The Poisoned Throne: Tintagel Book II

by M. K. Hume

  Many of the kings thumped on table tops and insisted that they should be heard. For these men, women were without rights or dignity, chattels respected only for the quality of their menfolk, their fertility and their personal wealth.

  ‘In case you have forgotten, my wife was the daughter of King Caradoc of the Dumnonii tribe and was begotten on the Wise Woman of the Red Wells. I’ve heard tell that there has been much gossip about this union, but you should understand that Severa’s mother was a woman of considerable power and prestige. Your own safety and comfort could be endangered if you were to flout her wishes. My wife is a strong and intelligent woman who will not permit harm to be visited on Severa. Such foolishness would only result in dissension and civil war.’

  The torrent of jarring noise rose up towards the rush roof of the hall as the more raucous of the rulers continued to argue. A flock of pigeons that had been sleeping in the rafters rose from their roosts in a sudden flourish of wings.

  ‘You may shout from now until Our Lord comes to judge us all, but nothing will change. Severa is half-Roman, so she should be promised to one of the coming men from the legions. However, I admit that I’m ignorant of anyone who would be acceptable as a bridegroom.’

  The argument generated within the audience increased in volume. The British kings needed their Roman overlords, especially in these lawless times when barbarians were destroying everything that was good in the isles, yet they resented the career Roman warriors who ensured their safety. The British kings, seduced by Maximus on an earlier occasion, had watched their best warriors follow that Roman to fame, glory and an early death. A memory of failure, bitter as aloes, reminded them of everything that had been lost.

  ‘Our people will find themselves at war with each other if they cannot solve the problem of Severa and her association with the throne of Britannia. Don’t blind your eyes to reality. My family has kept her safe for twenty years, but the time has come when she should be married to a suitable husband. Any fool can imagine what might happen if we continue to pretend that she doesn’t exist.’

  Aeron was aware that rich and peaceful Corinium would be caught up in the midst of a major conflict and he feared that such a catastrophe was imminent. For their part, the assembled kings remained silent while each mulled over the complicated problem.

  The silence was sullen with affront, resentment and thwarted ambitions. Each king eyed his neighbour with a palpable distrust.

  ‘I suggest that you search for a suitable Roman aristocrat who could perform the duties of the next High King of the Britons. Once you arrive at your decision, you should pass on your recommendations to Tribune Maximo, who is the representative of the Roman emperor. Your choice must be a man who can represent our interests as well as the requirements of Rome. Such a candidate will not be easy to find, because Maximo will demand that any person nominated must be a patrician and an officer under his command. You must ensure that the interests of our people are protected. There is one certainty! If the gossip filtering through to us from the east is to be believed, the Roman domination of Britannia will not last much longer. We will need a strong military hand and willing allies if we hope to hold back the Picts and the Saxons, let alone any other opportunists such as the Hibernians, savages who hunger to steal what our tribes have amassed over the centuries.’

  ‘What’s in this plan for the Dobunni tribe?’ the Brigante heir snapped, causing a howl of complaints and protests. In such a fraught and volatile situation, Aeron struggled to bring these selfish and intractable men to some kind of common ground.

  ‘You may shout and rant against the situation all you want, but Severa is a real woman in need of a real husband. None of you wanted the responsibility when Caradoc was appointed as regent by Flavius Magnus Maximus. Then, after the emperor was executed, none of you volunteered to take over her care, either before or after Caradoc’s death. You were happy to maintain the status quo. And now you have the effrontery to accuse me of chicanery by using Severa as a pawn in a search for power. Think! Would I speak of my personal reservations if I had ulterior motives? Hardly!’

  Aeron’s forceful voice silenced some of the criticisms, but the long-suffering kings of the east coast tribes were opposed to his plans. Eventually, Aeron realised that further argument was fruitless, so he rose to his feet and pushed his stool back so hard that it tipped over with a great clatter.

