They prised him loose, and with one broken arm and the other mangled, he was at least able to limp to the cavern temple of Mithras under the church and give up the secret of the ingeniously-hidden door in the rough rock wall. The Picts had already found the temple but until then had not discovered the treasure vault.
Inside were the gold aureus coins, the silver and gold figurines, a magnificent altar plate that Candless had not had the heart to cut to pieces, and the small lidded oak chest with the gemstones, ivory and jet, and the 350 or so finger rings; all the treasures that would not melt down for coin or were too individually valuable to pay for the services of a spearman.
Kinadius was informed and hurried down to examine the hoard, while Candless, battered and in agony, stood slumped against a wall. “Bishop, bishop,” the Pict remonstrated delightedly, “you told a lie to your king. That seems to call for a full confession, and your church would deem punishment was necessasy, too. Should I have your tongue removed, or merely have your lips sewn together? I’ll consider the matter. Put him away in his own treasure vault,” he said roughly, turning to examine the oak chest of gemstones. “Give him no water for the next two days. We’ll dry up his lying tongue, for a start.”
XVII - Guinevia
The reports that were coming back to me of the weakness of my forces were terrifying. The pestilence had taken nearly half of my army, and yet more men were dying. In the meantime, while I was losing my men to the pestilence, my enemies were gathering. I faced threats from the Saxons in the south and east, Alba was in flames, and news had come that the dark men of the southwest peninsula, the Dumnoni, were raising a force against me. I ordered messengers sent around the country, to assess more accurately the damage the plague had done and to hear what fighting men could be sent when I called for them.
Riders went south and east to the lands of the Cantiaci who fought Gaius Julius Caesar and to the proud Iceni whom Boadicea had led in rebellion. They went to the grain-rich lands of the Corieltavi in the east, and Celtic Dobunni who lived on the edge of the great plain where were the Standing Stones, and the news was doomful.
The messengers also rode to the Cornovii and Silures whose kingdoms marched alongside those of the Dobunni, the latter the tribe of Caratacus himself, to find similar bad tidings. They parlayed with the red-haired kings of the Atrebates and with the olive-skinned Durotriges, whose seagoing lives helped them to escape the worst savagery of the pestilence. They went to see the jarls of the Parisi and the Coriani of the east, only to find their clans had caught the plague from travellers on the north road, and were much diminished.
From Chester it was a short journey for the riders to reach the wide moorlands of the Brigantes, a tribe whose remoteness I hoped had allowed them to escape the plague. They were doubly needed as survivors as they were fearsome warriors and loyal to my cause.
The accounting set in motion, I was desperate to ride north, where the Picts were already gathering, to claim my son’s murderer Kinadius’ head with the blade of Exalter.
Guinevia did not know of Milo’s death, isolated as she was in Myrddin’s mountain retreat, and even as I was thinking of her and how I could break the evil news, a disturbance in the courtyard under my window caught my attention, and there she was, riding in, dust-laden hair wild in the wind, gown awry, and her horse flecked with spume and salt, evidence of a desperate hard journey. Her outriders were grim-faced and purposeful and used the flats of their swords to clear her way as she scrambled from her horse and ran for the steps to my chamber.
In moments she was confronting me, eyes blazing: ”Arthur: Milo, what has happened to Milo?” she was shrieking. “I have seen him in blood!” It was clear to me in an instant. My lovely Druid had psychically viewed something I had not myself seen, and had in her mind’s eye observed our son’s dead body in remote Alba. I was wordless as she battered at my chest, screaming for answers. My throat was swelled closed, I just could not speak. All I could do was to take the blood-stiffened wedding tunic the couriers had brought and dumbly hand it to her, and she knew, her fears were confirmed.
Suddenly, she was icy calm although tears ran down her cheeks and dripped from her chin. She nodded. “Kinadius.” It was not a question. I nodded back, still mute as a swan. “Because of Sintea.” Again, she posed no question. “That is unjust,” she said quietly, “and I will avenge my boy.” She turned away from me, not wanting my comfort and I saw once more the flash of the steel of her character. She would grieve in another place and time. Right now, she wanted only to slake her burning thirst for revenge, but I was the one resolved to carry it out.
