Strangely enough, Cadogan had begun with his door. It seemed logical at the time; it would be impossible to have a house without a door to enter. The task had taught him a lot about woodworking. He made four doors before he had one that was straight and true. Then the completed door required a frame to hang from, and the frame demanded a wall, and the walls a roof … and in the end the door frame was wrong and had to be rebuilt … But the finished product was greater than the sum of its parts. Like this new settlement in the hills.
Godubnus noticed the expression on Cadogan’s face. “You’re looking rather pleased,” he commented, startling Cadogan out of his reverie.
“Am I?”
“Did you hear some good news?”
“When?”
“This morning. When you rode away on that scraggly horse of yours.”
The two women looked at Cadogan with sudden interest.
He told Godubnus, “That scraggly horse, as you put it, is a treasure; a tough little gelding who was born and bred in rough country and can handle any kind of footing. When I bought him at the last autumn fair I had to outbid three other men, and two of them Saxons.”
Regina gasped. “You never mentioned seeing any Saxons!”
Cadogan instantly regretted his words. “I didn’t want to worry you.”
Pamilia stood up abruptly. “I had best put the children to bed.”
“Leave them be,” her husband told her. “They’re old enough to know.”
“Know what?” Regina’s voice quavered, but her face was set in determined lines.
“You’d better tell the women what you did,” Godubnus said to Cadogan. “Even if they don’t like it.”
“They won’t like it,” Cadogan replied, “and neither will my father. That’s why I don’t intend to tell him. And I don’t want anyone else to tell him, either,” he added with a meaningful look at Regina. “Do you remember the first time I went to the great fair to buy some livestock—and came back without any?”
She nodded.
“That was where I first met the man who calls himself King Vortigern. I didn’t know what to make of him until I realized he reminded me of someone else; my cousin Dinas. Dinas can be impressive but a lot of that is bravado. I suspect the same is true of Vortigern. He’s attempting something that’s nearly impossible and disguising his vulnerability with a cloak of arrogance. He might just succeed, though; in fact I’m counting on it.”
Regina and Pamilia looked puzzled.
Cadogan continued. “A few years ago Vortigern realized there were no truly strong leaders left among the tribes of southern Britannia. The Roman authorities had always discouraged their development. Vortigern—who’s still a young man—decided to return to an earlier era when Britons were their own masters. To that end he’s building a confederacy of tribes who will accept him as overlord. And he’s hired an army of mercenaries to protect himself and his supporters.”
“Mercenaries!” Regina’s hand flew to her raddled throat.
“The Romans used mercenaries against the Britons,” Cadogan reminded her. “Why should Britons not use paid killers to protect themselves? That’s Vortigern’s argument as he put it to me. In his case, though, it’s something of a calculated risk. His mercenaries are Saxon warriors led by a pair of Jutes called Hengist and Horsa.”
Regina looked so appalled Cadogan feared she might faint. But he plunged on. “I don’t know if Vortigern can control his Saxon forces and I suspect he doesn’t know, either. Who can tell what Saxons are really like? I guess we’ll find out soon enough. The truth is, they can’t be stopped in any case. They’re pouring into Britannia like water through a sieve. There are hundreds of Saxons—perhaps even thousands—in the east already. Soon there may be more of them than of us.”
Regina did not faint. Her face was dead white and her eyes were like two holes burned in a blanket, but she held her place, watching his lips with a dreadful fascination.
“As I see it, we have two options,” Cadogan went on. “First, we can retreat into the high mountains and hope the foreigners won’t want to follow us. Other tribes of Britons fled into the far west during the Roman occupation. It wouldn’t be easy for our people, though. We’d be living among strangers in an unfamiliar territory, and the skills we’ve mastered here might not be enough to keep us alive there.
“Secondly, we can stay where we are and keep what we’ve built. The barbarians will arrive soon enough. But if Vortigern wins his gamble our position will be strengthened because I’ve made an arrangement with him; a sort of compromise. He has agreed that we can keep our settlement and his Saxon mercenaries will protect us from other foreigners … if we accept his kingship and look to him as overlord.”
“An arrangement,” Regina said in a harsh whisper. “If we accept.”
Pamilia reached out and gave her a comforting pat. “What do you think, Godubnus? Will this Vortigern person keep his word?”
The ironmaster shrugged his heavy shoulders. “I work with my hands, I don’t know anything about politics. And it’s all politics, this business of kingmaking and agreements. We have to trust someone who understands it. Cadogan comes from a political family, I don’t, so I’ll go along with whatever he decides.”
Suddenly Cadogan was very tired indeed. The food he had eaten—the roasted deer, the boiled vegetables and sweet cakes—sat in his stomach like rocks. Groaning under the weight of a responsibility he had never wanted.
Regina drew a deep, shuddering breath. “I think…,” she began.
All eyes, even those of the children, turned toward her.
“I think … Cadogan, are you sure the number of Saxons is growing?”
