The Poisoned Throne: Tintagel Book II

by M. K. Hume

  Constantinus saw that Severa was at a loss for words, so he made one more inspection of her head wound to save her from further embarrassment.

  ‘She’ll survive, Drusus, although I’m always wary of head wounds,’ Constantinus informed his legionnaire. ‘Both of you are in need of urgent attention from a healer and I must have this fucking arrow removed by someone who knows what he’s doing. Do you have enough strength to round up the horses, provided they haven’t strayed too far?’

  Drusus shrugged and nodded.

  ‘Needs must, sir, so I’ll do my best to find the horses and we’ll be on our way.’

  ‘Be careful, Drusus. We don’t know where the remainder of Conanus’s Armoricans are hiding, so watch your back when you’re blundering around in the woods.’

  Constantinus’s voice was crisp and alert, although his body was hunched into itself from pain and exhaustion.

  ‘What happened?’ Severa asked. Her voice sounded rusty; she cleared her throat and spat into a scrap of fabric left over from her ruined cloak.

  She looked down and saw that she had thrown up some partially clotted gouts of blood.

  Constantinus saw the panic in her eyes, so he used his right hand to raise her chin.

  ‘There’s no need to be afraid, Severa. You’ve bled into your mouth from the wound on your forehead, but you haven’t received any wounds inside your body.’

  ‘But . . . I don’t remember!’ she began. Her words faded away as the centurion’s eyes moved momentarily to the huddled body that lay on the ground.

  ‘You killed him, you bitch,’ Cledwyn howled. ‘You’ve killed your own fucking kin!’

  Constantinus moved the head and shoulders of Conanus with one foot so that the man’s face was turned away from Severa. The action cost him dearly and he groaned painfully at the effort needed.

  The distinctive, unadorned hilt of Calindre begged to be retrieved from its sheath of flesh, for the blade had ripped Conanus’s abdomen open in such a manner that the torn and gaping flesh revealed loops of exposed bowel. The knife-point must have penetrated right up to the heart and his death would have been almost instantaneous.

  ‘I killed him! I’ve killed my own kinsman,’ Severa said flatly as the truth finally sank in. Constantinus had no inkling from her monotone whether she regretted her action, was appalled by it or gloried in the death of her nemesis.

  ‘He was holding his blade against your throat, Severa,’ Drusus added as he limped back into the mouth of the cave, leading their small string of horses behind him. His face was white, and Severa saw that a snake of fresh blood was seeping from under the makeshift bandage to drip down his leg.

  Constantinus also saw the bleeding. ‘You’d best have a short rest, Drusus. We’ll be in the saddle soon enough, but we might have to stay on the horses for the rest of the day. It’s unsafe to remain here, so we’ll have to secure our wounds after we’ve escaped from here and travelled a few miles down the track. I’m hoping we can still catch up with Paulus’s column.’

  Severa’s hand rose unconsciously to her throat where a small wound made by Conanus’s knife-point had narrowly missed the great artery in her throat. She shuddered as the memory of the blade came flooding back.

  ‘My father wouldn’t have harmed you, bitch,’ Cledwyn shouted. ‘He’d been planning a raid to capture you for more than six years. He thought he’d considered all the eventualities and puzzled over his plans until every detail was perfect, but the gods conspired to forsake him at the end – and you, bitch! He never imagined for one moment that you’d lift a hand against your tribal chief. You owed him your loyalty as kin.’

  Constantinus’s lips twisted in disgust. ‘You were misled, Cledwyn. Severa is the daughter of an emperor and she isn’t bound to the hubris of any man. Your father placed himself under sentence of death when he plotted the shameful death of Maximus Britannicus, so his fate was sealed from that point on. Fact is that Fortuna glared at him from the moment his hubris overcame his common sense.’ Constantinus’s face was cold beneath its mask of dried blood.