Guinevia walked from my chamber, still holding the bloodied tunic to her bosom and I realised I had not spoken a single word. There seemed no reason for me to delay. I lifted Exalter in his scabbard down from the wall peg and strapped him to my waist, took a handful of gold and pushed it into my belt pouch, pulled my cloak down from its peg and left the chamber. Already, I was calling for my horse Corvus and for his stablemate Nonios, the night-black steeds from Frisia that could carry me for long hours each day.
Now Guinevia knew, my kingdom could fend for itself. I had my mission, plan and sequence plotted. I was riding north to kill a Pictish king and I was riding by myself, blood-maddened by the grief of my lover. If I died, at least I would die in an attempt at vengeance, which I called justice, and the thought drummed in my mind to the rhythm of Corvus’ hoofbeats. That night I slept in in my hooded sagum cloak alongside the moorland Roman road of Nont Sarah while my horses cropped the rough grass; a day and a half later I struck the great north road of Ermine Street and a dazed number of hours later I was outside Eboracum, former fortress of the Roman governor of Britain.
Once, I had ridden across this bridge in triumph, but on this day the scene was one of death carts rumbling across it to bring out corpses for disposal. The pestilence was inside the walls and I was reluctant to enter the city. Gold solved the problem and a messenger went to fetch the guard commander. He saluted in recognition and we conferred for minutes. The garrison, he said, was so weakened as to be near helpless, but the number of new plague victims was lessening and he felt the worst of the pestilence was over.
He took my horses to stable them outside the city and provided me with three more mounts and five troopers, who also had remounts. I eyed them for signs of pestilence, felt reassured, and told them sternly that I would not delay my journey for laggards. In a couple of hours we were heading north again, the men packing forage nets and fodder for our small herd of horses.
We rode, made camp and we rode, made camp and rode more. We crossed the Humber where once Myrddin’s firedrakes had stampeded my enemies, manning the ferry on its rope sling by ourselves, because the ferryman had fled the plague. I expected problems at the Wall, but one of the troopers had local knowledge and he led us to a crossing that was unmanned because of the pestilence. I had no care. I ordered that any sentry who saw us was to be slain. I wanted no word of our coming to reach Kinadius, or I would be his next victim.
Fortune favoured us and we rode unchallenged along the length of Dere Street, paralleling the coast and sleeping in whatever meagre shelter we could find from the chill easterly winds. We made good time thanks to our frequent remounts and only six hard days after leaving Chester, I spied the landmark rise of Dunpendyrlaw, where Candless had his church.
Twice as we got closer, we questioned shepherds about their king and his peace, but had no definite news of anything amiss. One sheep herder did not even know of the pestilence that had swept the land to the south, although he had heard vague rumours of killings at Dun Pelder. That reinforced my decision to approach with extreme caution. We laid up in late afternoon a mile from the loom of the stronghold, concealed in a small copse that was downwind of the ancient earthwork, and at full dark, I went forward with four of the troopers, leaving the other to guard our horses.
XVIII - Skull
The Votadini horse lines held 15 or so beasts, but we left them and
their guard alone, skirting wide as we did not wish to alert the animals, but soon I found myself outside the stone-and-timber church. The place was familiar to me, we had once used it as a camp during a campaign against the Picts, and the two hall sentries were at points outside the building where I expected them to be. They were not alert, one was actually dozing upright, leaning on his spear shaft, and my troopers swiftly and quietly dispatched them, hand over mouth, torso hauled back onto a seeking knife blade that slid under the ribs and punctured the heart. They dragged the bodies a distance from the hall and retrieved the dead men’s helmets, cloaks and spears.
I kicked off my boots, tucked them into my belt and went silent and barefoot over the flagstones outside the king’s chamber. There was enough activity inside to tell me that Kinadius was likely still in residence and I cut and eased up a corner of the leather window covering to peek into the hall. A dozen retainers were eating and drinking, the king himself was in conversation with a dark-haired girl who sat alongside him at the high table. A solitary guard stood behind the king, leaning on the tapestry that draped the wall. He was eyeing the girl and looking bored. I counted the rush lights in their wall brackets. Four. Two hounds were lolling, panting in the firelight from the vast stone fireplace, which boasted a proper chimney to take away the smoke. I moved around the building to the kitchens and waited.
