Read Online Web of Deceit by M. K. Hume - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: M. K. Hume
Tags: Fiction, Historical
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foreign shite either, for I want good British gold!’
‘Ah, man, you’d complain if it rained silver and the rivers were made of gold because you missed the running water.’ Then Fionnuala made her way to her own bed and was soon happily snoring.
Just before dawn, shouts and screams disturbed the inhabitants of the inn. Myrddion woke with an acrid, bitter taste in his mouth from smoke that was billowing into the room through the open shutters. A major fire fanned by the stiff morning breeze was obviously out of control in the town. Cadoc, shaken awake by his master, immediately leaned out of the second-storey window to ascertain the location of the fire, and reported that a red glow in the lightening sky indicatedbuildings near the southern gate were ablaze.
‘You and Finn stay here with the women, Cadoc,’ Myrddion decided. ‘Praxiteles will come with me to find out what’s amiss. Gods, but I’m glad we’re within the walls, although we’ve seen before that fortifications aren’t always proof of safety. I still remember Tournai.’
‘How could we ever forget that place?’ Cadoc asked unnecessarily. ‘Willa came from that benighted town, but no one was left alive to tell us who she was. Off you go, then, and we’ll stay here to protect the women and children. Don’t forget your satchel.’
Cadoc’s face had a determined set as he hunted up his sword, a weapon he hadn’t used since he was a foot soldier in Vortigern’s army. Placing himself outside their rooms, he prepared to defend the women with his life.
Trusting to the military skills of his companions to keep the women safe, Myrddion snatched up his satchel and followed Praxiteles into the street where the older men of the town were making for the walls. Many of these townsmen carried bows, while the young boys were armed with slingshots and other makeshift weapons that had been snatched from more mundane duties in their homes. One buxom, red-haired wench pushed past Myrddion with a nasty-looking garden hoe slung over one shoulder. Judging by the affronted, martial steeliness in her brown eyes, Myrddion decided that the attackers’ heads would be cloven if she had any say in the matter.
Weaving through the jostling crowd, healer and servant followed the press of townsmen and women towards the southern fortifications. ‘What’s amiss?’ Myrddion asked of a running youth, halting his progress with one hand.
The youth angrily tried to shake him off. ‘The Saxons are burning the lower town outside the gates. They’re slaughtering everything that livesdown there – men, women, children and beasts, damn them all.’
‘Then we’d best offer our help, Praxiteles. If the town is taken, then so are we.’
Pushing their way forward, the two men found themselves at the bottom of a flight of open wooden stairs. The wall was built of cyclopean blocks of irregular stone that had been raised to a level some three times the height of a fully grown man, but as they mounted the steps to climb to the ramparts the scene outside the town became visible in all its grisly carnage.
The Saxons had attacked during the pre-dawn light at a time when the denizens of the lower town were still asleep. Consequently, few of the traders were able to seek shelter inside the walls. The gates of Verulamium were closed and barred between dusk and dawn and the gatekeeper had refused to risk the township, or his own skin, by opening the smaller inner doors to save those souls trapped between Saxon weapons and the solid stone defences. With no hope of salvation, the innocent women and children of the lower town pounded on the gates until their fists bled, but were soon cut down by the tall Saxon warriors who continued to pillage the shops, inns and dwellings where the unprotected citizens resided. Once they were finished with a building, the Saxons set it afire, often with the inhabitants trapped inside.
Sickened, Myrddion turned away from the pile of dead flesh below him.
‘Ah, man, you’d complain if it rained silver and the rivers were made of gold because you missed the running water.’ Then Fionnuala made her way to her own bed and was soon happily snoring.
Just before dawn, shouts and screams disturbed the inhabitants of the inn. Myrddion woke with an acrid, bitter taste in his mouth from smoke that was billowing into the room through the open shutters. A major fire fanned by the stiff morning breeze was obviously out of control in the town. Cadoc, shaken awake by his master, immediately leaned out of the second-storey window to ascertain the location of the fire, and reported that a red glow in the lightening sky indicatedbuildings near the southern gate were ablaze.
‘You and Finn stay here with the women, Cadoc,’ Myrddion decided. ‘Praxiteles will come with me to find out what’s amiss. Gods, but I’m glad we’re within the walls, although we’ve seen before that fortifications aren’t always proof of safety. I still remember Tournai.’
‘How could we ever forget that place?’ Cadoc asked unnecessarily. ‘Willa came from that benighted town, but no one was left alive to tell us who she was. Off you go, then, and we’ll stay here to protect the women and children. Don’t forget your satchel.’
Cadoc’s face had a determined set as he hunted up his sword, a weapon he hadn’t used since he was a foot soldier in Vortigern’s army. Placing himself outside their rooms, he prepared to defend the women with his life.
Trusting to the military skills of his companions to keep the women safe, Myrddion snatched up his satchel and followed Praxiteles into the street where the older men of the town were making for the walls. Many of these townsmen carried bows, while the young boys were armed with slingshots and other makeshift weapons that had been snatched from more mundane duties in their homes. One buxom, red-haired wench pushed past Myrddion with a nasty-looking garden hoe slung over one shoulder. Judging by the affronted, martial steeliness in her brown eyes, Myrddion decided that the attackers’ heads would be cloven if she had any say in the matter.
Weaving through the jostling crowd, healer and servant followed the press of townsmen and women towards the southern fortifications. ‘What’s amiss?’ Myrddion asked of a running youth, halting his progress with one hand.
The youth angrily tried to shake him off. ‘The Saxons are burning the lower town outside the gates. They’re slaughtering everything that livesdown there – men, women, children and beasts, damn them all.’
‘Then we’d best offer our help, Praxiteles. If the town is taken, then so are we.’
Pushing their way forward, the two men found themselves at the bottom of a flight of open wooden stairs. The wall was built of cyclopean blocks of irregular stone that had been raised to a level some three times the height of a fully grown man, but as they mounted the steps to climb to the ramparts the scene outside the town became visible in all its grisly carnage.
The Saxons had attacked during the pre-dawn light at a time when the denizens of the lower town were still asleep. Consequently, few of the traders were able to seek shelter inside the walls. The gates of Verulamium were closed and barred between dusk and dawn and the gatekeeper had refused to risk the township, or his own skin, by opening the smaller inner doors to save those souls trapped between Saxon weapons and the solid stone defences. With no hope of salvation, the innocent women and children of the lower town pounded on the gates until their fists bled, but were soon cut down by the tall Saxon warriors who continued to pillage the shops, inns and dwellings where the unprotected citizens resided. Once they were finished with a building, the Saxons set it afire, often with the inhabitants trapped inside.
Sickened, Myrddion turned away from the pile of dead flesh below him.
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