The Poisoned Throne: Tintagel Book II

by M. K. Hume

  At some fifteen years of age, he should by rights have accompanied his father on this campaign, so that he could be blooded into the cruel world of warriors, but Constantinus was unusually protective of his eldest son and had refused to allow the boy to accompany him.

  ‘Better he should learn the tedium and importance of rule,’ her husband had told her.

  But Severa knew that Constans was reluctant to bide his time in the palace while his father was riding off into peril.

  ‘The boy is troubled,’ Severa explained to Dilic, who screwed up her nose with scorn.

  ‘He’s just a silly child, regardless of his height,’ Dilic responded. ‘He does little, apart from whining and complaining that the people of Venta Belgarum are primitive.’

  ‘You are unnecessarily harsh on him, Dilic. My lord wishes him to learn what it is to be a king, so I am prepared to instruct him. He hasn’t had the benefits of a mother to guide him in the ways of good manners. To the best of my knowledge, he’s never known a permanent home other than the Roman garrisons, despite growing up with the knowledge that his father cares for him above all other things. He’s confused . . . and that doesn’t surprise me at all.’

  Dilic had disliked the boy from their first meeting. She resented him even more after her mistress had chosen to leap to his defence.

  ‘He can’t be trusted, mistress, and he’ll see you dead if he has his way. I’ve noticed the way he looks at you when he thinks no one is watching.’

  But Severa had stopped listening. She picked her way back to the ramparts and climbed the crude ladder to the vantage point where Constans was standing and staring after the dwindling column. The climb proved difficult because she was impeded by her heavy skirts and her swollen belly. Still, Constans was the apple of his father’s eye and there was nothing that Constantinus would refuse her if such a choice involved the welfare of his eldest son. Somehow, she must make her peace with this difficult young man.

  Ignoring the concerned pleas of her maidservant to return to ground level and safety, Severa hoisted herself over the last rung of the ladder to find that she now had a panoramic view of Venta Belgarum and the column of warriors winding its sinuous way through the town’s eastern gate.

  She straightened her skirts and gathered her wits together.

  The boy was leaning against the parapet in order to follow the last traces of his father’s red cloak as the rear of the column passed through the town gates. Constans was oblivious of her presence so she could use this opportunity to examine him without causing offence.

  He’s beautiful, she thought with surprise. His face was usually screwed up with strong emotion but, as he watched the departure of his father, his features were still and passive.

  Severa had been nervous in the boy’s presence, so she had difficulty in acknowledging his astonishing good looks and manly presence. The shock of black hair that fell over his eyes; the generous, mobile mouth; the muscles developed from his daily arms’ practice; and the dark, penetrating eyes came together to describe a youth hovering on the brink of a remarkable manhood.

  Severa cleared her throat, so the boy swung around to face her, his eyes flashing with an emotion that she only half understood.

  ‘Your father is a gifted warrior, Constans, and I’m certain that God will care for him during the weeks to come. Would you like to come down now and break your fast with me? We do have a number of important matters to discuss regarding your future duties.’

  Severa managed to keep her voice friendly and natural, although the very thought of climbing down the primitive ladder was making her feel sick. She held out her right hand in an encouraging gesture, but Constans ignored her small token of friendship.

  The boy stared slowly and insolently at his stepmother. Severa was struck by the brilliance of his dark-brown eyes that were as bright and as hard as the stones in the lovely necklace that Constantinus had given her as a birth-gift. They pinned her in place as surely as if she was an annoying insect impaled by a long skewer for intense study. Cowed by his manner, she dropped her offered hand as it began to tremble.

  ‘My father has gone off to battles and consigned me into the hands of incompetent strangers on so many occasions that I hold no fears for him. He says he’ll return, and he will – when he’s good and ready. Still, there are few Romans to guard his back on this punitive mission, so he’ll be forced to depend on the courage and determination of native warriors.’

