Web of Deceit (16 page)
Cadoc bowed his head just sufficiently to suggest courtesy, and the Brigante warrior spurred his horse back to the front of the column.
‘Who was that oaf?’ Cadoc asked
no one in particular.
‘Be grateful you’ve still got your head, man,’ a grizzled trader muttered as he nudged Cadoc in the ribs and gave him a conspiratorial wink. ‘That’s Luka, the eldest son of the Brigante king. He fights, he whores and he drinks. He does all of them well – but he’s a killer in battle. And he’s a notorious hothead.’
‘I’ll surely remember Prince Luka,’ Cadoc muttered with a snarl. Like any proud warrior, he was affronted by Luka’s rudeness and his ready disposition to misjudge people.
‘Do that, friend! But I’d still pray that he never sets eyes on you again.’
As Cadoc made his way through the jostling throng towards the quieter streets that led to the house of the healers, he mulled over what he had seen. Experience told him that a great battle had been fought in the north and the Brigante had succeeded in defeating the Picts. No less than the king’s son was escorting the plunder of war south to Venta Belgarum, where a tribute of women as well as red gold would be presented to Ambrosius Imperator. More important, the High King was finally making an impression on the arrogant tribes of the north.
Then Cadoc remembered the face of the Celtic woman and the sharp glitter of her snake-green eyes. Was she still as she had been born? Or was she now a Pict and committed to continuing the hatred against her father’s people forever?
I wish my master were here. He could warn Ambrosius to take precautions with this woman. I don’t trust the slut at all, Cadoc thought grimly. Then the house enfolded him with the myriad small decisions that fell to him while his master was away. Yet he couldn’t quite forget the woman’s shining eyes and the single glance that followed him through the day and into the fabric of his dreams.
MYRDDION’S CHART OF PRE-ARTHURIN WALES
THE BATTLE BETWEEN THE PICTS AND THE BRIGANTE IN NORTHERN BRITAIN
PLOTS, COUNTERPLOTS AND BLOODY THOUGHTS
It is well known, that among the blind the one-eyed man is king.
Erasmus,
Adagia
As the sun set
bloodily in
the west,
Ambrosius accepted
his tribute from his most northerly allies. The High King had dressed with unusual care, and wore the ancient torc that had graced the throats of his ancestors in its time, as well as the unclean flesh of Vortigern. The barbaric rope of gold, finished with uncut sapphires, struck a discordant note in the elegant attire of a Roman nobleman of a previous century. Unconscious of any irony in his dress, Ambrosius waited on his simple chair for Prince Luka of the Brigante to arrive at his hall of judgement.
The prince had a mixed reputation, so Ambrosius was curious to see if the man matched the stories that filtered down from the north. Luka refused to use his father’s nomen, or even his given name, Llywelyn, being consumed by a fierce determination to win his own fame. Aspiring to the throne of the Brigante tribe was insufficient for him, for he
rightly dismissed his eventual inheritance as an accident of birth. Ambrosius approved of such pride, but he was concerned and intrigued by Luka’s reputation for hot temper, excess and wild, elemental charm, for such character flaws were dangerous in an ally.
I’ll know soon enough, Ambrosius thought, as he exchanged glances with his brother. At least Uther has been less grumpy of late, although I have missed the company of the healer. The young man has the power to soothe, and his brain is sharper than Uther’s blade – and that’s saying something. It’s a pity that Uther is jealous of anyone who stands with me as an intellectual equal.
Just as Uther was becoming restive and angry at the delay in their visitor’s arrival, the ornate doors to the hall were opened with a flourish and Prince Luka entered, flanked by his personal guard, who had surrendered their weapons in the antechamber. Although the newcomers were unarmed, they still looked hard, dangerous and savage – especially the prince.
‘I welcome you, Luka of the Brigante tribe. I have heard whispers of trouble in the north and I hope you will inform me of any danger to my lands. I am pleased that, at last, the Brigante, the Atrebates and the other great tribes of the south can meet and exchange loyalties after many years of silence and distrust.’
As Ambrosius welcomed his visitor with his usual grace and warmth, his eyes narrowed on the hawk-sharp face that was lowered in a deep obeisance. Luka managed to appear compliant and independent at once, not only in the ready and deep bow he made so gracefully, but also in the quick measuring glance that examined the High King from head to toe as he rose to his feet. Ambrosius began to look for what lay beneath the superficial, blatantly ostentatious savagery of the young prince’s appearance.
‘Please be seated, Prince Luka, for there is no need to stand on ceremony on this day. Uther – a chair for our guest.’
This simple request established
the notion in the minds of witnesses in the audience chamber that Uther and Luka were equal in standing at Ambrosius’s court. What Uther thought of this situation was impossible to guess. His face unreadable, he nodded curtly at one of the young men in his train.
Prince Luka accepted the simple stool brought forward by the nervous servant, and then visibly relaxed. Ambrosius registered the amber-brown eyes that gazed at him with candour and an unsettling assessment. Of little more than average height, Luka made up for his lack of inches with a muscular, slender form and quick-moving hands that were as animated as Ambrosius’s own. The prince’s fingers were long, scarred by sword practice and many years on horseback, and Ambrosius could see them caressing a woman with equal skill. Under the High King’s regard, Luka fiddled with his intricately worked electrum torc, so Ambrosius became conscious of the prince’s love of display. A brace of arm-rings of massy gold, as well as several large, barbaric and vivid finger-rings decked Luka’s body with easy panache.
