Death of an Empire (22 page)

‘I didn’t know him well, but your father was an honest man and he was a wise and able ruler,’ Myrddion said as he looked down on the ruined flesh. ‘He asked very little of me and treated me with respect.’

‘Aye, healer. He has passed on his duties to me, but he would have appreciated any words or prayers that you could give him to speed him on his way. He believed that, under the skin, you were his brother.’

Myrddion searched his memory for one of his grandmother’s prayers to the Mother, and intoned an invocation to the midnight Lady of Winter who rules when the old king perishes and is replaced by the King of Springtime. ‘May the Mother who loves us all guide this good man’s journey to the abode of the gods. May she take his hand in the darkness and lead him along the dim paths from this life into the next, so that his feet neither falter nor stumble, and he comes at last to the Father and the great halls of the Otherworld. May he bless his son from beyond death and help him to rule wisely and well, so that the Franks live in peace and prosperity in this land that Merovech helped to save. As the Mother wishes, so shall it be.’

If Childeric was insulted by this women’s magic, he gave no sign of it. He called the guard into the tent and instructed them to seal the lid on Merovech’s sarcophagus and place it in the great wagon that awaited it. Then, once the carpenters had come to nail the coffin shut and caulk every crevice with pitch, Childeric led his guest back to his tent, where wine, fruit and nuts waited them.

‘You will wonder why I have called for you, Myrddion, now called Emrys. First, I release you from your service to my house. My father never liked to constrain you, but he needed your skills, even if he felt guilty at forcing you to obey. Believe me in this, for we spoke of it in the hours before he died.’

‘Thank you, my lord. I am grateful for my freedom, as you can imagine, although I doubt that Aetius will let me go so easily.’ Myrddion smiled, and Childeric laughed ruefully in agreement. ‘How did your noble father die, my lord? I know that I foresaw his
death, but the scrolls of time are imprecise and I confess to curiosity.’

‘The Alans and the Germanics were under attack and my king commandeered a troop of cavalry to relieve the pressure on them. He slew many men with his sword, but was taken by an underhand blow even as he killed the man who slew him. My father was content to die, believing your prophecy that he had founded a dynasty of kings. Did you speak the truth?’

The air Myrddion breathed felt odd and he remembered those rare times when he had spoken consciously of feelings he didn’t truly understand. Now he struggled to describe accurately the half-formed images that chased themselves through his brain.

‘I spoke the truth, Childeric. You will die an old man and you will be known as the leader of a great people. You will fight many battles and I see you serving the Western Empire for a time, although I also see a scroll that is torn in half as if a treaty is broken. You will then serve the Eastern Emperor in Constantinople, with greater willingness.’

‘But what of the Frankish people? Will they endure?’

‘This whole land will bear the name of your tribe, Childeric, for over two thousand years. Do not despair in the hard times to come. Your son will eclipse both you and your father, and will wrest a great throne out of chaos. You may have faith in your gods. I do not lie, although I cannot know if I speak the whole truth.’

‘Thank you. Now drink, and I will be an ordinary man for one more night. I’ll leave for the north tomorrow. True or not, your vision gives me heart, for truly the governance of men is a hard road and one I would not willingly choose without some trust in the future to which it leads.

When Myrddion finally left the tents of the Salian Franks, he stumbled a little from weariness and the good Frankish wine he had consumed. Although he was bone tired and sickened by his
part in this most pointless of battles, he picked up a clod of damp earth and squeezed it between his long fingers.

‘The Battle of the Catalaunian Plain should have been a great victory, but with the Salian Franks and the Visigoths gone Aetius must let Attila escape. So much carnage for no clear result. This earth has become red with the blood of countless warriors and what has come of it?’

Myrddion had spoken aloud, for such heart-sickness demanded that he give it voice. But then he fell silent, smelled the scent of sun-warmed grass and watched the stars wheel above him in strange patterns that he couldn’t read. Only time will show if all this sacrifice has any purpose, he decided, and then started as an owl began to scream from a small coppice of trees.

‘The hunt,’ he muttered to himself. ‘Always the hunt!’

Then, drunk and sick of thinking, he staggered off to a warm bed on the sweet, green grass.

