by Griff Hosker
The Horse Warriors
The second in the Sword of Cartimandua series
By
Griff Hosker
Published by Sword Books Ltd. , 2013
Copyright © Third Edition
The author has asserted their moral right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as the author of this work.
All Rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, copied, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior written consent of the copyright holder, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.
Chapter 1
Fainch
The closer she was to Mona the more uplifted and confident she became; she felt as though the spirits of her dead sisters were protecting her from the eyes of the Romans. She and her sisters worshipped Mother Earth. She had spent many years, as a child and as a young woman, on the island of Mona where she studied and worshipped with the Druids. She had been there when the Romans had first desecrated the holy places and slaughtered the Druids. As she had hidden and watched she had seen the ruthless Romans slaughtering the priests and priestesses, killing those that she thought of as family. She swore an oath then on the holy places that she would have revenge and drive these Romans from her land she would create an alliance which would defeat these Romans who had disembowelled and crucified the only man she had ever loved; Vosius son of Lugotrix a king killed himself by the Romans. They had killed the only chance she would have of happiness; she would ensure that they had none. In this part of the world the Romans had a habit of killing before questioning; they had learned the hard way that even the women of this wild land could be as ruthless as the men. Fainch did not find it difficult to travel at night time, in many ways she preferred it and she relished the deep dark cloak it afforded her. The most dangerous time was when she came to the shore of the mainland and she could see the sacred island of Mona rising above the fierce, raging white tops. She would need to find a way across the wild waters.
She watched the Roman patrols from a rocky crag and she quickly realised that their regular patrols were her salvation. They would not deviate from their routine. She smiled to herself. This was the Roman weakness, their predictability. This would be their downfall. She would need to persuade the warrior leaders that they could defeat the Romans but first she had to get across the straits of Menaii. The journey from her home had been difficult as she avoided the Roman patrols. On the second night she had rested enough and she left the safety of her cave and made her way down to the shore. The winds had abated somewhat and she knew that this was her best chance to get across the short stretch of water. She headed purposefully towards a wooded beach. She had remembered the place from the time she had spent growing up in this area and training to be a priestess. The coracle was invisible unless you knew where it was; the straggly undergrowth masked it completely. Fainch quickly checked that it was without holes and then she launched it into the waters. She made sure that the prevailing current worked in her favour and her strong strokes, which belied her size and sex, took her swiftly to the opposing beach. It was the work of moments to hide the boat and then she prostrated herself on the sands of the sacred shoreline. “Mother I have returned. Sisters I have returned. Vosius we will have revenge.”
It was a day later that she arrived at the sacred grove of Porthdafarch on the tiny island off the westernmost tip of Mona. It was wild and windswept with cliffs filled with screaming gulls. The beautiful trees which had covered the grove were long gone, ruthlessly ripped out by the Romans who feared the priests more than any warrior. The bones of the priests still littered the valley floor and Fainch was careful to avoid them.
By the time she had found the sheltered dell it was becoming dark and the rocks and crags took on sinister shapes. To Fainch they were reassuring for they were of the land and of the island and as such they would protect her. She lit a small fire with the dried wood she had carried for just such a purpose. She filled her water skin from the bubbling stream which erupted from the valley side and drank her first draught of this elixir of life. As soon as she tasted it she felt whole again. She half filled the small cauldron and then began the potion and incantation which would help her to see her sisters. Removing her clothes she knelt in front of the cauldron wafting its powerful smell into her face. The pungent, acrid aroma rose in tendrils of smoke barely visible in the purple cloak of night but they acted as a magnet. Even with her eyes closed she knew that her sisters had arrived. Without opening her eyes she murmured, “Welcome sisters, join me in the invocation.”
Her hands were taken in the hands of priestess on each side of her and she slowly opened her eyes. There were six priestesses joined in this circle of power and like Fainch they were all naked. Some were old with leathery skin hanging off skeletal bones whilst two of them were barely more than children with tiny breasts and pale skin. Even though most did not know each other their chants joined and unified them into a single being. The following morning saw all seven of them lying exhausted in the dell by a dead fire.
When they had awoken and dressed they sat in a circle nibbling on dried rabbit meat. One of the older ones recognised Fainch. “It is many years since I saw you child. The years have been as kind to you as they have been cruel to me.”
Fainch shook her head. “Do not think as a man Maelwyn. We of the sisterhood know that beauty is inside as the true beauty of our Mother Earth is hidden from others.”
The others nodded at the wisdom of the statement. Already she was acknowledged as the leader. “Is this all that remains?”
Maelwyn coughed and spoke for them all. “There are a couple of others on the main island but it is hard to move around for the Romans hunt us still. The people hide us but still we are found. Your coming is the first hopeful sign that the Mother has not forgotten us.”
“You should know that the Mother never forgets as the Romans will discover. Are you ready to defeat them?”
