The Blood of Kings: Tintagel Book I

by M. K. Hume

  ‘It’s your fault! You don’t love me, or this wouldn’t have happened.’ Then she pounded on her husband’s chest in frustration.

  Sadly, no one had ever explained the mechanics of procreation to her. So Elen had gone to her marriage bed with complete ignorance of the consequences of sexual congress.

  Llew’s queen, Llian, tried to reason with Elen.

  ‘Your husband won’t care for any changes in your body that don’t meet with his desires. He’ll cherish you as the mother of his heir and you’ll become beloved of the British people if you choose to obey his wishes,’ Llian explained. ‘It’s your appointed task to bear the child who’ll help to make your people safe.’

  Elen threw herself onto her bed and kicked the covers violently. ‘I don’t want to be pregnant. I want it killed! I want it killed!’

  Queen Llian retreated towards the door with both hands pressed over her ears. When she was safely outside the room, she pushed her back against the wall for support while she thought of what could be done to placate this silly creature. More than anything else, she wished fervently that she could have changed places with this ungrateful pig of a girl who didn’t deserve the gift of motherhood.

  Inevitably, Maximus heard of Elen’s tantrum and her uncontrolled display of temper, and finally showed her his true nature. By the end of the meeting, she was shaking, pale with terror and speechless with pain.

  The Roman’s message to his wife had been agonisingly simple. ‘You will cease all unseemly behaviour instantly, woman. Do you have any desire to sit beside me on the throne of Britannia and, in the fullness of time, to wear the purple? You have made demands that are not negotiable. You’re proving to be a disgrace to your family, a slight on your tribe and a travesty of womanhood.’

  Maximus’s eyes were cold and pitiless. His lips curled with disgust.

  ‘I’ve heard that you want to kill my child? Well, woman, at this moment, you’d be dead if you weren’t carrying that child. I’d have strangled you as soon as I entered this room.’

  ‘You wouldn’t dare!’ Elen hiccupped in her distress. ‘How can you threaten my person? I’m the daughter of a king.’

  ‘The lowliest servant in Rome would stand higher in the social world than the daughter of a king in a backward pocket of land such as Cymru. You don’t matter a jot, Elen. I could have married other suitable women and any of them would have been less trouble than you. I should give you to my soldiers for their sport but, at the moment, too many people know you’re pregnant. Perhaps I’ll still hand you over to my men after the babe is born. Your future attitude will determine your chances of survival.’

  Elen threw herself at her husband, snarling and spitting, and sank her teeth into his forearm, grinding them together until her mouth filled with blood.

  He cursed and struck her hard on the side of the head with his closed fist. Then, with blood streaming from her mouth and running down her chin like a harpy, she came at him again with her long nails extended to rip out his eyes. So far, Maximus had been careful to stay his hand for the sake of the unborn child, but his rage began to rise like a tide of volcanic lava.

  He hit her again, but on this occasion he used all his strength. Her eyes glazed as she took the blow on her jaw, so he picked her up and threw her onto their bed until her senses returned and she began to spit and curse like a camp follower. He flipped her body over so that she was lying on her belly, and tied one arm to the bed head with his neck scarf. Then he tore her robe along the hem to provide a tie for the other hand, although he was forced to sit astride her upper body to secure her to the bed. Another strip of cloth tied each ankle firmly to the foot of the bed on each side.

  Spread-eagled and unable to move, Elen was finally at his mercy. He regained his feet and stood beside the bed so she could see him. Then the High King deliberately removed his heavy leather belt and held it loosely by the buckle.

  ‘I’ve decided to be merciful. I had intended to cast you out and be rid of you, but you may thank the Dobunni queen for my change of heart. Llian explained that you have been raised without the influence of women, so I’m prepared to put your wilfulness down to ignorance. Be warned, Elen, that there will be no repetition of this shameful behaviour. I won’t hit you with the buckle of my belt on this occasion, because I don’t wish to scar you. But it’s best that you remember your lessons, young woman, or you’ll be doomed to suffer, again and again.’

  Although she cried and begged after the second stroke of the leather belt, Maximus struck her ten times until her flesh was swollen and her skin had broken.

