by M. K. Hume
Once a good establishment had been found and a comfortable night’s sleep had blown away the worst exigencies of travel, Caradoc introduced his daughter to the wonders of a true Roman bath. Fortunately the most lavish bathing establishment provided a service whereby prominent ladies of breeding were able to bathe in single-sex comfort, with obedient servant girls to wash and dry their hair, fashionable manicurists to trim, clean and colour their nails as well as masseuses to oil their bodies and massage away the dirt and cares of the day. A visit to the baths could last for the best part of the day.
Endellion was in heaven. Once her nails were stained with henna, her hair was dried and dressed by skilled servants so that it cascaded down her back in a river of shining waves. She felt as if she had reached the heady excitement of womanhood.
Buffed, cleansed and tingling, Endellion was escorted back to their inn by Rowen ap Aidan, so that the royal visitors could dress in their best and present themselves to the magistrate of Aquae Sulis as a diplomatic courtesy. Endellion was almost sick with apprehension, for this meeting would be the first occasion on which she would be on public display. She was particularly fearful that her bucolic clothing would mark her as both a child and a provincial, even though their visit was scheduled for the late afternoon and formal dress wasn’t required. Frowning, Endellion examined her woollen dresses and cotton shifts and cringed.
Fortunately, her father understood the feminine heart. While Endellion wallowed in the luxury of the Roman baths, he had sought out a superior establishment that designed and made quality clothing for the Roman aristocracy of the city. The proprietor was an astute businessman who had no hesitation in pressing food and drink upon his noble guest in an attempt to separate Caradoc from a goodly number of his gold coins.
Of course, no time remained to turn swathes of beautiful material into suitable dresses for a young lady, but Caradoc knew that every seamstress or tailor possessed clothing that had been made for clients who belatedly decided that the finished products were less than flattering. Without hesitation, Caradoc asked to see some of these unwanted garments. Within moments, he was given access to a trunk filled with beautiful clothing of all cuts and sizes.
After a discussion with one of the helpful seamstresses in the establishment, Caradoc was able to find a number of suitable items, including one sea-green robe with an underskirt of pale lemon, with a dark green cloak to match, and arranged for their delivery to his lodgings. The proprietor of the shop was more than satisfied with the final price that Caradoc had agreed to pay. Now, as Caradoc watched his daughter discard one article after another from the pile of clothes she had brought with them on their travels, he could see that she was almost in tears.
‘I don’t have a single thing that is fit to wear at a social event,’ Endellion wailed.
‘Then it’s a good thing that I conspired to find these foolish adornments,’ Caradoc replied, as he placed each of the gaily wrapped parcels on her sleeping pallet. She threw herself onto the prizes with the voracity of an eager child.
‘For me?’ she breathed with mounting excitement. Her arms were filled with shining fabric. ‘Oh, best of all fathers. How could you have known?’ Then she burst into scalding tears of relief until her father reminded her of the ravages that her tears were causing to her pretty face.
‘Look at yourself, petal. Your eyes will be swollen and reddened if you aren’t careful, so get yourself dressed so I can see how my choices suit you.’
Later, preening in her silver mirror, Endellion gained years in a moment as she leap-frogged from childhood into womanhood in the blinking of an eye. She pirouetted before her father so her new green robe belled around her narrow feet and Caradoc felt a bitter pang of envy for the inevitable man who one day would steal his daughter’s heart away from him.
The business heart of the town, with its beautiful sandstone and marble buildings and tall, often naked sculptures rendered Endellion mute with amazement. Blushing, she turned away from brightly painted, marble sculptures of Venus, with her robe sliding away from a perfect, naked breast. Still more embarrassing were the carvings of the various gods, all proudly naked, and with their genitals exposed to the casual glances of the citizenry. Endellion attempted to keep her eyes averted. However, curiosity eventually won over embarrassment, so her eyes were soon darting from one beautiful public building, basilica or temple to the next. They roved too over the markets with their displays of luxury goods and staples.
