She held up the other flask of delicate green glass. “This is an element found in volcanoes, a poison from gold, and I have added essences from almonds and apple seeds to its pretty crystals. It will stop your heart in moments, and you will pray to receive it, to take away the agony of the first of your fatal drinks.”
She passed the second flask to a nervous soldier, who held it gingerly. “Time for you to try on a witch’s glove,” she said quietly, as she poured the hemlock solution down the captive’s throat. He choked and gagged, but the mixture went down. Guinevia watched with satisfaction. “Let me help you breathe better,” she said, slipping a small knife into his nostril and slicing outwards. The man screamed at the pain, then screamed again as she slit the other nostril. “Just so you can experience the feelings of pain and helplessness,” she said amiably. “It’s an education for you. We’ve all had to undergo it.” The man writhed, sobbing through his fastened jaws.
The seer stepped back to watch. Blood from his mutilated nose ran down the victim’s chin and chest, and his abdomen heaved with cramps. He groaned and struggled against his bonds but was held fast, and gradually his efforts weakened. Suddenly, Guinevia seemed to tire of the spectacle. Briskly, she took the second flask, the arsenic solution, from the guard. “Time for you to go,” she said conversationally to the dying man, and held the flask over his upturned face to tip its contents down his throat. In just moments, his face and hands went blue, his tongue seemed to balloon past the wooden stick that held his jaws open, and his destroyed nose bubbled fresh blood. The man gave out great shuddering gasps and slowly buckled into limp lifelessness.
“Leave him there for the crows,” the seer commanded. “They can eat him. The next one is the one whose heart I will take.” She moved to where the nurse played with Milo, picked him up, buried her face in the child’s soft neck and sobbed great, aching sobs.
“They took so very much,” she whispered. “So much that I might never recover it.” Then she shook herself into composure. The guards, visibly frightened of their mistress, were gathered together in a loose knot. She handed the boy back to his nurse and paced to the rocky ground in front of the bothy. She ignored the suspended body and her guards and raised her face to the low, grey clouds. “Nicevenn, I have sent one of them to you. I will also send you a heart.”
Her eyes were closed, so she did not see it, but the awed guards did. The pentagram ring on her finger pulsed with a glowing light, once, twice, five times, then faded out. The witch of the Wild Hunt had responded to her adept. Evil was present, and with it came power. Now Guinevia would take that power to Arthur.
XXV Parthian
Seasons and years slid by as smoothly as the great rivers of my youth, and my grip on Britain was slipping away just as fast. The Saxons were growing in numbers and in the spread of territory they had over-run. They now held swathes of the hinterland behind Dover, which once was my headquarters for the fleet, but was now an isolated fortress sustained only from the sea.
I had been forced to move the fleet away to the safety of Portus Chester, where my Saxon Shore fortifications were strong, but which I reinforced still more with constructions from the great heaps of squared stone, kiln-fired brick and the CLBR-stamped red tiles that showed they were abandoned Roman property, carrying as they did the ‘Classis Britannica Romana’ indent. They were there because like us, the Romans had made Portus their main naval base. They recognised that an effect of the sheltering island of Vectis on the surge of the Atlantic through the Narrow Sea gave the benefit of double tides each day, highly useful for ships entering and leaving.
Additionally, this naval centre was readily defensible, and our fleet was growing again, so I clung to the place, hoping for matters to improve. Although we kept the coast of the straits patrolled and clear, there was near-free passage further east for the Saxons to sail from Germania to the estuary of the Thames or anywhere along the eastern seaboard, and it meant that inland, all was not well with Britain.
I felt gloomy as I surveyed the fortress at the harbour’s head. A deep ditch and moat surrounded a square enclosure of flint and limestone, with walls twice the thickness of the height of a man and nearly four times as tall as one. The fort had bastions along each wall, and projecting corner turrets to allow archery or catapult fire down their lengths. Should enemies cross the moat, the gateways would not easily be stormed, indented as they were to trap attackers in high, three-sided stone boxes. The place was a stronghold, but I had been forced to retreat into it. This was not the way to drive out invaders.