  ‘Lady Severa has acted exactly as one would expect of the daughter of Flavius Magnus Maximus. The emperor would have been proud of his kinship to her and contemptuous of your father, a man who had sworn a blood oath to follow his master and protect the interests of Maximus’s family for the remainder of his life. I’ve heard the soldiers’ tales of your father and Andragathius, the men who killed Emperor Gratian when he was the ruler of the Western Empire. Andragathius was faithful to his vows and died in a state of honour and grace. Your father chose to live, and carved out a kingdom in lands that had been gifted to him by Magnus Maximus. This was a prize that should have been enough for any man, Cledwyn, so don’t speak to me of kinship, or repeat your tales of woe. Conanus threw his oath away and trod his honour into the dust; even though he retained the name that Maximus gave him. Your father is no longer Conanus, but the Kynan of old . . . and is as nothing.’

  After this ruthless assessment, Cledwyn lapsed into a miserable silence. He was convinced that Constantinus would kill him, now that his father’s men had accepted their defeat and scattered to the winds. He also reasoned that the remnants of the force would make their way back to Armorica, and would carry the tale of their master’s failure with them. Any dreams of a triumphant return to Britannia as masters of all the British tribes would be abandoned.

  ‘What are we to do with you, Cledwyn ap Kynan, now that you’re the king of the Ordovice people in Armorica? Should we kill you? You might be tempted to ignite the embers of your father’s ambitions and return to plague us.’

  ‘Just kill him and be done with it,’ Drusus said blandly, for his distrust of the young man was clearly written on his pallid features. ‘I doubt that any Ordovice could ever be trusted.’

  Cledwyn remained silent for a moment.

  ‘I won’t follow you, Roman. Too much blood has been spilled already in this cursed quest,’ he then began. ‘My father was obsessed with dreams of kingship, for he had been poisoned by the time he basked in the sun at the feet of Maximus. The terrible irony of this sorry mess is that my father had no great liking for the emperor.’

  When all was considered, Cledwyn was little more than a boy, with his entire life before him. In his heart of hearts, he was reluctant to cast it away for abstract concepts like family honour. Yet the warrior in him refused to debase himself by begging for his life. He decided to control his emotions, and accept whatever fate this harsh, immovable centurion bestowed on him.

  Constantinus recognised that the young man was making an effort to be honest, so he nodded decisively. Cledwyn could live.

  ‘Take whatever possessions that you are likely to need for your return to Armorica, plus any horses that you can catch. I expect you to give me your oath that you will return there after disposing of the remains of your father and his men. What you do with their remains will be up to you, but I insist that you hold to any commitment you give to me. Your word will be your bond. All I require from you is your assistance to prepare Lady Severa’s mount for the remainder of her journey. Then we’ll take our leave of you. Our needs are small and we’ll take some clean water and our horses. I’d prefer that we leave as amicably as possible, despite today’s events. Now come closer, so I can remove your bonds.’

  Within the hour, Constantinus’s small party was ready to depart.

  While trying to control his grief for his father and balancing this against his relief at Constantinus’s generosity, Cledwyn carried out the Roman’s instructions with barely controlled haste. He assisted Severa to collect her possessions and offered to help her climb into the saddle of her horse. But the young woman seemed to be in a daze and her body remained heavy and unresponsive.

  ‘You must mount your horse, Severa, regardless of the pain you’re feeling. Come now, girl!’ Constantinus snapped. ‘Cledwyn wil
l help you to climb into the saddle, and your head will feel better once we are in the fresh air on our way. That’s it!’

  Between them, the two Romans and Cledwyn ensured that the girl was safely ensconced on her horse, then checked the bridle, reins and girths were correctly adjusted and safe for use, even for an almost-comatose rider. Meanwhile, Drusus mounted his own horse and Constantinus handed him the reins of Severa’s so that her mount could be led.

  Satisfied with his planning and fully prepared for a miserable day, Constantinus climbed gingerly into his own saddle.

  He made a final farewell with Cledwyn, while assuring himself that the young man was suitably equipped for the long journey to his home in Gallia.

