The Poisoned Throne: Tintagel Book II

by M. K. Hume

  ‘You shall pay for your treasons over the body of your first-born, regicide. Hear me when I say that these lands will run with blood because of you.’

  Like an eel, the old man slithered through the grasping hands of Vortigern’s warriors and ran behind Severa’s chair. Her eyes tried to follow his movements, but she recoiled in shock when one of his greasy paws clutched at her own impeccably clean hands with a merciless, bony strength. His other hand, as strong as oak, gripped the back of her neck to stop her instinctive attempt to retreat from the heat and stink of his body. She felt his hot, rank breath in her ear.

  ‘Never fear, daughter of Maximus! A child of your line will surpass your father, your husband and all your sons. You will be remembered down through the aeons because you refused to surrender to your fate. In fact, your sons will live to breed because you will dare to fight. You would have been a better man than your father or your husband.’

  The old man shrugged.

  ‘But the gods were unkind, weren’t they?’

  Then his laugh came raucously, like the shriek of a crow, and he danced away from her. ‘You can’t ask me to weep for you and yours, Severa of Britannia. Blood enough will soon be shed because of you, so you must permit a man who is soon to die to leave you with his curses.’

  Whatever else that this strange and terrifying old man might have said was lost in a great spurt of arterial blood as Vortigern clamped one hand over his rotting mouth and cut his throat with the other. To her horror, Severa fainted away.

  The arrival of the eremite, along with his subsequent death, upset the entire household. Vortigern remained on edge in case the man’s ravings might be believed and was fearful of any words that the charlatan might have whispered into the queen’s ear. Despite his overwhelming curiosity, Vortigern wasn’t prepared to ask her what had been said. She might be led to query his motives.

  Constans avoided Vortigern’s presence and even shunned the company of Severa during the next few weeks, while he became a shadow of his former self. The queen guessed that the young man was embarrassed for giving credence to the maddened rantings of a soothsayer, leaving him reluctant to discuss his superstitions with her.

  For her part, Severa wrote a long missive to Endellion in which she described the soothsayer, his prophecies and the means by which she might find a solution to the apprehension she felt for the future of her sons.

  Vortigern was surprised that Severa should possess writing and reading skills, for he was forced to depend on a trusted priest to scribe for him. Grateful to discover that the tribal king read no Latin, Severa sent the scroll to her foster-mother with a reliable servant. She was forced to await Endellion’s answer in an agony of indecision and anxiety.

  The answer came in mid-autumn, at a time when Vortigern had almost forgotten the existence of the soothsayer or the dire prophecies that had been delivered in the King’s Hall.

  To the High Queen of the Britons,

  Your Majesty, Severa,

  Light of my life and sorely missed child.

  Greetings.

  I hope my courier finds you well and content, although your scroll speaks of fears and hidden motives that have given you reasons for concern over the safety of your boys.

  Long have I wished to journey to Venta Belgarum once more, so I can meet your boys, Ambrosius and Uther, and hug them warmly!

  But our own troubles in Corinium will keep me too busy to depart until the onset of spring. At that time, I shall be able to share my plans with you, for no mother should be afraid of the darkness.

  Never fear, sweetling! An answer shall be found because Aeron wills it to be so. Even now, he is writing to a cousin in Armorica on a matter that is of concern to him, but I will say no more of this matter, in case others should read this missive and become cognisant of our plans.

  I have my own concerns and so, unwillingly, I must ask for your assistance. My son, Pridenow, the strangest of my children, has reached the age of twelve years. Hence, your Vortigern requires him to present himself at Venta Belgarum for training as a warrior and an officer, as befits his birth. Or so I hope.

  I don’t believe that Vortigern is familiar with Pridenow or his skills, so I would ask that the British commander is informed that my son has already been schooled to a level far beyond what one would expect of a boy of his age. My son is quick-witted but, sometimes, the unusual paths his mind follows when solving problems puzzles his father. However, if you explain the situation to Vortigern, the commander might permit Pridenow some latitude, for our boy is far from ordinary. It might be worth mentioning that Pridenow has been trained in the use of arms and military strategies by Aeron himself, and the lad has shown ability in these fields of endeavour.

