Camulod Chronicles Book 8 - Clothar the Frank

by Whyte, Jack

  "I know the place, the caves, I mean," I said. "But how will I find the secret entrance?"

  "You won't. Even knowing it's there you'll never find it, not if you search for it for a hundred years. You won't find it until I show it to you. King Ban knew nothing of it until his father showed it to him, and Ban the Bald told the same tale of being shown by his father. The secret goes from generation to generation."

  An appalling thought hit me then. "So Gunthar knows of it."

  "No." Clodio's response was whiplash-quick and sharp. "Never. Empty your mind of that thought. Gunthar has no idea the caverns exist. When he turned twelve and should have learned of it, the King, by sheer good fortune, was involved in quelling a revolt by the Alamanni on our northern borders. When he returned from his campaign, he found his son absent, vanished no one knew where, hunting with his cronies. Even as a twelve-year-old, Gunthar was a law unto himself. Anyway, for whatever reason. Ban never did find a convenient time to show Gunthar the secret. The boy's fourteenth and fifteenth birthdays came and went, and still he had been told nothing, and by the time he had turned sixteen and attained manhood, his father had decided, for reasons of his own, to tell him nothing. It has turned out to be a wise decision. I am glad to have been able to play a small part in it."

  "You played a part in it? How so?"

  He almost smiled at me, but at the last moment all that transpired was a quirking of one corner of his mouth. "Through friendship, and through shared responsibility. You forget that I, too, knew the secret."

  "But—forgive me for being blunt, my friend—why would the King entrust you with the secret and yet deny it to his son?"

  "You just said it yourself: trust. Ban trusted me. He could not bring himself to trust Gunthar. And I urged him, quietly, to trust that judgment that bade him remain silent despite the unease he felt over what he saw as a duty to his firstborn. I reminded him that he had sired four sons and that the secret of the castle's strength or weakness need only be passed to one of them to endure."

  "I see. So have you told any of the other three?"

  "No. You are the only one who knows, and even you know nothing yet."

  "But I am not the King's son."

  "No more am I. But you will be worthy of the trust, Clothar, and when you—should you—choose to pass the knowledge on, you will divulge it wisely, I have no doubt."

  "Does Queen Vivienne know about it?"

  "No."

  "Hmm." I glanced sidelong at Ursus, wondering how he was perceiving all of this, but he was staring down at the ground between his feet and I had no means of knowing if he was even listening. I looked back to Clodio. "Tell me about the entrance. I find it difficult to imagine any well-used entrance being as completely concealed as you describe."

  "I did not ever say it is often used. Ban's tomfoolery aside, it is opened only once every ten years or so. The doorway was built by a master stonemason a hundred years ago and more, but it is a doorway the like of which you have never seen."

  "So how will I find it, alone?"

  "You won't. You will find me. If you leave now, and should there be treachery so that the castle falls into Gunthar's hands, I will make my way out and through the caverns each day at noon. I will wait in the caves there for an hour, then return here if you have not come to find me. I will do this every day for ten days, and after that I will assume you have been found and killed, and so will stop going. But if you do come that way, bring no more than a score of your best men, and make sure you bring sufficient cloth to bind their eyes, for none of them must see the entrance or the exit on this end. Now you had best leave, before Beddoc and his people reach us. Where will you go, once you are out of here?"

  I looked at Ursus and shrugged my shoulders. "Vervenna first, I think. That seems to be the most obvious place to start. But we'll approach it carefully, for only the gods can know what we'll find there. And if there's no one there, that too will tell us something." I stepped quickly towards Clodio and laid one hand upon his shoulder. "Thank you, old friend. I will not forget. Let's hope our expectations are ill founded and we'll have no cause to call for your assistance. But if we're proven right and the madness we fear does break out, we'll be there by the caves one day, waiting for you. Go with God, Clodio."

  "I will, young Clothar, but I would far rather have gone with my King. Be careful."

