The Poisoned Throne: Tintagel Book II

by M. K. Hume

  Consequently, his temper became mercurial. Even Paulus felt its lash when he reported several cases of the unpleasant illness known to the legionnaires as the squirts.

  ‘By all that’s holy, Paulus, what are your junior officers playing at? Dysentery is always caused by poor hygiene. Some of the men must be fouling the river upstream of the bivouac. I’ve seen that happen before, even though it sounds like the mistake of a tyro.’

  Paulus grimaced.

  ‘I think I’ve been caught out by a supply of dried fish that might have been contaminated. We purchased some barrels of fish at Gesoriacum and, at the time, I thought the price was far too cheap. I should have known that those shifty bastards give nothing away. Ultimately, it’s my fault so I’ll have to take responsibility for the outbreak.’

  ‘You’ll need to put your mistake to rights then, Paulus. I suppose we can’t trade the barrels of fish for something else? Or should we keep them, and force our enemies to eat them when they finally show their faces?’

  Paulus’s face supplied an answer which made Constantine even more irritable because he knew his proposal had been unworthy of him. ‘No, I suppose we can’t, in all good conscience, do something like that. We’ll dump the shite and see if our best hunters can track down some game that will keep the men fed. These men don’t take well to inaction when they’re in bivouac so, with luck, hunting might keep them occupied.’

  Once Paulus had stomped off, offended and irritated, Constantine reviewed his complaints against fate and good luck. He had been delayed at Gesoriacum and his forces had been transported to the continent at what seemed like a snail’s pace. Then, the army of Rome had melted away and remained decidedly elusive. Still, he had made some useful allies in the north, so the weeks at Gesoriacum weren’t entirely wasted. His scouts had found traces of enemy reconnaissance parties and the wide Roman roads had seen the movement of an occasional courier who took to the woods at the first sign of interception by Constantine’s forces during their journey down from Lutetia. But, apart from a few small war parties that retreated into the distance at the first opportunity to escape, his men remained unblooded and were as nervous as he was. Somehow, the initiative of the whole enterprise was slipping away from him.

  What do you want, you fool? You have a large army at your back, one that is eager to advance your interests and win you the empire, he thought to himself in the emptiness of his campaign tent. You have won the support of all the major tribes of Gallia and Hispania who will support your claim to the throne. Be patient!

  Constantine was avoiding the real cause of his anger and anxiety. Of even more importance than winning the throne for posterity, he desperately wanted to prove to the world that he was worthy to be a ruler, a high king and an emperor. He had heard the whispers that were hissed around the fire pits as logs burned to ash and men finished off their husbanded liquor supplies, tongues loosened.

  ‘Constantine married the throne. Before he met his wife, he was only a lowly centurion, a nothing! What a lucky bastard! He gets a pretty, fertile wife who not only gives him living sons, but she also hands the whole province of Britannia into his hands. He has become the heir of Maximus through a provident marriage – and he didn’t have to lift a finger to get it.’

  The whispers were ugly and, perhaps, only a few malcontents were ready to speak in such a deprecating way, but Constantine was beginning to see enemies under every tent and behind every tree. Worse still, deep down he doubted his own worth. As his fears grew, the memory of the old prophet, his dirty hair and his ugly warnings were replayed in Constantine’s imagination.

  He must defeat Rome’s army, or everything he had won would be dust in his hands, ash that could be blown away by the cold winds of chance. He must win a great victory that would quieten the whispers and win respect in the eyes of the Roman patricians and the kings of Britannia.

  Most of all, he must wipe away the fear and doubt in Severa’s eyes.

  Now that he was alone in his campaign tent, he could admit that the silent reproach on his wife’s face had almost driven him to madness. He almost hated her, because he knew that he still had such a great need for her. Not only was she the source of his power and stability, but some atavistic part of himself realised that she still owned him. Worse still, she understood the internal workings of his mind.