  ‘The Britons under your father’s command have been trained to meet the standards that apply to Roman legionnaires. I might add that these men are fighting for their own lands,’ Severa added tartly. Irritated by the boy’s arrogance, she longed to wipe the smirk from his handsome face. ‘They have much more to lose than you do – or any other Roman legionnaire.’

  ‘Clamber down to the ground then, Severa, and I’ll join you in a few moments. Father has instructed me to obey you in all things, and I always abide by his wishes. Do you need my assistance to lower yourself down the ladder?’

  Constans sounded sympathetic, but Severa was watching his eyes closely. His facial expression was flat and uninterested, expressing no empathy for the queen and her condition. Of course, the boy had also shown a distinct lack of respect by freely using her first name without paying her the courtesy of using her title. She was acutely aware that Constans knew better, but she resisted an urge to slap his bland face hard.

  Now that the sunrise revealed his body in full, Severa could see that Constans’s colouring was similar to that of his father. Nature had given his short hair that brilliant gloss and good hygiene had made his teeth very white and clean. The boy had dressed in his best clothes to honour his father. Such a handsome specimen as Constans would always attract the admiration of commoners and the queen had heard that he was seen by these citizens as a young emperor. This comment alluded to his abnormal beauty and lofty manner as much as his paternity. The wags in Venta Belgarum had summed up the lad’s pretensions with cruel accuracy. Yet the boy’s eyes were vulnerable and they touched her womanly heart.

  ‘Very well, lad,’ she answered casually, choosing a diminutive to demonstrate to Constans that she considered him to be less than a man. He flushed with affront, so she smiled beatifically.

  ‘I can assure you that I’m quite well and strong, so I’ll manage to climb down the ladder without any assistance. After all, I travelled with your father over very rough terrain when we made our escape from Corinium to Tintagel in those days before you came to join us. I will take great pleasure in introducing you to my friend, Calindre, after we have eaten. I’ve no doubt you have heard that Calindre was the knife that killed Conanus of Armorica. Yes?’

  Constans nodded and Severa saw a brief flicker of interest flash through his eyes.

  That’s how I’ll conquer your resistance, she thought jubilantly. You’re still a young man with a boy’s love of excitement, so I’ll start working on you through your desire for adventure.

  As it transpired, Constans rejected many of her efforts to forge a friendship and he was almost impossible to fool, so Severa spent the weeks before the birth of her second son by encouraging the ever-present longing for glory and adventure that existed in Constantinus’s overprotected son. Constans had been banned from partaking in those ordinary pastimes that were dear to boys’ hearts, such as fishing or hunting, in case he should drown or be attacked by wild animals. Severa introduced him to fishing and the boy quickly became obsessed with this harmless contest between man and fish. By the time she took to her bed with the first pangs of childbirth, Constans was fast becoming an able and dedicated huntsman.

  She told him of her experiences during their flight from Conanus’s assassins and the dangers of the journey, while making sure that the boy’s father was shown in the best possible light. But for all her revelations, she carefully avoided being seen as a sycophant. Slowly and sur
ely, Constans began to warm to Severa’s approaches.

  ‘Severa! Severa! A courier has arrived from Londinium,’ Constans shouted eagerly as he charged through the doorway of the courtyard. ‘Father has sent word of his campaign along the east coast.’

  Uther was asleep on her breast and, for once, seemed mercifully contented. Sighing, Severa handed the sleeping baby to the wet nurse. With his eyes tightly closed, he opened his mouth to wail out his anger.

  ‘Oh, do hurry, Severa! The courier is waiting for us.’

  Constans was bouncing from one foot to the other.

  ‘Now, Constans, where is this courier?’

  The young man led her towards the King’s Hall at a trot. Like an enthusiastic puppy, he tried his best to urge her to hurry. Then, as they entered the majestic hall of Venta Belgarum, stepmother and son found a young warrior waiting impatiently to greet them. He was clearly anxious to complete his duty so he could remove himself from the palace, either to attend the nearest tavern or to return to his fellow warriors on the battlefields of Londinium.

