The Blood of Kings: Tintagel Book I

by M. K. Hume

  ‘The old fox is up to something,’ one white-haired grandfather muttered as he leaned on his spear. ‘Caradoc has never done anything that wasn’t aimed at victory.’

  ‘How would you know, old man? Caradoc lets old farts like you come on these jaunts so he doesn’t feel so ancient himself.’ The younger man who spoke was heavy-set and mature, but walked with a limp. In the past, such a warrior would have been rejected because of his disability, but Caradoc was desperate enough to take any volunteer who could carry a sword.

  ‘When I fought at Anderida with King Llew, I weren’t much younger than I am now, so don’t take my white hair for any indication of my sword play. I came out of that charnel pit alive and I tell you that Caradoc doesn’t fight until he finds a lever that will give him an edge. He’s a leader with respect for the lives of his men.’

  ‘Aye. But if we aren’t prepared to fight, those Hibernians will burn Mamucium to the ground,’ the younger man retorted. ‘The old king is the regent for Macsen Wledig, so he’s still in command. His pride won’t let him lose, but he’s become very cautious in his old age. He knows that the time is fast coming when his army will be forced to fight.’

  ‘Damn! It’s raining again and the mud’s just getting stickier. Caradoc won’t attack the Hibernians while the weather’s against us, unless he’s got some secret plan. But, then again, them raiders won’t be too interested in crossing swords with us.’ The old man winked and pointed to four heavy wagons that were slogging through the sticky terrain towards the British camp. ‘Those wagons might explain why we’ve been sitting on our arses for two days.’

  ‘What are you talking about?’ the younger man snapped as his eyes scanned the draught horses that were straining between the traces. Whatever was carried under the oiled covers was extremely heavy.

  ‘I saw two couriers ride out at speed before we were even halfway to Mamucium. At the time, it were long before we knew that the weather weren’t going to break. I wondered what Caradoc needed from Deva that was so important. I’ve been thinking on it, and I’ll bet my left ball that those wagons contain some of them siege machines.’

  ‘Siege machines? Are you wanting in your wits, old man? The Hibernians aren’t under siege.’ The younger man prodded at the mud with the shaft of his spear.

  ‘But they would be, if Caradoc tried to encircle them raiders,’ the old warrior replied dourly. ‘Of course, we’ll probably be dead if they were to attack our piddling little army before we were ready to contain them.’

  ‘We’ll see what happens, old man,’ the limping warrior snapped. ‘You might be right, but I doubt that Caradoc is daft enough to bring large siege machines into this much mud.’

  As the miserable day continued, Caradoc’s warriors realised that the old man had, in fact, been so wanting in his wits that he had sent for two of the Roman siege machines that were stored in Deva. Apart from ropes, these machines required little maintenance, but they had been unused for almost a century and few men were familiar with their workings. While there were some doubts as to the king’s sanity, he had given a great deal of thought to their usefulness in the coming battle.

  The old man had sent for the weapons as soon as his forward scouts gave him a description of the barbarian siege that was building at Mamucium and the terrain that surrounded the town. Fortuitously, the commandant in Deva had anticipated the Briton’s needs to perfection and had despatched two of the smaller machines, catapults that could be easily manoeuvred by a squad of two engineers with forty warriors to provide the manpower. Now that the machines had arrived, they could be assembled on the lee side of a low hill that hid them from the prying eyes of the Pict warriors.

  The two additional wagons contained extra rope, spare parts and a supply of nails, scrap iron and timber, ammunition that would be invaluable when the battle commenced.

  A night of frantic energy followed the machines’ arrival at Mamucium. Only two men among the warriors in Caradoc’s command laid claim to any knowledge and understanding of their assembly. To make matters worse, it soon became evident that the two young engineers had exaggerated their own skills.

  During the wet hours that followed, the pair tried to make sense of the complex siege machines. Caradoc became an essential presence at the site, for he provided the clear thinking and logical thought processes needed in the absence of drawings or plans. Eventually, by trial and error and the expenditure of much imagination, the two catapults were finally assembled. Then, as morning came and Caradoc ordered the covered torches to be extinguished, he prayed to God that this gamble would actually work.