  However, there is one special problem that worries me constantly. My son has grey eyes!

  I imagine that you will think I am wanting in my wits. Grey eyes do not usually create any difficulties for the person possessing them, although they are quite rare. As you are aware, I am the daughter of Caradoc (praise to his memory) and Saraid, the wise woman of the Red Wells. Certain difficulties have been passed into Tintagel’s bloodline from their union, but this scroll would need to be very long to describe the talents of my birth mother, although I have no conscious memory of her.

  Without entering into a long explanation of a complex prophecy from Saraid that was passed on to me by my father, Caradoc, I must simplify my message by saying that no boy child of our line with grey eyes should be permitted to leave the shores of Britannia.

  My father was convinced that disaster would follow, if that day was to dawn.

  Caradoc treated his warning so seriously that both my brothers were required to swear an oath that no boy with grey eyes within the family line would ever be given permission by the Dumnonii kings to leave our shores. Caradoc insisted that, should the grey-eyed lad not appear in our children, then Cadal’s heir should be sworn to abide by the same oath. Unfortunately, Pridenow was the first issue to be so marked at birth.

  I was never told what would happen if the grey-eyed lad should sail away to foreign lands, but Caradoc was insistent that such a risk must not be taken. My father held grave fears for the consequences of a disregard for this prophecy, so that threat is enough for me. Besides, I love my boy dearly and would not willingly see him travel abroad.

  I beg you to take my son into your home if you can do so, and watch over him if you are able. Your Vortigern is often described as having a hungry look and is apt to lick his chops, much like a wild dog that my brother, Cadal, once tried to tame. I must admit that I hold no trust in Lord Vortigern.

  Pridenow is a good boy and he’s not remarkable in any way that can be easily discerned. But I truly believe that his grey eyes will place him in danger and, perhaps, his eccentric way of looking at the world around us might also bring him to harm.

  He has only just left Corinium for Venta Belgarum, so he will soon be with you. I wish with all my heart that I could travel with him and protect him from harm, but Vortigern and Pridenow himself would never permit me to keep him cosseted.

  I think of you and your little ones almost every day, so I look forward to the spring when I can hug you all.

  My love will always be yours beyond question. Farewell.

  From the hand of Endellion.

  Queen of the Dobunni tribe

  Severa clutched the scroll to her breast with all her strength. Whenever she was reminded of her childhood, she felt a frisson of regret at the absence of her foster-mother.

  She could recall those carefree days at wind-torn Tintagel before Aeron returned from Gallia, wounded and exhausted after the failure of Maximus’s ill-starred attempt to conquer Rome by force. Later, she would experience an idyllic youth in Corinium with Endellion and Aeron.

  All the prayers of all the priests in all the provinces of the Empire could
never restore the quiet, contented peace that she had lost.

  ‘Dilic!’ Severa shouted now, as she put her scroll to one side.

  Severa’s maid practised selective deafness at times, especially when she was talking to a personable young guard, so Severa was often irritated at Dilic’s tardiness.

  ‘Dilic! I need you! Now! Not in the near future, but right now!’

  Even Dilic was unlikely to miss the edge in her mistress’s voice. A female squeak came from one of the storerooms where woven fabrics were kept, and Severa’s sharp ears heard the sound of something large and metallic being dropped.

  ‘Yes, mistress, I’m coming,’ Dilic answered breathlessly.

  She ran through the doorway, while attempting to straighten the plaits that had escaped the pins on top of her head. The state of her bodice told Severa that her earlier suspicions were probably accurate.

  ‘I’ve just learned that my foster-mother’s son, Pridenow, is coming to Venta Belgarum. He will reside here for some time, so I want a room prepared immediately for his use. I shall need tutors to assist with his education, as well as an expert warrior to supervise the programme of physical and martial training that Lord Vortigern will arrange for him. See what you can discover in these matters, Dilic.’

