Clash of Kings (44 page)

Moonlight glinted on the drawn swords and axe blades of the approaching Saxons. They ran in a rough arrowhead formation, with the warrior in charge of the troop at the front, which was unusual for Saxons who tended to fight and generally conduct themselves as individuals rather than as a cohesive group. But these huge fighters were Hengist’s men, so they were disciplined from years of fighting as mercenaries with him. Catigern’s men saw the troop approaching at a swift, easy lope and felt the presentiment of disaster.

Without the firm hand of their prince to stiffen their backbones, some of the Celts broke ranks and took to their heels. Later, the Saxons would report the tale of this cowardice to Hengist with much scornful laughter, while Finn would feel such shame over the actions of his frightened comrades that he yearned to die of the loss of honour. Meanwhile, on the river flats, the Saxon leader simply pointed his axe with one hand, without breaking stride, and the warriors running to his right changed direction, increased their pace to a lung-bursting charge and took off after the deserters. The Celts who remained formed a rough square, and readied themselves to repel the charging Saxons as best they could.

Those warriors who had fled soon began to slow, even though the Saxons had covered far more ground than they had. Panic had initially given the Celts wings on their heels, but fear is a mindless spur and, as terrified individuals, they were pursued until they were exhausted, or the futility of their positions forced them to turn and fight. They were cut down like withered grass in the wind.

One fleeing man had climbed a tree, so the Saxons placed dead branches around the trunk, set the wood alight and waited until the rising smoke choked the Celt’s breathing and set his eyes watering. He was forced to drop to the ground and the Saxon response was summary and merciless.

The Celtic warriors who held their ground didn’t die easily, or without cost to the Saxons. Cornered, and with no possible means of escape, they made the Saxons pay in blood for every friend who fell. The Saxons prized courage above all else, so the braver of the warriors were given fast, merciful deaths when the square inevitably broke and hand-to-hand fighting became the last Celtic defence. With half their number dead, the Saxons returned to the villa with their spoils.

Finn regained consciousness slowly in the half-lit hell of the villa forecourt, where he was confronted with the realisation of his impending death. As he levered himself up onto his elbows and knees, with stifled groans of pain that he tried to suppress, he saw cheerful Saxons dressing each other’s wounds and cleaning their weapons, while more of the heavily bearded men collected Celtic bodies and dragged them into the villa like so much dead wood.

Hengist sat at his ease on fallen masonry from the gutted dairy, wrapped in his woollen cloak to keep out the early morning chill, and reflectively cleaning blood from his massive axe. Finn remembered the pale eyes and impassive stance of the Saxon thane when he had served as the captain of King Vortigern’s guard. Finn had been present at Dinas Emrys when the whole shape of his world had changed. Regardless of his position, then and now, Finn cursed the long-dead Apollonius and Rhun who had brought this night to its inevitable conclusion.

Hengist heard the Celtic oath, and raised his head in surprise. A charge of energy seemed to pass from Hengist to Finn, but the captured Celt was beyond caring if he earned the enmity of the Saxon thane. He was a dead man and he knew it.

‘Were you at Dinas Emrys, Celt? I don’t remember you.’

‘I was little more than a boy at that time, newly come to manhood and sent to serve the High King as a standard bearer. Why would you remember someone so young and unblooded?’

Hengist grinned at Finn with a friendliness that was wholly superficial. ‘So you blame the sorcerers for your plight? But you chose your masters long after that precious pair lost their balls.’

‘True, Hengist. As a Dyfed man, my fealty was given to Vortimer, son of Severa, who came from Caer Fyrddin. I served as my father had, and his father, under Celtic and Roman rule. I make no excuses, but the attempted sacrifice of the Demon Seed was dishonourable and stained us all on that day. The shame had to be washed away with blood, so perhaps the Mother will forgive us for the wrong we did to the boy. Perhaps Ceridwen will also pardon us for the death of her priestess, Princess Olwyn.’

Hengist smiled reflectively as he remembered those almost forgotten days, over three years earlier, when he had broken his vows to Vortigern and begun the long struggle to earn a Saxon homeland. The face of Myrddion, that remarkable boy, swam through his mind, and he remembered Myrddion’s promise of an eventual victory in some future time.