  At this moment, an unseasonal snowfall was coating the terrain in a gentle white blanket that caused the warriors to light fires and fill the cracks in their makeshift barracks with moss or old rags that would discourage the draughts. Constantine could have slept in the wooden barracks that the army had constructed within their temporary fortress, or he could have commandeered a small hut for himself, but he never countenanced doing so. He was the leader of this campaign, so he was determined to sleep under sagging leather. By playing the role of a lowly field officer, he was showing his men that he was a man for all seasons.

  In truth, the whole army, including Paulus, thought that he was slightly mad.

  Wrapped in a bearskin that he had accepted as a gift from a grateful merchant in Lutetia, Constantine wandered to the tent flap and surveyed the camp. Sentries manned the four gates; the shadows cast by pitch torches created grotesque, giant shadow-warriors who could have been Titans that had come, once again, to make war on the gods.

  This fort had the eerie, empty feeling of a settlement falling into ruin or a town long deserted by its inhabitants because disease had come, bare-footed, to steal away their lives. Beyond the camp, the trees clustered together for warmth, groaning and cracking under the weight of unlikely ice on their branches. A hunting owl shrieked with triumph as it grasped its kill in iron-fisted talons.

  ‘Spring will soon be upon us and the way to the east will soon be clear. Italia lies naked before me and, by God, I will have my victory,’ Constantine vowed.

  The owl shrieked again and, with its unearthly cry, a sudden breath of cold air came in from the sea. Constantine pulled the bearskin around his shoulders and refused to accept the taste of fear that, like ashes, was soiling his mouth.

  CHAPTER XXI

  The Boy with Grey Eyes

  Let us take warning from another’s wound.

  St Jerome, To Furiaso, Letter 54

  Severa had not seen Pridenow since he was a young boy and, as a girl of marriageable age, she had tended to ignore the stripling with all of a young girl’s scorn. But, now that he would soon be living in her house, she wondered just what had become of this strange, enigmatic child.

  More than anything, she recalled his boisterous nature and the vital physicality he had inherited from Caradoc’s line, although she had always guessed at unexpected, secret depths in his nature. Invariably ready for fun and mischief, Pridenow had shown signs of becoming an incorrigible scamp. She also remembered his very white teeth, mainly because he always seemed to be smiling at the world around him.

  Severa also had recollections of the boy’s strange fits, convulsions presaged by violent headaches that laid him low in his pain-filled bed. In the grip of these afflictions, his dreams had such strange imaginings that the servants relied on their amulets to ensure that evil passed them by.

  She had never seen the boy when those dreadful fits struck him down, but she understood why Endellion was afraid. What would Vortigern make of such a boy?

  A week after the courier announced Pridenow’s imminent arrival, a small group of young men entered Venta Belgarum with the Dobunni prince at its head. The three bodyguards escorting the prince were young and cheerful, and they were obviously close to the lad. Behind the riders, a wagon carrying the prince’s personal possessions was trundling along in their wake, driven by a slightly older lad, Emlyn, who was the prince’s friend. This young man was the offspring of a Corinium merchant who wished his son to be educated into the warrior class.

  When Severa saw the small party enter the city through
the western gate and commence the short journey to the King’s Hall, she straightened her hair and robe and hastened to greet them.

  Pridenow may have been only twelve, but he had assumed a natural gravitas in the intervening years, a trait that made him appear older than he was. He dismounted easily and then, followed by his companions, he approached the queen who was waiting on the steps of the King’s Hall. He bowed low so that his tow-coloured hair fell forward over his face.

  ‘There’s no need to stand on ceremony, Brother Pridenow. Come! Let me see your handsome face and give you a hug,’ Severa demanded with a natural smile.

  Pridenow rose to his full height and grinned engagingly. He took three quick steps and hugged her fiercely with a boy’s complete lack of ceremony and self-consciousness.

  ‘I can remember you as a young and very pretty girl, Your Majesty. You would chide me and throw your slippers at me whenever I came too close to you.’

  Pridenow ushered his companion forward.