  2

  We rode into it. Rode unsuspecting into the chaos and destruction that marked the beginning of Gunthar's War and were engulfed by its madness within the space of two heartbeats. One moment we were forging ahead determinedly through the still unceasing downpour, our horses plodding side by side along a broad and muddy woodland path, and the next we had rounded a bend in the path and found ourselves at the top of a steep defile leading down into a tiny vale that was choked with corpses. It was still not yet noon and the noise of the lashing rain was loud enough to drown any noise from the flies that were beginning to swarm here in uncountable numbers.

  At first glance, I could not tell what I was looking at, but beyond that first uncomprehending look there was nothing that could disguise the atrocity of what we had found. My first conscious impression was of a score of bodies. The number sprang into my mind as though it had been spoken aloud, and I recall it clearly. A score of bodies. No sooner had I acknowledged it, however, than I saw that it was woefully inadequate, for another score and more lay sprawled and half concealed by bushes. And at that moment, as though it had been preordained, the rain stopped falling, for the first time in days, to leave us sitting stunned in a silence that seemed enormous, gazing in stupefaction at the carnage before us.

  Ursus, as usual, was first to collect himself. "Well," he said, his voice sounding louder than ever now that he had no need to shout over the noise of the rain, "at least we know now that they have not all joined forces. Whose men were these, do you know?"

  "Ban's," I said, still too stupefied by the unexpectedness of what we had found to have thought beyond the fact of it to the implications it entailed. "They're garrison troops, wearing Ban's emblem, see? The blue boar's head." And then, as the import of what we were seeing began to sink home to me, my voice shrank to a mere whisper and I felt my bowels twist themselves into spasms of knotting cramps. "These must be the men Theuderic took with him when he left yesterday."

  Ursus nudged his horse forward until he was sitting knee to knee with me. I glanced at him, wondering if he felt as I did, but he was scanning the entire scene ahead of us, his eyes moving ceaselessly over the ranks of slaughtered men.

  "Took them on the march," he said. "Must have lain in wait for them, knowing they'd be coming." He tilted his head back slightly, pointing with his chin. "Look at them. Poor whoresons didn't even have time to draw their weapons. Not a strung bow or an unsheathed sword among them. Probably ambushed from over there." He pointed to the hillside facing us on the other side of the narrow valley. "See, on the top of the hill there, those bushes? See how dense they are? You could hide horses in there, and that's exactly what they did. Perfect spot to lie in wait for anyone coming along this path, because once they're on the slope down, there's nowhere else for them to run to . . ." His voice faded away for a moment, then resumed. "Can you see Theuderic here?"

  'Theuderic?" The question snapped me out of the trance I had been sinking into, making me look around in expectant horror. It was one thing to see my cousin's men shot down and slaughtered, but quite another to think that Theuderic himself might lie among the dead.

  "No, I didn't think so," Ursus continued, speaking quietly as though musing to himself. "There's no dead horses here at all, which suggests that whoever set this trap let all the horsemen pass by first—they would have been ahead of the infantry in any case— and then sat tight and waited for the foot soldiers. And they, knowing that their own cavalry was just ahead of them, would have marched right into death, suspecting nothing. Probably hadn't even sent scouts out ahead of them, although it would have made no difference. Poor catamites walked
right into it. Look at those arrows. I haven't seen that many spent arrows since I fought in Asia Minor, against the Berbers there. I've seen hedgehogs with fewer bristles than that. And yet there's hundreds missing. Look, you can see where they've cut the retrievable ones out of the bodies." He indicated the body lying closest to us, and I saw immediately what he meant. The man had taken an arrow in the thigh, which dropped him in his tracks, severing the leg's main blood vessel and causing him to bleed to death very quickly. The ground around him was black with his lifeblood and it had gouted far enough to stain several of the bodies lying ahead of him, as well. The wound that had been added afterwards had not bled at all; its edges were clean and deep, and the hole left by the missing arrowhead was big. I turned my head away before the gagging in my throat could overwhelm me, but Ursus was still looking.