‘Lord, the Picts attacked from beyond Hadrian’s Wall in strength. Summer was well advanced, so they caught us by surprise. Far beyond the Vallum Antonini, they had obviously planned their invasion secretly and carefully, depending on speed and surprise to counteract the lateness of the season. After carving through the Otadini and the Selgovae tribes, they drove deeply into our lands before we could muster the levies, so many warriors died to blunt their advance.’
‘An unusual and subtle strategy for Picts to use,’ Ambrosius murmured. ‘Someone in the north has been thinking hard, knowing our eyes have turned towards the east and the Saxons with the approach of summer.’
‘Aye, lord,’ Luka agreed. ‘We had fortified the fortresses of Lavatrae, Bravoniacum and Cataractonium, so we were outfoxed entirely when Talorc, the Pict
king, attacked Luguvalium, then Brocavum, before driving his army through the mountains towards Olicana and access to the green lands of the south. But their speed was their undoing, as well as the reason for their initial success. We have long used the old Roman fortresses of Verterae and Petrianae, and Talorc bypassed these two citadels without leaving a force behind that could keep our troops pinned down.’
‘A mistake.’ Uther snickered from behind Ambrosius. ‘It’s stupid to leave your rear unguarded. I wish I’d been there to enjoy the fun.’
‘I doubt it was fun, brother. I can imagine that the loss of life must have been frightful,’ Ambrosius chided gently, and he saw the sudden furrow of distaste between the Brigante’s eyes. So Luka was more than just a fighting animal, the High King thought.
‘The men of all the fortresses marched to intercept the Picts, while leaving only token forces to guard the eastern marches. My father gambled on a single, decisive battle that would finish the Picts for generations – or destroy us.’
‘Tell us, Luka,’ Uther murmured eagerly, for he was engrossed in the Brigante’s story.
‘We drove north through Olicana and made a forced march towards a river valley that could impede the Pict advance. Mountains ringed the valley, and the wild sea cliffs lay to the west, so we trusted our brothers from the fortresses to guard our backs. We met the Picts on the banks of the river, and the clash of men on horseback shuddered through the two armies. Our levies ground together like stone on stone so that no side had an advantage and the battle continued long and fierce. The Blue Men gave no quarter and fought until they perished.
‘Then, just as I was beginning to despair of breaking the Pictish ranks, the troops of Verterae and Lavatrae poured out of the hills, both afoot and on horseback. Their impetus, as they charged down the long hill to engage
the enemy, cut a huge hole in the rear of the Pict army and gave us heart to continue the struggle. Step by bloody step, we gained ground and managed to pin the Picts into a deadly circle.’
‘Did Talorc surrender and parlay for terms, or retreat like a sensible man?’ Ambrosius asked, easily able to visualise the blood-churned mud and the heaped corpses of a desperate struggle to survive the conflict.
‘We offered them terms, my lord. I know the Brigante tribe has a reputation for ferocity, but we are honourable men. Once we knew the battle was won, my father called a truce and sent me to offer them a chance of surrender without humiliation, but Talorc spat in my face. I had to use all my weapons’ skill to escape unscathed, for the Picts were prepared to break the truce. Once I rejoined our force, my father ordered the net closed and we slew their men until our arms were almost too heavy to lift our swords.’
‘Terrible,’ Ambrosius murmured, for he regretted the loss of so many warriors.
‘Aye, it
was
terrible. But our losses were light compared with those inflicted on the enemy. Many widows beyond the two walls will wail in sorrow when their men come home no more. And they will sing songs of the death of Talorc for generations, for he refused to surrender and died where he stood. We despise the Picts out of long habit, but I would be blind if I didn’t admire Talorc’s fierce courage in the face of certain death. Only when the king had perished did the will of the Picts break, and they started to run. We allowed them to pass back into the north, but only a few hundred men will return out of the thousands who marched into Brigante lands only weeks before.’
‘I take it that you captured the baggage train,’ Uther interrupted, eager to determine the value of the Pictish war chests.
‘Aye. As the emissary for my father, Lord King Ambrosius, I beg you to accept one fifth
of all that was taken from the dead and the dying. What remains will succour our widows and orphans, as well as fortify our borders, for we believe the Saxons will consider the aftermath of this conflict with the Picts to be an opportune time to attack us.’
Luka gestured towards one of his guard, who struck the closed doors with his fist. A group of warriors entered, bowed under the weight of the wooden chests, bound with iron bands, that they laid at Ambrosius’s feet. One of the warriors opened the lids and exposed piles of looted valuables that filled the chests to the brims. Under the ruddy light of the torches, the gold, silver and bronze that had been stripped from the dead seemed to have been washed with the sheen of blood.
‘I have heard that you took hostages as well,’ Uther cut in over Ambrosius’s courteous thanks, causing the High King to dart an admonishing glance in his direction.
‘Behold the household of Talorc, king of the Picts,’ Luka cried in a ringing voice as a group of women was herded into the audience chamber. They entered on naked feet, for they were chained and humbled, so the links of their shackles rang dully as they swayed into the circle of lamplight.
The Pict women were quite short, but they were proud and very shapely. They wore their tattoos with pride and stared at their new masters with palpable scorn. Even as Luka introduced the Pict queen, an older woman whose hair was liberally streaked with grey, Ambrosius found his eyes drawn to a red-haired woman who was unmistakably Celt in appearance. Her green eyes were insolent and angry, and she scorned to hide her partial nakedness with her long tattooed hands.