  ‘This is Emlyn, Sister Severa. He’s my dear friend, who has chosen to join me for the duration of my visit to Venta Belgarum. He yearns for adventure and intends to become a warrior in Vortigern’s army, so we look forward to meeting with the great man. Is he here?’

  ‘I bid you good day, Emlyn,’ Severa responded evenly, while ignoring the latter part of Pridenow’s speech. ‘I pray that you’ll both enjoy your time with us and that you’ll treat Venta Belgarum like your own home.’

  She smiled once more at her visitors, leaving Emlyn to blush under her close scrutiny.

  As the boys followed the steward to their assigned rooms, Severa watched them and tried to make a dispassionate assessment of her young guests.

  Emlyn was as dark as Pridenow was fair. His blue eyes were almost the colour of the midnight sky, and his long, bony frame reminded the queen of a colt that had yet to grow into its long legs. His delicate hands were far too beautiful for sword-work, being long-fingered and sensitive. Yet, when the boy smiled, he was transformed from a gawky youth into a charming young man who hovered on the brink of adulthood.

  By comparison, Pridenow’s facial features seemed very youthful, despite his adult manner. Although he was tall, his face was still soft with the chubbiness of boyhood and his skin was golden, like the layers of his sun-kissed hair. However the colour of his eyes was the only detail that Severa truly saw. She felt a moment’s atavistic fear, as if wights from olden times had appeared before her and beckoned her to follow them into the Otherworld.

  Pridenow had shark’s eyes of pitiless grey, their irises as naturally flat and featureless as an icy-cold, becalmed sea.

  She felt as if her breath had been taken from her for a moment when, like a wild beast with razor-sharp instincts, he suddenly turned back to look at her after feeling her steady regard concentrating on his back. For a short moment, queen and boy gazed at each other in silence, but then Pridenow released her from his mental grip with a happy laugh.

  ‘I do like Venta Belgarum, Sister Severa. There are seagulls here. I saw them circling as we rode towards the gates, so they almost made me feel as if I was back in Tintagel.’ His enthusiasm wiped away her fears, so she wondered if she was becoming over-imaginative in these troubled times. Pridenow was a precocious, twelve-year-old boy, not a changeling.

  ‘They’ll be scrambling through the midden outside the city gates,’ Severa replied, then regretted her casual response when his face fell with disappointment.

  ‘If you wish, and if Vortigern allows you a leave of absence, you could ride to Portus Adurni and obtain excellent views of the sea,’ she added, in order to return some humour to their discussion. ‘But I must say that it’s tamed water in our part of the world, rather than the maelstroms that are seen at Tintagel.’

  ‘There’s no such thing as tamed waters, Sister Severa. I love the sea, but Mother has told me that I’m forbidden to cross it. She insists that terrible things will happen if I disregard her warnings. Do you understand her reasoning? I don’t!’

  Severa swallowed hard. ‘Such explanations must wait for later, when you’ve changed your tunic, Pridenow. Or do you still plan to meet Lord Vortigern covered with grass-stains, dust and charcoal – as you always seemed to be.’

  The boys continued to squabble with each other, mainly about seagulls, as they followed Jerome into the heart of the palace and climbed up to the maze-like corridors that had grown with each new Atrebates incumbent. Confused, elated and a little worried, Severa watched the two boys disappear into these rabbit warrens.

  Winter retreated, leaving behind a rime of snow that was rapidly turning to muddy slush when Constans ran into Severa’s bower. He was red-faced with excitement and incandescent with joy.

  ‘Constans! What’s amiss? Why the smiles? I swear that your haste is unseemly, young man.’ Severa had decided to reprove him with mock irritation.

  ‘Mother Severa! I must tell you! I have received the most wonderful missive from Father. I am to join him in Gallia, and he thinks I’m old enough to go into battle with him. I am so happy. He even thinks I’m old enough to marry. Somehow, I have never considered being wed, but if Father thinks I should marry, then so shall it be.’

  Severa sat stock-still and stared at the lad, now nearly sixteen, with total incomprehension. Wed? Go into battle? What nonsense was Constantine thinking?

