Web of Deceit (17 page)

The woman’s lissome body and the endearing freckles across her nose, forearms and breasts impressed Ambrosius. Even the sharp enmity in her eyes caused his loins to tighten painfully. Ambrosius had always trodden
carefully around the fairer sex, for he had a healthy respect for the reputed female penchant for slyness and manipulation. Even the need for an heir was not overly pressing, as Uther could step into his shoes should accident, assassination or death in battle send the High King prematurely to the River Styx. Not that Ambrosius planned to pay the Ferryman early: far from it. The king nurtured grandiose plans for the future of the people of the west, ambitions that would take time to bring to fruition. Unlike his brother, he recognised that there were many Saxon thanes of character and pragmatism who might well enter into alliances under some form of truce. Further, he believed that little actually separated Saxon and Celt but blind prejudice, for even their gods and customs were similar. With patience, Ambrosius believed he could blunt the violence of the past and build a lasting accord with Saxons of goodwill.

Even as his mind ranged over the many possibilities open to him, he continued to stare at the Celtic woman intently. Finally Luka interrupted his liege’s abstracted concentration.

‘What do you require us to do with the captives, my king?’

‘They may stay or go as their hearts dictate. I’ll not turn noblewomen into slaves. They are free to find new husbands or masters if they wish to remain in Venta Belgarum. Let each woman who chooses to leave be given a horse and enough supplies to last for a week. She may then return to her home as best she may.’

The noblewomen whispered together with a sound like wind soughing through dried grasses. Their faces were closed and blank and their bodies were rigid with revulsion.

‘Then we will depart this heathen place,’ the Pict queen decided in a voice that was deep, resonant and charged with sexual promise, although she must have been past the age of childbearing. ‘The mountains of the north wind call to us and my husband’s shade demands to be set free of the chains of this world.’

The other women swayed
and nodded, so that Ambrosius imagined that he gazed at flower women, heather women, blue with their tattoos and the midnight blackness of their manes.

‘My lord,’ Luka protested. ‘These women are from noble families who will be prepared to pay a ransom for their safe return. You cast away gold that would enrich your war coffers.’

‘I don’t make war against females,’ Ambrosius snapped. ‘And who is that Celtic woman? She’s obviously not a Pict, so she has no business being chained.’

‘She damned well acted like a Pict when she bit me,’ Luka responded roughly, still smarting from the king’s rebuff. ‘She was married to one of the lordlings. But don’t ask me which one, as I can’t pronounce their heathen names.’

‘Stand forth, woman. I know you understand me. Who are you, and what are your antecedents?’

Ambrosius’s tone left no room for disobedience, so the Celt stepped to the front of the cluster of women with her chin lifted in pride. Her steps were graceful and turned her slightest movement into a promise.

‘My husband’s name was Garnaid, lord of the area north of what the Romans called Camelon, beyond the Vallum Antonini. The Romans ceded us those lands, believing us to be too barbaric to dwell on softer, more civilised soil. And you could not dislodge us, no matter how hard your ancestors tried. But some of us still dwell in the lands of the Selgovae and Damnonii, in an uneasy truce with the tribal kings and suffering much poverty. Some Otadini tribesmen hunt us like vermin, yet you consider
them
to be noble.’

Her voice was light and lilting, although she spoke Celt with a limping accent, as if she had been stolen from her people a long time ago.

‘I repeat, woman, what is your name and where do you come from?’

‘I am Bridei, once called Andrewina Ruadh
when I lived in my father’s house near Rerigonius Sinus. I grew up within a stone’s throw of the wild sea, a daughter of the Novantae tribe. When I was ten years old, I was stolen, or rescued, by a raiding party from beyond the northern wall, and became a replacement for a murdered daughter. In the north, I learned what it is to be free and no chattel of ambitious men. There, I married as I chose and bore sons, so I thank you for permitting me to return to my bairns.’

‘But you’re not a Pict!’ Ambrosius exclaimed, affronted that a well-born female would prefer the travails of the icy north.

‘And you’re a Roman, Ambrosius Imperator, and not a true Celt in blood. As such, you belong in Rome, don’t you? No? Like you, I choose to be where my heart dictates. I am now a Pict.’

‘By birth and bloodline, you are Celt until it is established whether your kin will take you back. If none is found alive, or your family should reject you, then you may go where you choose. In the meantime, you may serve in my kitchens.’

