The Blood of Kings: Tintagel Book I

by M. K. Hume

  Once again, they had no real difficulty in getting directions to the British fortress. The road branched, so Caradoc led the wagons along the fork heading inland towards the same glowering mountain that had seemed to block their path into the north. A line of smaller hills descended to the sea along its flanks.

  ‘Your eyes are younger than mine, petal. Can you see this mysterious fortress?’ Caradoc asked. But as she opened her mouth to reply, Huw shouted a sharp warning.

  Caradoc’s attention was alerted to a contingent of horsemen galloping towards them.

  As swords were drawn from scabbards, the Dumnonii column came to a halt and prepared to take up defensive positions along the track on which they were travelling. Then, at a sharp order from Caradoc, the warriors rested their swords on their shoulders or across their pommels to await orders.

  ‘They’re Britons, Father. I can see their plaited hair and checked cloaks. They must be from the Ordovice tribe.’

  Caradoc stared into the cloud of low dust and clods of earth as the troop approached. The Ordovice cavalry divided into two lines of horsemen as soon as they came within arrow-shot of the Tintagel column, before sweeping around in a spectacular movement that surrounded the Dumnonii in a circle of drawn weapons.

  Caradoc raised his hand and gestured to his warriors that they should maintain their positions and protect Endellion and the wagons. His daughter could see a slight dewing of nervous sweat on her father’s face, but his profile remained calm as he walked his horse to meet the obvious leader.

  ‘Do you usually greet travellers with drawn swords? I am King Caradoc of the Dumnonii tribe, travelling from Tintagel in the south to Deva in the north. I am accompanied by my daughter, Princess Endellion. In Deva, I will be the guest of the Comes Britanniarum, Magnus Maximus, who is my very good friend. I learned that a local king ruled this section of coast, so I deemed it a courtesy to visit a fellow ruler before we turned the heads of our horses towards Deva, and the end of our journey.’

  The captain of the local Britons ostentatiously sheathed his sword, although Caradoc noted that the encircling horsemen remained at the ready, with their weapons drawn.

  ‘I am Barr, Commander of Cavalry for my lord, Kynan ap Meriadoc, who is the son and heir of Meriadoc, the Ordovice lord of Caernarfon. My master has bid me to welcome all men of good will and invite them to share his master’s hospitality, or to repel any strangers who come into our land with evil intentions. Since you are a king, as you say, I will assume you have no base designs on Ordovice security. Where is your home, so I might introduce you appropriately to my lord and master?’

  Caradoc refused to rise to the bait of Barr’s clipped voice and the underlying threat in the officer’s expression.

  ‘As stated, I am Caradoc ap Ynyr, the king of the Dumnonii tribe and I rule many broad acres that stretch from Isca Dumnoniorum on the southern coast of Britannia to the impregnable fortress of Tintagel on the western coast. I wish to visit Meriadoc and his son in the spirit of co-operation, trade and friendship. These are wild and dangerous times, Master Barr, so it behoves all men who love peace to work together if we are to bring prosperity to our lands.’

  Barr inclined his head courteously, but Endellion noticed that his eyes were hooded, so Caradoc’s impassioned words had washed over the Ordovice warrior like so much weed-choked water. Perhaps close proximity to Roman might had insulated this particular British king from any need for alliances or friendships with his peers. Time alone would tell.

  With columns of Ordovice cavalrymen on either side, the Dumnonii cavalcade set off along the track that would take them to the still-invisible fortress. A heavily-forested area crowned a low hill overlooking the sea and, as the cavalcade gradually climbed upwards, a settlement became visible. Small farmsteads were clustered along the lower sections at the base of the hill. Then, on the slopes of the rising terrain, the Dumnonii visitors recognised tradesmen’s huts while closer to the crown of the hill, a number of shop fronts and dilapidated markets jostled for prominence.

  Finally, as they topped the last rise, the fortress appeared. Above them, massive wooden palisades surrounded a structure built entirely from timber. Whole tree trunks had been used in its construction so that it seemed to rise organically out of the forest. These sturdy fortifications were deeply embedded into the top of the sloping hill. Despite its vulnerability to the effects of fire and burning, this fortress would be extremely difficult to attack.