  ‘I’m sick of the whole fuss with you fools, so I’m off to my bed. Should you arrive at a viable solution, I would be pleased to hear of it. Otherwise, I intend to leave for Corinium in the morning. It may have escaped your notice, but some of us have been fighting your battles for many months now, while others in your midst are doing nothing to protect their own lands. My wife gave birth to my latest child months ago and I have yet to meet my newest daughter. I find that prospect more attractive than discussing unworkable strategies with those idiots among you who show minimal foresight and even less strategic nous. I bid you goodnight!’

  As he turned away, Aeron heard a single plaintive voice inquire: ‘Why is he in such a hurry to see an infant daughter? Girls don’t matter anyway, so this Dobunni upstart must have some ulterior motive.’

  Aeron’s shoulders squared and his neck muscles bunched as he paused and considered whether or not to challenge the oaf who had spoken with such derision. But common sense prevailed; such stupidity warranted no answer. He passed through the hall door and slammed it shut behind him.

  Honorius, the Roman emperor, was a ruler of limited talent and insatiable avarice. As the supreme monarch, he had inherited the immeasurable accumulated wealth of the Roman world, including the possessions of Nero, Tiberius, Constantine and Claudius.

  During his reign, Honorius had surpassed Gratian in his opulent lifestyle and his decadent lusts. Unfortunately, his wilful waste of the gold and jewels in the national treasure chest had left a shortfall in the amount of coin available to pay public servants and soldiers in the service of Rome, both at home and abroad. Honorius would never deprive himself in order to pay his debts.

  Such reluctance to part with his wealth to ensure the viability of his workforce and his legions contributed to further problems within the Roman hierarchy. In Gratian’s time, the legionnaires had eventually raised Maximus to the purple after wearying of months and years without pay during their service in the far reaches of the empire. Honorius must have expected that his garrisons in Britannia might cast around for an ambassador who would represent the province’s best interests when negotiating with Rome.

  The officer in charge of the depleted Roman forces in Britannia, Tribune Maximo, was a distant scion of a Claudian family with a long history of madness and political chicanery. In recent years, a succession of Roman emperors had sprung from this powerful family, but Maximo was, at best, more of a politician than a warrior. He had several wives in several countries and was cautious by inclination. He knew he would never be a prospect for marriage to Severa, morganatic or otherwise. However, one of his immediate subordinates, the young and rather effete aristocrat, Marcus Britannicus, had the ambition and the necessary wherewithal for such an elevation. After making a long list of promises of preferment to Maximo and his fellow officers, if he proved to be a successful suitor for Severa’s hand, Marcus eventually persuaded his commander to proffer him as a candidate for potential glory.

  Unenthused by the prospect of having the aristocratic and dissolute Marcus as a potential High King of Britannia, the troops in the ranks cheered half-heartedly, but they were further inspired when they were given extra rations of beer after receiving a promise of pay and allowances forthcoming by the end of the year.

  ‘Who the hell is Marcus Britannicus? I’ve never heard of him,’ Endellion snapped grumpily.

  Aeron had responded by recounting the general accolade given by the troops with a cynical jibe at the young man’s lack of talent or distinction. The fact that the tribal
kings had found him to be an acceptable candidate was also a source of suspicion. Still, any candidate was better than none and Aeron comforted himself with the fact that a decision had been made. Perhaps a weak man would be compliant to both sides. Unfortunately, the only person likely to suffer by such a decision was Severa.

  ‘But he is of good birth, beloved, and he might turn out to be a worthy suitor for Severa. From what I’ve heard, this young man has proved acceptable to most of the kings, so he’ll be here to meet Severa within the week. You will then have an opportunity to judge his character for yourself.’

  Despite his comforting words, Aeron knew that the betrothal would proceed whether Endellion liked it or not.

  He was a brave and logical man, but the problem of their ward had been weighing heavily on his mind. An unwed girl was rather like an unridden and untrained horse. It ate and drank, but it had no purpose for its existence. And so it was that the twenty-year-old Severa would remain in a state of flux until the situation was resolved. She was neither a child nor a woman and, as such, was a drain on the dynamics of her family.