  As the dawn brightened, the old king ordered that a trial should be carried out. With their metal baskets filled with heavy stone and small lengths of timber, the engineers test-fired the machines in directions that couldn’t be seen by Hibernian observers. Caradoc had no intention of giving advance warnings to an enemy who believed that the Britons feared their superior numbers. Worse still, advance knowledge could allow the Hibernians to mount a pre-emptive strike.

  At first, the catapults failed to fire. One collapsed when the ropes winching the basket frayed and snapped; the load tilted as it fell, so one unwary warrior was crushed under heavy rocks. Like an angry snake, the traitorous length of rope sliced through the air and cut more men down in its wake.

  Ignoring the recriminations and human damage, Caradoc instructed his men to replace all the aged ropes with spares. Part-way through the process, the second catapult was found to have a broken wooden strut, so timber reinforcing was bolted onto the wooden crosspieces and, for added security, the king ordered metal braces to be fixed to the frame.

  As the work progressed and his men learned to treat the catapults like dangerous and unpredictable animals, Caradoc occasionally stared down the road towards Deva.

  ‘If this war was a Greek play, the gods would send Maximus down the road with reinforcements at the very time when my spirits are at their lowest ebb,’ Caradoc mused to himself. ‘But today isn’t a Greek play.’ He took pains to check the mechanisms of both catapults closely before proclaiming himself satisfied.

  The time had arrived to draw together the various elements of Caradoc’s plan. First, small trees and shrubs, scrap timber, straw, old tents and anything that could provide traction over the mud must be laid along the paths that the machines must follow as they were dragged up the rain-sodden incline.

  ‘You understand your orders, Huw? The Brigante volunteers are ordered to position themselves halfway up the hill, with their weapons facing towards Mamucium. They are tasked to protect the siege machines that will be on the top of the hill behind them. The Hibernians will be forced to fight their way up the slope when they mount their attack. Position a cohort of our southern troops, under your command, behind the Brigante to reinforce the entire line. Our numbers are limited, so I’m hoping that the Brigante warriors can hold their own.’

  ‘I live to serve, King Caradoc,’ Huw replied with a cheerful grin. As one of Caradoc’s most loyal followers, the king could depend on him to carry out his instructions.

  His next set of orders were for Trefor and Rowen, who had been given command of the two cavalry columns on the left and right flanks of the main defensive line. ‘Your warriors must understand that their role is to encircle, contain and funnel the enemy towards the centre of our defences. The Hibernians must be massed towards the ridge line where they can be crushed by the siege machines in a confined space, whether they like it or not. Finally, the cavalry must cut down any raiders who try to escape from the trap.’

  Both officers nodded and headed off towards their respective wings, both exuding confidence as they sauntered away.

  As they set off, King Llew joined Caradoc, but his expression reflected his confusion.

  ‘The walls of Mamucium will provide the rear of our trap, Llew,’ Caradoc explained. ‘The raiders will see our troop movemen
ts along the ridge line and will realise our numbers on the ground are stretched thin in the centre. They will consider that we are vulnerable at this point, so they’ll mass for an attack on the narrower parts of our defensive line at the centre, expecting us to mount a counterattack from the wings and the flanks. We’ll do exactly that, but we’ll do it at a time of my choosing. Do you have four sensible young lads who are fleet of foot? They’ll be needed to relay my orders at speed to our commanders on the front lines.’

  Llew stared out at the proposed field of battle and he noted the Brigante foot soldiers as they moved into their defensive positions. From his position on the ridgeline, Caradoc observed the first part of his strategy set in train as if he was some kind of god who could stare down at the living chessboard of the grimy town and the two armies jockeying for position in front of the town gates. Once the central troops were in position, he ordered three of the couriers to run to the front lines to inform the commanders that they could anticipate an enemy attack once the first siege machine was fired.

  ‘Boy,’ Caradoc ordered the fourth lad, who was barely twelve years of age. ‘Tell the Roman officers at the catapults to move them up onto the ridgeline. Run!’

  The lad sprinted down the slope of the hill to where each of the catapults was standing on its wheeled chassis.

