The Poisoned Throne: Tintagel Book II

by M. K. Hume

  The silence became an agony of waiting.

  ‘Why did you bring a bow on our little jaunt?’ Severa asked in a shaky voice, shattering the tension and causing Constantine’s concentration to waver. She knew the question was irrelevant, but her curiosity had been aroused. Besides, she mightn’t survive to obtain an answer if she didn’t ask.

  ‘That’s a foolish question, woman! Hunting has always been one of my favourite joys,’ the centurion answered, his tone of voice somewhere between a snort of derision and a laugh. ‘In fact, I had planned to get us a coney for the evening meal today. But as Fortuna would have it, I don’t believe I need to worry about filling the cooking pot.’

  ‘I’ll carry out that duty if we survive today,’ she said in a strained voice.

  ‘You’ll certainly survive if Conanus has his way, Severa. For our part, Drusus and I will prove difficult to kill. I have been told that I have a destiny to fulfil, one that includes you, so that will be another obstacle at the feet of our Armorican friend. Drusus is as tough as old boot leather, and he’ll not be prepared to depart from this life without a great deal of encouragement.’ Constantinus’s words were whispered, because he had heard the unmistakeable sound of boots slipping on scree some little distance from their cave.

  ‘They’re coming,’ Drusus hissed.

  ‘Aye!’

  Within the dim light that was beginning to penetrate the cave, Severa’s ears strained to hear the slightest sound from outside the entrance. Her muscles were tensed with anticipation and she held the bowstring taut while sighting down the anticipated flight of the arrow. But she was far from comforted by Constantinus’s observations about their safety. Capture would be another kind of death that might be worse than the cessation of breathing.

  During the past month, she had tasted a free and untrammelled life, with the pleasures of self-determination that were enjoyed by men. She wasn’t so foolish as to believe she could defy the rules of society and gain the total freedom she craved. Yet, if her birthright and her sex demanded that she must marry and bear children, she would rather die than become the wife of a traitor. Let the Armorican ruler come. Uncle or no, she would fight him to the death.

  Short scurrying sounds of movement flickered past the horses’ broad backs as if a body of men were inching their way towards the cave entrance but were wary of the hooves of skittish animals. The gloom within the cavern continued to defy the slowly brightening horizon where a red sun was beginning to rise. With her heart racing, Severa stilled her mind, forced her arms to remain steady – and waited.

  She swore that the first person to enter the cavern would die, regardless of who he was. She drew in a deep breath to sharpen her mind as shapes coalesced on the periphery of her vision.

  But she continued to wait for her first target.

  CHAPTER XII

  A Bitter Legacy

  Believe me, wise men don’t say ‘I shall live to do that,’tomorrow’s life’s too late; live today.

  Martial, Epigrammata. Book 1:15

  Severa’s fingers strained on the bowstring and her nerves were as tense as the bent bow. With their backs lit by the rising sun, two figures bearing torches were approaching the cave entrance from behind the flanks of the horses. One pale hand rested briefly on Drusus’s horse, partly for support and partly to calm the nervous beast.

  She could hear someone breathing harshly within the relative quiet of the cavern. Then, from outside, some stones were dislodged as one of the men took an awkward step. He continued to move forward, and his blundering footsteps were shockingly loud within the confined space.

  A third man also moved towards the opening. The noise of his movement told the defenders that this man was weary of lurking in the shadows and wanted to take the initiative. One stride and this warrior would be within reach of Constantinus’s sword if the centurion could still wield the weapon.

  Severa forced herself to avoid all further thought. With the bow at full extension, she released an arrow without bothering to follow its flight, for she had immediately reached into her quiver for another arrow to nock into the bowstring.

  A sudden exhalation of breath was followed by the sound of a weapon clattering on to the hard stone floor. Then a sharp cry of warning was heard; four men appeared from out of the darkness as they tried to gain entrance to the back of the cavern where Severa was standing. Fear gave strength to her arms and she released another arrow into the broadest part of the leading shadow.