“I am. Since I bought the horse I’ve been able to gather quite a bit of information. Farmers and traders tell me what’s happening in this territory, and refugees bring news from farther away. It’s not like the old Roman network of mounted couriers but word does filter through, even if it’s shouted from one hilltop to another. At first the Saxons were only interested in plunder; now they’re building settlements and raising children. They’re here to stay. And they’re spreading westward all the time.”
“I see.” With an effort, Regina gathered herself. Her aging spine was permanently bowed, but she sat up as straight as she could, drawing upon reserves of energy she willed herself to possess. When she spoke again she forced her voice to be steady. “We do not have two options, Cadogan. We have three. We can flee to the west, we can stay here and assimilate—or be assimilated—by the Saxons, or we can fight.”
“Fight?” He could hardly believe what he was hearing. “We have nothing to fight with, Regina! The Romans pulled out and left us with no standing army and hardly any weapons. I’m no fighter anyway, that’s why I made an arrangement with Vortigern.”
She said coolly, “Shall we eliminate that option, then?”
“Dinas would vote for it,” Cadogan admitted.
“I won’t see my children slaughtered!” cried Pamilia.
Regina was not finished. “Going into the mountains means running away. We ran away from Viroconium because the barbarians took us by surprise, but we know what we are up against now.” She looked smaller, older, frailer than ever. But she lifted her chin as she said, “I for one do not intend to be driven out again.”
* * *
Later, as they were walking back through the forest to the fort, Regina asked, “When were you planning to tell the others what I heard tonight, Cadogan?”
“Not until I had to. If I had to.”
“And leave us open for a nasty shock? Sometimes I forget how young you are. You still think trouble will go away if you ignore it.”
“I’m not that foolish; I was trying to protect you.”
“No one is protected by ignorance, Cadogan.”
My mother was, he thought. For a while she was. How much does Regina know about my father’s infidelity? How much did anyone in Viroconium know about it? It seemed everyone was aware of the scandal, but wha
t about the details? Who started the affair? Why did it go on for so long? Neither of them was young; it’s hard to blame their behavior on hot blood.
Regina’s voice cut through his thoughts. “Hold that torch higher, do you want me to stumble over a tree root and fall on my face?”
“Sorry.” He raised the torch. “Regina, you were my mother’s friend. What did you think of my father in those days?”
“Why are you asking me this now?”
“Perhaps I’m tired of being left in ignorance.”
She gave a sniff. “I can tell you this much: He was a cold man. And a stern disciplinarian by all accounts, though Domitia told me he was as hard on himself as on anyone else. Esoros is the one to ask about Vintrex, though; he has been the shadow to the chief magistrate’s sun for many years. No one else knows Vintrex so well.”
“Esoros would never discuss my father, or anything else, with me. At best there’s an armed truce between us.”
“As there is between Quartilla and myself,” Regina replied. “Three years under the same roof and I still do not understand the woman.”
“Nor do I. All I know for certain is, you can’t believe anything she says about herself.”
“I know more than that, Cadogan. Whatever her background, Quartilla was no servant.”
“How can you be sure?”
“I have had numerous servants, from the cream to the dregs. I know how the unfree think and what they can do. The skills Quartilla possesses, and she has a considerable array, are the skills of a freeborn woman who grew up among educated people. In Viroconium,” Regina reminisced, “we knew who everyone was and their station in life. We knew it from their features, their accents and their demeanor. But Quartilla … if she chooses not to tell you, you may never solve her riddle, Cadogan. I suspect she is not unique; there are others like her now and there will be more. We are being pulled up by our roots and dispossessed.”
“No.” Cadogan spat out the word as if it burned his tongue. “We will not be dispossessed, Regina. It’s decided. We’re staying right here.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
Fortune was with them at the beginning. The first ship they robbed was a Syrian merchantman laden with wine and slaves, plus some perfume from Capua and ornaments made of Corinthian bronze. It came in too close to Tintagel Head and grounded on a reef. Dinas and his men gleefully waded into the surf to offload the merchandise, which they stored in the tower. The slaves were released to make their way to freedom—or what freedom they might find in Dumnonia. Thus lightened, the Syrian vessel was refloated and sailed away.
The success had come just in time for Dinas. He had very little gold left in his saddlebags.
Taking Meradoc and two packhorses with him, he rode inland. He was able to sell some of the wine, and buy grain and fish oil lamps and hard cheese. He also added a few more coins to the little hoard in the saddlebags. When they returned to Tintagel he counted the money carefully a second time and made sure the bowl and the plate were still intact. Against his better judgment he was becoming superstitious about them. He was glad he would not have to sell them.
That earliest venture had proved so easy—late in a warm summer when the sea was calm and the weather benign—Dinas thought it would always be easy. Buoyed by success, he and his band threw themselves into the task of completing a stronghold before the weather turned. From the tumbled ruins on Tintagel Head they scavenged enough usable material to build a fortified tower and a dozen stone huts for barracks and storage.
The tower was accessed by a flight of steps cut into the stone. On the day the work was finished Cadel stood on the bottom step and looked up admiringly. “Are the walls straight, Dinas?”
