to crush the skull of his treacherous killer, I wanted to see that filthy Pict’s eyes start from their sockets as I strangled him with my bare hands. The Berserker blood that never failed me in battle was swamping me now. I called for my horse, I would ride directly to Alba and hack that traitor Kinadius into pieces, I would burn his hall and enslave his family and… Milo was dead. Milo was dead. In a short while, when Guinevia, his mother, returned from the exile at Yr Wyddfa that I had imposed to keep her safe from the pestilence, I would have to tell her. I dreaded it. She was already so fragile from the torments she had undergone that I had to wonder if this latest blow would shatter the eggshell of her sanity.
“Lord King, Arthur, Caros, my friend,” it was Celvinus gently shaking my shoulder. “Drink this.” Dully, I took the goblet he offered, some apothecary’s brew to calm and ease me. Death was all around, my country was stinking with death and plague. For all our effor
ts, my son’s wife had died of it, dozens of my retainers had succumbed to the foul thing. Now my son himself was dead, but not by the blows of nature, instead by the treachery of a creature who was his kinsman by marriage.
Myrddin strode into my chamber, unselfconscious, arrogant as always, impervious to my rank as his king. “You will be going to war with Alba,” he said. There was no question in his voice. “You will want to punish all the Picts. Arthur,” he said, “you will be wrong.”
I raised my head, angered at this meddling sorcerer and his daring to tell me what I might or might not do.
“Good,” he said, catching my mood. “Be angry. You cannot afford the luxury of wallowing in self-pity.”
By the gods, I was out of my chair and grasping for Exalter where she hung over its back. I’d have the wizard’s head for his impertinence.
Myrddin eyed me calmly, and I saw his look. Where there was usually only the aloof, cruel gaze of a hawk now was sympathy, compassion, wisdom. “Keep living until you become alive again,” he said. “And act as the king you are.”
My anger ebbed as fast as it had flooded my heart. The sorcerer was right. I had no time for self-pity. I was Britain’s guardian, my country had to come before me. “Get Grabelius – is he here yet?” I demanded. “Celvinus, where is Grimr?” I asked my legate, the hero who had saved the bridge at Londinium. I would need Grimr, the big Suehan who commanded my fleet.
The old litany of readying for war ran through my head: “Objective, intelligence, personnel, communications, supply and transport.” Mentally I ticked off my army list, although the gods alone knew who or how many of them had survived the pestilence. There was the 20th Valerian, 2nd Augusta, fragments of the 9th Spanish; the good and great Sarmatian cavalry, 2nd and 3rd Parthian, elements of the 8th Augusta and of the 1st Minerva. I still had a few foreign auxiliaries on the rolls, although all the mercenaries had long since departed.
Candless could provide some forces, too, I thought, then considered with a small shock how I had totally forgotten about my old friend. Kinadius would be hunting Candless, and the bishop who never was could be in mortal danger by now. My lassitude was brushed aside like cobwebs. Grieving would not bring the return of my son, but an armoured legion could bring me the head of his murderer. Or I’d take it myself, I swore.
Grabelius was striding into the room. My cavalry commander looked drawn. He had arrived just that morning from his long ride south and had snatched a few hours’ sleep that obviously had not been sufficient. He saluted, fist to chest, then we grasped wrists in the old Roman way. “We’ll take his head,” he said quietly, and we both knew of what he spoke.
“Candless,” I said, “must be in danger. What do we have close to the Wall that we can send up there to him?” He looked to his fellow legate, Celvinus. “Elements of the 20th Valerian and the 9th Spanish are at Eboracum, and we have a reasonable cavalry contingent, Sarmatians, at Carlisle,” said Celvinus. “We could put a mixed force, say a half-legion, fast up Dere Street to get to him.”
“Candless has a fine defensive position at Dun Pelder,” said Grabelius. “With enough men, he could hold Kinadius for a long time. It’s no chess game, but that king will find it hard to take the bishop’s castle.”
“Good,” I said, “I don’t want to attack Kinadius piecemeal. We’ll gather our force and hit hard the first time.” I passed over the phrase ‘with enough men.’ The problem of this chess game was that the bishop was nearly out of pieces.
XVI - Treasure
Bishop Candless was sweating heavily even in the night’s cool. He and two men at arms were hacking away with axes at a mound of silver, chopping priceless works of church plate, beautifully-worked Roman silver dinnerware and even some ancient Celtic torcs and arm rings into small, negotiable pieces that could be used to pay soldiers. Some pieces the trio simply crushed. Later they could be melted to make new coinage.
They were working by the light of a brazier in a small stone courtyard alongside the church at Dun Pelder, dividing and bagging the 80 lbs of silver and gold brought from the bishop’s treasury so it could be sent to the clan sub-chieftains who would recruit and rally a force for Arthur.
