Web of Deceit (13 page)
Ambrosius gestured towards the food tray and handed Myrddion an eating knife. His brows were knitted together. ‘You look like a beardless boy, but you have seen an abundance of the cruel deeds that have been enacted in our lands.’
He smiled softly as he recalled past wrongs. ‘My half-brother, Vortimer, was driven to madness by the ambition of avaricious men, and so much blood has been spilled in pursuit of this throne.’
Ambrosius toyed with the bangle on his wrist and the bells tinkled softly.
‘My mother’s second husband, Vortigern, killed my brother Constans and caused us to be sent into exile. Her bangle reminds me now of the love she held for us and how she became a sacrifice to her husband’s ambitions. I have known terrible times, Myrddion Merlinus, but you have experienced things that even I will never know. I wish to harness that experience and use it to my advantage. Don’t frown so – I’ll always tell you my intentions
to your face.’
Myrddion nodded his head. In his frankness, Ambrosius was difficult to gainsay, for such candour was unusual in such a powerful man.
‘So, I return to my first question before we were interrupted. What did you think of my hall of justice?’
Instinctively, Myrddion decided to answer the king’s question with the frankness that Ambrosius seemed to prefer. ‘You need more scribes to keep a record of the words uttered by the petitioners and your responses, all of them, so that you’re not forced to depend on your memory alone. This would ensure that you have a record of the conflicts that occur in your realm, and allow such knowledge to serve you well at some future time.’
‘Agreed, Myrddion. I understand your meaning. There’s always a dearth of good scribes, but I will set my warriors the task of finding as many as possible. Do you have any thoughts on the matter?’
‘The Christian church has learned men in abundance who can meet your needs, if you can make the appropriate arrangements with them. I’m not of that faith, but I advocate using every tool at your disposal. Such a liaison could provide a further advantage to you in that they could become future allies to your cause.’
‘Your words are clever, so I’ll take your advice. Uther was wise to divert you from your journey to Segontium, as you are proving valuable to me already. Have you any other suggestions or criticisms?’
Myrddion stared at his thumbs, concentrating on the ruby ring he had been gifted at birth.
‘There are two other ways you can enforce your judgements during disputes between the nobles. First, you need a seneschal with the authority to intervene during unseemly and confusing displays of temper such as we saw tonight. In my view, such an individual should have the power to censure and punish, for your task is merely to judge and
arrive at decisions, rather than to control the behaviour of petitioners.’
‘That’s also good advice. I shall think on it. What is your other suggestion?’ The High King’s eyes glowed in the light of the lamp and Myrddion wondered how he had ever thought those mild blue eyes were shallow.
‘You need a spy network, not only in the Saxon camps, but also in the halls of your allies. You should know in advance which lords have ambitions, and those who do not. In this fashion, you can protect your own position and secure the safety of the realm.’
‘Ah!’ Ambrosius sighed deeply, and lines of worry etched his handsome face. ‘I’m aware that this throne hangs by a thread, for if I should die I have no son to follow me. Only my brother stands between the people and a civil war for the throne. Between these four walls, I confess I’ve thought long and hard about a spy network, but Uther lacks the subtlety to organise such a structure, so I would be forced to employ an outlander to assume that role. Yet Uther is the only man in these wide lands whom I fully trust. I’m sure you’ll forgive me if I state the obvious, but I speak truthfully. My brother Constans trusted Vortigern, our stepfather, and perished because of his faith in that friendship. I’ll not make the same error.’
‘I understand, lord.’
‘But your suggestions do have merit, Myrddion Merlinus, so I will consider your advice carefully.’ Then the king grinned and poured another cup of wine. ‘Now, tell me of Constantinople, the Jewel of the East. How I loved that city when I was a boy.’
As wary friends, the two men spoke of far-off cities and strange customs until their meal was finished. Even then, Ambrosius would have continued the conversation, but he saw that Myrddion’s eyes were heavy and the healer was stifling yawns of weariness.
‘But I keep you from your bed, healer, in my eagerness to speak of the past. I’ve been discourteous and I beg your pardon for it. Go to your rest, and I will look forward
to sunset tomorrow when you can tell me of the death of Flavius Aetius. It seems crazed to me. What sensible ruler robs himself of his most able defender?’
After murmuring all the courtesies of a guest, Myrddion excused himself and Ulfin guided him out of the High King’s hall, instructing a dour warrior to ensure that the healer was escorted safely to his house. Now, as he chased sleep, Myrddion permitted himself to wonder at the nature of Ambrosius Imperator, a man who seemed so open and reasonable, and yet had survived even the unscrupulous manipulations of a man such as Vortigern.
‘There must be more to him than the face he exposes to the world,’ Myrddion whispered into his pillow as sleep finally dragged him down into the peaceful darkness.
THE HOUSE OF THE HEALERS IN VENTA BELGARUM
’Twas I plucked the apple down
From the bough above and ate;
Folly, while they stay alive,
Woman never will forsake.
Anonymous Celtic poem
The morrow dawned with all
the promise
and rich aroma
of spring. The air was crisp with a hint of chill, but the clouds scudding through the bright blue sky were more fluffy than threatening, and the sturdy farmers of Venta Belgarum were fully employed in weeding around the new shoots thrusting through the furrows and tending to the birthing of the new season’s lambs and calves. When Praxiteles sallied forth before dawn in search of servants, he was forced to accept men and women whom he would normally have rejected as ludicrously unsuitable.