  ‘Take your essentials and leave this sad place, Cledwyn ap Kynan. I hope that you can leave your father’s memories behind you and make haste for the Litus Saxonicum. I should not have to remind you that there will be many in Britannia who won’t approve of your being allowed to leave our lands without being punished for your father’s misdeeds. My Roman comrades will be searching for anyone who is trying to reach Armorica, so ride hard and fast, and pray that we don’t meet each other on this side of Hades.’

  The centurion waved a quick farewell and led the horses of his two companions away from the cave.

  Released at last, Cledwyn began the task of turning the cave into a tomb that would contain the remains of the Armorican warriors who had lost their lives during the battle. This would be the young man’s final duty to his father and his king.

  Once the corpses had been sealed for eternity and were safe from scavengers, he made good his own departure and rode into the north-east as fast as his weakened body would allow. Later, he would turn towards the south and head for the coastal ports. But, for now, his heart’s desire was to leave this wretched cave, the lonely hills and the deserted valleys of the Dumnonii lands.

  The three travellers let their horses pick the safest way through the terrain as they turned west and travelled towards the coastal cliffs. Constantinus could hear the cries of gulls and smell the sharp, clean scent of salt water and seaweed. That way lay safety and rest.

  They rode through the long day that followed until they came to huge cliffs that nestled over lines of stony beaches. Beyond these grim and menacing headlands, the wild ocean churned and tossed its waves, while on the clifftops the ever-present winds and rain swept their way across the higher ground and twisted the trees into humanoid sentinels.

  Through this inhospitable landscape they made their slow way towards the south-west and their destination. Somewhere along this isolated stretch of coast Tintagel awaited them and, somewhere in the growing darkness, the remains of Paulus’s column would be searching for them. Another long twilight had begun.

  CHAPTER XIII

  Destiny

  It is convenient that there be gods, and, as it is

  convenient, let us believe that there are.

  Ovid, Ars Amatoria, Book 1

  Severa surged into wakefulness like a drowning woman thrusting upwards out of deep water. Then, as if she feared to know her surroundings, she opened her eyes and slowly prised her gummed eyelids apart.

  ‘You can rest. There’s no need to be afraid now, Severa. You’re safe within Tintagel now.’

  A wrinkled face swam into view and soft, hazel eyes smiled down at the patient.

  ‘Who are you? I can’t remember arriving here.’ Severa began to search frantically at her waist as though she needed to locate an invisible belt.

  ‘If you’re searching for your knife, it’s in the shelf beside your sleeping pallet,’ the soft voice told her. ‘Would you feel more comfortable with it close to hand?’

  Severa nodded faintly.

  ‘You can have it. But the blade is very sharp, so I suggest you treat it carefully.’

  Severa snatched at the handle and cradled the knife under the bedcovers where its cold blade gave her confidence. Embarrassed by her weakness, she shivered.

  ‘Where is Constantinus? Is he alive?’

  ‘Your centurion is well now. And he is fast returning to good health. However, he must rest for some weeks because poisons have been known to enter wounds after the shaft of an arrow has been removed. My husband, Cadal, has kept him amused since our healer has taken care of the wound. I am Ardunn, and I’m the queen of the Dumnonii, so I’ll be your hostess during your stay in Tintagel. I’m happy that I’ve finally met you, Severa, for my father-by-marriage cared for you when you were a newly born infant.’

  ‘Caradoc of great renown! Endellion, my foster-mother, has told me the whole tale of Caradoc and Magnus Maximus.’

  ‘I believe that no one understood the relationship between Caradoc and the High King better than Endellion. Is she still as beautiful as ever?’ Ardunn asked.

  ‘Oh, yes,’ Severa answered eagerly. ‘Time barely touches her, although she has borne so many children. I often tease her by saying that she must be a witch like her mother.’

  ‘Alas, we all age as the years pass by us. My children have all grown tall and they will all be married in the near future. Our children are babes for a very short time, but then they grow into adults and leave us.’

  Severa examined her hands carefully and forced herself to keep her facial expression calm. The queen was working her way towards some pressing revelation, one that must be important because the patient had yet to eat or drink after lying in a delirium for several days. Determined to get this strange discussion under way, she allowed an uncomfortable silence to drag on. Eventually, Ardunn was forced to launch into a short and rather embarrassing monologue to break the impasse.