My withdrawal from Dover had come despite successes in battles with the incomers, but it was like struggling to hold back the sea with a single wooden bucket. In the three years since we had scrambled south to save Londinium and force the Saxons to wither in the cold for the winter, it had been one grinding campaign after another. We had lost land, men and horses, and the enemy had even tortured and murdered my captured tribune Lycaon, hanging him over a fire and roasting him to death, an act which made me swear vengeance on his killers.
Worse, the hatred that burned my soul was also in once-gentle Guinevia’s, since she had vowed to take the heart out of Allectus for his part in the cruel death of her own father. Privately, I considered that she might have to wait behind me for that privilege, as the man who had once been my treasurer had treacherously bid for my throne and raised the Picts against me. They were a thorn in my side, and a growing threat in the north. I had to find allies against them and their coalition with the Gael and Hibernian raiders who plagued our northern shores.
One bright spot in my defence plans was in the development of our cavalry. The tribune Cragus had raised a force of pony soldiers and even an elite squadron of dragoons mounted on heavy horses. That herd was sired by two Frisian stallions spirited out of Belgica four years before, and I would use one of the stallions as my own warhorse. The threat of sea raiders had forced us to move Cragus’ horse corrals and training camps north, away from the plains of the great stone dances of Avebury and Stonehenge, and close to the old Roman city of Aquae Sulis, but the coming spring campaigns should see us for the first time with an effective heavy cavalry to hurl against the Saxons.
I had been studying their battle tactics, observing them in our many skirmishes, and had seen the pattern of their fighting. They did not use archers, and they were ineffective cavalrymen who relied on captured horses, as they did not bring many steeds with them across the sea.
Their strength was their infantry, and they were personally led in battle by their kings, each of whom was surrounded by his hearth warriors and nobles, who were oath-bound to him. The kings led by their own example of courage, which was a weakness if we could kill those figureheads and dishearten their followers. They were not a disciplined army. Their best warriors were trained in individual combat, and for set-piece battles they did adopt the shield wall of the Romans, preferably with the tactical protection of a river or other geographical feature as a defence, but generally they relied on a surprise attack at dawn. That usually was fuelled by mead or forest mushrooms to inspire the men to bare-chested fighting madness, and then they would throw their shields over their backs and fight two-handed and drunk.
The majority of their army was a militia called a ‘fyrd,’ comprised of men who worked the land, reinforced by some Jute or Dane mercenaries. Their equipment generally was not of a professional standard: a basic helmet of horn and leather, cone-shaped to deflect blows, a small round shield of about two handspans’ width, the seax long knife from which they took their name, barbed javelins, and their main weapon, a long thrusting spear with slender leaf-shaped blade.
Only the wealthy house warriors had swords, and they also used the two-handed ‘broad axe,’ the skeggox that was very effective in battle but required much training of its user, so was a relatively rare thing to see facing us. I thought ruefully that there was one skeggox I’d rather not have seen, the one wielded by a big Saxon years before that had taken half of my foo
t and a big slice out of my face. That man had died on the blade of my gladius sword, but I had limped ever since…
My thoughts snapped back to the problem. The Saxons’ obvious weakness was against archers and cavalry, and Cragus had been given his orders, and had earned his salt. He had trained squadrons of horse archers to race in, turn and deliver volleys of arrows from short range, mostly the bodkin-tipped arrows that would pierce even a coat of mail, and he had worked hard on our secret weapon, for the tribune had also been training my elite knights of the Chevron.