  "Look over there! That fellow there was still alive before they came down. They slit his throat when they came back, either to silence him or to make sure he'd tell no one what he had seen." He shook his head in disbelief and blew out his breath explosively through puffed cheeks, looking up again to where the bushes that had concealed the killers stretched across the top of the hillside on the far side of the little valley.

  "This is cousin Gunthar's work." I said it quietly, and Ursus looked again at the surrounding scene and expelled another whoosh of breath.

  "May God himself be my witness, I would not have believed it if I hadn't seen it for myself, but those whoresons actually came back down here after the slaughter and collected their spent arrows to use them again." He shook his head again, still looking about him as he continued in the same musing tone. "It takes a special kind of attitude to let a man do things like that—especially to people he has known. These were garrison mates . . . That's a close relationship, young Clothar, brothers in arms. But their brothers, like some of your own relatives, were less than loving. Your cousin picks his guardsmen carefully, it would appear, with more than half an eye to temperament . . . I wonder if they are all mounted archers. They must be, to account for the numbers of arrows and the rate of fire . . . the short amount of time involved." He waved a pointing finger, indicating the feathered missiles projecting from the bodies. 'These are mounted bowmen's arrows, much smaller than the ones you and I have in our quivers. When we come face to face with Gunthar's men I think I would rather have my bow to pull than theirs." He sucked air between his teeth, still looking thoughtful as his eyes moved ceaselessly over the killing ground. "Before we do anything else, though, we ought to take a closer look at what we have here. Come on."

  He swung down from his saddle, and I joined him very reluctantly, my gorge rising anew at the stench that had begun to rise now that the rain had stopped. My entire mouth seemed coated with the brassy, almost granular stink-taste of blood. I tried to ignore the feel of the blood-soaked ground beneath my feet, telling myself it was no more than mud, then stood reeling with nausea, clinging to my horse's halter. Ursus, however, paid me no attention. He was already quartering the scene around us with his eyes.

  "Go you and look down there, Clothar, among the bushes at the bottom of the slope. See if you can find anyone still alive. And see if you can find any different crests from the boar's head, something that might give us proof of who's responsible for this. I'll search on this side of the slope. If you find anything at all, shout."

  A long time passed before I found anything to shout about, and when I did, I almost missed it. I had lost track of time, walking among the dead for so long that I had grown inured to the horrors I was seeing, and my revulsion and nausea had passed. It was plain to see that Ursus was right. The killers had come down after the slaughter and retrieved as many of their arrows as they could cut out of the corpses, and the number of cut throats showed that many of their victims had still been alive when they came down. Now, all of them were dead, every man and boy, and there had been more than a few very young boys, evidently trainees, among the garrison troops. My guess was that no one had survived this massacre, that even those who had sought to .surrender or flee had been shot down without mercy or compunction.

  The rain started falling again at some point, and the renewed chill of it reminded me how far removed we were from any kind of warmth or shelter that day, and I had turned in disgust to rejoin Ursus when I glimpsed something from the corner of my eye that seemed out of place. I immediately looked for it again, but this time saw nothing, and I felt impatience flaring up in me. I forced it down, however, and disciplined myself to move slowly and look again, meticulously this time. And then I saw it: a flash of gray and green among the long, yellowed grass at the base of a thorn bush to my right, a long way from where the nearest dead man lay. Whatever it might be, it had not been left there by any of Theuderic's dead foot soldiers.

  Ursus came running at my shout, to where I was tugging my prize out of the rank, thorn-filled grass among which it lay. He was leading our two horses as he came and I noticed that in one hand he was carrying an arrow that he had obviously taken out of a dead man. I glanced at it but said nothing, contenting myself with merely raising one eyebrow. He saw my reaction and hefted the ugly thing, its barbs clogged and clotted with gore.

  "It's not a memento, and I don't intend to shoot it at anyone. It's evidence of murder and it will be identifiable because it's identical to all the others. Whoever made all these arrows is a master fletcher, and if we find him, we'll find the people for whom he makes his arrows. What have you found?"

