The Blood of Kings: Tintagel Book I

by M. K. Hume

  ‘What was there about the old man that you really noticed, Endellion?’

  ‘They tore away his brooches and badges, Father, and then they broke his sword. It was horrible, because the old man just stood at attention and let them do it. I saw then that he was weeping. Why would anyone want to make an old man feel so bad?’

  ‘I don’t know, my darling, but some people are simply cruel. Did you learn who they were?’ Caradoc was hoping to discover something that gave him a clue to the identity of that old man.

  ‘No. The person in charge was wearing a crown of golden leaves. The crown looked strange because it was tilted on his head and was ready to fall off. Everybody bowed to him.’

  ‘Oh . . . I think I understand.’ Caradoc struggled to keep his voice steady and natural.

  ‘It was awful, Father.’ The tears returned as Endellion began to remember the details of the dream. ‘A man in a mask walked up to the old man and stood beside him. The old man gave him several coins, and then promised to forgive him. After that, the man in the mask put a thin cord around the old man’s neck and choked him. The old man’s eyes bulged out and his tongue was hanging out of his mouth. I didn’t want to watch, but I couldn’t close my eyes. Was it real, Da? It looked real.’ Then Endellion began to cry in earnest until Caradoc fed her some warm milk with a dollop of strong spirits to assist her to sleep. She grimaced at the taste but swallowed it all at her father’s coaxing.

  Caradoc released her hand after Endellion succumbed to sleep. Even then, the child stirred restlessly until she was covered with her favourite blanket. Caradoc was forced to brush silent tears away from her eyes. He was prepared to protect her with his life, but how could he save her from afflictions that lay within her own mind?

  As the king rose and left the room, his mind was awhirl with dire possibilities.

  No one spoke of Endellion’s bad dream. The servants presumed that the child had been overexcited, while Caradoc feared to raise the spectre of the White Witch of the Red Wells. But the dream of a Roman execution was so unexpected and so alien to Endellion’s life experiences that Caradoc’s mind was distracted by futile guesses at the identity of the victim. He never doubted the veracity of Endellion’s dream and believed his daughter had viewed a real incident that occurred in some far-off place in the Roman world.

  The child could not have known anything of such matters for she had been protected from all such ugliness. Yet his daughter had known so many of the small details associated with the execution of an aristocratic Roman.

  Maximus had told the king that executioners placed coins in the mouth of a victim once the garrotte had served its purpose. In this way, the Ferryman on the River Styx would be paid to ensure that the soul of an executed Roman could continue its journey into the Underworld.

  No, Endellion could not have known anything of this. As for an emperor with a crown slipping from his head? Caradoc preferred not to consider the meaning of that evocative image.

  Eventually, Caradoc might have forgotten this vivid dream, for his daughter reverted to her usual sunny nature and no graphic visions returned to trouble her in the coming year. But news filtered slowly into Britannia from the continent. Gossip from Rome eventually reached Tintagel, via Gwaun ap Mairtin, that Theodosius the Elder was dead, so Caradoc remembered Endellion’s night of horror with a fearful pang. After a series of battles in northern Britannia and Africa, Theodosius fell out of favour with the new emperor, Valentinian. Despite his many years of faithful service to the empire, he had been strangled by the imperial executioner. Caradoc’s mind turned back to Maximus, and he wondered if his friend had met a similar fate.

  Unfortunately, little of interest had been heard of Maximus, except that he had been promoted to the post of Dux Moesiae Secundae for his successful campaigns against the Goths.

  Caradoc shook his greying head with admiration. Once again, Maximus’s luck had held, so Macsen Wledig had survived to live and thrive for a little longer.

  Spring followed winter and was replaced in turn by summer and autumn. Still nothing changed, except for the frigid, disdainful face of Tegan Eurfron when she succumbed to the passage of time. Fine lines began to net her eyes until her reflection in the mirror filled her vain heart with fury.