The red wool chevron had begun as an award from me to those soldiers who had been with me at the recovery of the lost Eagle of the Ninth Spanish Legion, an icon that showed the gods’ support for me when I took the title of Britain’s Imperator. The red cloak of the long-dead Roman who had wrapped it around the hidden Eagle was made into insignia to be worn proudly by the companions who found it with me. Most of that small cadre of soldiers were now dead, but I had appointed other warriors to the elite and they had trained as heavy cavalrymen. Mounted on our valuable big horses, armoured and equipped to the highest standards, they should be capable of crashing through any shield wall to break it for our foot soldiers, and to deal death and destruction themselves from the backs of their chargers.
I would lead them personally, on my war horse Corvus, who was named for the raven that was his colour. I considered the horse soldiers’ equipment the best any professional could own. Not for them the heavy mail coat of the legions. Instead each knight wore around his upper body expensive segmented armour that was much lighter than mail. Its hoops of iron overlapped like a lobster’s shell, and all was held together by internal leather straps, laced tightly. Above the torso armour, the rider’s shoulders were sheltered under hinged iron plates and the whole carapace was worn over a padded leather jerkin. This was liberally greased with lanolin taken from fresh fleeces, which let the armour move freely over it. In the spots where the iron was more exposed, a coating of bees’ wax both lubricated and protected it from the constant British rain.
The body armour was augmented by a Roman cavalry helmet with a protective face mask, cheekpieces and nape shield. The knights carried lances as long as the height of two men, a longsword at the hip, a small shield strapped to the left forearm and a short bow made of horn and wood, fastened together with cattle sinews and hoof glue.
The dragoons used a wood and leather saddle with four horns and they controlled their horses with their knees and reins, but could stand in the newly-issued stirrups to fight. Cragus trained the lighter cavalry, the horse archers, in the Parthian shot. They would race in, turning their mounts by knee pressure on the horse’s ribs, then fire facing backwards, left arm extended over the horse’s rump, arrow drawn back with the right over the braided mane. The horse archers would gallop in, turn, fire their volleys and circle back to their lines.
As they did, another squadron of archers would gallop at the enemy and repeat the punishing volleys, always keeping out of range of the javelins and axes the Saxons might throw. Under such sustained pressure, the undisciplined Saxons would often break ranks and charge, and then we had the advantage. That was the time when we could use our heavy cavalry, and our disciplined shield wall, and then our lesser numbers would not matter so much. But my real hope for success lay with those big horses, those long lances and heavy swords.…
The cavalry were trained to do much and in a very short time we would test them against the Saxons. It would be crucial. If they failed that test, we might well lose Britain to the invaders. I shook off the gloom. Blue sails were approaching from the east. My fleet patrols might have news, and I hurried down the rampart steps to head for the harbour.
XXVI Muirch
Muirch the Gael was lying prone in wet grass, peering down into the valley where a column of armed men had halted. They seemed to be receiving instructions from a leader and the sea raider was cursing to himself. He had beached his longship and split his force into three, with orders to move inland and plunder what farms or settlements they could. Now, armed men who were likely hunting him had cut off his route to his ship. He was outnumbered and in difficulty and he swore, this time aloud.
“Don’t do that,” said a voice at his elbow. He scowled. It was one of the women who had insisted on coming along - Karay, the tall red-haired one with all the opinions and the willingness to flatten any man who displeased her. Muirch remembered the bishop’s downfall but grudgingly acknowledged that the females had been more useful than any of his men. They’d patched up several raiders who had been injured, and Karay had displayed a remarkable knowledge of herbal cures. She’d used poppy seed and henbane to ease one raider’s wounds; had made an infusion from dried Illyrican iris to stem Muirch’s own terrible headaches and when one youth had suffered badly from seasickness, had cured it with a broth she made with ginger root and thyme.
The blonde Jesla had been especially good at finding where villagers had hidden their possessions and stores and, after more physical persuasions had failed, she and the sorceress Caria had used invented spells to scare an obstinate abbot into revealing where the abbey coin was hidden.