  ‘So far, he tells me that all of Gallia has risen up in support of his elevation to become the co-ruler of the Western Empire. Isn’t that fine, Mother Severa?’

  ‘It’s very fine indeed! It would seem that you are now entitled to wear the purple, Constans. I am truly happy for you. However, I am a little jealous of you because I received no such message from my lord.’

  ‘Oh, I’m sorry, Mother Severa! I forgot! Father said he would be sending a missive to you shortly and will explain everything to you. But now, I must pack for the journey. Lord Vortigern has also been instructed to accompany me on the journey, along with a dozen of the best trainees as a personal guard. I must find him immediately and tell him of Father’s wishes.’

  ‘I agree, Constans! You must speak with Vortigern immediately, because there’ll be a great deal for him to do.’ Severa’s heart was in her mouth.

  As Constans sprinted away, Severa tried to understand the true meaning of Constantine’s message. Obviously, his plans have met with some success in Gallia if the High King is sending for his beloved son. Also, if Constans is to become hand-fasted to a suitable patrician girl, then Constantine must be certain he holds the whip hand over his enemies in Rome.

  ‘Never mind, children,’ she said quietly to her own two sons, now a year older and strong in body and spirit. ‘Fact is that I’d prefer Vortigern to be in Gallia with Constantine rather than here in Venta Belgarum.’

  The words had no sooner escaped from her lips than a terrible thought occurred to her. Vortigern would lose his frail advantage if he failed to neutralise Constans, for a married prince could father a child and that would make any attempt to usurp the High King’s throne more difficult than would otherwise be the case. Or was she simply lacking in trust because, at bottom, she felt nervous at the lascivious way that the Demetae king looked at her?

  ‘But if Vortigern should enter the combat beside Constans during the battles that will take place, he might be able to achieve all his goals at once,’ she told herself. ‘Many men can perish without seeing the secret hands that strike them down, while an arrow from ambush can kill the most careful warrior. Perhaps Constans is in terrible danger.’

  Her heart leaped as her mind chewed away at the possibilities that Constantine’s missive had created. ‘And what will happen to our children?’

  Before her rational mind took command and argued away these new fears, Severa called for Dilic. The girl arrived, out of breath and clutching at a crumpled piece of mending.

  ‘Yes, mistre
ss?’

  ‘Do you love me, Dilic? More to the point, do you love my children?’

  Dilic stared as if the question presaged some form of dangerous trickery. Bewildered, she answered hesitantly.

  ‘Yes, I do! I’d do anything for little Ambrosius. And the same applies to little Uther, as well. I’d still be serving at tables in Tintagel if it weren’t for you, so I’ll do anything you ask of me.’

  ‘Anything at all?’

  Dilic was certain now that the queen was trying to trick her, but she was at a loss to see why and Severa’s odd intensity did warn the servant that her mistress was seriously concerned about some unmentioned matter.

  ‘Yes, mistress. I’d be prepared to do anything you asked of me, as long as I wasn’t required to sin against the teachings of God.’

  ‘I may ask you, with very little notice, to take my sons to Corinium. This sad day will only dawn if I should learn that young Lord Constans has met with foul play, or if Constantine has been killed or captured by his enemies. As well, if we heard that Lord Vortigern was returning to Venta Belgarum, I might be forced to send the boys to some safe place of refuge. Do you understand me?’

  Slowly and inexorably, Dilic realised the dire possibilities that faced her charges. ‘Oh, mistress! You can’t believe that . . .’

  ‘I must plan for every eventuality, Dilic. If my husband and his son should die, the regent would become the king in all but name until such time as Ambrosius has grown to maturity. If such an event should occur, I doubt that my sons would have any chance of survival.’

  ‘But what will happen to you?’

  ‘I would be the widow of Constantine and the daughter of Maximus, so I would remain the route to the throne for any unscrupulous man who wanted to achieve his ambitions. Perhaps my suspicions about Lord Vortigern are wrong, but I must be certain that my sons are safe.’