  ‘I’ll send your nurse to tend to your needs. You will keep our discussion private, but the number of strokes will be doubled if you speak of this punishment with others. Do you understand me, Elen? Answer me.’

  ‘Yes! Yes! I understand.’

  ‘Good! You’re supposed to be a queen, woman, so you will learn to do better in the future,’ Maximus retorted in a quiet voice that was almost sympathetic.

  As the Roman passed through the doorway, Llian pressed her body against the adjoining wall. Quietly and fearfully, she scratched at the door and then entered the room to repair what other fools might well have broken, and to ensure that the world would continue to turn.

  Venta Belgarum seemed to shudder in the spring warmth as the Roman commander came to the city to change its destiny forever. Gwaun ap Mairtin gathered his aged wits together and met Maximus at his gates, accompanied by his only living son, Gethin. Obviously apprehensive, Gwaun greeted Maximus as a brother, pressing the Roman’s hand with his own age-spotted and sweaty ones. Maximus flinched away from those importunate fingers, without bothering to hide his distaste.

  ‘My home is yours, Your Highness, so I bid you welcome.’ Gwaun’s querulous voice was that of an old man, one who no longer had the will or the strength to rule.

  ‘My thanks go to you, Gwaun,’ Maximus answered diffidently. ‘My wife is with child and will need to be nurtured in the future. May we speak once I have billeted my men? I have a proposal to place before you.’

  Gwaun discovered, once Maximus had turned Venta Belgarum into an armed camp, that Maximus had no intention of presenting a proposal. A fait accompli was a better description of his actions. Gwaun’s venerable, two-storeyed wooden palace had been taken over by the Roman commander and his staff, while engineers had commenced detailed planning to turn the ancient tribal centre of the Atrebates into Maximus’s personal domain. A larger hypocaust was the first item to be designed, to replace Gwaun’s small bathhouse. With typical Roman speed, bricks were ordered, metal work was commissioned from the smelters in Calleva Atrebatum and roof tiles were purchased from local potteries. Within weeks, the whole structure was being renovated and new construction work had begun.

  Gwaun, appalled, was unable to find any way to stop the tidal wave of Roman efficiency.

  ‘Why do you need my palace, my lord? I don’t understand,’ he asked diffidently, while desperately trying to keep his voice steady and strong.

  ‘I expect to put down another Saxon advance within weeks. As we mount our defences, I propose to call for tribal troops to join me in a major campaign against a common enemy. It is unfortunate, but I need a central rallying point that lies close to Londinium where our galleys are berthed. Venta Belgarum is also a place from which I can strike at any point along the south-east coast with relative ease. You are a man of sense, Gwaun, so I expect you to be sympathetic to Britannia’s strategic needs. In simple terms, I selected Venta Belgarum as my command centre because of its proximity to the southern ports.’

  Maximus scowled with irritation that he should be called upon to explain his actions.

  He gestured towards the dilapidated hall. The surfaces of the building’s interior were obscured by layers of grease and a scum of straw and household dirt that was generations old. Even the tiled floor, a masterpiece
of its kind displaying a design of fish, bright coral, shells and blue water, was heavily chipped.

  ‘But I don’t understand! What is my part in this grand plan?’ Gwaun’s younger self would never have permitted such arrogant behaviour by this usurper.

  ‘I have no wish to supplant you and yours, friend Gwaun. You are the king of the Atrebates tribe and that status cannot change. Your son, Gethin ap Gwaun, will rule on that distant day when you breathe your last. Nothing has changed, except you are graciously allowing me to use your hall while I am conducting a war that will ensure the security of Britannia.’

  Gethin plucked up his courage and strode forward to the table where his father and the High King were seated. Although near to thirty, he gave the appearance of being far younger. He was unpopular with the citizenry, mainly because his eyes were weak and he was inclined to stare fixedly at people or objects as he tried to make sense of the blur in front of him.

  Gethin tried to bring Maximus into full focus.