CHAPTER VIII

THE ROMAN WAY

Gorlois rode through the fields of summer, heavy with grain and pregnant with ripening fruit. Even the hedgerows bore a bounty of berries ripening under a clean sky that seemed a world away from the chills of winter. Yet although the sun warmed his leather jerkin and beaded his bare arms with sweat, Gorlois felt a chill in the region of his breast bone.

Since his queen had miscarried, she had failed to thrive. Tortured by thoughts of a lost son, Ygerne had sunk into a deep gloom through which her night terrors had returned. For years, the harmony of Gorlois’s house had been free of Ygerne’s frightened, haunted fancies, but now her imagination conjured up images of bloody babes and dead bodies piled in ugly drifts like cordwood. Increasingly, she searched for meaning in a universe that seemed crazed and disordered, and only an itinerant priest had brought her a fleeting period of peace.

So pagan Gorlois, still faithful to his household gods, had ridden to Glastonbury, the holy place that had been revered for a thousand years and even in the forgotten years before those times, when goddesses had wandered through its long grasses and sung by its sweet waters, to beg one of the holy men of the Christian god to journey to Tintagel to succour his wife.

Never alone, for this land was still wild and dangerous and far from the rules of law, Gorlois led his detachment of six men towards the wooden buildings that clustered a little way from the flanks of the tor. Springs rushed out of the side of the hill, and he could hear the subterranean murmur of a hidden river and noted that water lay in deep trenches beside the verdant fields, so the land appeared to be stitched together with skeins of silver thread. Long before the group of armed men reached the timber outbuildings, several cowled figures in homespun robes walked serenely out onto the roadway in welcome.

‘Who disturbs the peace of Glastonbury?’ a compact man murmured, his hands buried in the sleeves of his robe.

‘I am Gorlois, king of the Dumnonii tribe. We are your neighbours. I seek a priest to advise my queen, who has been saddened by the loss of a child.’

Quietly, the man lowered his cowl and Gorlois saw a Roman head, austere in its carved beauty, atop a heavily muscled body that seemed out of place in its homespun robe. The hand that ushered the king towards the rough, barn-like building where visitors and penitents were housed was strong, calloused and blunt-nailed, and would have been at home wielding a short sword. Gorlois summed up the priest at a glance. An ex-soldier, he thought. And a man dedicated to the strategies and arts of war.

The priest’s eyes were dark and dignified, but Gorlois saw knowledge behind those brown irises, and a deep well of sadness that matched the greying, close-cropped hair which seemed to beg for a helmet.

‘If I may be so bold, Father, what is your name? Did you serve in the legions?’ Gorlois knew the questions were impertinent, but kings can always cover any social gaffes with the cloak of their position. He grinned with unconscious charm, and the priest immediately forgave him for his curiosity.

‘I am Lucius, a humble servant of the one God. I was a soldier once, long ago, and in another life. In those long-gone days, I washed my hands in blood until my brain sickened, but I now labour in the fields in expiation for my many sins.’

Every war eventually ends, as do the darkest thoughts. Childeric had already left the encampment, heading towards the road leading to the north. In a pall of heavy dust, his troops rode protectively around the wagon that carried Merovech’s body, offering their last respects to a noble king. Then, when the camp was stripped of its strongest allies, news came of Attila and the Hungvari horde.

That dawning, Myrddion had felt a physical wrench when Captus came to him as the first stains of another day coloured the sky.

‘Wake up, Myrddion. Come on, man! Do you need a dowsing in cold water?’

Myrddion opened one bleary eye and realised that the pounding in his head was a result of four mugs of red wine in honour of the dead Frankish king. Swearing off the excessive consumption of alcohol forever, Myrddion raised his head from his pallet and saw that the sun was rising. Around him the field hospital was abustle, as wounded Franks were loaded into wagons with as much care as possible.

‘Damn your eyes, Captus! I was with Prince Childeric until after midnight. I drank more wine than I’m accustomed to, and now I’m paying the price. Speak . . . quietly . . . please.’

Captus had hunkered down beside the simple pallet, but now he rose to his feet with a wince of protesting knee joints.

‘Getting old, friend Captus?’ Myrddion quipped acidly, as he used the back of one hand to block the steadily rising sun. ‘Serves you right for waking me.’