Their eyes, no longer tired, lit up and they all nodded eagerly.”I came here to find the survivors and to worship for one last time at this most holy of places. You are right; the Romans will hunt us until we are dead so we must move away from their eyes. We are the last; we seven sisters have one last duty to perform before we join with Mother Earth.” They leaned forward ready to devour Fainch’s words as manna to a beggar. “The Romans can be beaten. Caractacus had the right idea. Join all the tribes together. Too many kings and queens,” she spat the last word out as an insult, “looked to themselves and what they could gain. We will each travel to a different part of the land. I will go to the North, you to the Trinovantes, you to the Iceni, you to the Atrebate, you to the Silures and you two shall travel to the far south. We must persuade all the leaders of the tribes that they should all rise as one. We shall use the feast of Eostre as the day we attack. Use all your power and magic to aid these kings and princes for doubt it not, the Romans are still a mighty army but we can defeat them.”
Without speaking they joined in a circle and held hands. Their last chant was much shorter but of such power that at the end they stood silently. Fainch kissed each of them hard and full on the lips as they left. Maelwyn had tears in her eyes for she knew that Fainch was the chosen one spoken of by the old ones and she was honoured to be part of the campaign that would throw the invaders back into the sea and give the land back to the people and the prie
sts.
Cresens
Gaius Cresens, the ex-quartermaster of the auxiliary cavalry, felt lucky. He could have been captured and crucified for the murder of Cartimandua and the attempted murder of Ulpius Felix. He had been lucky because he had managed to turn his ill-gotten gains into jewels which were more portable. He had had the luck to avoid capture and secure a berth on a small sailing ship heading for Gaul. The luck he had had in escaping Eboracum deserted Gaius Cresens almost as soon as they reached the mouth of the estuary and the sea. As the small boat headed south east towards Gaul, a fierce storm began to blow from the east. Hail and snow mixed with winds which threatened to tear the tiny sail from the stick of a mast. The captain and sailors quickly tore it down lest they be driven onto the shore which was littered with the sharp teeth of submerged rocks just waiting for the opportunity to rip out the bottom of any boat foundering there. Cresens huddled near to the stern with his possessions gripped in his white knuckled hands. He had worked, and plotted a long time to acquire his riches and he had no intention of letting the sea have them. The sailors cursed the overweight Roman as they tried to control the doomed ship.
“Release all three anchors!” screamed the captain as he tried desperately to slow down their inexorable slide towards the shore. The helmsman, a mighty young man, clung on to the rudder for his very life, seemingly fighting the ocean on his own. The anchors slowed them for a time and the captain issued oars so that they could try to control the direction of the ship’s slide. Cresens was beginning to think they might just survive when disaster struck. One of the stern anchors was torn away by a particularly fierce gust and the ship began to cant and tip at an alarming angle. The captain’s dilemma was that to stop the cant of the ship he would have to cut the remaining anchors and if he did that then they would be wrecked upon the shore. It was one decision that the doomed sailor did not have to make as the frayed ropes of both anchors gave way and the ship was hurled onto the rocks beneath the towering cliffs.
Cresens found himself in the water, still clutching his bag of possessions. Looking back later he realised that this had, in fact, saved his life for it contained enough trapped air to support him. He could hear the cries of his fellows as they hit the rocks or were dragged beneath the waves. He could see that the shoreline was quite close and, fortunately for him, he was approaching a sandy spit at the foot of a cliff. As he dragged himself onto the sandy shore he could see the ship being driven and dragged over the rocks to a small inlet. He suddenly realised that the reason he could see so well was that there were lights on the shore. He could see men and women with flaming faggots of wood. It looked as though the few sailors who had survived would be rescued. He saw the people with the lights reach into the water and drag the unfortunate sailors to safety. Just as he was about to reveal himself to these erstwhile rescuers he was horrified to see them slitting the throats of the men. They had been cruelly pulled from the sea and then slaughtered like seals on the beach. A sandy charnel house which soon became littered with not only the flotsam and jetsam of the wreck but the mutilated bodies of the Roman sailors.
Lying as flat as he could, he watched as the pirates plundered the bodies and the wreck taking everything of value. As callous as he was even Cresens found the savagery of these predators hard to stomach. It was dawn before they had stripped the shore of all that could be salvaged. His eyes followed them as they trudged up the valley to their roundhouses on the cliff tops. He began to see how they were so successful for they could see far out to sea and they were totally isolated in their cliff top eyrie. He began to plot and scheme; he would control these savages and become their leader. As he raised himself from the sand he saw a shape lying on its back half in the surf. It looked like a survivor who had missed the culling. He crept slowly towards the recumbent shape. It was a sailor from the ship. It looked to be the young helmsman whom he had seen and he recognised the immensely strong helmsman who had obviously been powerful enough to defeat the sea.