The other half-dozen monks who doubled when needed as altar servers, farm labourers, warriors or builders were in the hall preparing food and mules for their journeys to the chieftains. Not one man was on lookout, so the squadron of mounted spearmen sent by Kinadius was able to approach unseen and unhindered. They saw the firelight in the courtyard and dismounted to make the last few hundred yards’ approach as quiet as possible.
A young monk stepped out of the kitchen where he had been boiling some pottage, intending to relieve himself on the grass. The moonlight glinted on the blades and spear heads just 30 yards away as the men at arms advanced, and the monk yelled a warning and ran inside. He did not have time to drop the latch into its heavy bracket, so jammed his arm in there. It was a decision he regretted within a second or two, as the first Picts threw themselves against the door and broke the limb, but despite his screams and vain attempts to wrench his arm free, it stayed in place, even though the attackers kept hurling themselves against the barrier.
On the other side of the building, Candless heard the man’s agony and acted fast. “Over there,” he hissed. “Up the bank. Push the bags into that rabbit warren.” Almost all the loot was already bagged and the biggest of the trio, a giant who had been chopping up the silver, scooped up the bags into his huge arms and staggered away into the dark. Candless and the other monk worked fast to scoop up the loose, unbagged silver so as to leave no clues, and while Candless scoured the work area, the second monk ran to the warren to stuff it, too, into a rabbit hole. Satisfied that all the silver was hidden, Candless picked up one of the axes the trio had been using, the others returned, and the trio, armed, moved to confront the invaders.
From the sounds at the kitchen, the bishop deduced that the raiders were inside, killing or subduing his men. His warrior blood would not let him slink away, and he gambled that a surprise attack by three axemen might turn the fight. With their hampering clerical habits hiked up around their thighs, the trio raced around the building to the kitchens and, screaming the war cries of their Votadini clan, hurled themselves through the open door.
Inside, Candless was enraged to see that the youngest monk, a 10 years old novice called Adrian, was kneeling in supplication, pleadingly holding up his crucifix to a pair of laughing spearmen who had their blades at his face. The bodies of three of Adrian’s brother monks were sprawled across the benches and table, another was folded against the firepit.
At the exact moment Candless took in the image of Adrian, the boy met his death. Both spears stabbed down at the child. His last breaths were to call for his mother, but the person who arrived to help was the enraged Candless. His axe bit went deep into the carotid at the neck of the first spearman, causing a jet of hot blood to arc upwards and the half-severed head to flop horribly onto his shoulder, but the blade stuck in the man’s spine. Candless wrenched hard to free it, but the delay meant he had no time to turn the blade’s edge towards the second man. Instead, he swung and clubbed the unbladed side against the side of the spearman’s head just when he was turning his point towards the cleric. Behind him, Candless’ two fellow monks were howling madmen, axes whirling at the startled Picts. They cut down three in as many seconds, but the enemy was too numerous, the space too cramped, and even the inspired fighting madness that was Candless’ chief asset was not enough.
His men died around him in the blood-spattered abattoir that had been a kitchen, and he went down under a stunning blow, but chance spared his life when a Pict turncoat recognised him as a fellow Mithraist and halted the blades that would have ended it all. So it was that several days later, bloodied and chained, he was hauled before King Kinadius as the monarch sat in state in his Eidyn’s Burh stronghold.
“My good bishop,” said Kinadius, almost genially. “I hear that you are a great friend of my ally, Ar
thur of Britain. Is this so?” Candless hung his head. “Oh, don’t be ashamed,” Kinadius chided him. “Arthur is a fine man and he rules some excellent territory. He probably owes some of his riches to you, does he not? And,” the king was like a cat with a bird, “do you not also hold some riches for him, to deliver to him soon?”
Candless shook his head. “Nay, lord,” he said. “I am a humble churchman, I have no riches.”
Kinadius was revelling in the baiting. “Iacomus, Iacomus!” he said archly, in mock reproof. “Surely it is a mortal sin to tell lies? I think we shall have to make you pay penance for that.”
And penance it was, Candless thought wearily. The pain had been more than he had ever known. Kinadius had accompanied the captive back to Dun Pelder, where he was given a whipping and a branding , but the stubborn clansman refused to reveal any knowledge of hidden riches.
“There is no secret treasure,” he insisted, even when the red hot iron was so close to his eyeball he felt it drying his very fluids away.
Kinadius was unconvinced, and ordered Candless nailed to the church door with his own Nails of the True Cross. One was hammered though each forearm, but the Picts did not suspend the bishop’s weight on them, instead leaving him standing barefoot on the door sill. They did not want him dead. They were debating the next stage of his torture when they got their breakthrough.
A villager betrayed the wounded trooper who had fled Kinadius’ hall on the day he murdered Milo, and it was the cause of the bishop’s confession. The Picts dragged the trooper to the church door where Candless was impaled and gouged out the man’s left eye. Then they invited Candless to speak before they took the other. The torturers could barely hear the bishop over the man’s screams when he whispered that he’d tell them.
A Fragile Peace Page 8