  Caradoc was fascinated by the ingenuity of the teams whose sole task was to position the catapults, for he knew that victory would ultimately depend on them. Mercifully, the hill’s gradient was slight. Brute strength, determination and stubbornness won the day and, eventually, the catapults were ready.

  The moment they were, the excited courier was instructed to relay Caradoc’s order that the catapults should be anchored to the earth with ropes attached to sharpened stakes. Stripped to the waist, men laboured under a pale sun that had emerged from behind clouds, Caradoc watching as his orders were obeyed. The baskets were filled and prepared for firing.

  As they massed before the city gates and stared up at the ridgeline, the Hibernians could clearly see the huge, insectile forms with long legs that were poised to leap down on them.

  ‘On my order – fire!’ Caradoc shouted.

  The levers and ropes were released and the rubble sailed into the air in a high arc to smash into the very edge of the raiders’ position, scattering those men who remained untouched.

  ‘Calibrate the sights so the target is moved four spear lengths to the right. The range can remain the same as the current setting.’ Caradoc issued his orders without taking his eyes off the milling and disorganised raiders whose mass seemed to be swirling aimlessly at the town gates.

  Reloading was faster than he had expected, for the crews became more and more adept as they familiarised themselves with the complicated firing mechanisms.

  ‘Fire at will,’ he shouted, and then the real carnage began.

  Caradoc had an intimate knowledge of war, but he was unprepared for the damage that catapults could inflict on human beings. Men died in ugly piles of smashed flesh. When old chains, nails, timber spikes, scraps of iron and shards of broken pottery were added to the rocks in the baskets, these manufactured missiles stabbed, speared, impaled and lacerated the assaulted flesh that had once been human bodies.

  Confused, maddened and terrified, the Hibernians attacked the centre of the British line, but such was their fear and confusion that the raiders seemed unable to develop a concerted assault that would maximise their numerical advantage. From his vantage point, where the catapults continued to rain their murderous fire into the melee, Caradoc was amazed to see that his barrage had suddenly turned the Hibernian attack into a complete rout. Only later would he discover that three of the Hibernian commanders had disobeyed every law of battle by standing arrogantly together to discuss various aspects of the British lines and the coming battle. They had been cut to pieces in the very first volley.

  Leaderless, the raiders finally used a large wedge of men to press against the elongated line of Brigante warriors, causing it to bulge ominously. Another courier was despatched immediately to Rowen, who was ordered to use his cavalry on the left flank to charge into the press of men. As confusion reigned and the raiders moved away from the town gates, the catapults ceased to rain death down on the enemy. Their bloody work was done.

  The battle seesawed back and forth, but the Britons had the advantage of a cool brain atop the hill. The end had never been in doubt from the time that the catapults came into play and the enemy commanders had been killed in the first sortie. Arthritic, aching and sick at heart, Caradoc presided over the victory with cold mental strength, but his personal vitality had been eroded. Cold and shivering, he huddled into furs brought by Llew’s men, for he refused to leave his command post until the Hibernians were dead or had escaped towards the sea.

  Later, he was carried from the field because his legs would no longer hold him upright, leaving Llew to assume the duties of the victor and preside over the grisly clean-up. Caradoc had achieved his last miracle. But still Maximus did not come.

  Although the battle against the Hibernians was decisive, the Picts continued to rampage unchecked throughout the north. Britannia was teetering on the edge of defeat.

  The courier rode two of his three mounts to death as he hastened north to Deva with a message for the regent. Mud-splattered and swaying with exhaustion, he could barely lift himself out of the saddle on arrival, but to fail in this task was unthinkable.

  Caradoc was abed and fretful from a bone-deep weariness. Weeks in the saddle and constant exposure to the elements had taken an inevitable toll on the old king’s reserves of strength, so he yearned for the luxury of complete rest. Tintagel was a distant dream, something barred to him because of his foolish devotion to what he saw as his duty. He faced the wall in misery, while his head was elevated on pillows in an attempt to ease the strain on his aching lungs. His pain was such that he cursed the day he had invited Magnus Maximus into his home and into his heart. Endellion met the courier at the entrance to the villa where Caradoc was ensconced, having reached Deva with Severa, for whom she had become a surrogate mother.

