Web of Deceit (20 page)
I am called a dog because I fawn on those who give me anything.
I yelp at those who refuse, and I set my teeth in rascals.
Diogenes,
Kosmopolites
A rough hand on one
shoulder woke the healer with a nervous jerk. Myrddion surged upright, his eyes blinking away his dream.
‘You fell asleep, Myrddion-three-names. You’re lucky I’m an honest man, or I would have taken everything you have. Who were you speaking to in your dreams?’
‘The gods,’ Myrddion said, and rubbed his tired eyes. ‘I’ve been plagued by night terrors since childhood, but thankfully I rarely recall them. And yes, I’m glad of your honesty, my friend. Only a fool sleeps in front of a stranger, and I’m not usually so careless.’
Gruffydd growled from deep in his throat. ‘Here was I thinking you had something murderous for me to do and you were feeling guilty. I’ll tell you now that I’m no assassin. I kill for no man, nor do I take coin for my dead. I may be ruined, but I’m not a mongrel dog.’
‘It seems to me that you’re intensely human,’ Myrddion interjected, trying to deflect
Gruffydd’s obvious anger. ‘Only a human can really hate effectively, for beasts forget the hand that whips them or slays their mothers. Only people remember wrongs done to them. It is our strength, and our curse.’
Confused, Gruffydd stared at the healer.
‘You may shake your head all you wish, Gruffydd, but I was raised to believe I wasn’t human. Even children taunted me with the insulting name of Demon Seed. But I suspected that no child of a demon could feel the hurt, the humiliation and the rage I felt when I was treated as being of no account. I have felt the desire for revenge so keenly that I believed I would vomit with the rankness of it, but I have learned that a cold brain concocts a more fitting punishment for life’s ills than the crude heat of bloodletting.’
Gruffydd snorted with derision. He had been told, by what kinfolk he still possessed, that his bitterness was blighting his life. This young man had no words to change the patterns of behaviour that brought Gruffydd some kind of release.
‘I know, I know. But one day a Saxon will be faster than you are and he will kill you. Other than a measure of personal satisfaction, what will you have achieved when the shades claim you?’
‘I don’t care,’ Gruffydd snarled viciously. ‘Now, if you’ve finished trying to suborn me, I’ll be on my way, for I’ve eaten as much as my gut can hold.’
‘I can show you a way to hunt in the daylight, and how to kill whole armies rather than single men. I can provide more bloody satisfaction than you can dine on for the rest of your life. You can gorge on your revenge until you sicken of it, although I’d prefer that you remain on the borders of our lands for half of the year and keep your sanity. But I’ll understand if you don’t have the stomach for subterfuge.’
For the first time, Gruffydd looked vaguely interested, even though his brows were knit with irritation that such a young man should call his courage
into doubt. When he eventually spoke, his voice was drenched with sarcasm.
‘Who are you, boy, to lecture me on the niceties of revenge? You’re hardly out of your teens and you don’t know the Saxons like I do.’
At least he’s talking to me, Myrddion thought wryly, trying to retain a surface calm. He was heartily sick of arguing with this obdurate and embittered man, but he remembered the voice of the Mother in his dream and was left with a painful sense of urgency. Some of his feelings must have shown in his expression because Gruffydd began to chuckle.
‘Don’t like your own medicine, do you, healer?’
‘Not over much, Gruffydd. And I’m no boy. I wear my face smooth in the Roman style but beware that I don’t lose patience and leave you to die. The Mother told me that you were already fated to die under an oak tree, pinned to its trunk as a sacrifice to the northern god Baldur. The crows would have eaten your eyes while you were still alive, you fool, but the Mother has sent me to save you from this fate. She has plans to use you for another purpose. In my dream, she told me that your destiny is to have a great influence on the future of this land – whether you will it so or not. Beware, Gruffydd, for I’d not care to gainsay the Mother when she walks the cold roads of winter in her guise as the Hag. Listen to me, fool, and consider how much more satisfying your life would be if she shines her holy eyes upon you.’
‘This is superstitious nonsense!’ Gruffydd growled. ‘Where was the Mother when my parents screamed for her help? When I tried to pray to her, she turned her face away from me. I saved
myself
, so be damned to her and all the other gods who let my mother die in pain.’
