The Blood of Kings: Tintagel Book I

by M. K. Hume

  On a whim, Caradoc tore his cloak pin out of its usual position on his left shoulder. A green enamelled fish had been curved in a large circle so it bit at its own tail. In its gaping mouth, the fish bore a pearl of unusual size and beauty.

  ‘Don’t forget us, Maximus, or the time we spent on the road together. We’ve had our disagreements, but there’s no man I’d rather ride with when the journey is hard and dangerous.’

  Maximus took the brooch and stroked it with his callused thumbs. When he spoke, his voice was rusty.

  ‘I have no such personal gift of equal worth to give to you, my friend, but I’d like you to take my eating knife. It’s very old and my mother swore it had once belonged to a Roman general during the time of the Republic. I value this reminder of my happy youth, so I’d like you to have it. It will happily transition from my house to yours.’

  Both men had little further to say.

  ‘If I should return, I will surely come to Tintagel to visit you. This I swear, my friend,’ Maximus vowed as he and his men prepared to depart from Venta Belgarum. With a lump in his throat, Caradoc could only nod his response.

  The troop was no more than a line of dark mist on the road when Caradoc suddenly remembered that he hadn’t discovered why Decius had given a merciful death to Elphin, the outlaw chieftain.

  With a sad shrug, Caradoc turned away from the city gates, telling himself that he would never again see Tribune Magnus Maximus. Some mysteries are best buried by time.

  CHAPTER XI

  A CUCKOO COME TO NEST

  The Roman state survives by its ancient customs and its manhood.

  Ennius, Annals, Book 5

  Time passed by. The stars wheeled through the night sky, while the sun continued to rise and set in the endless cycle of the seasons, and changes came to Tintagel in ways that Caradoc could never have expected.

  In the summer following Maximus’s return to the Eagles, a messenger walked down the long roadway leading to the barracks at Tintagel. Shaggy and unarmed, he was dressed like a pilgrim in a torn and faded blue cloak. The visitor’s eyebrows were unnaturally long and they grew together over his nose, so that a long hairy caterpillar appeared to march across his face.

  With his bushy and straggling beard, rope belt and necklace sporting a piece of flint carved to resemble a leaping fish, this pilgrim could have belonged to any place and any time, and could have worshipped any god, including the Old Ones, or those nameless deities whose presence was maintained at the Giant’s Carol.

  Caradoc tried to assess the man’s intentions. Was he a hermit? Did he think he was a Druid, returned to warn the people that ugly times were coming? Or was he a lunatic, searching for a hot meal?

  Once the man had been searched by the guards and helped up the steps to the citadel, Caradoc was waiting for him in the forecourt. Huw was standing watchfully behind him with bared hands. Out of the corner of his eye, Caradoc could see Rowen, the captain of the guard, with a bow in his hands, nocked and ready to fire.

  Well, I’m not likely to be assassinated by stealth, Caradoc decided as he moved forward to speak to his visitor, one hand extended in greeting

  ‘Welcome, traveller. You have a message for me?’

  The man’s hand was cool and dry, and unexpectedly clean for a man who had tramped for many miles in sunshine and in rain. Perhaps he was a Christian priest.

  ‘If you be Caradoc, King of the Dumnonii, then I bear a message from Saraid of the Red Wells. I be Hergest of Llanio, come on a pilgrimage from Holyhead to take the sacrament in the Church of the Blessed Joseph at Glastonbury.’

  ‘You’re a priest?’ Caradoc asked, pleased that his guess had been correct.

  ‘I be Brother Jude in my church-name, King Caradoc. I begged for permission to make a pilgrimage to that holy soil where Our Saviour is said to have trod in his youth. I was fortunate to see the church that the holy trader built with his own hands, after he forsook Jerusalem to travel far from home.’

  Caradoc had heard of these legends, but he doubted that any Jew, even one baptised by Christ’s own hands, would willingly sail across the Middle Sea and through a wild ocean to settle so far from his homeland.

  ‘Whether you are Brother Jude or Hergest of Llanio, you are welcome here.’