  ‘My husband and I will be responsible for your safety and reputation while you are visiting our home, and royal propriety dictates that we must ask a number of embarrassing questions of you, Severa, after which I’ll see to your meal and a cup of warm broth. My husband, the king, insists that I ask these questions of you, so please forgive any perceived rudeness.’

  ‘Of course! I’m your guest, so you may ask whatever you wish.’ Severa smiled agreeably and waited for the Dumnonii queen to voice her disquiet over Severa’s mannish dress and the free-and-easy banter with unmarried Romans that had developed during the journey from Corinium to Tintagel.

  ‘I’ve been led to believe you’ve been alone with three men for many days, so we are forced to conclude that you haven’t had the protection of a chaperone during that time.’

  Severa nodded.

  ‘Then I must ask whether your honour has been impugned during your travels? Has any of these men touched you in a manner that would force us to be concerned for your virtue?’

  Severa gained some amusement from her hostess’s embarrassment; she wondered how the queen would react if she knew that her valued guest had killed six men with her own hands. Would killing another human be less deplorable than sexual contact with a man?’

  Probably, she thought sardonically.

  ‘As you can see, I have been violently assaulted by enemies who wished me great harm and intended to capture me for their dastardly purposes. However, I will swear to you that no man has touched me intimately. My honour and virtue remain intact. Is that explanation satisfactory?’

  ‘Oh, dear,’ the queen murmured. ‘This affair is so very awkward! The Roman centurion told us that your chaperone was used as a lure and rode in company with the larger Roman party, while you made good your escape by travelling unescorted with two men. He also informed the king that your chaperone perished when the ruse was discovered by your enemies after an ambush was sprung on the Roman column.’

  ‘Aye! Her murder was a foul deed and the brutality of my enemies is beyond any understanding.’ Severa crossed herself.

  ‘Unfortunately, my husband believes that your reputation has been irretrievably besmirched, even if you remained chaste during your time on the r
oad. The kings of Britannia aren’t noted for their sense of justice and honour, so Cadal believes they will think the worst of you and the centurion.’

  Severa began to feel the first stirrings of righteous anger.

  ‘I don’t care what the British kings think. The only persons whose opinions I value are those of my kinsmen and Queen Endellion. My word should be sufficient for all others.’

  Severa raised her chin combatively as Queen Ardunn retreated before the icy expression in the girl’s grey-green eyes. She patted the patient’s hand comfortingly, although Severa wished that she could jerk her fingers away from the undesired contact.

  ‘We’ll have to agree to talk about this matter at a later time. You must rest now, Severa, while I fetch you some broth. You need to build up your strength.’

  With a swirl of heavy woollen skirts, the queen rose to her feet and would have left the room had Severa not called her back to answer some questions of her own.

  ‘Is Drusus recovering from his sword cuts? And have Paulus and the rest of the column arrived at Tintagel? Please tell me, because a number of men and women have died to keep me safe. I’ve been very worried about them.’

  ‘The other Roman in your party is recovering, while your larger column reached us a day before you arrived. Paulus is resting with his men in the barracks on the mainland. They are assisting with preparations to increase the defences of Tintagel Fortress, just in case the dregs of the Armorican party should be tempted to mount an attack on us. Cadal has assured me that any such action is unlikely, but the Roman officer has insisted on taking maximum precautions.’

  Once she had responded to Severa’s question, the queen swept out of the room with an audible sigh of relief.

  Severa, disconcerted by this discussion, was alarmed by its implications.

  Endellion had spoken lovingly of her half-brothers, Cadal and Cadoc, whom she described as worthy sons of the great Caradoc, but had also admitted that Cadal could be stubborn and conservative when dealing with women. He had fought many battles against the barbarians and was a man of importance in Roman estimation, but he had little faith in the leadership of the legions and preferred to keep himself remote from the squabbles and enmities of the British kings.