Myrddion felt the fingers of the Mother caressing his shoulders like smooth, water-washed bones of ivory. He felt her invisible serpents as they wound
around his arms once again, as if a memory of babyhood still lived in his brain. Unbidden, unwanted and unstoppable, the words came vomiting from somewhere in the pit of
her
stomach. Gruffydd flinched, but Myrddion was no longer able to see the shambling man’s fear.
‘You will carry a sword, Man of Blood. It is very long and rich in gems, with a dragon on the hilt that devours the blade. You stand behind a giant whom I shall bring into birth, and you will rise high in the eyes of the tribes in the shadows of the giant’s hand. Do not deny me, Man of Blood. You will father children but your heart will be lost to the dragonlet, and in the child’s eyes you will learn what it is to be a man. Do not mock with a doubting heart, for I tested you in pain and loss so you could carry that sword as your reward. If you disobey me, I will come for you before the winter storms are done.’
Myrddion fell heavily as Gruffydd’s clenched fist struck him squarely in the chest. Dragged back to his senses by pain, he lay supine on the wooden floor and stared up at the red-eyed man standing over him, who rashly began to draw his knife.
‘Stop, Gruffydd,’ Myrddion panted. ‘Stay your hand. Whatever I said, I have no knowledge of it. It was not I who spoke. Another’s voice used my mouth, and the message I uttered was for you alone.’ He curled into a ball while he coughed uncontrollably and tried to draw a full breath into lungs jarred by Gruffydd’s blow. With resignation, he accepted that his life could be forfeit.
Gruffydd was bone pale, and he sat down on the stool with a thud as if his legs could no longer bear his weight. The man’s grimy hands were trembling, and the wickedly sharp knife fell unnoticed to the floor.
Whatever I said has terrified him, Myrddion thought. He didn’t dare to speak aloud, so he made no sound except to gasp hoarsely as his breathing gradually came under control.
And so silence reigned
in the attic room, except for a cold stream of air that froze the warm breath of both men, so that vapour escaped from their lips as if they were out in the snow and the driving wind. Even the brazier spluttered under the vicious draught until, gradually and impossibly, the wind died in the small space and the room was warm once again.
‘What happened? What sword? What dragonlet? I don’t understand what you want of me.’
‘I don’t know, Gruffydd,’ Myrddion said wearily. ‘I told you that I didn’t say a word. Another presence has spoken through my voice, but you must obey if it wants you.’
‘I must sleep,’ Gruffydd muttered, shaking his shaggy head in confusion. ‘I’ll come tomorrow, before noon, when the light is stronger and I can’t see the shadows on your wall.’
Then, like a wight, the man rose and slipped out of the attic on silent feet. One moment, Gruffydd was sitting on a stool, the next he had disappeared. ‘The man’s a ghost,’ Myrddion whispered, and then struggled to his feet, wincing as he moved.
He removed his tunic and peered down at his chest. A huge bruise was already beginning to form around a lump that was swelling on his breastbone.
‘The bastard’s broken something,’ Myrddion cursed, and hunted up one of his own salves. Then he rolled himself carefully into a blanket and stretched out on his pallet. Even though his stomach growled with hunger, he was asleep almost immediately.
‘Your guest ate well, Master Myrddion,’ Cait said cheerfully as she scraped out the dead coals from the brazier into an old leather bucket. Myrddion rolled over on his pallet and groaned as he felt the pull of a cracked sternum.
‘Are you unwell, master? Can I help you?’
‘I’ll live, Cait. Although the next time my visitor swings a punch at me, I hope to duck in
time. That Gruffydd’s deceptively strong.’
‘Gruffydd?’ Cait blushed a becoming shade of pink. Then, just as quickly, her cheeks paled. ‘If he hit you, he’ll be having me to answer to. It’s bad enough that he never washes and smells like some old animal, but I can forgive that, since he’s a man and knows no better. But to strike you, master, who does no harm to anyone, is an unforgivable sin.’
The lass is smitten – and with Gruffydd of all people, Myrddion thought in amazement, while keeping his face prudently neutral. I wonder if he knows?
‘I fear I may have annoyed him, but he’ll return by noon and he’ll be much more amenable. Didn’t you recognise him when you served us last night?’
‘I didn’t look, sir. I’m no harlot and Mam says to keep my eyes down around strange men. Not that you’d permit anything to happen to me, but a girl must be careful.’ Then Cait was gone, and the room was colder without her sunny presence.