  Severa watched sardonically as Dilic’s cheerful face clouded over with dismay.

  ‘I realise you have no idea how to find a tutor, but neither do I. Still, given your large coterie of friends in the guardroom and in the officers’ quarters, you will be able to discover talented tutors with far more ease than I could. Also, I imagine that several of your grateful swains might be happy to assist in such a task, if only to win your smiles and favour.’

  ‘Madam!’ Dilic protested, shocked at Severa’s lack of delicacy and bitchiness. Actually, Severa had surprised herself by her blunt speaking. Then she shrugged. She needed tutors, so Dilic would be given the task of finding them. Why be coy about the means employed?

  Then, on impulse, Severa hugged her maid, who was thoroughly confused by her mistress’s familiarity.

  ‘I’m sure you’ll quickly discover how to go about solving my problems, Dilic, given that you have such a natural talent at sniffing out useful people. I could never win the affection and friendliness that you seem to earn so effortlessly, even from casual acquaintances. I fear that I’m far too stiff and untrusting.’

  ‘You’re being unfair to yourself—’ Dilic began, but Severa remained unrepentant.

  ‘I’ve no one to blame but myself if I’m unhappy, Dilic. I could have married a man other than Constantinus, because my foster-parents would never have forced me to wed against my will. I married for the love of Constantinus in the end, and I’m beginning to believe now that the poets are right – love and passion can rob men and women of their wits.’

  ‘We ordinary folk are far luckier than you and yours, mistress. Yes, life can be hard, but the common people aren’t property, as you seem to be. When I marry, it will be to a man who wants to cherish me and protect me for the rest of my days. I’ll be happy if I find a man I can talk to, one who wants to share a friendship with me.’

  Severa felt hot tears prickle behind her eyes.

  ‘For the moment, I’ll be grateful if you could just find a tutor for Pridenow, Dilic! You could ask the steward for assistance, because Jerome might know a likely person.’ She smiled as bravely as she could and thanked Dilic for her efforts.

  The maid left the bower with a heavy heart. She would find tutors for her mistress if she had to tear Venta Belgarum down around the townsfolk’s ears.

  Arelate was so close to the sea and the great port of Massilia that Constantine could smell the salt that hung in the air long before the army set up a bivouac. The large river that Constantine’s force followed to reach this wealthy Roman town, the Rhodanus, was wide and sluggish and, downstream from the Roman encampment, it flowed into a complex area of swampland that was prone to stinging insets and clinging mud.

  The journey across Gallia from north to south was very slow and unsatisfying, although troops, native volunteers and the sons of the local peasantry swelled the ranks of his army as it ground its way along the route that would take him to the city on the banks of the Middle Sea. But Constantine was far from happy. Nothing seemed to be happening in accord with the complex plans that had been forming in his mind for so long.

  As always, Constantine’s engineers were given the task of constructing the walls, gates, revetments, water storage cisterns and other essential facilities needed to maintain life in a semi-permanent Roman bivouac. When the long journey across Gallia came to an end, Constantine surveyed the damp, grey skies of winter with distaste. So much wasted time!

  Thus far, the decision of his men to declare him Augustus seemed scarcely important, except to tease at the innards of his ambition.

  Constantine’s grand army was irretrievably bogged down in Arelate and the delay might keep him here for another two months. He had been forced to call a halt at the first sign of the winter sleet, although they had met no resistance from Rome and the army had swelled to more than twice its original number after a steady trickle of Goths, Franks, Visigoths and the Britons from Armorica had joined it. Despite the occasional sighting of armed horsemen, obviously couriers who were riding hard towards the south, the army of Rome was keeping itself as far as possible from the British forces.

  Yet his glum irritation was premature. By his very existence, the High King had lured so many of the emperor’s legionnaires to the rebel cause that Honorius’s tribunes were fearful of their men’s loyalty if they should come into contact with Constantine’s army.