  As the column approached a deep ditch that had been dug to surround the whole stronghold, the local population stopped working on their fields or vegetable gardens to gawp, to call out words of greeting to friends in the cavalry or to exclaim over the unfamiliar sight of Caradoc and his beautiful daughter. Few diversions came to Caernarfon, so strangers in the town were a welcome distraction.

  They passed through the thick gate as it slowly swung open. Heavily reinforced with broad strips of beaten iron, the gate could resist battering rams for some time, even the heavy-duty machines used by Roman engineers.

  Beyond the fortified walls, more timber buildings of both one and two storeys rose upwards, their construction so foreign in structure and design to the roundhouses of Britannia that a Roman influence was clearly evident. The space within the compound was limited and the hooves of so many horses kept inside the ramparts had chewed the bare earth into a mass of drying mud.

  The party picked their way across a tiny forecourt before halting in front of a rectangular building shaped like a Roman basilica. Caradoc noted that an invisible curtain of vigilance hung over the visitors, as if the men who manned this fortress were expecting an imminent attack.

  ‘This place cannot possibly be the important fortification described by your Roman friend, Father. You told me that Master Maximus spoke of a powerful castell with great gates. Look at it, though! The horses have spread dung all over the forecourt, so I’m sure that every person who enters the master’s hall must track horse manure in with them. And the hall itself! It’s crude and it doesn’t instil a sense of pride. It’s almost as though the fortress began its life as a temporary camp and developed over time. I doubt anything here could be of interest to a military commander such as Master Maximus. Besides, he must have seen it on many occasions.’

  Caradoc’s eyes shot a sharp warning towards his daughter. Part of him was proud of her incisiveness and acumen, because many of her observations were correct. But it wasn’t a woman’s place to offer unsolicited advice. Besides, Endellion was still unaware of the true purpose of the journey that had been undertaken on Maximus’s behalf.

  ‘Shhh, Endellion,’ Caradoc warned, but his common sense told him that Maximus’s dream was false, or Caernarfon wasn’t the site of the castell containing the lady of his dreams.

  As Caradoc gazed at the huge timber fortress, an elderly man came through the rough doors that led into the interior of the hall. He walked with the aid of a tall staff, because an old wound had caused his leg to heal at an awkward angle. The man’s face remained tanned and firm, and spoke of a life spent in the outdoors. He wore the black and yellow checked cloak of the Ordovice; his curly black hair hung down his back in a mane that rivalled Endellion’s, and the overall impression of the man was one of vigour, power and experience.

  ‘My master, Caradoc ap Ynyr, and his daughter, Endellion, are from Tintagel, the Dumnonii fortress on the western coast in the south of Britannia. We are journeying into the north to meet with Flavius Magnus Maximus in Deva and discuss matters of mutual interest,’ Trefor explained as he stood to one side to introduce the Ordovice steward to his king.

  ‘My master has taken the opportunity of travelling to Deva to meet and greet those kings of Britannia whose lands lie along our line of travel. My master’s daughter, Princess Endellion, journeys with him as proof that he has no ulterior motives, merely a desire to promote peace and communication between the tribes.’


  The older man introduced himself as Sion Cripplefoot, steward of King Meriadoc. He was unimpressed with Caradoc’s credentials, but remained courteous.

  ‘You may come in, King Caradoc . . . along with your daughter and one guard. You understand that matters of security preclude us from allowing fighting men into the hall and the presence of our king.’

  Caradoc waved away the steward’s concern and called on Trefor to accompany him. Together, Caradoc and Endellion stepped up to the door, with Trefor behind them.

  The doors opened with an alarming creak of iron hinges.

  The Dumnonii aristocrats stepped into the deep gloom of a room lit only by clerestory windows, a narrow strip of apertures near the roof line that allowed the fading afternoon light to enter. The windows also allowed smoke to escape from the hall, in an attempt to keep the air sweet and clean. Several wall lamps lit the interior, but the weather was too warm to make a fire comfortable. Caradoc was led to a partially visible group of people seated at the far end of the room. He sensed the small movements of armed men behind them, while his daughter chose to stare into the dimness where she could see some twenty warriors in various stages of readiness as they stood or sat near the entrance to the hall.