“Keep quiet, they may not know we’re here,” the woman said. Muirch glanced around. His handful of men were all crouched, back from the skyline, obedient to the instructions of the female, Jesla, who wore her hair with a ribbon of tight, flat curls around the face. It was a style much prized by the Romans, who liked a low frontal hairline. Muirch wondered how she kept it that way, then stopped his musing. “They know we’re here, they didn’t come out fully armed to catch rabbits,” he growled.
Karay looked levelly at him. “So, your plan would be?” she asked.
The Gael grunted. He had no idea.
To get back to the ship, they’d have to cross open ground in full view of the column. They couldn’t outrun them, they were too few to fight them. Muirch scratched his crotch in puzzlement. He was not accustomed to thinking and planning. It was usually his technique to find a village, storm in, burn the place and carry off whatever he could find before he had to fight. Karay slid backwards, and crouching, moved to talk with Jesla. Then she came back and flopped on the grass beside the raider. She smiled at him, and tore at the neck of her tunic. “I have to look like an abused captive,” she said. “I’m going down to meet them,” she said. “Jesla is organising the men.”
Muirch looked on, open-mouthed, as his men began running, doubled over to avoid being seen above the skyline. Some went right, the others went left, and they separated themselves by several hundred yards. Jesla joined Muirch just as Karay patted his shoulder and stood up. Then the red haired Celt began running down the hillside towards the stalled column.
“Stand up and start shouting, wave your arms, turn and look behind you and start signalling,” Jesla instructed the bewildered raider. She took her place next to him and began shouting to an invisible someone behind her. Quietly, she explained to Muirch: “Karay’s gone down there to say she’s escaped from a huge war band and they sent a few of their men to bring her back.” Muirch looked along the crestline where his men were now showing themselves and shouting back and forth. Karay was at the valley floor and was speaking urgently to the leader of the column, pointing back up at Muirch. In moments, the soldier called his column to order. Quickly, they formed up and began to move away, Karay going with them.
“She’ll slip away after dark. She knows where the ship is,” Jesla said confidently. “Now, call your boys back, form up and march down the hill towards those people.”
Muirch started. “They’d butcher us!” he protested.
“They’d think you were trying to delay them so the huge war band behind can catch them. If you go after them, they’ll march away even faster,” she explained. “Tonight, we’ll camp in an open place, where our fires can be seen, and we will have a dozen or more big blazes. That will keep the soldiers away until Karay can join us. And when she does, we can gather up the others and sail away.” She turned t
o beckon the raiders together.
“I’ll never get to go voyaging again without these women,” Muirch thought unhappily.
XXVII Chart
Once again, I swung onto horseback, the familiar twin saddle horns both before and behind me, and for the next, uncounted time I set out on the long journey back to Chester. My riders and I went steadily, clattering along the metalled Roman road to Gloucester, and crossing the ghostly, ancient Fosse Way that was once the rampart-and-ditch frontier of Britannia. We forded the brown Severn river and trotted on through the lush valley of the Wye. Escorted by my armed, grim troop, I passed unhindered across the territories of the Atrebates, Dobunni, Silures and Cornovii. It was a journey of hasty changes of horse, snatched food and swilled wine, of dozing jolting in the saddle as we rode over sheep-nibbled turf ridges and through ancient forests. Finally we arrived, sore and stinking of horse sweat, rank leather and foul mud. We were hungry and dizzy from lack of sleep but grateful to see at last the familiar red sandstone fortress above the harbour. There, I knew, Guinevia waited, her mind cracking from the nightmares she had undergone, her steely soul holding on only because of the powers given to her by her goddess.
I have never taken her into my arms so gladly, never looked into her tormented eyes so hungrily. I carried her to our sleeping chamber and she curled in my arms like a kitten and slept, and slept. Her healing had begun, but she still carried a dark vow in her heart, and I guessed what it was. I had made the same grisly promise to myself, and one day Allectus would be disembowelled because of it.
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