  ‘I seldom hear my birth-name. You may call me Hergest if you be content with that.’

  ‘Very well, Hergest. But what does Lady Saraid ask of me? She saved the life of my warrior, Huw, who stands here with us. We are both indebted to her.’ Caradoc was still careful in the presence of this road-weary traveller, but courtesy cost little. Besides, Lady Saraid’s wonderful hair rose in his memory, night-dark, but rich with chestnut streaks and a hint of red.

  ‘Lady Saraid requests that you attend on her as soon as is practicable. She asks that you remember the debt that you owe her and, although you have kept your side of the bargain, she says that fortune has changed her circumstances and she has need of your help.’

  As if Caradoc could forget. ‘How did you come to meet with Lady Saraid? The Red Wells lie to the south of Glastonbury and aren’t well known by any means.’ Caradoc accepted that only a matter of great urgency could have forced her to request assistance from any man, even him.

  ‘The Bleeding Pool at Glastonbury is a sacred gift from Almighty God. When I prayed at its mouth, I was told by one of the priests about the Red Wells and how they have been sacred to the Old Ones for time beyond counting. I’m afraid that I’m a curious man. It be my besetting sin, so I set forth along the roads and pathways to see this marvel for myself.

  ‘As for Lady Saraid, she be well but I cannot say why she calls for your assistance. I swore to be silent and refrain from speaking of her to any person but you. I have already stretched my oath by speaking of her in front of a third party.’ Hergest nodded in Huw’s direction.

  ‘Lady Saraid saved Huw’s life after he was wounded by a boar’s tusk. She would never resent words spoken in front of him, and nor would Huw speak thoughtlessly of anything he heard of her,’ Caradoc assured the older man.

  ‘Still, I’ll say no more of the lady. She can explain her needs when you see her.’

  And, from this position, Hergest refused to budge. When he was certain that the brother would reveal nothing further, Caradoc gave him a bed for the night with the citadel guard and offered him a silver coin for his troubles.

  ‘I cannot accept payment for what was a God-given duty. I thank you for the offer of a place to rest my head, which I’ll happily accept, But that is all.’

  Accompanied only by Huw, who refused to be left behind, Caradoc took horse for the Red Wells and the woman who waited there to receive him. In those times when his queen had been particularly difficult in Tintagel, Caradoc’s mind would recall the soft lichens and lacy ferns of the Red Wells and memories of love would fill his heart with longing for a way of life that he could never have. On those occasions when the king gazed at the tall form of his son, a stranger amid the circumstances of an arranged marriage, he felt a tearing in his gut that made him very angry.

  ‘It’s the tradition of the aristocracy, Huw. We are mated like good horses or cattle to strengthen the bloodlines and secure more wealth. Often-times, we pay for our casual attitudes to love. But we must have what we desire, or we suffer for its loss.’

  ‘Aye, my lord,’ Huw replied, although he hadn’t the slightest idea of Caradoc’s meaning. The lords of the land frequently acted in ways that seemed quite crazed to more humble men. Of course, sons must marry to improve the family wealth and blood. Every farmer’s son or servant’s daughter knew that. Only the great ones could hope for the freedom to follow their hearts, yet his king had still been trapped inside his own marriage.

  They left at dawn and rode for several hours, heading away from the coast and the smell of salt air on the winds. So great was the distance to
the Red Wells that Caradoc and Huw were forced to sleep under leather that night and could expect at least one more day of hard riding before they arrived at their destination.

  The familiar cottage hove into view as the sun was setting on the afternoon of the second day. A thread of smoke rose from the vents on the roof and the door was ajar to catch every ray of sunlight. The two large mastiffs raised their heads and bayed a warning from a nearby field filled with wildflowers, and then bounded back to the entrance of the cottage where they stood on guard, their hackles raised.

  ‘Stay with the horses, Huw,’ Caradoc ordered, his eyes fixed on the quivering dogs. ‘Hoi! Lady Saraid! Call off your hounds so I can speak to you.’