  Into this world of peace and plenty, the same barbarian hordes that had looked towards Britannia with lustful eyes in the past resumed their raids on vulnerable places along the British coastline. The Hibernians, Picts and Saxons all made uncoordinated attacks during a pleasant spring when the seas were quiet and the snows had retreated back into the frozen north.

  Endellion was eleven, almost twelve, when Caradoc and Cadal rode off to honour their treaty obligations with the Atrebates and the Regni tribes after a large force of Saxons gained a foothold at Anderida, from where they threatened the safety of the entire southern coast. Cadoc protested when he was told that he must remain behind to act as regent in his father’s stead, but he understood that someone must stay at Tintagel to rule the tribe. Predictably, the queen raged about uncaring husbands who were prepared to abandon their wives during perilous times, while Endellion knew she would be at the queen’s mercy during her father’s absence.

  Ardunn remained brave, for she had been raised in a royal family and understood the duties that were required from heirs to the throne. However, despite this advantage, talk of Cadal’s absence frightened the children, who had been alarmed by Tegan Eurfron’s constant warnings that their father would never return. Ardunn asked the queen to refrain from her warnings of destruction, but here pleas had no appreciable effect.

  ‘Please, Mother. My children look to you for comfort, but you’re frightening them by insisting that their father will die in the coming battles.’

  ‘How dare you attempt to censure me,’ the queen had hissed back. ‘Somebody in this house must be realistic! The barbarians are only a few weeks away from us. So who will protect Tintagel in his absence? Cadoc will try, but he’s never been to war. Meanwhile, my husband intends to play at a war that is none of his business. What will become of us?’

  Ardunn listened to all of Tegan Eurfron’s complaints and kept her tongue firmly between her teeth. No reasoned argument would ever work with this queen.

  Regardless of Caradoc’s soothing promises that he and Cadal would take extra efforts to ensure each other’s safety during the campaign, Endellion knew exactly what her fate would be during his absence, which would invite Tegan Eurfron to take some of her anxiety out on the unprotected child.

  The girl understood that Caradoc was now an old man, but she had never faced the possibility of his mortality. Each day seemed to bring new fears.

  Meanwhile, Caradoc tried to coax his daughter out of her terrors.

  ‘Nothing will happen to me, child. You’re fussing and weeping for no worthwhile reason. I must lead my men. I know – I’m bent in the back and my hands are losing their strength. But I’m only fifty! There’s still fight in me, and my warriors would be disheartened if I were to skulk at home like a rabbit. A king must lead from the front, or he’s not worth following.

  ‘As for you, my darling girl, the queen may try to throw your birth in your teeth, but you must always remember that your birth-mother, Saraid, is a woman of true power in her own right. She is famed among our people for her healing, so you must never be ashamed of her.’ Caradoc bit his thumb and considered his daughter’s position.

  ‘You may speak your mind, Endellion, if the queen attacks you. You don’t have to be discourteous or disrespectful, but you may say what should be said, if she makes cruel remarks to you. No one in Tintagel will think the worse of you.’

  This long speech was unlike Caradoc. He was determined to die, if need be, to hold the treaty in place, understanding instinctively that the unity of the kings was vital to the survival of the southern Britons. He also knew that where he led, the other kings wo
uld follow. The Romans were fully occupied in the north as they fought ongoing battles with their old enemies, the Picts and the Hibernians, so the tribes in the south and south-west could expect no help from their masters.

  ‘But why is Cadal going with you? What if you are both killed?’ Endellion wailed this last complaint, for she dearly loved her half-brother, who was second only to Caradoc in her fulsome heart. She couldn’t imagine a world without these two men, despite the love she also held for Cadal’s brother, Cadoc.

  ‘Poor Cadoc! I suppose he can be sacrificed, as long as Cadal and I are safe.’ Caradoc laughed at his daughter’s suddenly horrified face, before he pulled her into his arms. ‘There! I understand! But you must allow me to go about my duties with a smile on your pretty face.’

  ‘Oh, Da, I could never wish harm to Cadoc. How could you think such a thing? I don’t want any of you to go riding off and leave me behind. Can’t I go as well? I swear that I’d not get in your way.’

