Authors: Paul Bannister
Not many bishops wear a breastplate made from the dragon-hide of a crocodile, but Bishop Candless did, and Grabelius suppressed a smile as he viewed the warrior-cleric. The chest armour topped a surplice and wide leather belt from which hung the gladius sword of a long-gone legionary, and the cavalryman knew that the Pict kept a punching knife discreetly hidden in his sleeve
“Expecting trouble, Your Grace?” he enquired, leaning down from his mount to shake hands wit
h the bishop.
“Oh, this?” said Candless, “old habits and so forth. I’ve just ridden in from the coast and you can’t be too careful, bandits, you know.”
Grabelius did know. It was not much of a secret that Candless could be the target of robbers, for he was wealthy. He had turned a handful of nails, a bit of wood and a painted cloth into the holiest of relics, and had attracted a constant stream of pilgrims with donations to the cathedral he was building. Every pilgrim wanted a blessing or an indulgence, every pilgrim wanted a memento of the time he had viewed the Nails of the Crucifixion, the splinter from the True Cross and the miraculous Holy Face in the linen that had wiped Christ’s blood and sweat away, although this last posed something of a test of faith.
The actual image had washed off on a rainy battlefield as the paint Candless used to create it had failed to withstand the weather. Candless said that pilgrims had to understand that the miracle of the face that had appeared was doubly valuable: another miracle had removed it. The cheery bishop urged the faithful: ”This is the miracle, that the Lord lent his image to us when we needed it. Now, by the miracle of your belief, you can see how strong is your faith in His powers. In fact, on some holy days, the image is still there to be seen by the pure in heart.” And, as the shrewd bishop knew, many would claim to have seen that image and would both reinforce the belief and increase the attendance.
Grabelius handed his horse’s reins to a servant and followed Candless, stout in his surplice and breastplate, through piles of building materials and into his small church. This was a construct of stone walls 12 feet high, with timber and thatch above. “I’m building the cathedral around this, I want it on this exact site,” said the bishop, glancing around to see they were not overheard. Several acolytes, whom Grabelius noticed with surprise were armed, stood around the altar area and kept the reverent queue of pilgrims from handling the relics on display there.
“This way,” said Candless, unlocking an unobtrusive door by the baptistery. He bolted it from the inside and led Grabelius down two flights of steps. A rush torch guttered in the draught as the pair entered the chamber and Candless took it down from its bracket and used it to light a fat candle, which he handed to Grabelius. “Over here,” he led the way to a small, iron-bound door that blocked off a stone alcove. He ducked through the door, carefully bolting it too from the inside and stooping, moved forward. Then he straightened up and Grabelius found himself in a good-sized rock chamber with some familiar features.
“This is why the old pagans worshipped here,” said Candless with satisfaction at Grabelius’ surprise.
“It’s a temple of Mithras,” exclaimed the horse soldier, viewing the central aisle and the raised podium on either side. He heard the tinkle of running water and dimly saw a basin carved into the living rock at the end of the cavern.
A relief cut into the wall showed up in his candle’s light: a carefully-executed sculpting of Mithras in his Phrygian cap, kneeling on an exhausted bull and holding it by the nostrils as he stabbed it with a dagger. Behind him was the image of Sol, on either side were carved the torch bearers Cautes and Cautopates.
“Beautiful work,” Grabelius said admiringly. “It’s very ancient,” said Candless, “the local Goddodin tribe knew of it and protected it, and I heard of the site and we just had to build our Christian temple here. Now we have the best of both worlds.”
“Now,” said the bishop, settling onto a stone bench, “what is Arthur about?” Grabelius quickly sketched recent events, the terrible pestilence and the royal bride’s death, and aired his fears that Kinadius would renege on the peace treaty. “He very well might,” said Candless thoughtfully. “There’s little in it for him if his grandchildren are not born to rule Alba.”
“Arthur may need you to raise forces here, if the peace is broken. Can you do that?” Grabelius asked. For answer, the cleric led him further down the cavern to another iron-bound, locked door. He fumbled out a key hidden in a cleft in the rock and swung the door open. The chill chamber was a treasure house. Three barrels contained coins that ranged from humble dupondii made from the brass/bronze amalgam
orichalcum
to heavy aureii minted in Iberian gold. There was a quantity of silver tableware, Roman and Celtic silver plates and dishes, two finely-wrought crucifixes and a magnificent altar plate, some Gallic arm rings and torcs and a number of gold and silver figurines. A smaller, lidded oak chest contained semi-precious gemstones, some carved ivory and jet and several hundred finger rings with a variety of inset gems. The silver and gold alone weighed about 80 lbs, and would make sufficient coin to recruit and equip a sizeable fighting force.
“Enough booty here to satisfy Caros, eh?” said Candless, making a small joke at Arthur’s Roman name Carausius. It was the name by which Arthur was known when he was admiral of the British fleet and had made a fortune by retaining the loot of the pirates he was sent to scour from the Narrow Sea between Gaul and Britain. When the emperor Diocletian found out he was being cheated, he had ordered Carausius to his court in Milan, intending to execute him, but the Briton had simply suborned his legions and his fleet, and sailed to Britain. There, his command of the straits meant that he was safe.