  ‘My queen! Lord Constans! I bring a missive from my master, Constantinus, High King of the Britons. He is resting with his command in the marshes of Portus Lemanis. My lord has been engaged with a large band of Saxons who have taken to the swamps and sucking sands near the coast. Our enemy hopes to be evacuated by their ceols if they can escape our retribution for their depredations. The king has sent me with this missive to ensure you aren’t fearful if you hear news of the battles that have been fought. He’s asked that you should read his missive well, Lord Constans, so you may learn what must be done if you should one day become a king. I have been ordered to return to the king’s bivouac after you have arranged a suitable response.’

  He discharged his memorised message with aplomb and then handed a piece of vellum to Constans with a deep bow of respect. Its red wax seal had been stamped with Constantinus’s ring, an intaglio stone with a dragon coiled within it – the insignia of the Dracos Legion.

  As the warrior backed away, the queen thanked him serenely and ordered one of her scribes to bring scrolls and writing implement so she could pen a suitable missive that would be taken to Constantinus by the courier. Once the niceties were completed, she moved swiftly to the prince’s side so she could read Constantinus’s spidery Latin script over the young man’s shoulder. Severa had no difficulty in imagining the unspoken details implied by his words as the struggles of the last few months were brought vividly to life.

  From the time that the High King and his column, supplemented by a further fifty warriors provided by the Regni king, moved into the lands ruled by the Cantii tribe, they found evidence that the Saxons had sought richer pickings than were available in Londinium and its surrounds. Burned crofts, where only the circular stone walls remained, were still smoking and exposed the pitiful remains of their British owners. Whole families had been hacked to death, a senseless waste as the younger crofters would have been worth a significant value in gold if sold as slaves in the markets of the continent.

  The Saxons had chosen to kill their victims rather than impede their own mobility by having to place guards on long lines of manacled prisoners. Constantinus nodded in understanding of this strategic concept once he accepted that this pattern had been established by the enemy thane. He could now devise a suitable response to the no-prisoners strategy adopted by the Saxon force. For the invaders, the need for provisions was immaterial, for the thane intended to live off the land as far as possible. Once filled with loot, his ceols would sail away with skeleton crews and return to meet the raiders at a prearranged location, one where the troops could embark in the vessels with more accumulated treasure for the return journey to the Saxon homelands.

  The route followed by the barbarians was clearly defined by a series of blood trails. Like clouds of locusts, the Saxon warriors had descended on the Cantii lands to burn, murder and loot against minimal opposition. At times, small groups would break away from the main column to attack isolated targets of opportunity before rejoining their comrades on the meandering journey that would eventually bring them back to the coast. Durobrivae was one such centre, a town where the area’s agricultural wealth was brought to market and traded. Here, Roman support and industry had provided the building materials, metalware and pottery for a strong community where the population was hard-working, good-natured and peaceful.

  Constantinus and his warriors soon grew tired of following the trail of burned bodies, slaughtered livestock and charred fields that the barbarians left behind them. The desire to strike out at this band of Saxons was so intense that he ordered his column to begin a forced march as soon as smoke was sighted in the direction of Durobrivae.

  The lands around the town were flat and ideal for agriculture. The landscape seemed to roll on forever, for the terrain was covered by a warm green and gold blanket that rose in the south and climbed slowly towards a series of low plateaux that were gently sloped and richly forested. If the Saxons were unaware of their presence, then they would be easily crushed by Constantinus’s well-trained warriors, since this landscape offered few hiding places.

  Or so Constantinus hoped. He had made an initial plan to bludgeon the northerners by unleashing his British cavalry at the throats of his enemy. His available intelligence indicated that the Saxon thane held command over a detachment roughly the same size as the British column. Although this group wasn’t the hard core of the Saxon invasion force, the column was far too well armed and dangerous to be allowed freedom of movement.