Bridei flashed Ambrosius a malicious glance that could blight the immature ears of wheat. The High King smiled a little at her defiance, although Uther clenched his fists at her arrogance and decided that this woman should meet with an unfortunate accident.

‘I’ll not be a servant to my people’s enemies. You’ll have to chain me.’

‘Of course, my lady,’ Ambrosius agreed equably. ‘If such is your desire.’

Then, as the women were ushered out of his hall, the High King turned his back on her to talk to Luka and Uther. Bridei was led away in chains. Her heart ached for her sons, but her pride did not permit her to weep.

Myrddion lay curled in his cloak in a thick nest of dried leaves outside Tomen-y-mur as he waited to ride into that benighted town. He had ridden far, visiting the
towns of Glevum, Venta Silurum, Isca, Nidum and Caer Fyrddin. At first, he had been unsure of ever finding eyes and ears for Ambrosius, but he had been mistaken. Years of war had taken their toll on the British people, and kings and commoners alike gave thanks for the night that Vortigern had perished at Dinas Emrys. They were vocal in their praise of peace, at least in his hearing, and at Isca Myrddion even heard the tale of Vortigern’s burning, told with much elaboration, by an old soldier who claimed to have been at the fortress when the old monster died. Initially, Myrddion had wanted to hide in embarrassment, but he covered his hair with the cowl of his cloak, sat quietly at the back of the inn and listened in amazement as the unlikely tale unfolded.

‘It was a lucky day when the gods took pity on us,’ the warrior explained to a rapt audience. ‘We’d suffered sorely from the tyrant’s cruelty and it seemed we’d be killing each other for years. Civil war was like to turn Cymru into a wasteland full of weeping widows and starving children. Let’s face it, what harm does Ambrosius do to us? We send our share of tribute and the levies, and we’re left to live our lives as we want. But under Vortigern’s iron fist? I remember it well, mind, so I’m glad the bastard’s safely dead.’

‘But how did it happen, Ewen? I’m told he died in a storm,’ a plump-faced farmer asked, pouring ale from a brimming pottery jug into a mug clutched in Ewen’s gnarled fist. Gratified with the response, Ewen took a deep quaff of the ale and brushed his grey moustaches clean. He preened visibly.

‘I tell you that the good god Bran sent the lightning that struck Vortigern. It burned him up in seconds. Ugh! What he looked like afterwards! We were sick when we tried to move the king’s corpse. He fell apart like over-cooked meat.’

Ewen continued to elaborate on his grisly tale to the groans, cheers or grimaces of the crowd, but Myrddion had heard enough. Yet the flashy lie was of use, for it
ensured that Myrddion’s mentor, Eddius, remained safe, despite lighting the fire that caused the death of King Vortigern. Nor did Myrddion have the heart to blame Eddius for his sin of regicide. Eddius’s wife, Olwyn, Myrddion’s grandmother, had been killed by the king’s own hand and her blood had cried out for vengeance from beyond the grave.

‘A pretty fallacy,’ he whispered.

The man next to him glanced up at Myrddion sharply and then, surprised, narrowed his eyes in recognition.

‘I know you, master.’ The man spoke softly and deferentially, for he remembered the sunburst ruby on Myrddion’s index finger. ‘You were the healer at Tomen-y-mur. You’re the Demon Seed.’

‘Were you there, my friend?’ Myrddion sighed. He had already found some men and women who were eager to serve him because he had saved their lives after one of the many battles fought during Vortigern’s time. Their admiration made them eager to repay him, and Myrddion sometimes believed he was taking advantage of their gratitude.

‘Yes, I helped to erect your first tent at Tomen-y-mur. My brother died at the hands of that bastard, Balbas, who was supposed to be caring for him. God rot the cur! I hope he starves for the greed and ineptitude that killed my brother. You took Aelwen into your tent and tried to help him, but his blood was already poisoned.’

‘I’m sorry, friend. Every healer regrets the lives he cannot save.’

The warrior shook his plaits and clasped both hands together so tightly that the knuckles shone whitely.

‘He didn’t suffer, because you gave him something to ease his way into the shades – or so you said. You let me stay with him and hold his hand until he drew his last breath. I never thanked you, for I couldn’t think for sorrow. At the time, I wanted the whole world to burn to cinders so everyone would suffer as I did, so I couldn’t say a word. Forgive me for being so ungrateful.’