  Although the room was stuffy with afternoon heat, Endellion shivered and pulled her cloak around her.

  In a ringing voice, Sion introduced the visitors to Meriadoc and his son, Kynan ap Meriadoc, plus a number of lordlings whose names were quickly forgotten by the Dumnonii aristocrats. Lamplight illuminated the faces of the only two men of any importance within the room.

  ‘Curtsy low to both the king and his son,’ Caradoc ordered in a soft undertone. ‘We’ll be the epitome of good manners until such time as we know exactly who these people are.’

  Obediently, Endellion cast back her cloak and sank almost to the reed-strewn floor in a deep obeisance. The two Ordovice looked on with approval.

  ‘Sion, ask Lady Elen to attend to us so she can offer hospitality to Lady Endellion,’ Meriadoc ordered in a voice that was febrile and thin. Caradoc flinched at the mention of a woman’s name. Was this Elen a wife? A daughter? Could this unprepossessing hall in a small forest along the Cymru coast actually be the fulfilment of the dream of Maximus?

  Meriadoc was a man in his forties who displayed the ruins of what had once been a powerful physique. He was very tall, a good hand taller than his largest warrior and, like his servant, Sion, he had a full head of vigorously curling hair. His face, under his youthful hair and long, warrior plaits, was haggard from illness; the high cheekbones, broad forehead and determined chin shone whitely like exposed bone in the light of the lamps. His shoulders were huge, but his skeleton seemed to thrust through the heavy wool of his robe as if all muscle and flesh had been eaten away by disease. Caradoc could see that the loose skin over the man’s face and hands were yellowish with sickness. His long, stained fingernails clutched at his heavy robe as if he was suffering from the cold.

  By contrast, his son was shorter, but his energy and vitality seemed to light his face from within. He was in constant motion as his fingers, booted feet and mobile eyebrows moved and jiggled with a life of their own. His hair was lighter than that of his father, but it curled with the same vigour. Caradoc saw that Kynan’s carefully trimmed locks and shaven face indicated a Roman influence.

  But in the young man’s eyes he saw a something lurking there in the clear brown depths, as if a great pike was swimming in them, hunting restlessly and hungrily. Caernarfon would never be enough for this young man; Caradoc promised himself that he would never allow himself to trust Kynan ap Meriadoc.

  Caradoc and Endellion were offered stools. Then, once they were comfortably seated, cups of wine or beer, as well as platters of fish, meat, fruit and nuts were proffered for their enjoyment. Endellion nibbled on an apple. Too fastidious to grease her hands and her chin with fat, she was loath to pull a leg off one of the roasted chickens, despite their delicious smell after the long journey from Pennal on dry rations. She was also conscious that Kynan was openly staring at her across the tabletop. Caradoc was talking policy matters with the Ordovice king, but he also saw the calculating gaze of Meriadoc’s heir and his lips tightened.

  Just when Caradoc was sure he would disgrace himself with a temper tantrum aimed at the arrogant young heir, the situation resolved itself when a group of young women entered the room. The girl who led the group into the hall wore a gown of pale-blue wool that swept along the grimy floor as she glided over to her father, bent over his aging form and kissed his pale cheek.

  ‘King Caradoc! Lady Endellion! Allow me to introduce my daughter, Elen, the Flower of Caernarfon,’ King Meriadoc announced with a fond smile.

  The girl nodded her head and curtsied neatly to each of the guests, giving Caradoc and Endellion the exact measure of respect to which they were due. Endellion felt a sudden surge of dislike at the smug expression on Elen’s pretty, vapid face.

  Forcing down her antipathy, Endellion smiled and curtsied in turn, exaggerating each action so it was a caricature of respect. Elen’s sense of importance was such that she accepted the fawning of the Dumnonii princess as her due.

