The Blood of Kings: Tintagel Book I

by M. K. Hume

  Caradoc shivered at the woman’s prescience in having splints available that seemed to fit Huw’s leg so well. This woman possessed qualities that his logical brain couldn’t explain.

  Saraid sighed with satisfaction, and then turned her attention to Huw’s torso and chest wounds – the most dangerous he had suffered.

  Once she started to make her examination of the many bruises and minor contusions on Huw’s trunk, Saraid realised that the boar had trampled over the unfortunate young man as well as goring him. These bruises had blackened so that his flesh appeared to be marked like the pelt of a spotted cat. Saraid inspected every rib, his collarbones, and then worked her way down to his hip bones in a fruitless search for further breaks, before she nodded to indicate her satisfaction.

  Hunting through her supply of pottery jars, she finally found a small sealed container. Once she removed the stopper, the greasy ointment inside smelled vile. She handed the little pot to Caradoc.

  ‘After we’ve finished our ministrations, someone must continue to anoint his bruises and wounds to bring the deeper contusions to the surface of the skin so the pain can be relieved. This must take place for some time, even after the patient has begun his return to health. This unguent will help, believe me, but Huw might be embarrassed at the thought of his friends having to massage his naked flesh and dress his wounds. But he can’t refuse if his king is the person carrying out the treatment.’

  Grunting his understanding, Caradoc tried to decide which of the huntsmen could be given these particular tasks, while Saraid seemed to read his mind and began to giggle like a young girl. Caradoc felt another odd shiver that emanated from the base of his spine on this occasion, and was embarrassed by a sudden partial tumescence in his manhood. He hoped she hadn’t noticed as he pushed the container’s stopper back into place to lessen its pungent smell.

  Saraid’s face became serious with a suddenness that quickly cooled Caradoc’s ardour.

  ‘You were wise to bring the boy to me so quickly, although I can’t guarantee his survival. The tusks of your boar were obviously filthy and I can already feel the heat in the wounds. It will get worse, but we aren’t wholly without a cure for the evil infections that lurk in such unclean things.’

  ‘What else can I do, mistress? Huw took the brunt of the charge that was meant for me and I quail to explain to his mother why her only son perished in my service.’

  ‘Such is life, my friend, as you are surely aware. But . . .’ She hesitated while her brows knit with concentration. ‘We’ll try clean water first, after we’ve carefully cleansed the wounds and trimmed off the torn flesh. Then we’ll use drawing salves to remove the poisons from his blood where the tusks have scored him. I’ll be using radish paste in the wounds, which will kill any diseases of the blood once we’ve removed all the filth and corruption. I’ll also use pastes that are derived from seaweed to supplement my treatment. You can be assured that I’ll do everything in my power to save young Huw, but I’ll need your muscle, your brain and your support.’

  The Dumnonii king nodded, confused by the list of treatments. As a lad, he had been warned by his father that a king cannot possibly know everything, so he had left healing matters to those who had some expertise. He could see that Saraid was for more experienced than anyone in Tintagel.

  ‘I’m confident that Huw is safe in your hands, Saraid, so what do you want me to do?’

  Following her instructions, Caradoc massaged Huw’s flaccid body while she slid a waxed sheet of cloth under the boy’s body.

  ‘We can’t allow the lad to sleep in a wet bed,’ she explained. ‘He shouldn’t wake up in the near future because I’ve given him a large dose of poppy juice in my herbal tea, but you must be prepared to hold him down if he should stir while I’m working on his wounds.’

  Once again, Caradoc gave a terse and nervous nod.

  As she poured boiling water from the kettle into a large bowl, Saraid threw selected herbs into the liquid and added seaweed as it came off the boil. Then, as the water began to cool, she used a narrow knife to trim off several flaps of skin so that the furrows on each side of the individual wounds were cleaned and closed in such a manner that scarring could be controlled. ‘It’s important that we don’t seal poisons into the wounds,’ she said. ‘Any inflammation could kill this fine young man if I wasn’t careful.’

  She gave Caradoc a small grin that instilled confidence in the king.