  As the leading warrior fell, the edge of Constantinus’s gladius caught a shaft of light from the rising sun as his weapon swept down on the arm of the man who had just thrown away his torch. His eerie scream shuddered through the confined space. Severa tried to release the next arrow, but the mouth of the cave was a tangled mass of limbs and straining bodies that were engaging in deadly combat. Her weapon had been rendered useless by the close in-fighting.

  Bow raised and at the ready, she waited for an opportunity to fire at a suitable target.

  But the mass of fighting men, who were probably no more than five or six in number, were encroaching into Severa’s space by now.

  She swore as she dropped the bow behind her where it would be safely at her feet. Then she drew her knife, comforted by its feel and texture. She tightened her fingers, lifted the blade to her lips and kissed Calindre’s cold and beautiful surface.

  ‘If you kill my son, you will take days to die,’ a voice from outside the small cavern intruded over the grunts and curses of the struggling combatants.

  ‘Make your retreat, Conanus!’ Severa yelled, unable to control her emotions. ‘Depart this place, Uncle, for I will not marry Cledwyn. I’d sooner die than serve your purposes and I refuse to bow before your threats.’

  The sound of her voice seemed to give courage to her uncle’s minions. Stupid! Stupid! Stupid! Calindre’s silent voice upbraided her.

  Fortunately, the Romans possessed an advantage in the narrow space leading into the cavern and several bodies lay sprawled near the defenders’ feet. Blood had fouled the walls and floor of the shallow space, causing Drusus to slip on a slick rock on the cavern’s floor, a fortunate fall that saved him from a slicing sword blade that would have eviscerated him if it had found its target. Severa watched in awe as Drusus, black with blood and with his face set into a grim snarl, despatched his opponent with a wicked stab into the upper abdomen. As he pulled his gladius free with a nasty twist of the blade, blood arced across his face.

  Another warrior lurched towards her. This man’s breast was a black bulk in the glowing light and she realised, in an instant, that this figure wasn’t wearing body armour. Crouching as low as she could get, she brought Calindre up in a fast, stabbing motion that caught the man’s foot when he tried to kick out at her. The point of the knife caught the warrior’s ankle. He screamed and made an involuntary, backward jerk with the wounded foot as he fell. The knife was almost wrenched from Severa’s hand, but she just managed to retain the weapon while slicing the palm of her own left hand in the process.

  Without time to think, she slashed once again at the dimly seen belt buckle of the Armorican warrior as he regained his feet. She almost overbalanced from the full extension of her arms, but her assailant reeled backwards, keening thinly, while both hands were clasping at the middle of his body where her knife had made its entrance. A sudden spray of blood covered her face in a warm, sticky jet that tasted of metal. Sickened, she crawled back to the safety of her wall until her back was firmly pressed against its solid protection.

  The attacking figures suddenly backed away and the half-light revealed the blood-spattered shapes of three mortally wounded Armorican warriors who were in their death throes at her feet. Two more men were lying at the entrance behind them with black-fletched arrows protruding from their bodies.

  I’ve killed three men, Severa thought blankly. Strangely, she
was still dry-eyed.

  Meanwhile, the horses had fled from the carnage in panic, while ragged breathing and low, keening moans were the only sounds that could be heard.

  ‘Do you still live, Conanus?’ Constantinus asked softly. His ragged breath was a clear indication of the difficulty he was experiencing from his wound and the exertion of combat.

  ‘Is my son alive?’ an older voice replied from beyond the entrance to the cavern.

  ‘I have no idea, Conanus. We’ve immobilised him, but I could cut his throat if such was your preference?’

  Silence followed this threat.

  Severa crawled through puddles of blood to reach the centurion, who was bleeding profusely from his shoulder wound and several other superficial sword cuts. His facial features were pale and Severa forced back a moment of panic before she found her cloak and used Calindre to cut the hem so she could tear it into long strips. Quickly and efficiently, she bound his wounds tightly. Her face flamed as she touched his cooling flesh with such intimacy, but she ordered herself to be sensible and complete her task.