Unfortunately, Endellion created her own small stir of interest as her beauty and colouring captured the attention of the most jaded male appetites. Her extraordinary hair, which hung loosely down her slender back, was bound at every hand-span by cuffs of silver.
Caradoc noticed to a trio of young farm labourers, probably brothers, whose eyes had locked on his daughter as they dawdled over the task of carrying baskets of cabbages into the markets. With lewd gestures, the louts were mentally unbinding her robe from each shoulder and unclasping her hair from the virtuous cuffs. Caradoc almost dismounted to clout the youngest man for voicing his lustful thoughts, but he realised how foolish his actions would look to the crowd.
‘I’d cause a scene in front of the peasants if I was stupid enough to say anything,’ he murmured. ‘Besides, Endellion wouldn’t thank me if I made a display of her.’
‘Sir?’ Trefor inquired from his left side.
Caradoc winced, for he realised he’d been speaking aloud.
‘I’m just feeling a father’s concern, Trefor. I don’t like the way those young bucks are looking at Endellion.’ Caradoc pointed towards the farm labourers.
‘Would you like me to discuss the matter with them?’ the hunt-master asked, smiling with anticipation. The Dumnonii king trusted to Trefor’s good sense, so nodded crisply.
Endellion, captivated by colourful songbirds in wicker cages for sale on one of the stalls, missed the entire discussion.
With a sharp heel in the ribs, Trefor sent his horse trotting towards the three young men who had resumed hefting the baskets of cabbages and were carrying them to a stall where an older couple were busily selling fresh vegetables.
Trefor deduced from the suggestive grinding of the youngest lad’s hips and groin, as well as a series of obscene gestures made by the oldest brother, that these young oafs were making jokes at Endellion’s expense. Caradoc rode on with Endellion and her three guards, while Trefor dismounted and approached the three braggarts.
‘Can we help you, sir?’ the second eldest of the brothers asked with thinly veiled sarcasm. He was superficially courteous, so Trefor addressed him in a like manner.
‘I’ve been instructed to inform you and your friends that my master, King Caradoc of Tintagel, will be forced to teach all three of you to mind your manners if you continue to make jokes at the expense of Princess Endellion. She happens to be his daughter.’
‘Says who?’ the eldest brother snapped, without even a modicum of respect. ‘We don’t take orders from no blowhards, kings or no kings. So tell that to your master, whoever you are.’
‘Yah!’ the younger lad sneered in a sullen voice. The second son wisely decided to step back into the shadows where he could watch the action, as he tried to look impartial and respectful.
‘I am Trefor, hunt-master of the King’s Guard. You buffoons should remember my name, for I’ll be the one who removes your fingers, one by one!’ Trefor smiled engagingly and without threat. ‘I’ll also enjoy the process of teaching obnoxious oafs to respect their betters.’
He turned slightly and pointed directly at the eldest son.
‘In your case, it’ll be your prick that’s removed. I doubt that it’ll be a large task.’
Then he turned back to the youngest brother and picked him up by his shirt-front.
‘As for you, I suggest you keep your pimply face out of our affairs and shut that vile mouth of you
rs. Do you understand? Good!’ Trefor could have been discussing the latest horse sales for all the passion he revealed. But the middle brother recognised the iron in the captain’s voice and he flinched away from Trefor’s hard, unsmiling expression as he hurled the young lad back into the straw.
‘You’ve done nothing to anger me – yet! I’d rather you did nothing to alter this state of affairs, and cause me to change my mind.’
Then Trefor turned contemptuously and remounted his horse.
Within minutes, he had rejoined the column as it continued on its way towards the forum at the centre of Aquae Sulis. Endellion had been so engrossed in her surroundings that she failed to notice his absence.