A ragtag group of raddled whores, old men, cripples and layabouts eventually assembled in the large, unkempt kitchen for Myrddion’s inspection. The group was an unprepossessing bunch and many carried old injuries that had doomed them to grinding poverty in the past. Myrddion
noted one man with a twisted leg that had obviously been broken and set incorrectly long ago. Another had been born with a twisted spine. Although Myrddion realised that the man must be very strong to have survived for so long, he deplored the circumstances that doomed the sufferer to a life of hardship because of an accident of birth.
Depressed by the group before him, the young healer sighed audibly, and then addressed his new staff. ‘I am a healer, a man who has dedicated his life to the alleviation of illness and pain, so I understand how difficult survival must have been for all of you. Therefore, I have decided that you will have a safe haven in this house of healers where the generosity of the High King will pay your wages. You can be assured that I’ll turn no one away because of age or infirmity. I am searching for effort, devotion and an earnest desire to better your lot in life.’
The prospective servants should have been grateful. Instead, they stared, gape-mouthed, at Myrddion as if he were a lunatic. What sensible person hires the old and the twisted? Most of them had only come with Praxiteles in the hope of a free meal. Several of the men, especially those few not yet grown to middle age, began to sneer behind their hands at such transparent foolishness.
For his part, Myrddion continued to smile casually, but his tall frame seemed to grow until it dominated the rough mud walls of the kitchen and his shadow, in the dawn firelight, hung over the room like a creature out of night terrors.
‘You will hear it whispered that I am the son of a demon. Do not believe such foolish stories, for I am far worse than the mere scion of a chaos monster as insubstantial as dreams. I can see into your secret hearts, for I am the grandchild of the High Priestess of Ceridwen in Cymru. She died to protect me, and told her people that the goddess had gifted me with an added eye to hunt out wickedness, sloth and dishonesty.’
Cadoc stared at his master with
nearly as much surprise as the men and women who watched him with varying degrees of horror. This Myrddion who was claiming to be ruthless and manipulative was new to him. Cadoc was confused, for his master had always been kind and generous towards his servants, treating them with the same courtesy as he extended to kings.
‘If you labour hard in my service to the best of your abilities, you will have a roof over your heads, food in your bellies and coin in your purses. But if you betray me, I will cast you adrift on the mercies of Venta Belgarum where all men will know that your hearts are as twisted as your bodies. Do you understand me?’
Raggedly, the new servants nodded their agreement with varying degrees of awe, concern or scorn.
‘I will now speak to each of you privately and allocate tasks according to your skills and aptitude. But first, Praxiteles is my steward and he must be obeyed at all times. He is responsible for my household, and when he instructs you to carry out your duties he is speaking with my authority. Cadoc is a healer and, again, he speaks with my authority. Rhedyn and Brangaine are skilled workers with the sick and the injured, and will always be addressed respectfully. If they require a service from you, their requests must be accommodated to the best of your ability. Perhaps some of you will show an aptitude for your duties that will earn preferment for you. If so, the choice will ultimately be yours. As for now, a hot stew will chase away the last of the night for those of you who are hungry, while I will begin my interviews with you individually.’
The odd assortment of men and women, young and old, was silent with apprehension. Myrddion pointed to the youngest of the men, who was cursed with a shrivelled arm and had been so unwise as to sneer openly when the healer first began to speak. The man flinched visibly, but he followed his new master into the house, along the corridor and into the scriptorium where Myrddion seated himself among
the boxes and crates that held his possessions.
‘What is your name?’ Myrddion’s voice was curt.
The man ducked his head and fixed his gaze on his dirty, bare feet. ‘I’m called Fingal, or the fair stranger. My mother made a joke when she named me, master. I was born with this arm, so she considered me to be worse than useless. As I am!’
‘Show me the limb, Fingal,’ Myrddion demanded, and Fingal exposed his left arm from the sleeve in which it was usually hidden. The forearm was grossly shortened and under-developed, and the muscles were wasted from lack of use over many years. The hand itself was small and the vestigial fingers were so short as to be almost entirely useless. But Myrddion noted that the man’s thumb was normal in both size and appearance. Although the whole arm was some three or four inches shorter than his hale arm, the crippled limb still retained considerable strength above the elbow, so Fingal obviously used the upper muscles to wedge objects against his body in order to manipulate them with his good right hand.
‘Despite a certain degree of incapacity, you are still fortunate, Fingal,’ Myrddion said. ‘You may have been told that you are useless, but you have good muscle in your upper arm and a thumb that will allow you to hold objects against the stumps of your fingers. If you can stop thinking of yourself as useless and start seeing yourself as a man, we might be able to teach you to have some respectable mobility in that arm. It will never be pretty, but I think it can become serviceable. I can design a wrist strap that will assist you to manipulate a spade or a fork and then you’ll be able to work like an able-bodied man.’
Fingal said nothing, but his face spoke volumes of the doubt, the resentment and the frail hope that fuelled his inner rage.
‘Answer me fairly. Do you wish to be treated like a man rather than a cripple?’
‘Yes,’ Fingal snarled
resentfully. ‘I want to be treated like a sodding man. Wouldn’t you?’
‘Ah, so now we have signs of anger. I’m glad to see you aren’t lacking in spirit. Well, Fingal, you shall fill the role of chief gardener. There’s a little land around this house – not a lot, mind you, but enough. I want the wall built higher and there is a need for trees to be planted. Fruit trees will add to our self-sufficiency, as will vegetable gardens. A herb plot is important to healers for growing our medications, and I would like to have a beautiful atrium where we can pipe our own water. I will provide the coin for everything you need. But first, the servants’ quarters at the rear of the property are in a dreadful condition. Your first task is to make them habitable.’