  Endellion loathed this commonly held viewpoint. Through many years of care, she had come to love Severa, although the child had not always been particularly lovable. Prickly by nature, she was quick to fall into periods of sullen resentment or to make arrogant demands. For one brief period, under the spell of Decius, her father’s old decurion, Severa had blossomed as she learned about her family, warts and all, from this loyal retainer. Perhaps all that Severa had ever really needed was love, plus a sense of place and importance.

  ‘Why should Severa marry this man? She knows nothing about him and nothing has been done to convince us that he’ll make a worthy husband. I’m not prepared to hand Severa over to a stranger without knowing a great deal about him and his future prospects.’

  Aeron grinned at his wife with open approval.

  ‘I warned the tribal kings that you’d have to be convinced of the necessity for this union. I don’t know much about him myself. But it wouldn’t be in his best interest to treat Severa badly, for she’s the key to his future wealth and power, especially if he aspires to the purple.’

  Endellion snorted contemptuously.

  ‘The way Severa’s father treasured her mother, I suppose. She was beaten so severely that she almost died.’

  Aeron had the grace to be shame-faced at Endellion’s accusation. Many good men had failed Elen, who was the daughter of an Ordovice king. She had been Maximus’s route to the throne of the Western Roman Empire. Friendless, and miles from her home and the bosom of her family, she had died in childbirth.

  ‘I’ll ensure that no such disaster will overcome Severa,’ Aeron insisted.

  ‘You can be assured that such a shameful occurrence won’t be allowed to happen again, my lord. I’ll make sure that it doesn’t! This Marcus will have me to answer to if he treats Severa harshly. Meanwhile, I’ll order the maids to ensure that rooms are prepared for his visit.’ She grinned at her husband. ‘I can only hope he’s house-trained.’

  ‘I’d like to think so, Endellion. After all, he is a Roman patrician.’

  ‘So was Nero, and numerous tales have been circulated about his household manners. So too, for that matter, was Maximus. The man may have been your friend, Aeron, but you never fully trusted him.’

  Endellion persisted in stepping beyond the boundaries that were laid down for well-bred, tribal wives, so her pronouncements often set Aeron’s teeth on edge, although he respected his wife sufficiently to listen to her opinions. In the eyes of many of his neighbouring kings, he was too weak to school her properly, but Aeron knew Endellion was one of the most intelligent Britons, male or female, that he had ever met.

  Heaven help this Marcus if he tries to patronise Endellion, Aeron thought seriously. Maybe I should warn him. No, we’ll let this Roman candidate find out for himself, if he is foolish enough to adopt airs and graces around my uncompromising wife.

  Severa was much easier to convince of the merits of this marriage contract than Endellion. She was more than ready for marriage, having become tired of the nursery and her lack of status in the king’s household. Every one of her childhood acquaintances were wed now and blessed with children of their own, so Severa was prepared to accept any inadequacies in Marcus’s appearance or manners if it meant she could leave Corinium with pride in her step.

  ‘I love you and the children, Aunt Endellion. I really do! But what am I in this pretty house? I can’t organise the household duties, although you’ve trained me to carry out these tasks if the necessity should arise. Nor am I a mother or a wife. I’m nothing, really! Your maids and every peasant in the household have more earthly purpose than I have.’

  Endellion hugged Severa with a sudden surge of sympathy. ‘I want you to be happy, my darling, but marriage isn’t the only way to achieve fulfilment in what can be a life of tears and trouble. You don’t have to wed a man whom you might come to detest. Some girls are given no choice in the husband who is selected for them, but I’ll swear to you, with my hand on my crucifix, that you will never be forced into an unacceptable union.’

  Severa looked deeply into Endellion’s lambent green eyes. She had never felt so cherished.

  ‘Thank you, Endellion. I’m grateful for your support. As for this Roman suitor who will soon arrive, I’ll do my very best to like him. But I don’t think I have the liberty to be too selective, do I.’