  Constantinus’s eyes scanned Severa’s body and the bloody knife that she had rammed into her belt for safety. One of his hands wiped away the streak of blood that covered half of her face, as if he sought to discover if she was carrying any injuries. She shivered as his thumbs wiped the gore away from her cheekbones.

  Cledwyn moaned from his position on the floor of the cavern, so Constantinus shifted his focus and dragged the young man by the hair in front of his own body, almost as a shield.

  ‘Can you hear me, Conanus?’ He waited until he heard a muffled response.

  ‘Good! If you want your son alive, you must allow us to pass. We intend to travel to Tintagel where Severa will be kept in safety until such time as the British kings determine her future. Her foster family has decided that Severa will be kept safe from you or, for that matter, any claimant who aspires to the throne of High King of Britannia. I have been charged with getting her safely to King Cadal, and I have made a blood oath that I will complete this task. Do you truly believe that you or your precious son is fit to sit on the throne where Magnus Maximus rested so easily? Such a sacrilege would never happen, Conanus, for the kings would never accept you. Nor would you be accepted by those Britons who are citizens of these isles. Never, Conanus!’

  The silence dragged on.

  Drusus finally stirred. A wounded man who had been eviscerated by the legionnaire’s gladius was thrashing and moaning, and this distraction was drawing the attention of the two Romans away from Conanus’s invisible warriors who were still unharmed and hiding beyond the entrance to the cavern. Even Severa’s inexperienced eyes could see that the wounded man had little chance of survival, but she still winced when Drusus drew his knife and crawled out into the opening of the cave. Using the corpses of the dead for protection, he cut the dying man’s throat.

  Mercifully, the man’s death throes were brief.

  Still Conanus remained silent and kept his opponents waiting.

  Perhaps this form of torture was the worst punishment the Armorican chieftain could inflict on the three fugitives who were trapped inside the cavern. Waiting for an attack can be far worse than the actuality of a life and death struggle. Severa’s imagination conjured greater horrors than her uncle could possibly create. Fortunately, the two Romans were experienced veterans who understood the emotional cost of a protracted battle, so they were grateful for any respite while Conanus determined his next move.

  Then, as full daylight chased away the last of the shadows and, with it, any advantage that darkness gave to the enemy, Conanus decided to make one more throw of the dice and sent another four men into the cavern to mount another attack.

  Somehow, Severa had retrieved her bow which, mercifully, had not suffered any damage during their earlier scuffle. Always vigilant, Constantinus had reminded her of its existence by miming the action of drawing back the bowstring.

  Their situation had given strength to her muscles and she found she could draw the bow to its fullest extension with ease. Severa had seen cornered rats attack dogs that were many times their size with a ferocity and courage born out of desperation.

  Her arrow punched its way into the leading warrior with maximum effect, the barb passing right through the man’s body. She could not have missed such an obvious target. The man screamed, but Severa forced herself to ignore him.

  Just as she released her second arrow, a body almost collapsed on top of her when the Armorican was despatched by Constantinus, who was using Cledwyn as a convenient shield. Severa’s arrow almost went astray, but it still struck the doomed warrior in the groin.

  This second sharp engagement was almost identical to the first, but by the time Conanus’s warriors were lying prone or attempting to drag their grievously wounded bodies out of the cavern, Severa noticed that Drusus had received a serious wound in his left leg. His opponent had fought with both sword and knife and, while Drusus had killed the man, this unusual combination of weapons had caught him by surprise. The Armorican’s knife was now buried in Drusus’s thigh, high up towards the groin, frighteningly close to the large femoral artery.

  Severa leaped to her feet to assist the legionnaire.

  ‘No! Stay where you are, Severa,’ Constantinus ordered, but he was too late.