  "It's a saddle roll. Must have been snagged in the brambles there and pulled off without anyone noticing it. Couldn't have been too well secured in the first place."

  I crouched on the narrow path and untied the knots binding the bundle, then rolled it out with a flip of my arms. Ursus whistled, a long, drawn out sound of approbation. The main binding of the roll was a standard brown woolen blanket, Roman army issue, heavy and densely woven from untreated wool so that it retained its natural water-repellent attributes. It had been thinly layered with beeswax on one side, too, to increase its resistance to rainwater, and then it had been folded and wrapped into a tight cylinder. Within its folds, however, it contained a change of clothing for its owner, including a plain gray, quilted tunic, the left shoulder of which was emblazoned with a sewn-on patch of brightly colored yellow cloth, edged in dark green and cut in the shape of a bull's head.

  "Gunthar's bull," I said.

  Ursus nodded and held out his hand. "I had a thought it might be. Let me look at it."

  I passed the tunic over to him and he peered closely at it, then wadded it up roughly and handed it back to me along with the arrow he had collected. "Good. It's not exactly proof of who did the killing here, but it would convince ninety-nine out of every hundred men I know. Wrap it in the blanket with this and bring it with you.

  "Now let's move on and see what lies ahead of us on the remainder of the trail, but brace yourself, lad. You might not like what we find."

  I was too enervated by then to show surprise. "Why?" was all I asked him.

  "Because there's worse to come, I fear. What would have happened when your cousin Theuderic realized his infantry were slow in catching up?"

  "He would have come back to find them."

  "Right. And he's not here, is he? My guess is that he made the attempt and rode into the same kind of trap, set elsewhere for him."

  "Which means he's dead. Is that what you are saying?"

  "He could be, aye." Ursus nodded, sober faced. "Probably is, to tell the truth, for otherwise he would have been here before now, to find out what happened to these people. I think you had better prepare yourself for finding him and his men dead between here and Vervenna."

  We rode on, neither of us saying another word, both of us expecting to find another scene of murderous destruction beyond every turn in the road and over the crest of every hill until, about a mile beyond the scene of the massacre, we emerged from the edge of a screen of small trees and saw a wide, smooth, grassy slope stretching up and away from
us to the crest of a ridge that stretched all the way across our front. As soon as I saw it I drew rein.

  Ursus, seeing my sudden reaction from the corner of his eye, turned towards me. "What," he asked. "What's wrong?"

  "I know this place. I remember it."

  Ursus sat looking at me patiently, holding his mount tightly reined so that its neck arched tautly and it stamped its forefeet, trying to sidle away from the curbing bit. He said nothing, controlling his restless mount, content to wait for what I had to say, and after a while I continued.

  "We used to play here, as young boys. We would run up to the crest there and throw ourselves over the top, then roll downhill on the other side. It's all grassy and soft over there, no trees and not even any stones. The hillside slopes down from the crest on that side for about two hundred paces, perhaps slightly more. It's a gentle slope. At the bottom of it, though, it butts right into another hill and the terrain changes. That whole hillside on the other side is covered with trees . . . hardy old things, stunted and twisted and not very big.

  There's a narrow stream cutting through the line where the two hills meet—it's very fast, very powerful, fed by an enormous spring that bubbles up out of the solid rock, higher up the far hillside on the left, close to the top. The channel it has cut over the years is deep but not wide. It levels out only in one narrow spot, where the ford is. That's the only way across the gully, and no more than two horsemen can cross it at a time, side by side. And then to the right of that, the slope falls away dangerously until it drops into a ravine that's choked lower down with moss-covered old trees—ancient old thorn trees and stunted oaks. It's a wonderful place for boys to play, but you wouldn't want to ride a horse down there." I stopped, reluctant to say any more but unwilling to kick my horse into motion again.

  "So why did you stop here?" Ursus asked. "If that's all you had to tell me, you could have done it as we rode."