  His voice rose over the pleasant sounds of evening birdsong, and, from somewhere out of sight, he could hear the lowing of a cow for her calf. From inside the cottage, Caradoc could hear the sound of a crying infant. He felt his heart lurch and his mind struggled with a sudden unexpected possibility.

  ‘Sian! Siarl! Down!’ At the familiar contralto voice the two mastiffs sank back on their haunches. ‘Come in, Lord Caradoc. I swear that my guardians won’t hurt you.’

  Caradoc stepped out manfully, ignoring the low, rumbling growls. He pushed his way into the cottage.

  The large room had changed little in the many months of his absence. Caradoc focused on the only appreciable change – a cradle suspended from the rafters in a position where an infant could be warmed by the fire pit, yet lulled to sleep by even the slightest of breezes.

  Lady Saraid was standing by the cauldron over the fire pit, her amazing hair shining with shades of copper in the firelight.

  ‘My lord,’ she whispered and bowed gently from the waist. Her body bent like a lily in a river breeze and Caradoc was entranced by her anew.

  ‘Lady Saraid,’ he began, clearing his throat awkwardly. ‘I have come in response to your call. I hope I find you well.’

  ‘I’m very well, thank you, Caradoc.’ As she gazed up into his face, she seemed even smaller than he remembered. The soft roundness of her flesh was at odds with her cool, appraising eyes. ‘Will you sit and share a hot infusion with me?’

  Caradoc nodded and sat on the stool closest to the fire pit while Lady Saraid drew up a larger chair from the corner of the room. The king would have helped her, but she stopped him with a careless wave of one hand. ‘You should remember, my lord, that I am really quite strong. Rest yourself while I prepare our tisane.’

  Finally, once he held a cup of steaming liquid, she consented to seat herself with a graceful sweep of her skirts. The aroma of strawberries and mint filled the cottage.

  ‘You must have wondered why I have sent for you, my lord. I never expected to trouble you again, but circumstances change, so I’ve been forced to call for your assistance. I’ve prayed for your arrival, for my need is great.’

  Caradoc realised that his fingers were shaking. He tightened his grip on the cup.

  ‘I’ll always come whenever you call. I feel as if there’s a link between us, like a ribbon of flesh, especially when I’m close to you. I can’t deny you, Saraid.’

  He paused, and then asked the question that had been on the tip of his tongue from the moment he entered the room.

  ‘I see that you have a cradle hanging from the ceiling. Whose child is it?’ The question came out more abruptly than he had intended, but he already knew the answer.

  Lady Saraid lowered her eyes momentarily as if she had been dreading this moment. Then she raised her face and stared at the king from across the rim of her cup.

  ‘The impossible happened to this old witch. No! Don’t say anything, my lord! Just listen and you’ll soon understand why I need your assistance so badly.’

  Caradoc knew that his mouth was opening and closing like a newly caught fish’s.

  One of her hands reached out to fleetingly touch his mouth. ‘You’re not too old,’ he protested, just as he had when he first met her.

  ‘Oh, Caradoc, I surely am. I’m far too old to allow myself to fall pregnant like a giddy girl. But I did, although I couldn’t believe it for many months. It was only when I felt the life move within me that I knew for sure. She Who Must Not Be Named had sent me a gift for reasons that only She could know and understand. I could have physicked the child away and scoured my womb clean, but somehow such an action seemed sinful.’

  Suddenly, Caradoc felt his face redden. Why he should suppose that the child came from his loins was pure vanity, yet he was certain that the infant in the cradle was his.

  ‘So I chose to bear the child. I mastered my fear of the confinement and found a local widow with a tight mouth who agreed to live with me in the last weeks of my pregnancy. I was wise to accept the woman’s help, because my travail was long and very painful. I’m convinced that it was only the plans of the goddess that, eventually, permitted my child to be born alive and well. You have a daughter, Lord Caradoc, as you have probably guessed.’

  ‘I . . .’ Caradoc began.

  ‘She’s in the cradle, if you wish to meet her. I’ve called her Endellion.’