  ‘You’ll have some interesting sets of scars when this is finished, young Huw,’ Saraid informed her unconscious patient, then washed her hands in a bucket of cold water that stood near the fire pit to prevent stray sparks from setting fire to the cottage.

  ‘You could stir my stew to stop it from burning the bottom of the pot, my lord,’ she added with another grin that let Caradoc know she was playing games with him.

  Caradoc forced himself to swallow a sudden flare of resentment that rose in his throat. Saraid simply smiled and began to wash Huw’s torso and clean the remainder of the detritus from the uninjured parts of his body.

  Once she was convinced that the injured body had been thoroughly scrubbed and dried, Saraid filled the furrows in Huw’s flesh with a radish paste. The two deep scorings were packed tightly and then the flesh around the wounds was thickly covered with another unguent. Finally the whole area was covered with clean cloth and securely wrapped.

  ‘There,’ Saraid said with satisfaction. ‘We can only wait and see from now on.’

  Caradoc straightened his back and stretched luxuriantly.

  ‘Not you, I’m afraid,’ Saraid laughed and pointed to the pot of unguent beside Caradoc’s hand. ‘We still need to take care of Huw’s bruises. My radish supply is getting low, so I’m going outside to collect some plants from the garden. You, or one of your men, must continue to massage the lesser bruises on Huw’s torso. You’ll have some hard work to do, but it must be done gently, as if Huw was a nubile young girl you’re trying to seduce. Do you understand?’

  With this, the Wise Woman of the Red Wells threw on her cloak and picked up her basket. Then, accompanied by her dogs, she left the cottage behind her. In her wake, she left a memory of her scent, of herbs and roses, and the clean tang of pine sap. Caradoc felt the air itself was lonely without her.

  When Saraid returned, Caradoc and Trefor had used the ointment on Huw’s bruises and had dressed him in his loincloth while drawing out the waxen cloth from beneath him. Trefor had found a blanket and wrapped the patient thoroughly to keep him warm, while Caradoc had saved the stew from burning by swinging the iron pot away from the fire on its tripod.

  ‘You’ve saved our evening meal, which is fortuitous,’ Saraid said. ‘There’s more than enough food in the pot to feed all your men, if you’d like to summon them now. Your huntsmen look like they’ve scarcely rested in the rush to bring Huw to me.’

  ‘Call the men, Trefor, and tell them to bring their plates and spoons.’ The wonderful aroma that filled the cramped spaces of the cottage was making Caradoc delirious with hunger. The king was determined that his men should be fed before the offer could be rescinded.

  For her part, Saraid laughed as she watched Caradoc lick his lips in anticipation.

  ‘Obey your master, Trefor. I’ll bring the stew outside in a moment and ladle it out for all of you. As you can see, I prepared sufficient stew for us all. But I have no beer, only my infusions of herbs or clean, boiled water from the Red Wells. Those waters travel under the earth in a great river and there is no way for poisons to enter the underground streams.’

  Once again, both men shivered as they saw the size of the mutton stew strengthened with carrots, turnips, fresh green peas and parsnips that Saraid had prepared in anticipation of their arrival. How could she possibly have known of their approach?

  ‘We have beer aplenty but I’ll gladly drink the waters from your wells and would be g
rateful for the honour. Where are they situated, and why do you describe them as red?’ Caradoc managed to maintain a regal stance, although he was seriously rattled by this woman.

  Saraid flashed an enigmatic smile at her guest.

  Relieved to have escaped from her unsettling gaze, Trefor escaped to rally the men and pass on the king’s instructions. In the wake of his servant’s departure, Caradoc offered to carry the cauldron outside to a small table that Saraid had set up.

  ‘There’s no need to help me, King Caradoc. As you’ve seen, I’m a very strong woman. I’ll show you the Red Wells and explain their history after we’ve eaten.’ She smiled with soft pillowy lips and, once again, Caradoc felt a shiver in the pit of his stomach. ‘However, if you’re determined to assist me, you can drag that jar outside.’ Saraid indicated a large terracotta jug sitting against the wall near the door. ‘I must warn you, my king, that it’s quite heavy.’