‘I wonder where the Demon Seed, is now? Aye, Celt, you are right. The roots of today first sprouted at Dinas Emrys. Civil war, the death of countless warriors and the games of kings have all stemmed from the ruined tower and the Demon Seed’s visions of the fighting dragons. Perhaps the Red Dragon is the sigil of your people, while the white dragon is the emblem of mine. If so, we will be at war for a very long time.’

Finn understood little of Hengist’s philosophy and cared even less for what would come in the long decades ahead. More imminent and more frightful was the nature of his impending death and whether he would be able to comport himself as a man.

‘If you are going to kill me, Thane Hengist, I ask that you order it done now. I never saw you as a cruel man, but as a warrior like myself. I am ashamed at tonight’s carnage and the oath broken by Prince Catigern. I was soiled by the desecration of your brother’s body, as were many of my fellow warriors, but we were oath-bound, so you must understand our position. I say these things, not to earn an easy death, but because they are true. Please, Thane Hengist, order my execution so I may join my friends.’

The Saxon thane smoothed his stained moustaches as he thought over Finn’s demands. He was neither offended nor deceived by Finn’s explanations. Truth has a compelling nature and a wise man recognises it when he hears it.

‘I have decided that you will live, Celt. You warned your fellows of our presence in the ruined apple orchard, you set fire to that building behind me and it’s not your fault that you aren’t one of those heaped bodies in the villa atrium. Unlike Catigern, we will not leave your dead to be devoured by the beasts. We’ll burn the villa around them before we take our leave of this place.’

‘Then do not torture me, Thane. To remain alive when so many better men are dead is agony enough for me – and a stain on my honour.’

Hengist shook his head slowly and drew his whetstone along the edge of his axe with a teeth-grating growl of metal.

‘No, Celt. I have decided that my justice and my revenge will be known to all your people so that Horsa, who was a better man than either of us, will be remembered with truth down through the ages. You are charged to ensure that the story of what you have seen will not be changed by political necessity or perverted by the personal ambition of other men. I realise I will be demonised by your comrades, and that I’ll be hunted by the Celtic kings from one end of this land to the other, but hear me and remember. I will return, for this land will belong to the Germanic peoples sooner or later. We have the need, the will and the heart to take it, for ourselves and for our descendants.’ Hengist paused and contemplated his decision. ‘What is your name, Celt?’

‘I am Finn ap Finnbarr, Thane Hengist,’ the Celt replied, his face whitening until it looked like a living skull in the flickering light.

‘From now on, son of Finnbarr, you shall be known as Finn Truthteller, so I burden you with the punishment of life. You must watch, learn your stories and report what you see.’

Aghast, Finn realised the full scope of Hengist’s wisdom and cruelty. As an honest man, Finn would be forced to perpetuate Catigern’s treachery and viciousness.

The Saxon thane ordered torches to be brought to light the villa forecourt so that the dim night was transformed by a ruddy, sanguine glow. As if they could read their master’s mind, some sixty Saxon survivors gathered to encircle the tableau that turned the shabby forecourt into a judgement hall or a field of single combat, roofed by the black, starless night and walled by the villa and the burned ruins of the dairy. The heap of broken masonry was invested with the dignity of a throne, simply because Hengist sat upon it, while the watching warriors became the witnesses who legitimised his final delivery of justice for the death of his brother.

Laid out, malodorous, but impressive in the power that seemed to radiate from it, was the wrapped corpse of Horsa. Finn could scarcely bear to look at it, for the decaying body was the reason for tonight’s loss of life. Love and ambition had brought them all to this lonely place.

‘Bring in Catigern, the Prince of Glywising,’ Hengist ordered, his voice sombre. He put aside his axe and whetstone to sit with his elbows resting on his knees. The thane had no need for panoply or golden robes. He wore his authority like a cloak, regardless of his casual stance or his rough clothing.

Catigern was dragged into the lit circle. Blood had trickled through his dark hair and was smeared across one side of his handsome face. His hands were bound behind him with a broken spear shaft rammed between his elbows in order to draw back his shoulders painfully. Dishevelled and begrimed, he stood as upright as he was able on legs that no longer answered to his bidding. Two large warriors supported his weight, but Catigern lost none of his presence because he could not stand unaided. His face was twisted into a grotesque mask of hatred.