  ‘We men are paltry things, my dear, and our characters are weak and frail. But we fight because we must. It’s our God-given duty to save our families from terror or the need to hide themselves from vicious, murderous oppressors who would put them to the sword. I don’t want to hear any more talk of travelling with me. I’ll be much safer on the battlefield if I don’t have to worry about you and my other darlings.’

  He smiled into Endellion’s eyes and all teasing fled from his expression.

  ‘I want you to promise me that you will help Ardunn and Guenor to protect their boys. I love my grandsons, but they’re not old enough to save themselves if Tintagel should come under attack. I’m trusting in you to help me, petal. Will you carry out this important task for me?’

  Endellion swore with her hand on her heart that she would accede to his wishes. Her eyes glowed with the ardour of her promise, so Caradoc was content.

  Summer came; and so did the hot breath of death. The Saxon raiders ranged across Anderida Silva at will as they burned villages, killed and raped indiscriminately and stripped the countryside of every item of value. Every church was razed to the ground, including many where the priests and nuns were still at the altars when the buildings were gutted.

  At the same time, driving rain came to the land to release the baking earth from the heat. The ever-present dust was replaced with mud, but the Saxons still roamed where they chose, while the predators and scavengers of the air followed their trail.

  Eventually, the combined Dumnonii and Dobunni army drove the Saxons back towards a collection of mud huts that bordered the swamplands in a bitter series of attacks that brought them ever closer to the sea. Three months had passed in debilitating heat as the oppressive humidity and unnatural storms whipped the skies into cauldrons of turgid clouds. In bivouac, the warriors endured the misery of regular rainstorms, strong winds and the oppressive heat that heralded each period of bad weather.

  Three men were in command of this force. The young Dobunni king, Llew, was still unblooded in warfare. However, he was under the tutelage of old Caradoc, as wily a strategist as any of the kings in Britannia. The third in the triumvirate was Cadal, Caradoc’s son and the heir to the Dumnonii throne. The prince was also a tyro on the battlefield. Inexorably, after numerous ambushes and desperate spells of vicious fighting, the British army had pursued the Saxons raiders as the northerners made a series of strategic withdrawals towards the safety of their base at Anderida. Here, in the balmy waters of the south coast, lay the ceols that would carry the Saxons and their plunder back to their homes in Saxony.

  Llew ap Adwen was slender like his dead father, but Caradoc was pleased to discover that this young man was a strong and determined leader. Time had passed and many of the kings who made their mark on that first treaty were dead now. Unsurprisingly, Fiachna had succumbed to an infection in his leg that poisoned his body. Maximus would have laughed himself sick at this news, for the original injury had been caused by a bite from a bedbug.

  ‘It’s a pity that Maximus isn’t here. He’d have made mincemeat of these Saxons,’ Caradoc mused, forgetting that Cadal was riding close enough to hear. Cadal was keeping a close eye on his father as the troop neared the margins of the woods, for they would need to cover a patch of exposed ground at some speed. He suspected that the troop could be riding directly into the path of Saxon arrows fired from ambush.

  ‘Who, Father?’ Cadal asked, as he tried to dry his sweat-drenched hair with a strip of cloth. His muddy helmet was hooked onto his saddle and the younger man promised himself that he would polish its dulled surfaces if these miserable lands would stay dry for even a few hours.

  ‘Magnus Maximus! Don’t you remember? He was some sort of kinsman to Theodosius the Elder. Theodosius the Younger, the old man’s son, has become the ruler in Constantinople. Can you imagine that, boy? Theodosius is Caesar, yet his father was executed by Emperor Valentinian for treason! As it happened, Valentinian was also sent to the shades in much the same way as Theodosius.’

  ‘Oh! . . . You’re talking about your Roman friend,’ Cadal replied dismissively. ‘I don’t think I’d like to be an emperor in Rome. They scarcely seem to last longer than a few years before they’re killed off. Worse still, they’re usually slain by their own guardsmen – or their kinsmen.’

  ‘Gwaun is adamant that the Roman Empire is in decline,’ Caradoc said. ‘If he’s right, it will be our people who’ll suffer if the legions should return to the continent.’