  Saraid had already picked up the handle of the cauldron with the assistance of a piece of rag to protect her hands from the heat. She had also found a ladle to serve the stew, so Caradoc lifted the jug and followed the wise woman outside.

  While Saraid provided food for her eager guests, Caradoc took the opportunity to examine his hostess’s face and figure with a man’s curiosity.

  Saraid looked nothing like a wise woman, an eremite or a healer. She was past the first flush of youth, although her hair was still a rich and glossy chestnut, and Caradoc could see there was no trace of grey in the clean, well-brushed mane, which hung free so it brushed the back of her knees when she walked. Caradoc hungered to run his hands through that magnificent fall, and imagined binding her with her own long tresses.

  Trefor carefully nudged his king, because Caradoc was staring at the lady like a halfwit, and some of his men were exchanging knowing looks. Trefor had known Caradoc since childhood when they had played on the dangerous paths overhanging the wild seas and cliffs of Tintagel, so his service and friendship encouraged Trefor to bring his king to his senses.

  Embarrassed, Caradoc forced himself to concentrate on the excellence of the stew.

  Saraid’s face was small, pert and attractive. Her nose tilted upwards at the tip and her eyes were merry. Only her eyebrows suggested that she could be other than an attractive matron, because they were dark, almost black, and were slanted upwards at the outer corners. This odd shape gave her eyes a slightly sinister cast and also set men’s minds to thinking forbidden thoughts. Caradoc could easily imagine that this woman had strange knowledge and could bring men to heights of passion that they had never previously experienced.

  I can’t believe this woman lives alone and has no man to share her bed, Caradoc thought. Everything about her screams sexuality and pleasure.

  As for her body, Saraid was a little too plump for her height, which was disarmingly short, even when she was standing on tiptoe. She barely reached Caradoc’s chest, so she brought out the protectiveness that lives in masculine hearts. Her waist was very small and her hips swayed suggestively whenever she walked.

  In a daze, Caradoc finished two plates of stew and drank several cups of crystal-clear water. Eventually, as the sun began its long journey to the horizon, Saraid beckoned to him and he rose to his feet at once. Then, at her invitation, he walked beside her towards a copse of trees where the distant sound of running water originated.

  ‘I have puzzled over you, my lord, and I’ve played games with you that were neither wise nor kind. But, as I said, the Red Wells speak to me and they send dreams that won’t set me free until I pass on some insistent message that they wish you to know. I am simply a conduit in these matters, a bridge that allows information to be passed to you from the unknown. I can’t explain how or why these messages come to me. I can only swear that the shadows that live in the Red Wells seem to coalesce into forms and features that I am able to recognise.’

  Caradoc kicked idly at a rock that lay on the edge of the path that had been worn through the underbrush by sporadic movements to and from the wells. Judging by the wear and tear along it, Saraid must have walked that path daily. Nor could she have been alone, judging by the depth of the track or the disturbed sod. Pilgrims must have been regular visitors to the Red Wells, but Caradoc had heard little of them.

  ‘Why are the wells so red?’ Caradoc asked as his eyes ranged over the landscape.

  ‘The water looks red when it comes to the surface as a stream, and the waters stain the rocks of the watercourse. The wells consist of three stone pipes that go down about twelve feet to an underground river. No, my lord, I don’t believe in bleeding rivers that are supernatural in nature, but I do believe there are deposits of iron down there that cause the waters to have a rusty appearance. At any road, the Red Wells are very strange and I, for one, cannot explain why the gods have brought such things into being. You’ll probably doubt my sanity, but I rather like to believe that the walls between our world and the otherworld are very thin in this place and so, if the light is right and the gods permit, I’m able to see into the world of chaos, gods and sacred trees. Pilgrims tell me that I’m seeing future events, visions that the fates have decreed will come to pass.’

  Caradoc remained silent as they strolled amicably through the trees.