A decade of conflict with the Romans had followed, but now there was an uneasy peace. The new emperor had other concerns, and British rebels could be ignored. Grabelius laughed at the joke about Arthur’s thefts. “The paymasters will be pleased, too,” he said. “Did all this come from the pilgrims?” Candless shook his head. “Earned some of it myself, but I admit the devout travellers have helped build this little nest egg. It’ll buy plenty of troops for Arthur if he needs them. Send that message with your feathered friends.”
Grabelius slapped the genial rogue on the shoulder. “I’ll also carry word to him myself,” he promised. “One more thing, can you get some ears into Kinadius’ court? Arthur wants to know what he is thinking.” Candless grinned. “I already have one or two little birds there who sing sweetly to me,” he said. “I will be using your pigeons in a few days to
send the words of their songs.”
Milo rode at the head of the trooper escort, Sunici horsemen from Gallic Belgica, as they trotted along the southern bank of the sea forth. He could see in the distance the steep-sided clifftop fortress of the Votadini tribe, a stronghold established where the waist of Pictland was belted from sea to sea by a chain of fortifications. The most easterly of them was Dunpendyrlaw, the landmark ancient hillfort near the coast where Bishop Candless had established his Dun Pelder settlement and was building his cathedral.
King Kinadius of Alba was overlord of the chieftains who held those strongpoints and he had taken as his eyrie the volcanic plug of Dun Eidyn that dominated the valley of the Forth. It was a stronghold that had been been occupied for millennia, most recently by the Votadini, and before them by the Romans, who called it ‘rock place,’ or ‘
Alauna
.
’
It was steep-sided on three faces, its access a sloping ramp of rock on the fourth side where a settlement had long existed outside the fortifications.
Arthur’s men had burned down that hamlet, but Kinadius was rebuilding it and the fortifications on that one approachable side, so Milo rode through a bustle of merchants, labourers and waggoneers bringing timber and stone to the builders. His throat was tight with grief and fear of the expected audience and he seemed almost in a trance as he swung down from his horse and entered the great hall of King Kinadius mac Ailpin,
Rex
Pictorum
.
The king of all Picts was at a table consulting two of his jarls and looked up at the bustle as his son in law came in. “Milo!” he exclaimed in surprise, “back so soon?” He looked eagerly behind the youth at the still-open door, but his daughter Sintea was not there. “Is the princess with you?” he asked. Milo stared at the kin
g, an intimidating, blue-tattooed, burly figure who was fingering his long braided hair, a sign Milo knew, that he was disturbed. Tears came to the youth’s eyes and he dropped to his knees.
Kinadius glanced, puzzled, at the jarl Baric, who as his vassal had the responsibility of maintaining the peace in Milo’s lands. The warlord gazed back, blank. Kinadius stood up and said roughly: ”Where is she?”
Milo looked up at the monarch. “She is dead, king,” he spoke simply. “She contracted the plague and she, she is dead.” Kinadius’ ruddy face paled. He stood as still as a statue, eyes boring into Milo’s. “What do you mean, boy? Is this your jest? Tell me the truth, by the gods!” Still kneeling, Milo lowered his head, his own grief painfully obvious to those who stood in the silent hall, but the king stepped forward and grabbed Milo’s hair, pulling his head up to look into his face. “This is the truth?” he whispered. “Sintea is dead? How and why is this?”
He shook the prince’s unresisting head, still clutching a handful of the youth’s hair. Milo looked up, tears brimming in his eyes and said: ”My lord king, it is true. She contracted the black plague in Chester. She died within a day. I wish it were me. We had to burn her, we had to burn my Sintea.”
Kinadius boiled over. “You young bastard!” he shouted, backhanding the kneeling youth across the face, the square-cut stone on his ring opening the boy’s cheek and cutting his lip. Milo, stunned, still knelt and seemed unaware of the blow. Kinadius smashed his fist into the prince’s face, toppling him. “You have killed my daughter in your filthy Britain,” he raged. “You exposed her to disease and you caused her death!” The youth was struggling to his feet, tears running down his face and mingling with the blood on his chin when Kinadius hissed. “You can pay for it. You can pay now!” In a single motion, the Pict thrust his leaf-bladed knife in under the boy’s ribs, puncturing his heart with an expert, warrior’s stroke. The big man stood panting, the whole weight of the boy’s slim body suspended on his blade.
Milo’s eyes widened and his mouth formed an ‘O’ as he gasped at the shock of the blade and the tearing, exploding pain in his chest. Blood blossomed like red flowers and soaked the front of his white tunic. In moments, the garment was sheeted as red as the ruby Guinevia had so
carefully attached at its neck.
Milo looked directly into the face of his killer and saw blind rage, no satisfaction, no remorse, no human feeling, just a demonic rage that possessed the king’s visage. He tried to speak, but his world was ebbing into gray and a strange sense of lassitude had made his limbs weak. The boy’s eyelids fluttered and closed.
Kinadius pushed him away with his left hand and wrenched the knife free, a dribble of blood running from his forearm and elbow to drip onto the flagstones and be soaked up by the rushes on the floor.
