by M. K. Hume
‘With the grace of God and the strength of our ancestors, we have succeeded in destroying the armies of the Picts and the Hibernians. They have departed from our lands.’
The crowd embarked on an orgy of celebration while Caradoc returned to the inn on unwilling feet. Sooner or later, Maximus would send for him. What could he say to deflect a force of nature? This man’s stature was growing before Caradoc’s eyes, as if his friend could feel himself becoming a god. Was Maximus so reckless?
Fortuna gave freely, but she could just as easily take the gifts away.
Later, Maximus discovered that his earlier dreams were largely true. He glossed over the long months that the Tintagel party had spent on his quest with a practised smile and cursory thanks before interrogating his friend for hours on everything that the Dumnonii could recall of Lady Elen, her male relatives, the family’s steward and the fortress at Caernarfon.
‘Could you have met King Meriadoc when you were posted to Segontium twelve years ago?’ Caradoc asked.
‘Yes, I believe I did. I recall that we invited him to a banquet in the barracks. He came, but I had no idea that he had a daughter. In any event, she would have been little more than a babe at the time. Nor did I consider his wooden palisades at Caernarfon to be a castell. Did you?’
How very like Maximus to throw any omissions back onto the shoulders of others. ‘No, I saw Caernarfon and its accompanying village, but I never thought of it as a fortress, though I suppose that, technically, it is one.’ Caradoc wanted any decision involving the Roman to be made by Maximus himself.
Subtlety was always lost on the Comes Britanniarum, so Caradoc was certain that the Roman would be off to Caernarfon as soon as his role permitted him to do so. But all that Caradoc wanted from life was an opportunity to lie in his own bed in Tintagel, with his own sky and his own sea wrapped around him.
The wagons were packed and the party was ready for departure the following morning, so Caradoc half expected his friend to take the time to visit their inn and to wish him well. Thus when the innkeeper came to inform him that a visitor was awaiting the king in the dining room Caradoc assumed it was Maximus warming his backside beside the fire pit.
He was wrong. The red cloak worn by the waiting man deceived Caradoc’s old eyes for a moment, but then he recognised the white hair and knew that Decius had come instead.
‘Decius! I imagine you bring word from Maximus. Sit down, old friend, and share a jug of wine with me. We can be comfortable while I discover what your master requires of me.’
Decius had the grace to flinch a little at these words. ‘Not as such, my lord. But he asked me to give you this box and to ask a small favour of you when you return to the south.’
The old retainer looked profoundly embarrassed, as if he had betrayed his master by the simple expedient of confirming Caradoc’s suspicions. Once seated with the wine, Decius handed over a plain beech box that was remarkable for its fine proportions and its exquisite smoothness. Caradoc opened the lid carefully, noting that the hinges were tiny and beautifully wrought, and inside, wrapped in fine wool, discovered a striking torc, or necklace.
Made of gold, the torc had been fashioned to sit around the base of the throat and was delicate enough to suit either a man or a woman. The two twisted ends, designed to sit above the collarbone, had been shaped to resemble two fish. Enamels of various blues and greens created the appearance of scales while the eyes were small green stones inlaid into the design, so that each fish stared out at the world, its jaws gaping and its gills extended.
‘This bauble is far too valuable to be given away with such casual generosity.’ Caradoc put it back into its box and carefully closed the lid. ‘Is it Hibernian or Pict?’
‘I believe it’s of Hibernian origin,’ Decius replied drily. ‘Please take the bauble, my lord. It would be better in the hands of someone who can treat it with respect; if you don’t accept the gift, it will be melted down for the value of the gold and the jewels. That would be a waste.’
Caradoc thought for a moment. ‘Very well, I’ll take the torc and give it to Endellion, my daughter. It can be part of her dowry, if she doesn’t care to wear it. You may tell your master, if he asks.’
Decius drained his mug and grinned ruefully as Caradoc refilled it. ‘I’ll be falling-down drunk at this rate, sir. I just can’t drink like I could in days gone by. Anno Domini, I expect! Ah, well! Old age eventually comes to all of us.’