  ‘My father is at a loss to know where he is to go, Lord Maximus. At his age, you are asking a great deal when you instruct him to uproot himself and his whole family, servants and all, to move to some other place. He needs more assurances from you, and your assistance.’

  Maximus managed to disguise a sudden flash of temper at being questioned, but he impaled Gethin with his autocratic stare. ‘I have given some consideration to the needs of your father, as well as the needs of the citizens of Britannia who will rely on us to keep them safe during the coming summer. Your father has been a loyal king and his support was pivotal to my success during the early years of my reign, so I have set certain plans in motion. Through war and disease, the line of the local ruler of Clausentum and Portus Adurni has died out and his heirs have either perished or been dispersed. I have sent my engineers to Portus Adurni to ensure that the facilities in Gwaun’s new hall will be of an acceptable standard for him. The city already possesses a fine hall and commands an excellent view of the island of Vectis and the sea.’

  ‘But what if Father doesn’t want to live in Portus Adurni or Clausentum?’ Gethin demanded pugnaciously, although he knew in his heart that his father was a beaten man.

  ‘Your father may live anywhere he likes, although Venta Belgarum has no other suitable palace. I suppose he could build another—’ Maximus began, but Gwaun rose to his feet, while leaning heavily on his cane.

  ‘Never mind, Maximus!’ Gwaun said before turning back to face his son. ‘No more, Gethin. I appreciate your kindness, but you have no hope of changing what is meant to happen. It’s time to hold on to your intemperate tongue, my son, and help me to organise the movement of our family and servants.’

  Then Gwaun saw a flicker in Maximus’s blank eyes and he sighed deeply.

  ‘Of course! You will also want my servants. I fear the older slaves will not choose to serve you, so I beg the right to take my elderly retainers with me. They’ll be of no use to you.’

  ‘There’s no need to beg, Gwaun. Make a list of the retainers you require and present it to my servant, Decius.’

  The effrontery! The gall of this man who chose to treat his father like a foolish old servant whose usefulness had come to an end!

  ‘Thank you, Maximus. May an old man offer a word of advice to an erstwhile friend?’

  Maximus nodded, his impatience clearly written on his face.

  ‘Beware of overconfidence, my king. Our desires do not always make something so. To our cost, fate sometimes plays tricks on us by offering trifling gifts of success. We are then emboldened by Fortuna’s favour and we think the goddess is ours to manipulate as we choose. But she is a fickle and mercurial bitch and she’ll remove every favour as quickly as she has granted it. Beware, Maximus, in case she entraps you.’

  Maximus stared fixedly at Gwaun, his expression unreadable. His restlessly tapping foot was the only sign of any reaction to the old man’s speech. ‘Don’t worry about me. I have no intention of tempting fate.’

  Gwaun permitted Gethin to assist him to walk, although the king’s old legs seemed to gain strength as he slowly limped out of the hall.

  ‘The usurper will be dead in less than five years, my son. I hope the air in Portus Adurni really is clean and healthy, because I intend to live long enough to hear reports of his death. Remember, only a fool dares to use the gods for his own advancement.’

  ‘I hope you’re correct, Father, for my palms have been itching to strike him across his self-satisfied face. He’ll lead us to disaster, if he has the chance.’

  ‘Or he’ll bring us glory! But the gods will not be mocked, so how can we know their true purpose? I know that you follow the Christian faith and your Jesus exhorts us to avoid pride. Perhaps he is here for some noble purpose that none of us can know.’

  In perfect accord, father and son left their palace and their town without argument. The people of Venta Belgarum noticed their departure and many whispers wound through the Atrebates lands that their king had been banished by a man who had been Gwaun’s friend. Without raising his voice, or his hand, the old king did more to shake Maximus’s throne to its foundations than a thousand troops could ever have managed.

  So Gwaun watched, and waited, and prayed for a very long life.

  Caradoc arrived one month later to find that renovations were in full swing at the hall and in the palace. Maximus was absent, trouncing several Saxon fleets that had landed, one to the north of Londinium, and the other near Dubris. Caradoc surveyed the stirred-up anthill of workers who were setting new shutters into the walls of the hall and enlarging the baths. Further alterations were taking place in Maximus’s apartments where glaziers were installing a number of thick glass windows.