After a period, a kitchen boy came out to empty a pot of greasy water and I quietly lifted him out of the door’s light with my hand over his mouth. He was too terrified to struggle.
“What have they done with the bishop?” I murmured in his ear. “Make a noise and I’ll slash your throat.” To emphasise the threat, I pricked his neck with my knifepoint. “He’s locked up, master,” he said, his voice squeaky.
“How do you know?” I demanded.
“I was once his servant, master, and they told me I’d be locked up with him if I did not do what they said.”
It seemed probable. “They nailed him up, master, and they killed the trooper,” he said helpfully. To encourage him, I jabbed his neck again.
“And the prison? Where is it?”
“In the old temple under the church, master,” he squeaked.
“Who’s in the kitchen?”
“The fat woman cook and the kitchen maid,” he said. As if on cue, I heard a girl say: “That boy’s gone off again, I bet he’s in the hall sneaking food.” A woman responded: “I told him before to go and get more firewood, he’s probably gone at last. If he hasn’t, I’ll scratch his head with a ladle when he comes back.”
I took a moment to think. If Candless was in the old temple of Mithras, he’d likely only have a single guard, either on the concealed door from the church, or outside the treasure vault door in the temple itself. The latter was most likely where the bishop was held. I muttered a couple of instructions to one of my troopers, and he took the boy with him as guide. The most agile of the troopers got another assignment, to locate an amphora of cooking oil in the storeroom and to get it undetected onto the hall roof.
The remaining two troopers and I moved towards the hall. I recalled that there was a window behind the tapestry on the east wall where Kinadius sat, a window not used because of the chill winds off the German Sea, and I headed for it. The troopers put on the helmets and cloaks of the Votadini guards we’d killed and took up position, spears prominent, in the shadows by the door on the west side of the hall. While we waited, I put on my boots again, and took out my big silver-and-amber jarl’s badge of office from my pouch, to pin it at my shoulder. I wanted no error, I wanted men to know who had come to exact revenge. By this, they would know they were not safe anywhere, not even in the comfort of their own halls, from the wrath of Arthur.
In a short time, our roof climber hissed that he was in place, a little later the kitchen boy scuttled to me, pale-faced and scared by the threats he’d received, to whisper that the temple guard was unconscious and Candless, badly wounded, was free and being helped to our horses.
My pulse was steady, slow and even. The battle calm was on me and the only decision I had to make was when to begin. The longer I could give Candless to cover the mile or so to our horses, the better, but the longer we waited the more chance there was of discovery. The kitchen boy was crouched next to me, and I fumbled a coin from my pouch and gave it to him. “Go, keep quiet, say nothing,” I said and pushed him away. He slid into the darkness towards the kitchen. Some moments later, I heard the woman scream. He’d instantly told her, I knew.
Bitterly, I thought I should have simply killed him, or at least have kept him close, but there was no time for recriminations. I put the thoughts aside. It was better to start matters. I called softly up to our man on the roof and he tipped the oil down the chimney. I waited for a commotion inside the hall and slit the leather of the sealed window at the time the fire began billowing smoke into the chamber. I heard the singing falter and stop and I was sliding through the window behind the tapestry, sword unsheathed. Happily, the bodyguard had not changed his position and I emerged from the tapestry’s cover without bumping into him.
One single upswing of Exalter caught him under the jaw, breaking it and knocking him unconscious at once. The hall was filled with shouts of alarm and men were kicking over benches and scrambling across the long table for their spears, but then the rush torches were falling to the floor as my two troopers who, unchallenged because they looked to be Kinadius’ own men, calmly hacked the four brackets from the walls.