  The Roman emperor was proving to be ineffectual and anxious as he sulked in his preferred city of Ravenna, especially now that most of the legions of the West were calling for the elevation of Constantine to the role of co-ruler of the Western Empire.

  Yet the emperor still had some support. One large Visigoth force under the leadership of Sarus, a competent commander, was an obvious threat to Constantine’s plans but, so far, this army had remained in Italia and had not ventured forth from their bivouac.

  Forever anxious, Constantine watched the Roman roads leading into the east with trepidation, for he expected to see Sarus at any time.

  Conversely, when his army had been making its slow way along the banks of the Rhodanus, two talented commanders had appeared as if by the hand of Fortuna. The first of these leaders was Nebiogastes, a Frankish general, who met with the High King’s army on a dusty section of road shortly after they left Lutetia. Accompanied by a squadron of seasoned cavalrymen, the general was mounted on a huge roan warhorse.

  Constantine was warned of the approach of the Frankish column when his force was in bivouac, so he had barely enough time to intercept the impressive Frank at the entrance to the encampment.

  ‘Your name, my lord?’ Constantine demanded, but only his height and his manner marked him as a man of rank within the legions. Not surprisingly, the huge Frank pulled on his luxuriant blond moustaches and stared down contemptuously at Constantine, believing him to be an envoy of the king.

  ‘I am Nebiogastes, and I seek Constantine who would be Augustus. Take me to him at once!’

  Standing behind Constantine, Paulus snickered with amusement, a reaction that caused Nebiogastes to sit bolt upright in the saddle. Affronted, he pulled his red cloak around his shoulders as if Constantine’s presence might contaminate him.

  ‘Then you’re in luck, sir. I assume you’re a Frank by your bare chin, although I’ve been led to believe that most Franks are civilised and charming gentlemen. I am Constantine, but I don’t fetch for anyone!’

  The surprise on Nebiogastes’ face was palpable and he jerked on his horse’s reins in a reflex reaction that caused the roan to rear indignantly and bridle with affront.

  After this embarrassing excha
nge, Nebiogastes attempted to regain some semblance of equanimity.

  ‘I offer my apologies, Highness! I didn’t suppose for a moment that you would greet me personally when I’m covered in the dirt of the road.’

  Neatly done, good sir! Constantine thought with a grin of appreciation. The Frank dismounted immediately, approached the High King and knelt in the dust.

  ‘I’ve ridden many miles to join you, my lord. Honorius has insulted and bled his Frankish subjects dry for many years. Not since the days of Maximus have my warriors held expectations for a better tomorrow, so we are prepared to fight to the death for you and yours, if you allow us to join you.’

  Constantine welcomed the Frank into his inner circle without hesitation, for only a fool would have allowed his personal feelings of irritation to override his common sense.

  The other newly found ally was a Roman called Justinianus, a man who displayed such fervent passion that Constantine’s instincts warned him to take care. With this officer came elements from a number of the legions in Gallia who leaped at the chance of casting off the yoke of their Roman masters.

  Justinianus’s followers, proud men in glistening Roman armour, were elite warriors in the western legions, although their long braids and facial hair would have marked them as barbarians in the eyes of their masters in Rome.

  Constantine had won supreme control of Gallia without having to lift his sword, despite his need for Honorius to accept that he, a legionnaire who had been a lowly centurion only scant years earlier, was now the co-emperor of the Western Empire.

  Constantine had arrived in Gallia at a time when the people of the province were demonstrating their disgust with Rome. Yet, despite the political advantages open to him, the High King still felt that time was slipping away from him . . . day by day.

  Provisioning such a large army had proved to be a never-ending problem, one that had inevitably caused some resentment with the local population. Now, at their winter camp at Arelate, Constantine was careful to insist on paying for every chicken and side of beef required by his men, so his war chest was being depleted at a rapid rate. But his forces were yet to strike a single blow against the forces of Rome.