Caradoc, looking resigned, flexed his swollen fingers and agreed. ‘What does your master want of me? It’s best that I know.’
‘Well, sir, he has some kind of plan in the making, but he doesn’t bring me fully into his calculations. However, I know him too well to be deceived after all these years. He’s very interested in the success of the pact you made with your local kings in the south of Britannia. In particular, he’d be obliged if you could use your influence to praise him to your fellow kings and, if needed, to convince them that they should unite behind him. I believe he intends to make a similar pact with the local kings in the north. All that he asks is that you should shore up your alliance with your southern friends and ask them to become a part of a larger coalition.’
‘Aye, Decius, you can tell your master that I’ll speak to the local kings and I’ll praise his successes and his abilities in glowing terms. Anything else would have to be assessed at some future time, once Maximus has decided on a course of action. Of one thing I am certain: Britannia depends on him for its continued survival.’
‘Ah! We can wish for the wind, but there’s no guarantee we’ll get it. My master has high ambitions, perhaps too high, but I’ll follow him, regardless of what path he travels.’ Decius laughed with little mirth, aware of his master’s strengths and weaknesses. ‘He’ll have what he wants and count the cost later.’
‘Aye!’
Both men sat quietly and stared into the fire pit with hooded eyes. Both knew how little they could do to change the fate of Magnus Maximus, the self-proposed overlord of Britannia.
‘Tell me one thing, Decius,’ Caradoc asked. ‘For many years now, I’ve been haunted by the death of Elphin, the outlaw chief, when first we all met all those years ago. Do you remember?’
‘I could never forget him, sir. I knew you saw me when I spoke to him, and I must confess that I was surprised when you didn’t tell my master what you had seen. Ask what you want, my lord, and I’ll try to answer you fairly.’
‘Did you give him some poppy juice in wine to hasten his death?’ Caradoc’s voice was quite neutral.
‘Aye! Crucifixion is a cruel death and should only be reserved for the worst felons and curs. We didn’t know much of Elphin’s history, but he showed us that he was a brave man and a true warrior. He deserved better than to be blinded by sodding crows while he was still alive. He thanked me, sir, and told me that he wished me a clean death when my own time came.’
Decius snorted, sorrow and regret in his watery old eyes. ‘My master should have given him a better death, because to drag out Elphin’s execution was petty and shamed my master, rather than the victim. I decided to redress that wrong.’
Caradoc leaned over and patted the old warrior on the knee. ‘You did what I wished to do, but I lacked the courage. I didn’t speak to Maximus of what I saw that day because I agreed with your actions. I must tell you that I’ve puzzled over that death for years and all the time the answer was so simple.’
‘Most things are, in the end,’ Decius replied and continued to stare into the fire, pondering his fears of the disaster that might bring his master to a terrible fall.
While Caradoc and Endellion were speeding back to Tintagel, freed at last from the demands of friendship, Maximus turned his face towards Caernarfon. Time was very short. He, too, had heard what his troops planned to do, but when word of his victories reached Rome, he would be recalled to fight on some oth
er frontier and would lose the initiative. He must marry and tie himself to Britannia as its overlord. An heir would be even better. Then he could embark on his campaign to become the Roman emperor.
Maximus could feel the weight of the purple draped around his body and could imagine the shape of the golden leaves as they were balanced on his forehead. A Grass Crown from his subordinates was a great honour, but it was ephemeral and a nothing when compared with the golden diadem. He was prepared to die to achieve that goal.
Maximus felt no shame at using a young girl he had never met as a pawn. She would provide the firm base from which he could snatch his desires, though she would never rule beside him in Rome. No matter how beautiful and accomplished this girl might prove to be, she lacked the birthright to become an empress.
His mind ranged over the waters to his uncomplaining wife, Theodora, who lived in Augusta Treverorum and endured his constant absences. She had followed him for many years, like any good Roman wife, during that long period when he had been passed over for promotion by lesser men, but he had difficulty in remembering the face and form of the girl he had married. Strangely, he could clearly recall the features of his two daughters and his son, Victor. Theodora had done her duty by him impeccably and had even found a good match for his eldest daughter, Victora. Yes, Theodora would become the empress when he finally arrived in Rome.