  Cadal’s eyes swept the sea of long grass and the rutted track leading to an impoverished town that lay between the salt marshes and the sand dunes. The scene seemed disarmingly quiet and empty, so Caradoc was on his guard.

  ‘Yes, lads, the northerners are out there,’ Caradoc explained to his two deputies as the three leaders stood on a low rise overlooking the terrain that must be crossed if the Britons were to reach the gates of the small town. ‘They’ve probably got some of their number dug into the fringes of the swamp, while more of the bastards will be in the long grasses beside the road and more again embedded among the walls around the perimeter of the town. This Saxon commander is trying to suck us into a trap.’

  ‘He seems to be more astute than most of his fellow northerners,’ Llew observed.

  ‘So? What are we going to do?’ Cadal asked.

  These two young men were alike in many ways, despite the differences in their thought processes. Cadal preferred to deal with factual essentials, while Llew tended to mull over the reasoning behind the strategies adopted by the enemy commander. Both men were impatient, but Caradoc was confident that he could harness their differing talents.

  ‘More to the point, what do you young bucks think we should do?’ Caradoc challenged, his dark eyes twinkling. ‘I’d like to hear your thoughts, gentlemen.’

  Llew realised he’d been dismissed for the moment, so he turned and cantered down to his cavalry and the baggage train. His mind was already searching for a sensible strategy that would crack Anderida open like a particularly sweet nut.

  Caradoc watched Llew go, before turning back to Cadal with a face that seemed to have been chipped out of granite. ‘There’s one final aspect that you should consider about my Roman friend. He will do well for himself now that his kinsman is the ruler of the Eastern Empire. But, if he should return to Britannia, his friendship will be a boon to those Britons that he holds in high regard. This group would include those who will eventually rule the Dumnonii tribe.’

  ‘Thanks be to the gods,’ Cadal muttered under his breath with acidic sarcasm.

  ‘I heard that, Cadal,’ the older man faced his son directly. Cadal was surprised to discover that his father was very angry.

  ‘Will you never learn, boy? I had hoped you had stopped listening to your mother.’

  His heir bridled and his face coloured in a hot flush. ‘I’m thirty, Father, so I’m no boy. And Mother is occasionally right in
what she says.’

  ‘How long do you think Britannia would survive if Rome and her legions should leave us to fight our own battles? We’d manage for a generation or two, because we’re strong and we can exercise self-discipline if the threat to our people is sufficiently pressing. But we couldn’t last against truly implacable enemies. We’ll continue to crush the Saxons for some time, but they’ll keep coming back, again and again. We’re surrounded by enemies who won’t give up.’

  Cadal thrust his helmet onto his head and turned his horse to join Llew, where he hoped to find a more sympathetic and receptive listener.

  But he was disappointed. Cold, reasoned and dispassionate in manner, the Dobunni king deferred to Caradoc’s experience and approved of the Dumnonii king’s Roman attitudes to the impending attack on their Saxon enemies.

  Then, as they were speaking, one of Llew’s scouts approached his commander after completing a two-hour reconnaissance within the Saxon lines.

  The news that this woodsman passed to the Dobunni king was so important that Llew insisted on informing Caradoc immediately.

  ‘Sir,’ Llew began respectfully. ‘I’ve just received some intelligence from my scouts that will be vital to any plans you make for our attack on Anderida. I apologise for disturbing your meal, but the information couldn’t wait.’

  ‘What have you discovered, Llew? Caradoc asked, his mouth half-filled with food.

  ‘One of my scouts has just informed me that two nests of Saxons are dug in and waiting for us. One long trench is just over there!’ The Dobunni pointed towards a dead tree to the left of the dilapidated town gate. ‘If you look very closely, you’ll see a faint line in the tussocks some forty feet in front of the tree. That line of camouflage runs across the track, so it’s about twenty paces long. According to your own scout, Trefor, that’s the place where a nasty series of trenches and mantraps have been filled with sharpened stakes that are just waiting for a cavalry charge.’