Custennin stared down at the mutilated body. 'This is what your gold has bought you, Loeter,' he intoned sadly. 'I ask you now, was it worth it?'
He made a gesture with his hand and the men before the door came and dragged the body from the hall.
I turned to Ganieda, who sat beside me, staring, her eyes fierce and hard in the light of the torches. 'He got better than he deserved,' she said softly, then, turning to me, added, 'It had to be, Myrddin. Treachery must be punished; there is no other way for a king.'
NINE
'It is a shameful business,' Custennin was saying, 'and not meet for a guest under my roof to see it. Forgive me, lad, it could not be helped.'
'I understand,' I told him, 'There is no need to ask forgiveness.'
The huge man clapped me on the shoulder with one of his paws. 'You have the grace of a king yourself. Indeed, your royal blood tells. Is it true that you lived with the Hill Folk these last years?'
'It is true.'
'Why?' he wondered, genuinely puzzled. 'A canny lad like yourself must have found many a chance to run away.'
'Oh, escape was there if I wanted it. But it was for me to stay.'
'You wanted to stay?'
'Not at first,' I told him, 'but I came to see that there was a purpose to it.'
'What purpose, then?'
I had to admit that I did not know, even yet. 'Perhaps it will come to me one day. All I know is that I do not regret the time I lived with them. I learned much.'
He shook his head, then. This was Custennin: a man who saw things clearly or he did not see them at all; who took direct and necessary action – as with the trouble concerning his wayward chief, Loeter; who faced matters squarely and settled accounts fairly and on time. He was a king ever mindful of the respect of his people and sought to win it daily.
'Where do you go now, Myrddin?' he asked. 'Ganieda tells me you hope to reach Dyfed before winter.'
'That is where my friends are. My own people are further south.'
'So you have said. It will be difficult.' I nodded.
The weather will break any day and winter will catch you up.'
'All the more reason to go quickly,' I replied. 'Yet, I would ask you to stay. Winter here with us and take up the road in the spring.' That was Ganieda's doing, surely; I sensed her hand at work in the matter. She would not ask me herself, but put her father up to it. 'It would make the time go more quickly for all of us.'
'Your offer is kind as it is generous, and I regret that it cannot be so.'
'Go then, lad. As your mind is made up, I will not ask you to change it now. Three years is a long time away from home.'
He walked with me out of the hall to the stable where he ordered my pony to be saddled; he frowned as the small horse was made ready. 'No doubt the beast is sturdy, but it is not a mount for a prince. Perhaps you would travel more quickly with one of mine.'
Custennin gestured to his horsemaster to bring one of his horses. 'It is true the breed lacks stature,' I allowed. 'Still, they are wonderfully strong and suited to long journeys. The Prytani move quickly by day or night and their ponies carry them with never a mis-step long after another horse must be rested.' I patted the neck of my shaggy little animal. 'I thank you for the offer, lord,' I said, 'but I will keep my horse.'
'So be it, then,' agreed Custennin. 'I only thought that if you took one of mine, you would have reason to come back the sooner.'
I smiled. Ganieda again? 'Your hospitality is reason enough.'
'Not to mention my daughter,' he added slyly. 'She is indeed a beautiful woman, Lord Custennin. And her manner does her father much credit.'
The lady under discussion appeared just then, took one look at the horse saddled before me. 'So you are leaving.'
'I am.'
'It has been three years,' said Custennin gently. 'He was a boy when they took him, Ganieda. He is near enough a man now. Let him go.'
She accepted this with good grace, though I could see she was disappointed. 'Well, he must not ride alone. Send someone with him.'
Custennin considered this. 'Who would you suggest?'
'Send Gwendolau,' she said simply, as if it were the most natural thing. They had been talking as if I was not there at all, but then Ganieda turned to me. 'You would not begrudge my brother a place at your side?'
'Indeed, I would not,' I replied. 'But it is not necessary. I can find my way.'
'And find your death in the snow,' Ganieda said, 'or worse – on the end of a Sea Wolf spear.'
I laughed. 'They would have to catch me first.'