  Slowly and fearfully, Caradoc approached the hanging cradle and peered over the side. The child who lay within was large, slender and at least five months old. Although Caradoc was accustomed to the appearance of children, he was stunned to see how mature this one was. Instead of a cap of thin baby fuzz, this infant had thick black hair that was already long enough to sport a topknot bound by a small brass clip. Caradoc felt himself smile at this proof of Saraid’s maternal love.

  The child’s eyes were a clear grass-green that spoke of lacy ferns and forest glades. Caradoc caught himself blushing as he thought of that fern-lined shelf where the Red Well came closest to the surface.

  When Endellion looked up at her father her small face puckered with alarm and she wailed at the sight of a large, masculine face looming over her.

  Without stopping to think, Caradoc picked up the howling child to draw her close to his breast. Out of long habit, he began to bounce on the balls of his feet, clucking his tongue at her and playing the game of horsies which his own sons had loved on those few occasions when he had been permitted to play with them by his possessive wife.

  Within minutes, the babe began to smile and gurgle with pleasure. Caradoc felt his weary heart begin to melt as he whispered to her in the sweet sing-song language that babies love. Glancing at Saraid, he saw that the wise woman’s eyes had filled with tears. Gently, he returned Endellion to her basket and then rocked it until the little girl closed her eyes to sleep.

  As he turned away from the cradle, the king discovered that Saraid had refilled their empty mugs with some potent spirit made from apples and plums.

  ‘She’s a lovely girl and likely to grow into the promise of her name, Saraid. She’ll have intelligence, character and courage, as well as beauty.’

  Saraid sipped at the fiery spirits and her face regained a little colour. During his game with his daughter Saraid had become increasingly pale, which suggested that the woman was either terrified or deeply unhappy. For the life of him, Caradoc was unable to understand why. Did Saraid suspect that he might deny his child?

  ‘What’s wrong, Saraid? You’re very quiet and something’s obviously worrying you.’

  Saraid had been holding her breath to stop her sobs, so she suddenly began to hiccup with distress. The strong and vibrant woman who had seemed impervious to fear had vanished.

  ‘You’ve done nothing wrong, my lord. It’s me, I’m afraid. In the last days of my pregnancy, I worried that Endellion would be wanting in her wits, or afflicted physically in some way, for such tragedies often afflict the children of older mothers. But, as anyone can see, Endellion is perfectly formed.’

  Saraid’s voice was frantic, so Caradoc put down his mug and put his arms around her for comfort. She tried to push him away at first
, but then she appeared to relax and leaned her heavy head against the king’s breast. They stood there for a moment in the cone of light created by the fire, while the only sounds in the cottage were Endellion’s soft breathing and the crackle and snapping of burning wood. Then Saraid pushed him away.

  ‘I apologise, Caradoc. I’m feeling sorry for myself, instead of explaining my problems to you in a brave and direct manner.’

  ‘I’ll just make myself comfortable and wait for as long as you need, my dear.’ Caradoc smoothed her frown lines, as if she was no older than Endellion.

  Under his ministrations, Saraid visibly gathered her thoughts together.

  ‘I’ve decided that you must take Endellion and raise her to adulthood, as she deserves. I have been the receptacle that brought her into this weary world, but you are the parent who will smooth her path in life. I’m afraid I cannot do it.’

  ‘Why not?’ Caradoc demanded. ‘A child should stay with her mother, especially a girl-child. What do I know about raising infants? And what would I tell my wife? She’d not welcome an infant into Tintagel who is not her own. Any bastard child of mine would have much to bear.’

  Caradoc was aghast at the enormity of Saraid’s request. He was truly horrified at the thought of raising any child, least of all a female whom the world would judge as having no worth. Such a fate was a terrible burden for anyone.

  ‘Why can’t you raise your own child?’ he insisted. ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘You must care for Endellion because I can’t do what is best for her, Caradoc. I know my limitations, and I understand the demands that she places on my life’s work.’

  ‘Your life’s work? I really don’t understand.’ The concept that a mother might not want to care for a child was totally foreign to him. Even Tegan Eurfron never cavilled at the raising of her sons.