‘I could have ordered you killed out of hand, Catigern ap Vortigern, but as a prince of these isles I pay you the courtesy of permitting you to give an explanation for your actions. Men die in battle, for that is the chance we all take when we live by the sword. Horsa, my brother, knew the risks he faced when he followed me into exile, so I do not accuse you of murder.’

Catigern spat on the crazy slate paving of the forecourt.

‘I should make you clean that mess up with your tongue, but perhaps I might react in the same fashion if I were in your shoes. Hear me, then, Catigern ap Vortigern. I do not accuse you even of killing my brother, Horsa, from behind. Such actions, dishonourable as they might be, occur in battle too many times to count.’

The ring of Saxons growled their disapproval, as was their right under Saxon law, but Hengist silenced them with a single, icy stare. Man by man, his eyes roved the faces of the assembled warriors and, one by one, their eyes fell.

‘But these eyes saw you desecrate the body of an enemy. Such is not the action of a warrior, least of all a prince of these lands.’ Hengist turned to face Finn. ‘Stand forth, Finn ap Finnbarr, and be questioned.’

Rough hands gripped Finn’s shoulders and thrust him forward into the firelit ring. Bemused and confused, he stared round the circle and saw no sympathy or respect in the gazes that raked him from head to feet.

‘Keep your mouth shut, Finn,’ Catigern howled, twisting in the grip of the Saxons holding him upright. ‘You are Vortimer’s man, so give these dogs nothing!’

Finn trembled from head to foot, torn between loyalty and truth.

‘Finn Truthteller! What was done to Horsa’s body on the orders of your master?’

Perceiving an honourable way to answer the question, Finn drew himself up to his full height.

‘My master is Vortimer ap Vortigern, legitimate son of Vortigern who was High King of the north until he relinquished that title to his eldest son. My master gave no orders regarding the disposition of Horsa’s body.’

Hengist’s face seemed to flush, but perhaps it was simply a trick of the light.

‘Do not play semantics with me, Celt. I am no shambling oaf who has neither wit nor reasoning. What did
this
man, Catigern, order done with the body of my brother? You are a warrior and I believe you to be a man of honour. Speak out, Finn Truthteller, and be just in your answer, for your gods will hear you.’

Finn bit his lip until blood came. He thought of the bodies heaped untidily in the atrium of the ruined villa, he thought of the death of Gunter, alone and betrayed, and then he spoke out, softly and truthfully, describing what he had seen.

‘Lord Catigern ordered Horsa’s body to be nailed to be walls of the gates at Durovernum, for the amusement of the citizens.’

‘And?’ Hengist prompted inexorably.

‘The crowd were encouraged to throw dung and foul rubbish at the corpse. I was ashamed, as were many of my brothers-in-arms, men who now lie dead in this villa.’

‘And what of my courier, Gunter, who brought my message to this man?’

‘Your courier chewed through his own wrists until he bled to death.’

A silence followed this answer. Every man present, even Catigern, was able to visualise Gunter’s desperate way of taking his own life. After a moment, Finn explained the reason for Gunter’s suicide and, oddly, he felt the weight of the messenger’s death lift from his soul in the telling. Then, over the outraged exclamations of the Saxon warriors, Hengist elaborated on the justice he was about to impose.

‘I lived in Vortigern’s court for years. I may have stood mutely behind the king’s chair, but I had ample opportunity to judge the customs of your people, Catigern. Actions such as yours are not the norm in Celtic codes of behaviour. Such disrespect towards an enemy is not enshrined in your legends, your tales of heroism or even your father’s twisted heart. Only a man who pays mere lip service to honour could besmirch the helpless in such an ugly fashion. Such a person does not warrant a warrior’s death. So hear my justice, bastard son of Vortigern, prince who defiles all that is good in his own people. You will go to the grave with the man you killed, but, unlike him, you will still be alive when you are buried.’

The warriors roared their approval, while Finn felt his shoulders sag with shame. His words had condemned Catigern to a terrible punishment, however just the decision might be, and he knew the responsibility for the fate of the bastard prince would weigh on his shoulders for ever.