Maximus thought with satisfaction of his daughter’s new kinfolk. Theodora had brokered a match with Ennedius, the Proconsul Africae, and the lass had already produced a son, Petronius Maximus, whom he had never met. His own son grew tall and talented with exemplary military skills. If Maximus had been other than an over-ambitious gambler, he would have been content with the gifts he had already received from Fortuna’s Wheel.
But ambition and resentment grated together like large grinding stones that rolled around in his gut. Gratian, ruler of the Western Roman Empire, had sneered at him and had used his talents wastefully along his northern borders, had refused to give Maximus the recognition that he craved. To strike back at Gratian would fill the aching void that lived within him, although he would never have raised a hand against his kinsman, Theodosius, who ruled the Eastern Empire in Constantinople.
But, in the meantime, Elen must be used to cement his position as the unquestioned king of Britannia, the High King of Kings. Caradoc’s hunting skills and tenacious spirit had found her for him and the Roman congratulated himself on having such a friend. Caradoc would play a major part in his plans, a critical part; a trusting fool he might be, but he was always a man of honour and gravitas.
So, as autumn stripped the trees bare and hastened the harvesters in the wheat fields, Maximus rode out of Deva with much pomp and ceremony to find himself a wife.
From the muddy, leaf-strewn track below the fortress, Maximus decided that Caradoc’s warnings had been wise. The seat of King Meriadoc was unimpressive and the old king was little more than a grey shadow in his dismal, rain-drenched hall. Even Maximus’s most fervent attempts to be conciliatory and complimentary were thwarted by the cold hearths, the king’s hacking cough and the well-judged rudeness of Meriadoc’s son, Kynan ap Meriadoc.
The Comes Britanniarum felt the devilry rise in him, allied to a sense of wonder, from the moment the gates of Caernarfon opened and Sion, the steward, stepped forth to greet him.
Sion was nothing like the gatekeeper of his dreams, except for his eyes. Maximus looked across at the king’s hall and transposed stone for timber in his imagination. There it was – the exact copy of the structure he had seen, night after night. Suddenly, Sion’s cool features matched the gatekeeper of his dreams in inscrutability, as the Roman felt the feather-like touch of Fortuna.
He dismounted, and then dropped the reins for others to take up. Around him, his guard snapped to attention in full battle order and the eyes of Sion and Kynan, who had come out to greet him, snapped with displeasure.
Good! Maximus thought triumphantly. Let them feel fear, as long as they obey me.
‘No armed men are permitted to enter the hall of my father. Disarm your men, Master Maximus,’ Kynan ordered.
But Maximus had practised rudeness with more able men than Kynan would ever be.
‘My guard never disarms unless they’re dead, Kynan. As you can see, they are very much alive. I am the Comes Britanniarum and I have no interest in harming your father. There are mutual enemies aplenty to keep our swords red with blood, without turning on each other.’
Kynan coughed as if to cover a curse-word. Yet he capitulated, stepped aside and ushered Maximus and his guardsmen into his father’s hall.
The guardsmen entered directly behind Maximus, who ignored the Ordovice warriors and stalked towards the old king who was seated on his wooden stool with his shoulder wrapped in a blanket to prevent any chills from reaching his old bones. Behind their master, the Roman guards marched in three lines across the hall, their senses alert for movement. Outnumbered, the Ordovice warriors looked to Kynan for orders and received no response.
‘Who comes to my hall with such an impressive guard? For a moment, I thought that the emperor of my youth had come out of Eburacum to pay me a visit. I forget his name,’ Meriadoc said in a voice that was fretful, yet excited.
‘I am the Comes Britanniarum, Magnus Maximus, come to meet your daughter, the fair Elen. I have heard of her beauty and I wish to see if the rumours do her justice.’
Start this campaign as you mean to finish it, Maximus’s brain whispered inwardly. Around him, a hum of comments and exclamations rose towards the rafters like the twittering of so many birds.