Myrddion dressed slowly and washed in the warm water that Cait had brought in a glazed bowl that was the wonder of the inn. Only special guests were given the honour of using this large receptacle, a sign of the innkeeper’s supposed wealth. When Myrddion examined the bruise on his chest, he saw that the swelling had receded but the flesh was now a nasty shade of black and purple. Once he was dressed, he felt more optimistic.
He found his woollen cloak and hurried down the stairs to the kitchen, where he was warmly welcomed. After breaking his fast, he made his way into Brychan’s dirty kingdom where the first tipplers were already propped on benches against the wall, supping bad ale.
‘Your friend Gruffydd is here and he’s asking for you,’ the host whispered conspiratorially. ‘And he’s not in a very good mood, so who do you want him to kill?’
‘You, if you persist with
stupid questions,’ Myrddion snapped. ‘I’ve a feeling he’d happily do it for me. Where is he?’
‘In the corner. The darkest one, where such dogs belong, far away from decent folk.’
‘My thanks, Brychan,’ Myrddion grunted, knowing that the small courtesy would appease the innkeeper after his flash of temper. Brychan expected men of means to be difficult.
A few long strides took Myrddion to the corner seat where Gruffydd slouched, more shadow than man. The gleam of upraised eyes was the only sign of movement in the black puddle of his form.
‘You’re here,’ Gruffydd said unnecessarily. ‘Sit you down then, and explain what happened last night.’
Myrddion stroked his breastbone through his thick woollen shirt. The bruise still ached. ‘I’d appreciate it if you didn’t shut me up with your fist if I should start to speak again. Besides, the walls in this inn have ears. Let’s walk together. No matter how cold it is in the open air, it’s much cleaner than this flea-trap.’
‘It is that,’ Gruffydd replied, and surged onto his feet with more animation than usual.
‘I feel like a walk in the open, but perhaps a ride would be even better,’ Myrddion whispered softly. ‘I take it you have a horse?’ Gruffydd was sober, prickly and distracted on this grey morning, and the healer had no plans to annoy him further.
‘Aye, I keep a horse. She’s not young and she’s failing in her wind, but she’ll survive a short gallop, I expect. I had enough of being afoot when I was owned by the Saxons.’
A short time later the two men ventured out through the town gates into a landscape that was more mud than snow. Rather than risk the horses on the treacherous road, Myrddion led the way into the dark of the forest where tall trees blotted out the grey skies and skeletal branches rattled in the light wind. The thinner saplings had been cut down for firewood but superstition had spared the larger oaks in deference to memories
of ancient rituals dating back to the druids. Such ceremonies were older than time. There, in the echoing stillness, only the hooves of the horses made any noise on the flinty scree, while the bare limbs of elm and aspen trees raised naked hands to a chill sky.
At the centre of the wood, Myrddion drew his horse to a halt beside a forest giant so ancient that half its branches were dead and its trunk groaned dangerously in the bitter cold. Yet it seemed to be clinging tenaciously to life, just like the land around Tomen-y-mur.
‘Why this tree?’ Gruffydd asked, his teeth chattering from within his ragged cloak.
‘I don’t know. I just seemed to recognise it when I saw it.’
Myrddion forced his horse closer to the oak so he could pat its seamed and shaggy bark. A streak of sap stained his wool-wrapped hands with a wet stickiness not unlike drying blood.
Gruffydd shuddered.
‘I’ll serve you, Myrddion Merlinus. Not because I want to, nor even to take revenge on the Saxons, but because I’m afraid to gainsay the Mother. I swear I saw her shadow on the wall behind you when you spoke last night. May the gods help me, but this is the tree where I will be hanged if I refuse you. I thought I had no faith left in me, but I was awake all night trying to decide what to do. As the Mother said, perhaps your proposition will give some purpose to my suffering. Now tell me what you want of me.’ He laughed with a sound that was so hoarse and metallic that it could have come from Hades itself. ‘Or what she wants of me.’
Myrddion decided, on the spur of the moment, to reject the use of a subtle approach to persuade Gruffydd. The man was frightened and confused, so Myrddion must convince him that what he asked made sense. Only the unvarnished truth would serve him now.
‘You speak Saxon, so you can pass on valuable information about troop movements to me. You can
listen in inns and discover what the Saxons are thinking and where they’ll strike at us next. I’ll not lie. The work will be dangerous and could easily be the death of you. But you will be doing a great deal to help resist the Saxon advance into our lands. One way or another you will cause the death of many of them; they will curse the bad luck that seems to follow them whenever they attack us. We will ambush them before they can destroy our cities and murder other families like yours.’