‘There’s nothing
to forgive. I’ve seen every form of grief, so I understand how paralysing it is. What is your name?’

‘Aled. We were Aelwen and Aled of Isca, or Caerleon as we call it. A pair of boys who were set for trouble – that was us. We were never apart in life, so I miss him more than I can say. I’m married now, with two boys of my own, and I serve the Silure king, but nothing fills the hole left by the loss of Aelwen.’

‘I understand. I felt the same when my grandmother died, but the grief grows dim with the passage of the years, and leaves behind only the memories of the good days. You’ll see, Aled. The Mother hasn’t forsaken you.’

Embarrassed, Aled turned the conversation to Myrddion’s presence in Cymru. Stories had grown around the Demon Seed and his name was often mentioned in conjunction with Vortigern. But he had been absent for so long that rumour suggested that his infernal father had either spirited him away to the Otherworld or driven him mad.

‘As you can see, Aled, I am neither crazed nor demon-cursed. I am still a simple healer.’

‘Aye,’ Aled snorted with scorn. ‘And I’m the High King of the Britons.’

Myrddion laughed gently. ‘No. You are surely not Ambrosius, Aled. In fact, the High King is my master now, and I’m here at his behest on a matter of great secrecy.’

Aled raised one sceptical eyebrow. Venta Belgarum was far away, but only foolish braggarts claimed familiarity with Ambrosius Imperator.

‘I swear I never took you for a man who would happily serve a foreign king.’

‘I wasn’t, Aled. But I’ve seen the Middle Sea since I was last in Cymru and my opinions have changed. You can’t imagine the wars and bloodshed that take place as migrating tribes pour into the void the Romans leave
when they abandon the lands they ruled. Bridges, roads, buildings, aqueducts and the law itself are cast away. The Saxons are as nothing when compared with some of the tribes across the Litus Saxonicum. No, I serve Ambrosius because he represents law, order and strength for our people.’

‘I will agree with you that we need no more Vortimers or Catigerns to tear the tribes and clans apart, but it goes against the grain, master, to welcome a stranger.’

Myrddion chose his next words carefully, because Aled was exactly the type of man he needed: a cool-thinking, rational patriot.

‘Ambrosius’s mother was both Roman and tribal, which many men forget, but I have talked with him and I can swear that he has always thought of these isles as his homeland. Late at night, he speaks of his years of exile in Brittany, Rome and Constantinople. He still thinks of those places, which he could have considered his home, as foreign and beautiful. But like me during my journey to Constantinople, he longed for the dim blue skies of Britain.’

‘Perhaps,’ Aled growled. ‘Perhaps I’m being a fool to set such store by nine generations of family behind me on the same soil. But our family lands belonged to other peoples, including the Picts, before we Celts settled in Britain. I suppose the world is changing and we must change with it.’

The warrior’s expression was thoughtful, so Myrddion rose to buy another pitcher of ale. When he retuned, Aled was sunk in gloom.

‘By your description of Gaul, we could be at war for years. May the Mother save us.’

‘No, Aled, we must act to save ourselves. I’m in the service of Ambrosius, and I’m searching for like-minded men, including some who speak Saxon, who are prepared to serve as listeners within and without the kingdom.’

Myrddion carefully refrained from
using the ugly word
spy
, but Aled’s back straightened and a cloud settled on his brows.

‘A spy in the Saxon towns I understand, but you must call it by what it is, Master Myrddion.’ Aled’s voice was crisp with his displeasure. ‘But why should any loyal tribesman provide you with information about his own people that will be used for the benefit of Ambrosius Imperator? Such information smacks of treason, and brings dishonour to the informant’s own tribe.’

‘You said it yourself, Aled. We don’t want another Vortimer, hungry to assume his father’s throne. Good kings need fear nothing from Ambrosius Imperator. Believe me, he knows the Saxons are unpredictable and cruel enemies. He needs no others.’

Aled nodded tersely, but his shoulders remained stiff and unbending.

‘The men who have already committed themselves to this task have sworn an oath to me, not to Ambrosius,’ Myrddion continued as persuasively as he knew how. ‘I will decide how the information I receive should be used. If you insist on describing my mission accurately, it is my task to be the spymaster, so you must decide whether I have the integrity to carry out my role. I hope I have already proved to you that I can be trusted.’