  ‘I will take you to the regent but your message had better be important. He’s been ill and I’m reluctant to disturb him.’

  The courier bowed so low that his plaits almost swung to the tiled floor.

  After he had scrubbed off the worst of the mud that spattered his face, she led him to Caradoc while issuing ultimatums along the way.

  ‘My father is just beginning to heal, so don’t tire him out. He’s an old man who has just fought a hard and hazardous campaign against our Hibernian enemies, so he mustn’t be disturbed. You can be assured that I’ll become very angry if you distress him.’ With a flourish, Endellion opened the door to the sickroom. Caradoc looked up from the scroll he had been trying to read.

  ‘It’s an honour to stand in your presence, Regent Caradoc. My name is Glanmore ap Niall, once of Gwent, but now the personal courier for Emperor Maximus of the West. I bring you his warm greetings and his thanks for your efforts on his behalf. He bids me to tell you that he will be arriving in Deva by ship within days, if the good Lord so wills it. His troops are already marching overland to scour out any threats that might exist within his kingdom.’

  ‘Emperor? At last! So my old friend has achieved his heart’s desire after all this time,’ Caradoc murmured. ‘Endellion, fetch some wine and food for our young friend. He’s famished, and he must be weary if he’s ridden all the way from Dubris in such miserable weather.’

  ‘Father?’ Endellion tried to interrupt and ask about Aeron, but her father hushed her by placing one swollen forefinger over her lips.

  ‘Enough, young lady. Where are your manners? Young Glanmore is obviously exhausted, so you must remember the rules of courtesy.’

  ‘Of course, Father. Excuse me, Master Glanmore. I will return with refreshments in just a moment.
But, please, can you give me some word of Aeron?’ Although her speech was conciliatory, her eyes flashed lightning bolts towards Glanmore ap Niall in an obvious desire to know if her man was in Maximus’s boat and heading for Deva. The young man responded with an an apologetic smile.

  ‘No, mistress. Aeron has been ordered to remain in Treverorum to finish a series of important scrolls.’

  Endellion’s face fell and she had to stifle a sob.

  ‘But he told me to tell you that his feelings have not altered and he will come as soon as Maximus agrees to release him.’

  Endellion ran from the room with her face buried in her skirts.

  Caradoc immediately sat up in his bed and impaled Glanmore with his dark eyes.

  ‘I haven’t heard a word from Maximus for nigh on eight months and that message was old when we received it. Quickly, young Glanmore! How did my friend become emperor?’

  ‘Firstly, Your Highness, you mustn’t be deceived by his new title of Emperor of the West. My master, Flavius Magnus Maximus, is angered by his newly negotiated position, but Emperor Theodosius himself offered my master a working compromise that couldn’t be refused. Maximus’s lines of communication and supply were overburdened and he could see that any further engagements in Italia might last indefinitely, especially with Emperor Theodosius’s tacit support for the claims of the boy-emperor, Valentinian.’

  Caradoc nodded. He knew that compromise and consensus were sometimes thrust upon unwilling leaders, who occasionally must accept that half a loaf was better than no bread at all.

  ‘Anyway, the Empire of the West was ultimately divided in two. Predictably, Theodosius lost nothing, while Valentinian relinquished those parts that were slipping beyond his control.’

  ‘So the plot between the two emperors was successful, although Maximus did gain at least half of what he had originally desired,’ Caradoc said reflectively. ‘They have treated my friend like a simple, ambitious and vulgar servant who is grasping for a position that is far above his station. Am I correct? Let me guess at the lands that were ceded to Maximus. Gaul to the lands of Germania, plus Hispania, Britannia and selected parts of Africa: those sections of the Empire that are already under threat or are largely agricultural in nature. Except for the odd lead, silver and gold mine, little of great worth has been lost. The frontier is expensive to guard, so Maximus has been being treated as Theodosius’s fool while Valentinian retains Italia and the riches of Africa. Does Maximus understand what his kinsman has done?’