The dead prince made a crumpled heap at the king’s feet and the captain of Arthur’s troopers, who had entered the hall with the prince, ran from the rear of the chamber where he had stood in shocked disbelief, wrenching at his sword, dragging it from its scabbard.
Kinadius’ bodyguard, more used to their ruler’s rages, were better prepared. A spearman stepped forward, leveling his weapon as the trooper ran towards the dais. Two more stepped up, the horseman stopped, uncertain, his sword drooping, unused. The bodyguards glanced at their king. He nodded his head. “Him,” he said. The first spear thrust slammed the trooper backwards, then the others were plunging their points down and the trooper was shouting his last, calling out of treachery until he choked on the bubbled blood from his mouth.
Most of Milo’s escort were dismounted and died under the spears of the castle guard. Three fought their way clear, kicking their steeds recklessly down the stone causeway, and Kinadius, cursing, ordered his men to saddle and pursue. Two of the trapped troopers survived, bloodied but not seriously wounded and were hustled away to the prison tower.
Kinadius flung himself onto his throne, pushed his face deep into his bloodied hands and groaned. His wife, summoned by a servant, ran to put her hand on his shoulder. He shook it off. “This is aye no time for softness, woman,” he growled. “We’ll be breaking out the pikes and sacrificing to him once more.” He nodded to the carved sandstone effigy of Antenociticus, a British frontier god of war and warriors that stood in its own alcove and looked down on the hall’s denizens. “Arthur won’t stand for this. One of us will have to die.”
The woman ignored her husband’s words. “Is Sintea, is my child really dead?” she gasped. “The boy said so,” Kinadius responded, indicating with his foot the figure of Milo, still huddled on the floor. “I didn’t get the truth of it yet, but I’ll have it from those two prisoners.” The wife fell to the floor, wailing. “Why?” was all she could say.
“Why?” said the king bitterly. “Because she went to Arthur’s pox-ridden court and caught its foul pestilence. I should burn the place. I should never have agreed to her going. Now, get away, I have work to do.”
As he called for aides and hurried to muster for war, the trio of escaped troopers were racing for any safety they could find, and their route naturally took them east along the side of the firth, to the cathedral of Bishop Candless on top of its ancient earthwork. .
Two of the fugitives arrived at dusk, having left their wounded comrade, whose horse had gone lame. The man urged the others on. “I’ll be there tomorrow,” he said. “Tell the bishop about me, ask him to send some help.” The duo were in time to find Grabelius readying for his long ride south, and blurted out their news of treachery and murder.
Candless and the cavalrymen heard the news in grim silence. “Kinadius will be here within a day, he’ll recall my affiliation to Arthur,” said the bishop soberly. “I’ll need to raise my clan or he’ll have my head, and you’ll need to get urgent word to Arthur. The frontier will be afire in the m
atter of a week.”
“This news will not wait,” said Grabelius. “Send for my two troopers. We’ll start at once. You two, get fresh horses right now and be ready to go.” To Candless, he said: “We’ll take the Roman road south and we should outrun any pursuit. You’ll have men here asking questions, but you should be able to muster enough protection to be safe.”
Candless agreed. “The king will look to the frontier. He’ll have to rally the chieftains, because he’ll not have ready resources to raise enough men himself. He’ll be anxious about some traitor taking his chance to seize Kinadius’ own power. I’ll buy a clan’s warriors, I have the silver already.” The bishop sighed, then continued: ”I’ll get some of it cut up and distributed, we can make coin from it later. With gold in hand and the prospect of loot, I can have a good force to join Arthur’s when he comes north. I’ll send the pigeons with the news, too. Arthur will want to know as quickly as he can, because you know, he will come north. He will not countenance the death of his son. Kinadius will pay a terrible price for this day’s work.”
As he spoke, Kinadius was considering that very prospect. He had questioned the two captive troopers and heard of the terrible plague that was sweeping Britain. With threats and gold, he made them swear to keep secret what they had heard and seen that day, gave them Milo’s blood-soaked tunic and instructed them to ride swiftly to Arthur with a tale of being beset by outlaws who had killed the prince.
“You never got to my fastness,” he told them. “You were ambushed by robbers on the road and I am in pursuit of those bandits.” The two Britons bowed their heads in agreement, were given fresh horses and provisions and sent south. Both men kept silent and did not say that Arthur’s cavalry commander and two troopers had left their column before it arrived at the River Tay and Kinadius’ hall, so the king had no knowledge of the contact with Bishop Candless.
Instead, he felt that by using the excuse of keeping out the plague, he could close the Wall to all traffic, and would ensure that the three fugitives could be caught and killed long before Arthur learned that the tale of bandit ambush of his son was false. “That might hold Arthur for a while, though he will come north to investigate for himself, but it will buy us some time,” he told the jarl Baric. “My men should quickly kill those three who escaped. They will have great difficulty getting south and it is best if we make sure they don’t. Then, before Arthur comes snooping, we have time to persuade the clan chiefs that we can defeat him, get their forces organised and t
ake his kingdom for ourselves.”