Cresens grabbed the arm which was lying in the sand and dragged the youth back into the shelter of the cliff overhang. He could feel the pulse throbbing in the boy’s arm, he was still alive. Cresens took out his wine flask and poured a few drops down the sailor’s throat. This was not an act of kindness nor even charity for Cresens intended to use the survivor as the first of his gang.
The youth coughed and spluttered, opening his eyes to view the person he thought had saved him. “Thank you sir, I owe you my life. Are there others?”
Gaius realised the error made by the sailor but did nothing to correct it. “No. I am afraid you were the only one I could save.”
“I will serve you until I have repaid my debt.”The smile which danced on Cresens lips was a cruel smile but the boy took it to be kindness. “My name is Atticus sir.”
“And I am,” Cresens paused. He had the chance for a new start in life and a new identity, Gaius Cresens died in the sea off this savage coast. “Just call me Master, it will serve.”
“That I will sir. What now?”
“First we need to get away from here for I fear the natives are savages. “He gestured to the body ridden beach. “They slaughtered the rest of the crew. We are all that is left. There looks to be a path going south. North is uncharted territory but at least to the south it should be more peaceful.”
The shocked look on Atticus’ face bonded him even closer to Cresens. Together they headed south away from the valley, following the beach that Cresens hoped would lead to safety.
Streonshal
Gaius Cresens and Atticus peered over the boulder strewn cliff. Below them was a small cluster of huts. They had travelled for many hours to avoid the murderous inhabitants of the settlement to the north. As they looked down they could see that there were few men.
“Should I go down sir? We need shelter tonight there is a storm coming.”
Gaius shivered; he hated the discomfort of the wild. He preferred all the trappings of civilisation; it looked like he would have to wait for that. “No lad, whatever is down there we will face it together.” Cresens was gratified to see a look of almost hero worship on the young man’s face. In reality he could not have cared less what happened to the boy but he needed protection and if that meant playing a hero then he would do so. Patting him in a paternal fashion on his shoulder he added, “You keep your sword handy.”
As soon as they were an arrow flight from the village the dogs started barking. Within moments the huts emptied and a swarm of people appeared. They were both pleased that none of the boys who faced them looked older than twelve summers and there were no men. Gaius Cresens held up his hand in the universal sign of peace. “We come in peace.”
An old man said something in the local dialect, the boys looked relieved and the panic from their faces was replaced by relief. The old man said,” I am the only one who speaks your language.” Cresens looked him quizzically. “I tended the horses at the fort at Derventio when the Romans had the fort.”
The implication was not lost on Cresens for it meant that there were no Romans to see through his subterfuge. “Where are your men? And why do you all look so lean and hungry? The sea is close by you should be able to harvest the sea.”
“Come into my humble dwelling sir and I will tell you the tale while we get you what little we have to offer.” He spoke to the boys who raced off.
They entered a small roundhouse. The two Romans were pleased to see a small fire burning. As they sat down two boys came in with bowls filled with a warm liquid. Cresens looked at it suspiciously but Atticus began lapping it quickly. He grinned. “Soup! Tasty sir.”
Gratefully Gaius Cresens drank the soup. In truth it was not the best he had even drunk but half starved as he was it tasted like ambrosia. As they drank the old man told his tale. “I am Jared. I am the headman of this settlement. We call it Streonshal. Until a few months ago we were a thriving community of six families. The men were fishermen and they provided good food for us all. Then came the night of the sto
rm. None of them returned. Some of the boys went north to see if they had foundered on the rocks. They found them. They had wrecked on the beach at Stagh-herts.” Cresens looked up questioningly. “The settlement in the next bay.”
Atticus and Cresens exchanged looks. “Master?” Cresens held up his hand for silence.
“Continue Jared.”
“They had been slaughtered by the animals that live there. The boys wanted to go there for revenge but I told them they would not survive.”
“It is a sad story. Why do the boys not fish as their fathers did?”
“The savages took their nets and boats. We are poor as you can see; we have not the skills to make the boats for we lack tools and we grow weaker by the day.”
Cresens nodded and an idea began to form in his mind. He had seen the effect an act of apparent kindness had had on Atticus. If he befriended the village in the same way then he would become the headman. Once he was in control he could expand. All it would take was a few denari. “It grieves me to see people treated this way. I will send my servant to Derventio to buy the tools you need.”
The look on Atticus’ face showed Cresens that he had gone even higher in the young man’s estimation and he thought that Jared would burst into tears. “But sir why would you do that?”
“A simple kind act for I empathise with you and in truth I feel I owe the gods for saving me and enabling me to save my friend here but if you felt the need to repay me then perhaps we could build me a house here and when the young men produce boats and then catch fish perhaps we could look to sell some and repay me.”
“I will tell the people. Thank you.” He grasped Cresens in a hug. The smell was so bad it nearly made him vomit but he managed to grimace his way through it and assure Jared it was nothing. They knew from the cheers that he had told the villagers of his idea.