'Are you so elusive? So invincible?' She arched an eyebrow and folded her arms across her chest. Had I Archimedes' lever, there was no moving her.
Needless to say, I had a later start than planned, but also more company. For although Gwendolau was happy to accompany me, he insisted on bringing his man, Baram, with us, saying, 'If you find your friends, I will need company on the way back.'
I could not argue with him, so would have to make the best of it. I would go with better protection, which was not to be despised, but I would go more slowly. Nevertheless, by midday we had a pack horse loaded with the provisions and fodder we would require. We left Custennin's stronghold, Ganieda standing erect, neither waving nor turning away, just watching until we were out of sight.
Two days later we reached the old Roman road above Arderydd. Aside from the blackthorn and bracken crowding thick along its lance-straight length, the stone road showed no sign of ruin or decay. The Romans built to last; they built to outlast time itself.
Once upon the road we made better time, despite the rains which settled in earnest. By day we rode beneath a heavy iron sky that leaked water over us; by night icy winds tossed the trees and set the wolves howling in the hills. Miserable we were, cold and drenched for days on end so that our evening fire did nothing to warm or cheer us.
Gwendolau proved an amiable companion and undertook to keep us all in as good humour as the dreadful weather would allow. He sang wonderfully absurd songs, and recounted long, maddeningly intricate tales of his hunting exploits – to hear him talk there was not a beast alive that did not fear his extraordinary skill. He also told me all he knew of what had passed in the world of men since I was taken by the Hill Folk. I liked him and was not sorry that he had come with me.
Baram, on the other hand, was a man to keep his own counsel, quietly expert in his ways, a sure hand with the horses, a keen eye for the trail ahead. Nothing escaped his notice, though one would have to ask him directly to find it out. Often, when I thought he was far away in his own thoughts, I would turn to him to see a smile on his broad face as he enjoyed Gwendolau's jesting.
By evening of the fifth day we reached Luguvalh'um, which the men in that region called Caer Ligualid; or, more often, Caer Ligal. I was for passing through quickly and camping on the road – we were so much nearer now, it was hard not to begrudge every moment's delay. But Gwendolau would not hear of it. 'Myrddin, you may be able to ride like the bhean sidhe, but I cannot. If I do not dry out, my bones will turn to mush inside this sodden skin of mine. I need a wanning drink inside me and a roof that does not shed water on me all night long. In short, a lodging house.'
Silent Baram added his terse assent and I knew I was beaten.
'Very well, let us do as you suggest. But I have never been to Caer Ligualid. You will have to find us a place.'
'Leave it to me,' Gwendolau said, spurring his horse forward, and we galloped into the town. Our appearance drew many stares, but we were not unwelcome, and soon Gwendolau, who could coax even the most sceptical mussel to open its shell to him, had made half a dozen friends and achieved his purpose. In truth, travellers were few and becoming fewer in the north, and any news a stranger could bring was prized.
The house was large and old, a mansio of the Roman style with its large common room, smaller sleeping chambers, and stable across a clean-swept courtyard – visiting dignitaries in the old days did not often travel on ho
rseback as we did. Both house and stable were clean and dry, and the fodder plentiful for the horses.
In all, it was an agreeable place, warm and heady with the smell of yeast from bread and beer. There was a fire in the grate and meat on the spit. Baram said not a word but went directly to the hearth and dragged up a stool, stretching his long legs before the fire.
'With the garrison empty now,' the proprietor told us, eyeing us curiously, 'we do not see so many new faces in this town.' His own face was the round, ruddy visage of a man who likes his meat and drink too well.
'The garrison empty?' wondered Gwendolau. 'I noticed there was no one on the gate. Still, it cannot be long empty.'
'Did I say it was? Och! Hang me for a Pict! Just last summer it was full to nearly bursting, and there were Magistrates thick under every bush. But now… '
'What happened?' I asked.
He looked at me, and at my clothing – and I think he made the sign against evil behind his back – but he answered without evasion. 'Withdrawn, they are. Isn't that what I am saying? They are gone.'
'Where?' I asked.