  ‘I am very pleased to make your acquaintance,’ Elen responded diffidently as she seated herself next to her father. Then, with a vivid smile, she instructed her ladies to prepare a plate of the most succulent portions of food on the table. As she began to eat, with some refinement, Endellion had the opportunity to gaze around the hall and assess its features, while her father was dragged reluctantly back to the conversation with the Ordovice lord.

  But while Caradoc kept his eyes deliberately bland and unaware, privately he was amazed at what their long journey had unearthed.

  For Elen was surely the subject of Maximus’s quest. She was beautiful in a ripe, very feminine fashion, having womanly hips, a tiny waist and breasts that were large, firm and well shaped. Even Trefor was captivated by her generous body, while every man in that dim hall allowed their eyes to caress her voluptuous curves. Elen, aware of the effect she had on men of all ages, smiled knowingly as she felt the Dumnonii party examine her with approval.

  Elen’s hair was a rich, russet shade with tawny highlights, and fell as straight as a spear shaft to her knees. Her eyes were the same brown shade as Kynan’s but they had a yellowish cast that made Caradoc think of a lynx he had once seen as a mascot of one of the Roman legions. Every gesture and expression underlined Elen’s absolute certainty that she deserved the worship of all men within her ambit.

  Ignored, Endellion chose to watch the Ordovice beauty surreptitiously, rather than add to her already overblown vanity.

  And so the twilight moved on towards darkness, while Elen continued to preen. Kynan stared and undressed Endellion with his eyes, while Meriadoc struggled to find the strength to speak of matters of state with King Caradoc. Stuffy and dirty, the hall smelled of old bones, wet dog and something vaguely unhealthy, so that Endellion longed to scrub her hands clean in the nearest bucket of water once the kings had concluded their conversation. On cue, Elen ordered Sion to show their guests to the rooms that had been hurriedly prepared for their accommodation.

  Outside, the moon was rising in a scarlet haze. As the Dumnonii aristocrats followed Sion, Endellion longed to run in case Elen’s shadow should pursue her. It was only when the door of their spartan room had closed behind them that Caradoc’s daughter had the courage to take a deep and cleansing breath.

  The cloth on the bed was dingy and smelled vaguely of damp, but neither father nor daughter cared. Caradoc had travelled many miles, almost half the length of Britannia. He had searched for a dream, but had found an enigma. Had he begun something he would regret? Or was he simply a vessel in a larger plan that would become clearer with the passage of time? Caradoc faced up to his uncomfortable bed with his bared sword close to his arm and prayed that he, at least, would be spared f
rom dreams.

  CHAPTER XVII

  FORTUNE’S FAVOURITE

  Man, you have been a citizen in this world city. Whatdoes it matter whether for five years or fifty?

  Marcus Aurelius, Meditations, 12:36

  The wedding was neither large nor ostentatious, although the bride had wished that the ceremony was more elaborate. Elen had dreamed that she would wed a great man, a coming man, and now she stood in all her considerable finery beside the Comes Britanniarum who was fresh from his great victories over the Picts and the Hibernians.

  Yes, Elen loved pomp and display, so a large group of tribal kings, local dignitaries, prominent citizens from the Roman cities and celebrated military personnel were all present at the specific invitation of the Roman commander, along with their servants, guards and advisers, but a surreptitious glance at Elen’s discontented face revealed that she was far from happy.

  The difficulties of providing accommodation and hospitality for the variety and number of important guests were such that Maximus decided to hold the wedding ceremony in Deva. In any event, the Comes Britanniarum had no intention of being too far distant from his troops in case the defeated Picts should try to regroup. Elen accepted this sensible arrangement with smiles but, within, she seethed with fury.

  This rage was mitigated when she gazed upon her husband’s emotionless features. Undoubtedly, he was a handsome and powerful man, one who would advance high in the world outside bucolic Caernarfon, Segontium and Deva. He had been frank with her, so he had told her of his Roman wife and adult children. But Elen knew men instinctively. Any Roman wife would be aging, but she was still young. She was happy now that she had remained virginal, knowing that Maximus would prize her inexperience. Yes, a clever girl could supplant a distant, middle-aged Roman wife.