  ‘You are the daughter of an emperor, so you mustn’t bow your head to any man who is not your equal,’ Endellion stated unequivocally. ‘Our family loves you, darling girl, so I hope this Marcus Britannicus will make a perfect husband, one who will present you with many children and a long and happy life.’

  As promised, the small Roman contingent arrived in Corinium within the week. The youngish officer at the head of the column was Marcus Britannicus, as he was known by his few friends, or Marcus Shit-head, as he was described by his detractors. This particular patrician was not well liked by his men, or respected by his peers.

  Constantinus, Marcus Britannicus’s adjutant, had won some measure of fame as the centurion whose troops had crushed the Pictish invasion and forced the invaders to flee to the safety of the lands beyond Hadrian’s Wall, so he was riding at the flank of his commander’s horse. This promotion, although well deserved, was far less than Constantinus’s due, but his plebeian birth closed the higher ranks to him. Many of the farmers and townsfolk who gathered to throw flowers at Marcus’s feet had also come out of curiosity and a desire to see this Constantinus, a new Roman hero.

  Aeron gazed at the handsome, chiselled face and noted the deference and respect that was seemingly accorded to him by the Roman cavalrymen who rode behind the senior officers. The king sighed with frustration. Constantinus had more charisma than the patrician he was protecting.

  As he observed the mixed cavalcade of thirty-two Roman and British cavalrymen and a half-century of forty infantrymen, Aeron approved of the hard-bitten, determined expression on the faces of these men who followed in Marcus’s wake, even if they seemed to defer more to Constantinus than Marcus Britannicus. At least the proposed High King would have battle-hardened men at his back.

  From among the troops one boyish face stood out, causing Aeron a brief shiver of presentiment. This dark-haired lad was thick in the body, unlike many of the tribal warriors. Aeron could feel the boy’s cold regard as he assessed Corinium, its people and its king.

  With a clash of arms and a military salute, the troop came to a halt in the forecourt of the king’s residence. Then, once Marcus Britannicus had dismounted and stitched a wholly false smile on to his face, Aeron invited his guest into the villa’s atrium where his wife awaited them.

  From a narrow window in the scriptorium, Endellion had been given time to examine the potential bridegroom’s face and form before bowing deeply when she was introduc
ed by her husband. From her vantage point, the queen’s gaze had also been drawn to the boy in the furthest rank of the native cavalry.

  A shadow seemed to pass across the sun and Endellion’s odd gift of precognition meant that for an instant, she thought she could see a dead emperor with a boy’s face; but it wasn’t familiar to her. Then, as Severa entered the vantage point to peer out at the new arrivals with her foster-mother, the girl’s shoulder came in contact with Endellion’s arm and a sudden flash of insight burned across the back of the queen’s eyes. Just for a moment, she saw a bloody babe as it wailed in equally bloody hands. Then Endellion regained her composure and descended to meet her guest at the forecourt.

  Marcus was no taller than Endellion, but his frame was much heavier and, unlike many of his fellow officers, he was plump and soft around the belly. The extra flesh on his torso and neck blurred his jawline and padded the back of his hands whose short fingers were also sprinkled with sprays of ginger hair. At first glance, Marcus was more epicure than warrior.

  His thick ginger hair was one of his vanities, so precious oils darkened the colour and kept his curls in place in a rigid line across his low forehead. Marcus was evidently a man for whom superficial appearances were important.

  Endellion could smell the heavy, cloying scent of precious oils that had been laved into Marcus’s skin and had permeated a fragment of cloth tied around his neck in order to protect his tender flesh from the rough edges of his armour. As she expected, the armour worn by the Roman was more ceremonial than practical. After a lifetime of living among fighting men, she was contemptuous of the overblown images of satyrs, nymphs and bunches of grapes that rioted across it. Even the Roman’s helmet bore a representation of Medusa scowling out from its crown. Every item of armour seemed to be excessively decorated, so much so that Marcus was forced to carry his headdress under his arm. If the helm was designed to add to his height, as Endellion supposed, it failed because its awkwardness made it almost impossible to wear comfortably for extended periods.