The forum left Endellion breathless. She had visited Venta Silurum when she was a young child, but was unable to remember the half of what she had seen. Now, approaching adulthood, she could recognise the order, the cleanliness and the power that emanated from these public buildings, including a Christian basilica and a deserted temple that had once been full of those faithful to the gods of Rome. Within the temple precincts, the old ways weren’t entirely dead. Someone had made a crown of fresh daisies and placed it reverently around the head of Jupiter, who was scowling down at foolish humanity from his position on an elevated plinth, careless of time and indifferent to the adoration of those who came to pay homage.
They halted and dismounted outside the old forum, now used as the council chamber for the administrators of this very Roman town. The small group was ready to present themselves to the town magistrate, his councillors and an avid group of citizens who had heard that an important tribal king from the south of Britannia was paying their town a social visit.
Trefor had carried in a small box made from scented wood that Caradoc had found among the spoils confiscated years earlier from Elphin, the outlaw. He had selected this particular container for its rarity and value. Inside the box, nestling on precious silk, were several rare shells that had been thrown up on the shores of the Dumnonii lands and remained miraculously unbroken. The largest, a conch shell with delicate spirals and a mouth of the most delicate pink, had been trimmed with a lip of the purest orange gold. More gold strengthened the point of the shell and had been applied in a filigree pattern along its back.
The smaller decorated shells waited to be presented too. When the trip had first been planned, Endellion had suggested them as excellent gifts for those dignitaries who offered hospitality to the party during their journey. With fingers crossed, Endellion hoped they would find favour with the sophisticates of Aquae Sulis.
They were met outside the building by a superior servant who introduced himself as Marcellus the scribe, the personal adviser to Marcus Gallus Felix, the magistrate of Aquae Sulis. Caradoc’s eyes flared at a name that sounded pretentiously noble, so Marcellus unbent sufficiently to explain to this well-educated outlander that his master came from an aristocratic line whose branch of the family had gone into a decline, forcing the paterfamilias to engage in foreign trade.
Caradoc had no objection to aristocrats who chose to migrate to other lands if they could augment their impoverished family fortunes through doing so. He was eager to meet the man whose ancestors had shown such courage, and wondered if he would show such bravery if forced to face the same challenges.
‘Quality, like water flowers, always rises to the surface. It makes itself felt in the most unpromising and brackish pond,’ Caradoc murmured. Marcellus, taken aback by the king’s poetic turn of phrase, examined the Dumnonii visitors covertly, for he was charged with giving his master a full briefing on the qualities of these barbarians.
The Dumnonii aristocrats were ushered into a large outer room with shuttered windows admitting air and light into the chamber. As they entered they became the centre of attention for the prominent citizens of Aquae Sulis and their wives; Endellion would have cringed under their cold scrutiny if she hadn’t been wearing her new clothing which, Caradoc was happy to note, was the equal of any worn by the women present. He squeezed her hand and whispered some quiet advice.
‘Stiffen your spine, my dear. Your birth is far better than theirs, so face them down.’
‘I’ll try, Father,’ she whispered back. ‘They are being quite rude, especially the ladies.’
‘Aye, petal. Unfortunately, these people treat us as if we are provincial nobodies. Think of Tintagel and its strength, and then give them the most courtesy you can manage.’
A pair of large double doors opened sufficiently wide to allow a short, thick-set man to enter the antechamber. His sparse white hair was cut short and artistic curls had been arranged across his forehead. However, this foppish affectation was unable to weaken the effect of a pugnacious jaw, a firm mouth and two acute brown eyes that closely examined the newcomers. With a politician’s easy smile and a smooth, outstretched hand, the man crossed the finely tiled floor to meet Caradoc. The Roman’s grip was forceful and strong when he grasped Caradoc’s wrist in the universal gesture of peace.
Marcellus stepped forward smoothly. ‘My lord, Marcus Gallus Felix, Magistrate of Aquae Sulis, may I present Caradoc ap Ynyr, the king of the Dumnonii tribe, and Princess Endellion, his daughter.’