“Of course they are, as straight as a poplar sapling.” Holding both hands open in front of him, Dinas sawed them up and down through the air to indicate the straight sides of his tower … just as Dafydd approached.
It was too good an opportunity for an inveterate prankster to ignore. “Ho, Dinas!” Dafydd called out cheerily. “What are you going to do about that wall?”
Dinas turned to face him. “Which wall?”
“The one that’s leaning out, of course. It looks to me as if it’s about to fall down, I’m glad we spotted it in time. No, don’t walk around to the other side, it might topple onto you!”
Dinas scowled. “You must be joking.”
“Would I joke about something so serious? Cadel, wipe the horse manure out of your eyes and have a look, will you? You should be able to see the problem from where you’re standing.” As he spoke Dafydd gave a surreptitious wink.
Cadel resented the remark about horse manure, but he enjoyed a joke as well as the next man. “There’s definitely something wrong, Dinas,” he reported. “We must have used larger stones on one side than on the others.”
“I don’t see what difference that would make.”
“There’s Cynan and Otter, let’s see what they think.” Cadel beckoned the pair over; Dafydd greeted them with another surreptitious wink. “We’re talking about the new tower, lads. Cadel and I think it’s leaning but Dinas doesn’t agree.”
“There’s nothing wrong with it,” Dinas insisted. He remained where he was while the four recruits surveyed the tower from various angles with much nodding and muttering.
Impelled by curiosity, Pelemos ambled over to see what was going on.
When Tostig felt the time was right, he caught Dinas by the arm and led him forward a few steps, to the very base of the tower. “Now tilt your head back and look up,” he said.
Dinas stared up along the stone shaft. Suddenly he caught his breath and staggered back, raising his arms to shield his face. “Sweet Christ, Otter, it’s falling on me!”
The four recruits howled with laughter. Cynan gave himself hiccups.
Dinas failed to see the humor in it.
“It’s only a trick of the eyes,” Tostig tried to tell him. “We discovered it when we were building the tower. It isn’t falling at all, it only seems that way if you stand close to the base and look straight up.”
Pelemos had a different explanation. “The problem is the height of the tower, it’s too tall. It profanes the heavens to build something like that. You should knock the top off of it, Dinas.”
“I certainly will not! It’s a splendid structure, fit for a king.”
“All right. But don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
Thereafter the tower was referred to as “the famous falling tower” by everyone but Dinas. “I don’t think it’s funny,” he complained to Meradoc—who thought it was very funny but did not say so.
As the days grew shorter the band attacked two more ships, though not with the success of their first undertaking. The crew on one vessel were well armed and ready for them. Dinas ordered his men to turn back rather than risk their lives. The other ship had sold its trade goods and was carrying only tin ingots, which Dinas scorned. “We’ll do much better in the spring,” he assured his men.
The dying of the summer brought a change to the land of the Dumnonii. As the nourishment faded from the grass near the sea Meradoc and the recruits began taking the horses farther afield in search of good grazing. Thus they discovered that wars were being fought inland. Small wars on a small scale, but violent nonetheless. Individual chieftains maintained their status and enlarged their holdings by fighting one another. Like the Celts of old, they defined themselves in battle. War was their sport and their religion. As the days began to grow shorter they initiated conflicts with increased urgency, anxious to consolidate their wins before winter and mud made warfare unproductive.
Meradoc reported this to Dinas with some amusement. “It’s like stepping back in time,” he said. “We Britons used to live like that, I suppose. Before the Romans invaded.”
“If we had been better at it the Romans never could have conquered us,” Dinas replied. “I think we had best start having weapons practice.”
With the change of seasons the recruits learned the m
ajor difference between life in the high mountains and life on the edge of the ocean. Autumn brought gale force winds that came roaring over the rim of the world to batter the helpless land with waves as tall as trees. Giant crests of white foam leaped and curvetted like silvery horses, tossing their spumey manes. The nights were bitterly cold and the days not much warmer. Men had to shout as loud as they could in order to be heard over the wind. The wind, the wind, the omnipresent, salt-laden wind with all the force of the ocean behind it.
Dinas loved it. He climbed to the top of his tower and bared his teeth to the wind, daring it to do its worst.
“He has an iron spike in the wall up there to hold on to,” Bleddyn confided to Iolo, who never climbed to the top of the tower.
The winter surpassed the autumn for savagery. The horses had grown heavy coats, but even so they used up their reserve fat in keeping themselves warm. The recruits took turns spending an entire day with them while they grazed on sparse, frozen grass, which gave little nourishment. They only brought the horses back to Tintagel at night when wolves could be heard howling in the distance.
As soon as the sun went down the men sought their stone huts and did not emerge until morning. Even Dinas did not sleep in the tower at night. He tried it for a while, but there was something in the voice of the wind that disturbed him. At first he shrugged it off. He loved everything about Tintagel, he told himself. It was the realization of his wildest dreams.
Then Bryn claimed that the promontory was haunted. “Something’s alive here that has never been alive,” were his exact words.
“What are you talking about?” said Dinas. “A ghost from the past?”
After Rome Page 28