Few of Kinadius’ men had swords, most were separated from their spears. We four attackers had surprise, choking smoke, swords and a plan and we were invincible. I turned from the slumping body of Kinadius’ bodyguard to the king himself. He knew me by my size, badly-scarred face, voice and by the great amber and silver badge of office I wore at my shoulder.
“You are a coward and a traitor,” I roared, beating his sword away before he could even half-draw it. My blow lacerated his hand. “We swore a blood oath and you broke it. Worse, you murdered my boy.” Kinadius backed into the corner, nursing his wounded hand, his eyes flickering from side to side, seeking his rescue. The room was dimming as the smoke spread and the greasy rushes underfoot added to the fog, smouldering as they were from the fires started by the tumbled torches.
As planned, my troopers were beating a fighting retreat. From a sideways glance, I registered a spearman turn and start towards me where I had his king trapped. My time was ebbing. “For Milo,” I said full into Kinadius’ face and I spat into his eyes. Before his blink had ended and before he could properly raise his unwounded hand to wipe his vision free, I had grasped my left hand to Exalter’s ricasso and, two-handed, backswung the long blade horizontally at his temple, leaning my full weight and power into the scything blow.
The swirling-patterned steel removed just the merest tip of his ear, then sliced off the crown of the treacherous Pict’s skull. It was like topping a boiled egg. A mess of grey-blue brain spattered across the tapestry, besmirching its hunting scene of dogs and deer, and a thin jet of oxygen-bright blood squirted sideways.
I continued the swing unbroken in time to catch the levelled shaft of the spearman’s weapon as he lunged at me. Exalter bit deep, splintering the tough ash wood so the blade dangled useless from a fragment of the shaft. The man took a pace backwards, dropping his broken spear and fumbling for his dagger, but I reversed Exalter and lunged overhand, still two-fisted, to spear him point-first into the throat.
He went backwards, clutching at the gouting wound, sat sprawling and looked in bafflement at the spreading pool as his life’s blood pumped onto the floor in front of him. I moved sideways and yanked at the tapestry, which sagged to the floor and revealed the slashed-open leather of the window. My exit was clear, I was paces ahead of two more oncoming spearmen but I wanted something first.
A menacing sweep of Exalter drove the men at arms backward and in the gloom I stepped on something that crunched under my feet. There! I reached down and touched soggy mop-like th
ing. It was a bloody hank of Kinadius’ long hair and the cap-like piece of severed skull and scalp from which it grew. I picked up the grisly thing, which still dripped grey pulp, backed cautiously to the window and scrambled out and around the building.
My troopers had pushed a small cart into the doorway and that blockage, plus the menace of their swords kept the Picts inside in the choking smoke. We slipped away into the gloom, pausing by the Votadini horse line to scatter their beasts, then set off as silently as we could for the copse and our own mounts. Not a single spearman attempted to follow us, the attack had been so sudden and unexpected, they were still reeling and disorganised from the shock.
Candless, his guide and our horse guard were waiting. We mounted up, rode for an hour or more, then stopped at a crofter’s steading to splint and patch Candless’ injured limbs. Then we moved on again, and trotted our mounts south.
We crossed the Wall at a Tyne bridge unchallenged by two surly guards who kept their distance after warily viewing our arms and bloodstained equipment. We rode for three days, over heathland and woods, crossed the Humber at the familiar ferry and covered the rolling miles of Ermine Street to Eboracum, but did not stop there. Instead, we stayed at Selletun, south of the pestilence-ridden city and the newly-turned earth of the mass grave pits outside its walls, at the Roman manor now occupied by the trader Mullinus.
Years before, he had purchased my mother after she was taken as a slave by sea raiders and had installed her as his mistress. I learned that she had died of the pestilence just weeks before, but the news did not cause me great grief. That part of my soul had long since withered away, as effectively I had been an orphan and was raised to brutality by the Roman army.
I brushed aside Mullinus’ sympathies and told him to find a physician to tend Candless. This was no easy task, given the claims of the plague victims on those desperately overworked men, but a judicious mix of flattery, threats and gold worked, and the trader produced a ringletted Greek to doctor the wounded Pict, who was still grumbling about the treasure he had lost.
A Fragile Peace Page 9