The innkeeper frowned and his mouth clamped shut, but before I could ask again, Gwendolau interrupted. 'I have heard the wine of Caer Ligal has special charms on a rainy night. Or, have you poured it all away since the legionaries no longer drink here?'
'Wine! Where would I get wine? Och!' He rolled his eyes. 'But I have beer to make your tongue forget it ever tasted wine.'
'Bring it on!' cried Gwendolau. The innkeeper hurried away to fetch the beer, and when he was gone Gwendolau said, 'It does not do to ask a thing too directly up here. In the north, men like to feel they know you before they say what is in their minds.'
The innkeeper reappeared with three jars of dark foaming liquid and Gwendolau raised his and drank deep. Wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, he smacked his lips and said, 'Ahh! A drink to make Gofannon himself choke with envy. It is settled, we stay here tonight if you will have us.'
The publican beamed. 'Who else would have you? And, as there is no one else beneath this roof tonight, my house is yours. The beds are not big, but they are dry. My name is Caracatus.'
Baram brought his empty jar to the table. 'Good beer,' he said, and returned to his place by the fire.
'Dry!' Gwendolau exclaimed. 'You hear, Myrddin Wylt? We will be dry tonight.'
'If a man is long on the road, he might forget the comforts of a bed,' observed the proprietor. 'Or so I am told.'
'Na, on the contrary,' replied Gwendolau. 'We have been seven days and nights on the trail and I have thought about nothing else but a hot meal in my belly and a warm place by the fire.'
Caracatus winked and confided, 'I keep no women here, but perhaps, if you were so inclined… ' He made an equivocal gesture and crossed his palm.
Thank you,' replied Gwendolau, 'but tonight I am bone weary and no fit company for women, charming though they must be. We have been in the saddle since first light this morning.'
The innkeeper sympathized. 'It is late in the year for travelling. I myself would not go out unless need were very great.'
Need would have to be very great indeed, to budge him from his beer cask, I thought. Even then I doubted he would go out at all. 'It is not by choice,' I answered. 'No doubt the legionaries felt the same way about their leaving.'
This received a sly, knowing wink. 'Aye, that is the truth of it, long and short. The tears! Were there tears when the soldiers left? I tell you the streets were aflood with tears, for the women crying husbands and lovers away.'
'A sad thing to leave kith and kin behind,' observed Gwendolau. 'But, I imagine they will return soon enough. They always come back.'
'Not this time,' the innkeeper wagged his head sadly. 'Not this time. It is the Emperor's doing -'
'Gratian has much on his plate, what with -' began Gwendolau.
'Did I say Gratian? Did I say Valentinian?' scoffed Caracatus. 'The only emperor I salute is Magnus Maximus!' 'Maximus!' Gwendolau sat up in surprise.
'Himself,' smiled our host, pleased with his superior knowledge. 'Proclaimed emperor last year at this time, he was. Now we will see our interests looked to, by Caesar! And about time, too.'
So, that was what my voices had been telling me, had I but known. With the loyal support of his legionaries, Maximus had declared himself Emperor of the West and had withdrawn the troops from the north. There was only one reason for this: he must march to Gaul and defeat Gratian in order to consolidate his claim. That was the only way he could be emperor unopposed.
Deep dread crept over me. The legions gone…
'They will come back, you will see,' Gwendolau repeated.
The innkeeper sniffed and shrugged. 'I do not care if they return or not – as long as the Pica leave us alone. Know you, we keep these walls up for a reason.'
Baram's burring snore from the corner of the hearth brought the conversation to a close. 'I will feed you, sirs, so you can go to your beds,' said Caracatus, hurrying off to prepare the meal.
'Food and sleep,' Gwendolau yawned happily. 'Nothing better on a rainy night. Though it looks as if Baram has begun without us.'
We ate from a joint of beef, and it was good. I had not tasted beef for three years and had almost forgotten the savoury warmth of a well-roasted haunch. There were turnips as well, cheese and bread, and more of Caracatus' heavy dark beer. The meal went down well and sleep descended almost at once; we were led to our sleeping places where we curled up in our cloaks on clean pallets of straw to sleep without stirring until morning.