‘Elen? What could you possibly want with my daughter?’ The king’s voice was querulous with illness.
‘If she is the one I seek, I wish to marry her and make her the wife of the king of all kings in Britannia. I am also known by the name of Macsen Wledig and I have determined to throw my lot in with the fates of the British people, for better or for worse.’
‘Fetch Lady Elen!’ Meriadoc ordered, wincing, before sinking back on his stool.
‘Father . . .’ Kynan protested, but Meriadoc waved away any further discussion.
Maximus chose to be solicitous for the welfare of Meriadoc, as if he was a son by marriage already. He poured a mug of wine from a crude carafe on the king’s table and offered it to the old man, whose hands were trembling. In the presence of such decrepit old age, Maximus felt a shiver of disgust. Better to die with a sword in your hand than to rot away like this.
Maximus had little softness in his nature; most decidedly, he did not believe in love at first sight.
Then he saw the face of spoiled, self-centred Elen, and magic flooded through his body.
Emotionless and uncaring men such as Maximus sometimes fell in love for the first time during their middle years with a sudden madness that seemed to make little sense. And so it was when Magnus Maximus gazed at the sullen face of Elen. He was to become her slave, at least for a time.
On Elen’s part, she saw a man in his late forties who stood tall and proud in the insignia of a senior Roman office; gold decorated his body, which appeared hard and muscular from his sturdy, polished half-boots to his bared head of thinning hair. His jawline was firm and determined.
As she sank into a low curtsy and her eyes rose to meet his, she almost faltered in her graceful bow. The Roman’s eyes devoured her so intently that the air seemed to be charged with lightning.
The rest of the negotiations passed as if they were part of a dream sequence. Maximus was indifferent to the dowry or to any stipulations that King Meriadoc demanded as a part of the bridal contact. Indeed Maximus waived the dowry entirely and agreed to build Elen her own villa or palace at a location of her choosing. Meriadoc was actually shocked when the Roman agreed to the most ambitious and outlandish demands without any quibbling.
‘I don’t understand his reasoning, daug
hter, but Maximus is determined to have you as his bride. He will settle an obscene amount of wealth on you, if you should bear him a son, but even a daughter will make you an extremely wealthy woman. You’ve done very well, Elen.’
‘But I haven’t done anything at all. I don’t know him, Father. I’m not sure I want to marry him.’ Elen was utterly bewildered. ‘He has sworn that he loves me and that God, or the old gods, had planned our marriage a long, long time ago.’ Maximus gave her an impression of being a very abrupt lover. He had kissed her hand briefly and had bathed her with an intense and demanding look that spoke of ownership and physical desire, rather than the purity of marriage. She had been both attracted and repelled, until she felt an unexpected heat in her loins.
‘You will belong to him for the rest of your days, Elen. Regardless of your thoughts on this matter, the Comes Britanniarum isn’t the brand of man who will ever relinquish what is his. You must take no lovers and you would be advised to tread carefully, my dear.’ Meriadoc’s withered hands had clasped hers and she recoiled.
‘No one can own me, Father,’ she protested, but her father forced her to listen.
‘This form of marriage involves ownership, Elen. You cannot expect a noble Roman to treat you any differently because you’re the daughter of a king. You may believe that empresses can do as they please and that Roman matrons disport themselves in a scandalous fashion. Not so! Maximus is a military man and he will not tolerate such behaviour from his wife. You can expect to have your throat cut without pity if you should ever embarrass him.’
Eventually, displeased with each other, father and daughter parted, but they were unsatisfied, for Meriadoc had already decided to accept Maximus’s offer of marriage.
And so, with almost indecent haste, Elen was married in the spring, despite her protestations that she had barely enough time to prepare her bridal clothes. The kings of Britannia travelled from their halls to attend the event, certain that they stood on very edge of a great and ennobling adventure. Caradoc was accommodated at the same inn that had showed him such excellent hospitality on his previous visit, but Endellion stayed in Tintagel on this occasion. Instead, Cadal was invited to meet the man whose guidance he would be forced to accept once his father had gone to the shades.