‘Well met, Your Highness. I welcome you and your beautiful daughter to our city. I hope that our hospitality will meet with your satisfaction.’ Caradoc was surprised at the warmth and strength in the gravelly voice.
Felix ushered his guests through the glittering crowd.
‘Livinia, my dear, please introduce the fair Endellion to ladies of a suitable age, while I discuss private matters with my guest.’
An almost cadaverous lady swayed out of the crowd to usher Endellion away from the comforting company of her father. Endellion wanted to flee, but her father’s advice stiffened her backbone. She accompanied the magistrate’s wife to a corner of the room where she was introduced to a bevy of girls clad in robes that contrived to show more of their bodies than Endellion thought proper.
The double doors leading to the interior room swallowed Felix, Caradoc and Trefor, who had refused to leave his master’s side. Endellion watched them depart with frightened eyes. She had been thrust into the company of young ladies who had been coerced into entertaining a young pretender from the backwaters of rural Britannia. Their mannerisms were affected and their expressions so patronising that she had difficulty controlling her responses.
‘What is there to do in . . . Tin . . . Tin . . . ?’ inquired a girl with an exotic hairstyle of delicately piled curls.
‘Tintagel,’ Endellion replied.
‘What sort of name is that?’ her sister, a girl in blue, scoffed.
‘It’s a Dumnonii word.’ Endellion was trying her best to remain polite, but the young ladies continued their pointed and sarcastic questioning.
‘So! What is there to do in your remote backwater of Britannia?’ Livia, the girl with the curls, repeated. ‘Do you dance? Or do you take lovers?’
‘Certainly not!’ Endellion protested and flushed delicately across her high cheekbones. ‘My father would kill any man who tried to touch me without his permission.’
‘Gracious! How do you stand such bullying? You’ll be telling us next that you weave and sew all day,’ the girl in blue, Drusilla, smiled maliciously and then giggled behind her hand.
‘I would expect my father to protect me from any unwanted advances. And what is wrong with the tasks necessary to maintain a good household? I expect to be a wife one day, so it’s important that I have the skills necessary to supervise my servants.’
‘My goodness, you really are a country mouse, aren’t you?’ Livia continued. ‘And you have such interesting warriors to tend to your every need. She was eyeing Endellion’s guardsmen with crude admiration.
Endellion was close to losing her temper.
‘My father would punish me if I were to act like a whore, not that I would eve
r want to shame him. I wonder whether your father would wish you to sully his name, but perhaps you aren’t as loved and as protected as I am. I’m sorry for you if that’s the case. I’m the daughter of a king and I have been raised to act with propriety and to be generous to all the men and women who serve the members of the royal family. I would never tempt them to act in ways that would bring harm to their persons – never!’
‘Are you calling me a—’ Livia snapped, but Drusilla realised that her sister was treading on dangerous ground. She clasped Livia’s hand in a vice-like grip.
‘Don’t bother with this provincial, Livia. Our father will be angry if we should get into a confrontation with one of his guests,’ Drusilla hissed. ‘As for you, young miss, I’d keep your opinions and your complaints to yourself, if I were you. The magistrate is our father and our bloodline goes back to the very beginnings of Rome. You do not count in Aquae Sulis, and you are only a guest in this house.’
Endellion stared at two pairs of cold eyes that seemed to strip her of her fine clothes so that she stood naked in front of their contemptuous smiles. She had never felt so raw or so alone.
Some deeply buried streak of obstinacy rose to the surface as her dislike for these girls reached its zenith and her palate tasted of acid. It brought with it memories of her childhood and stories of the decimation of her people that had been related to her by her old nurse. A sense of pride made her lift her chin.
‘Beware whom you accuse of being a fool, a whore or a nobody. My mother is a servant of the goddess and my father is a king. In the fullness of time, mine shall be the womb that brings forth new kings . . . and more than kings.’