  ‘Where’s Gwaun?’ he asked Decius, who had been left behind to oversee the renovations. Decius gave a casual shrug, but he avoided the eyes of the Dumnonii king.

  ‘We have received word that the Saxons will be making major incursions into the south-east during the coming summer and my master decided that he needed a capital in the south. King Gwaun found himself unable to refuse the wishes of the High King.’

  ‘And Gwaun agreed? Where did he go?’ Caradoc paused in his questioning when an ominous possibility crossed his mind. ‘Is he still alive?’

  Decius looked quite shocked. ‘Of course he is, sir. King Gwaun has taken his whole household to Portus Adurni where my master has organised a modernisation of the palace. He took his older retainers with him, but it wasn’t practical to take them all, considering that there are already servants in residence at his new hall.’

  ‘How unpleasant for King Gwaun to lose his ancestral hall. Are there any other surprises that I might discover during this visit?’

  Decius looked far happier as he led Caradoc to a renovated room at the back of the living area of the largest structure. The walls had been freshly lime-washed, and one of the servants had found an old, crazed pot with a broken handle and filled it with flowers. This small spot of colour gave a jaunty appearance to the pale room while a row of windows with new shutters flooded the small space with light and air.

  ‘It may be a small room, but it’s one of my favourites,’ Decius said carefully. ‘I presumed you wouldn’t want to feel as though you were hemmed in, after having spent so much time in Tintagel. I remember your home well, sir. I’ve never seen a bigger sky or quite so much sea. I hope you’ll enjoy your visit to Venta Belgarum.’

  With a pang, Caradoc recognised that the rough, humorous Decius had vanished into the past, and a servant had taken his place. Where had the faithful decurion gone?

  Caradoc muttered a polite reply and sat on the end of the pallet while Huw laid out his saddlebags and unpacked the contents. Once everything had been squared away, Huw excused himself and showed his master an even smaller room across the corridor where he would be sleeping for the duration of their visit.


  ‘The men are billeted in either the warriors’ quarters or in the rooms attached to the stables. If you wish to meet with the other kings as they arrive, I’ll escort you to the hall. Otherwise, I can organise meals to be delivered to you from the kitchens. They are some distance away, so I can’t guarantee the food will stay hot. You know how to find the bathhouse.’

  ‘Aye, Huw! You look after me very well, my friend. All the kings are coming, you say?’

  ‘Yes, my lord! Or so the gossip from the kitchens tells me . . . You, more than anyone, should know that servants know everything, even the slaves,’ Huw added with a sly grin.

  ‘Especially slaves!’ Caradoc agreed. ‘It’s their way of taking their revenge on their captors. Listening at corners is so easily done in a big house, isn’t it?’

  Huw laughed as he disappeared into his own small space to rest, before coping with the demands of the coming evening.

  ‘Well, well, well!’ Caradoc spoke aloud. ‘What’s Maximus up to? He never does anything unless there is some purpose to it.’

  Then he lay down on his bed and, swearing that he’d only close his eyes for a moment, he permitted the darkness to embrace him.

  Over the next week, as other kings appeared at Venta Belgarum, Caradoc was kept busy. Everyone was talking, talking, talking. What were Maximus’s long-term plans? What was Emperor Gratian up to with his ever-increasing demands for extra taxes? When would the Roman troops be paid? The legionnaires were mumbling in discontent over delays to their pay from their masters in Rome. And a senior officer, a member of the hated Alan tribe, had arrived to squeeze more funds out of Britannia and to determine whether there were any further areas where administrative savings could be made. The Romans based in Britannia were sullenly unhappy and so, too, were the local landowners and traders. The British world was ripe for change.

  ‘What’s going on?’ Caradoc demanded of Llew ap Adwen, when he arrived in Venta Belgarum with young Aeron ap Iorweth in tow. The younger man had grown in both stature and gravitas since Caradoc had first met him, so the old king was becoming increasingly fond of the emerging young strategist from Caerleon, and trusted both Llew and Aeron sufficiently to share his intimate thoughts with them.