  Yet, with typical Roman arrogance, Constantinus anticipated that his column would have little difficulty in dealing with a band of poorly disciplined barbarians who had been laying siege to the town gates. The Saxons were using felled trees as battering rams to gain entrance, and Constantinus could hear the regular thud as the improvised rams hit the wooden gates, obstacles that shuddered and splintered with every blow.

  The officers at the head of the cavalry column paused as Constantinus drew his horse to a sudden halt and turned in the saddle.

  ‘Paulus! Command the left cavalry column! Vortigern! Oblige me by leading the right! At my order, each of your columns will advance and position yourselves so that you reach the enemy immediately before the centre column, which will be under my command. Gregorius! Stay with the foot soldiers and join us as soon as possible. With luck, the Saxons will all be dead before you have to engage with them. With the walls of Durobrivae at the Saxons’ backs, our cavalry on each flank and my cataphractii attacking them from the front, there will be no escape for this band of northerners.’

  Vortigern nodded. His dark eyes were both expressive and secretive, a mix that caused Constantinus to wonder what the Briton was thinking.

  ‘Cassivellaunus? With me!’ Cassivellaunus wondered, from behind his watchful eyes, whether his master was adhering to the maxim of holding his Roman minders close to him where he could watch their every movement.

  Constantinus raised his arm high into the air and then, as the noonday sun caught his armlet, he lowered his hand with a fast, sweeping motion. Paulus and Vortigern pointed their swords towards the enemy, still a mile distant, and their horses moved forward at a brisk trot.

  As the outer columns spread across the flat landscape, Constantinus dug his heels into the ribs of his own stallion. Like Flavius Magnus Maximus before him, he had taken to riding a white horse, large and showy, but so powerful that its massive hooves could crush a man’s skull with ease. As his horse sprang forward, Cassivellaunus gave the signal to the cavalrymen behind and the British force moved to their front in three deadly and determined columns at a steady, mile-devouring pace. To the right and the left, the cavalrymen broke into a gallop and moved away from the centre column.

  And then the Saxon thane looked up and saw the red cloaks and brazen helmets moving inexorably towards his warriors outside the walls of Durobrivae. Like a nest o
f disturbed ants, he began to organise his warriors into a defensive line of sorts, with the walls of Durobrivae behind them.

  ‘For God and the High King,’ Paulus roared, and his warriors repeated his war cry.

  Then the right wing followed suit until their voices thundered from one hundred throats as the centre hailed their leader. At a gesture from Constantinus, the troop’s horn sounded out its brazen note and the cavalry swept onward to send green swards flying in great clods of earth.

  Constantinus’s men hit the enemy at the centre of the Saxon line like a falling hammer. The Saxon warriors must have thought that Thor had frowned on them, for the trained horses of the Britons used their bulk and their hooves to smash the flimsy wood and oxhide shields to worthless shards. Their rapidly mounted defensive line bent inward until, falling back from the flying hooves, the entire Saxon defence began to give way. But there was nowhere that the northerners could retreat to, so the reserves behind the defensive line were forced to use their shields to cover their bleeding comrades and take their places in the front line. Like a grim dance of death, the British cavalrymen manoeuvred their mounts in deadly patterns until the wings hit simultaneously and crushed the Saxon defence with the momentum of their charge.

  Lesser men than these ferocious warriors from the north would have fallen and surrendered under the brutal force of swords, metal shields and maddened horseflesh, but these Saxons were huge men who were all hair, muscle and raw courage – and they had no rational word for the concept of defeat. Surrender was unthinkable, even as the line gave way and the warriors felt the stone walls of Durobrivae at their backs. When the foot soldiers arrived at the dwindling Saxon line and the cavalry pulled back, the legionnaires set to work their way through a bloody slaughter that left the Saxons with no chance of survival. If any of their number had survived the rout that followed, they would have sung of the courage of Ranald Ox-killer and the red death that had befallen them at Durobrivae. But no warrior would live to tell the tale.