  Once Saraid and Caradoc entered the copse, the path began to rise and eventually disappeared into the arid ground of a knoll. A platform was carved out of the slope. There, a huge tree rose up from a cluster of large boulders that were blotched with lichen and mosses, leaving small areas of thick greenery growing like a small miracle, considering the aridity of the exposed hill. The tree was liberally covered with nuts and was surrounded by smaller versions of itself, a mother hazel in a dense carpet of ferns, small orchids and other parasitic plants that turned this flat and protected place on the side of the knoll into a triumph where growing things overcame the ravages of wind and dry stone.

  Below the trunk of the tree, a large pond of water surrounded a tangle of tree roots. On the furthest side of the pond, the fresh water had overflowed the banks where it became a small stream that was bounded by verdant life before the waters tumbled down into the forest. On the side closest to the tree, a bowl had been placed on top of a huge boulder that had been hollowed out over aeons by water flowing onto its sandstone surface. Someone had purposely placed this boulder in this position and had planted the hazel beside it to create a sacred shrine into which the nuts from the tree could fall and be collected. Subterranean water was doubly sacred in the tribal religion, for it was live water in which hazel nuts had fallen. The porous stone of the bowl had a red tinge, like the stains of blood from a wound in the earth that had risen to the surface and the sunlight.

  The water in this pond came from a fissure in the rocks, so the roots of the tree had knitted together around the riven stone. Closer to the cliff wall was a higher platform, where three holes were sunk into expanses of sandstone, to appear like stepping stones within the mosses and greenery.

  Down inside one of the stone pipes, Caradoc could see dark water that seemed to shiver whenever an odd ray of light from the setting sun was reflected onto it. A bucket, attached to a tripod by a long length of rope that allowed water to be drawn to the surface, was lying beside the well.

  ‘Why not capture water from the pond?’ Caradoc asked, puzzled by the effort needed to raise a full bucket to the surface, when the pond was only a few body lengths away and was below the level of the knoll.

  ‘That water is holy! Don’t you remember the tales told by your mother? I would be cursed if I drew from the pond for my cooking and cleaning, especially as the water is flavoured and nurtured by the hazel.’

  Caradoc grunted in response, although stealing water from the primeval darkness seemed just as dangerous as opposing the will of the old gods.

  Saraid stared down into the pipe of stone, half-hypnotised by the sounds of water burbling over hidden rocks
and ledges as it plunged far below to lightless depths. She began to rock to the beat of the falling water and Caradoc could see that her eyes were glazing.

  Suddenly, she began to speak. Her voice had a thready sound totally unlike her normal tone.

  ‘Caradoc, King and Dumnonii Boar, you must remain still when other men rage and leap to judgement. In years to come, a cool head will be needed or disaster will destroy the isles before their time. You must remember what the waters demand of you.’

  Caradoc waved a hand before her eyes which now appeared like inhuman pieces of milky glass. Saraid was gone. Only the Wise Woman of the Red Wells remained.

  ‘Your destiny demands that you become the friend of a Roman called Magnus Maximus. His time is coming fast and he is destined to wear the imperial laurel wreaths. Aye! Such a man sees nothing before him but his search for destiny, but you must hold him close because the Dumnonii will need him during the travails to come. Finally, beware of his charms for, like a serpent, he can deceive. Regardless of all temptation, you must remain in your ancestral lands for you must not leave Britannia. If you leave these shores, you will never return.’

  ‘No power on this earth could convince me to turn away from these isles, not now and not ever,’ Caradoc swore, but he was sure that Saraid heard nothing of his vow.

  ‘Another man with grey eyes will come to you. You must protect this man, for he will also be important to your house. He will only be a boy when you first meet him, whereas you will be very old. But you must remember these words.’

  ‘Why should I listen to any more of your ravings, Saraid? I don’t believe in the Red Wells, and I don’t believe in the gods, if the truth be told.’ Caradoc’s voice was petulant and impatient, but he was unable to walk away, no matter how much he wanted to.

  ‘The message you have just heard is a special gift to you and yours, Caradoc, for your son must learn what has been said – and his son also, for this plan has been long in the making.’