‘If you’re planning to be unpleasant, I’ll leave without saying goodbye,’ Captus snapped, only half joking.

‘I’m sorry, Captus, you’re leaving? Of course you are! How foolish of me. You’ll accompany your new king as he bears Merovech home for burial.’ Myrddion sat up on his pallet, swung his legs sideways and rose to his feet with the fluid, athletic flexibility of youth. Captus experienced a momentary stab of envy for the recuperative powers of younger men.

‘Damn! I didn’t undress last night, so I feel dirty and gritty all over.’ Myrddion shook himself like a dog or a small boy, and the waves of his black hair flew around his face disarmingly. ‘I will miss you, friend. You’ve made the task of healing infinitely easier in many ways. You have also taken the time to explain the battlefield to me. I’ll not forget your lessons, Captus, you can be very sure of that.’

The Frank captain thrust out his sword arm in the ancient gesture of friendship between warriors. Each man gripped the wrist of the other and Captus expressed surprise at the strength in Myrddion’s deceptively slender fingers.

‘You’ve watched me at work, Captus, so you know the strength it takes to set a broken limb or to remove an arrowhead that is deeply embedded in muscle. Healers must be strong, not in the way of warriors where heavy muscle is needed, but with whipcord and wire.’ He paused and smiled across at his friend. ‘But I’m lecturing you again, which is fast becoming one of my worst sins.’

‘I’ll miss your jibber-jabber, Master Myrddion. I’ve learned things that I never thought possible and I’ll try to keep your patients alive until we reach the north. Cadoc has given me clean bandages and I promise to boil them after each use. He’s even given me some of his precious salve to promote healing, and I know what to do with radishes. I won’t be eating them again, which is unfortunate as I used to really enjoy them.’

‘Take care of yourself and your new master, Captus. He’ll need loyal servants with good heads on their shoulders.’

Embarrassed, Captus drew a small wrapped bundle out of a
leather pouch at his waist. ‘This gift isn’t much, I fear, but fighting men don’t have the leisure to acquire many belongings. I’m told it came from Constantinople, and as you plan to visit the heart of the Eastern Empire it seems appropriate that you should take it back to its homeland. Use it, and remember Captus, who served you well, even though he whined continually.’

‘That’s not quite true, Captus. In fact you hardly ever complained.’ As he spoke, Myrddion unwrapped the small scrap of wool and found a delicate eating knife of intricate design lying within.

The haft of the knife was decorated with hard paste glass that had been fired in a kiln at a high temperature. An artist had depicted a hunting bird on each side, one with its wings spread and its claws extended towards an invisible prey, the other at rest, but with its talons buried in a dead coney. A clever folding action enabled the blade to be thumbed into the haft when the knife was not in use. When the blade was open, it locked into position and became a wicked, double-edged toy for peeling fruit or eating meat. Yet it was quite sufficient to bury itself in a man’s eye and kill.

‘This is a beautiful thing, Captus. And it’s far too valuable to be given away. Please take it back, for I really can’t accept such a princely gift. I’ve never seen its like.’

‘Can you imagine me holding such a toy in these great, clumsy paws of mine? No, Master Myrddion. Take it with my best wishes, and remember Captus whenever you use it.’

Myrddion realised that he would insult the Frank if he remonstrated any further. Besides, his hands itched to examine the clever mechanism that made the knife a miracle of design, small enough to fit in a waist pouch and free of the need for a scabbard.

‘Very well, I’ll take it to Constantinople, gladly and gratefully. I thank you, my friend.’

Myrddion walked with the captain to his horse and helped him to mount.

‘One more thing remains to be said, my friend,’ Captus added as he climbed into the saddle. ‘Keep your eyes peeled for that bastard Gwylym. I know he’s a Celt, but he’s a Breton and hails from Brittany, which the Romans called Armorica. They’re a strange, prickly people. Childeric has never liked him overmuch, but Gwylym could have continued in his service for life had he wished, because he served Merovech well. But the bastard has been bought by General Aetius for some unknown purpose. One thing is certain: your countryman’s not overly fond of you.’

Myrddion shrugged. ‘Gwylym told me that he came from Britain thirty years ago.’