We were awake with the birds and found our horses already saddled. Our genial host gave us little loaves of black bread and sent us away, after receiving our promises to stay with him if ever we returned to Caer Ligal. 'Remember, Caracatus!' he called after us. 'Best mansio in all Britannia. Remember me!'
For once it was not raining as we started out. Baram took the lead as we rode out through the gates, and I let my horse fall in behind. There were other travellers leaving Caer Ligualid that morning – a merchant and his servants – so Gwendolau rode along beside to exchange news. Gnawing my bread, I had time to think as we rode out from the city.
Well, I thought, Maximus had declared himself emperor, or had been so declared by the legions, and now had taken his army across to Gaul – taken our army away to Gaul. A popular move apparently, judging by Caracatus' reaction, certain to please many who felt our taxes ill-used and our interests subverted to some greater good we never shared. Popular, to be sure. But disastrous.
Maximus – I remembered the man, yes. And I remembered the first time I saw him and knew I would not see him again. He was a brave man, and a solid and fearless general. Long years of discipline and campaigning had schooled him well. Nothing rattled him on the field; he remained cool, kept his temper and his wits. His men worshipped him. There was no doubt they would follow him all die way to Rome and beyond.
There was the hope, of course, that Imperator Maximus could do more for us in Gaul than Dux Maximus could do for us in Britanniarum, that a peace among the barbarians across the sea would provide a measure of peace for the Island of the Mighty. It was a small hope, but a hope nonetheless, and not to be despised. If anyone could do it, Maximus was the man to try.
The weather stayed dry for the while although, as the land rose to meet the mountains, the high places wore their winter mantles of white. We made good use of our time and proceeded south with all speed.
We shared a camp for several nights with our fellow travellers, the merchant and his servants. He had spent the year trading along the Wall, east to west, and, now that winter threatened, was making his late way back to his home in Londinium. As it turned out he had, as merchants will, travelled widely and traded with whoever had gold or silver in their hands, asking neither whence it came, nor how obtained. Cpnsequently, he had dealings with Pict, Scot, Saecsen, and Briton alike.
He was a placid, talkative man named Obricus, edging into his middle years with the
grace that wealth can bring. He knew his business and his tales bore the ring of truth more often than not; he was no braggart and did not speak
to hear himself talk. What is more, having spent the trading year on both sides of the Wall, he was well informed about the movements of the legions.
'I saw it coming,' said Obricus, poking the night's fire with a stick. He did not appear at all happy to have seen it. 'Gaul is in trouble deep and dire. It will not last. Gratian is not strong and the only thing the Angles and Saecsens respect is strength… strength and the sharp point of a sword, and that none too much.'
Gwendolau chewed this over for a long moment, then asked, 'How many troops went with him?'
He shook his head. 'Enough… too many. All of Caer Seiont – the whole garrison – and troops from other garrisons as well – Eboracum and Caer Legionis in the south. Seven thousand or more. As I said, too many.'
'You said you could see it coming?' I asked. 'How so?'
'I have eyes, to be sure, and ears,' he shrugged, then smiled, 'and I sleep lightly. But it was no secret in any case. Most of the men I dealt with wanted to go. Could not wait, in fact – their heads full of the spoils to be won: rank for the officers, gold for the troops. So it was presents for their women, trinkets to take with them. I have seen enough of them go, and it's always the same.
'Make no mistake, the Picti knew of it, too. I do not know how they knew – I did not tell them; I tell them nothing – but they knew.'
'What will they do?' asked Gwendolau.
'Who can say?'
'Will it make them bolder?'
'They need little enough encouragement.' Obricus stabbed at the fire. 'But I tell you the truth when I say I will not come this far north again – which is why I stayed so long. No, I will not come this way again.'
Maximus had gone to Gaul, gutting the garrisons to do it, and the enemy knew. It was only the presence of the legions that kept them in check in the best of times and this was not the best of times. Gwendolau knew it, too, and he shrank into himself as the realization struck home.
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