  As she reached out to Drusus, an arrow plucked at her sleeve. She felt the heat of its passing along her arm, but she ignored the danger she was in and tore up the last remnants of her cloak to bind the wound and act as a tourniquet. With a broken piece of arrow, she used its leverage to make the bandage as tight as she could.

  Then she felt a sudden shadow touch her. Constantinus roared out her name and she heard Cledwyn’s body drop to the floor when the centurion tried to reach out to her.

  But he was an eye-blink too late.

  A dark, muffled figure lifted her off the ground from behind, and put a knife to her throat. Cursing herself for a fool, Severa forced her muscles to go limp in his arms and she felt his foetid breath on her jaw as she sagged against him, gathering together the last of her strength and resolve.

  Calindre was still in her left hand, for she had used the knife to tear away at her cloak. The cold of the blade reminded her that she wasn’t completely devoid of protection amidst the blood and the suffering surrounding her.

  She struck out with the knife firmly gripped in her right hand, and felt the blade strike home as she stabbed at the man’s body behind her with an upward movement that embedded the weapon to its hilt. He stiffened momentarily, and then his grip slowly loosened.

  Then she was falling . . . falling . . . and a dead weight was dragging her down until her head struck the stone floor of the cavern with a resounding crack.

  After that she knew nothing else.

  Severa returned slowly to consciousness. It was only when she felt a sudden chill that she realised that someone was pouring water over her head.

  ‘Severa! Wake up! Come on, Severa! You don’t have time to rest, so wake up now!’

  The hectoring voice dragged her out of the comforting warm nothingness and she spluttered and drew water up her nose. She coughed in a great spasm and then tried to open her eyes.

  She thought she was blind at first, because her eyelids were gummed together. But once she forced them apart and investigated her face with trembling fingertips, she discovered that a long gash had split her forehead from her left eyebrow to the hairline and blood had seeped over her facial features in a thick, clotting shroud.

  Her eyes began to close again of their own accord, but a sharp slap brought her back to her wits again, while a rough hand pressed a pad of cloth to her bleeding forehead.

  ‘Hold this pad in place, Severa. You can’t go to sleep, because I won’t let you. Come on, girl! A little blow to the head won’t kill you, but I do need your help.’<
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  Constantinus’s blood-spattered features swam slowly into focus.

  ‘Wake up, Severa! Don’t go back to sleep on me,’ he repeated as he shook her again. ‘You have to stay awake.’

  ‘Yes! Yes! I’m awake, so stop shaking me.’

  Severa dragged herself into a seated position with her back against the wall. Drusus was sitting beside her, half-slumped with weariness while he cautiously attended to his wounded leg. She noticed that he was still holding the fragment of arrowshaft in the makeshift bandage to act as a tourniquet if the wound began to haemorrhage. A muffled shape lay partly over her legs with its back towards her. She stared at this figure incuriously as her eyes continued to digest the scene of carnage in the cavern.

  Constantinus pushed the shrouded figure off her legs and the slack body rolled on to its back. Severa could see that the haft of Calindre was facing outwards from where it had entered the corpse’s diaphragm; the man had been neatly disembowelled, although his dark clothing disguised the worst of the damage.

  The man’s hawk-nosed face was bone-white under what was left of a dark tan. White lines at the corners of his eyes and heavy, dissipated pouches beneath the eye-sockets indicated that he was older than she would have expected, middle-aged at best.

  Severa had never seen her attacker before, but she recognised the similarities between Cledwyn ap Kynan and this particular Armorican. She had killed her own uncle, Kynan ap Meriadoc, the ruler now known as Conanus.

  A sob of guilt escaped from the depths of her body.

  Then, as she gazed over the detritus of the battle, she realised that a half-score of men were lying in various positions of abandonment within the immediate confines of the cavern. Few parts of the floor were untouched by the blood or waste that these warriors had given for their Armorican master who had led them to their deaths in what, for them, was a foreign land.

  A grieving Cledwyn was still lying at their feet, bound and weeping, his face purple-red with fury and misery. Severa wanted to apologise to her kinsman, but she lacked the words.