Web of Deceit (22 page)

‘Be careful, woman!’ Myrddion added a toe-curling oath, not his normal habit in front of servants, but this particular female was both truculent and dismissive.

‘If you want to beg for food, go to the kitchens at the back of the villa,’ she snarled, and Myrddion felt his hackles
begin to rise. Perhaps he was nervous of the meeting with Branwyn, but whatever the cause, the woman’s arrant discourtesy rankled.

Without any further thought, he snatched the buckets from her and upended them, splashing several curious chickens that set up indignant squawking and much flapping of wings. Then, gripping her by the shoulders, he shook her roughly and forced her to look at him.

‘I don’t know what passes for manners from servants in this place, but I believe I made myself perfectly clear. I intend to speak to Maelgwr and I don’t mean when he gets around to noticing my presence. You will take word to him immediately that I desire to see him. I will wait for him in the triclinium and I require a glass of decent wine from you – if you are capable of finding any.’

Ardabur Aspar would have smiled to see how much his bastard son resembled him at that moment. The servant saw the raised eyebrow and the palpable scorn in those black eyes, and for the first time she spotted the two ruby rings on his fingers. She paled visibly and tried to curtsey, which was difficult considering Myrddion was still restraining her.

‘Do you understand, woman? I mean now!’

‘Aye, sir. The master’s in the orchards and I’ll send for him immediately. Come in, come in. Begging your pardon for making you wait, but I didn’t realise who you were.’

Myrddion followed her into the house and onwards to the best room, where she dusted down a dirty plank bench with her skirts before scurrying away, apologising as she went.

Myrddion gazed around the well-proportioned room, where signs of past luxury could still be discovered in the faded whitewash and furniture that was well crafted and beautiful, although it was scuffed now and scratched for lack of maintenance. Several obvious cobwebs adorned the corners of the triclinium and the number of dead insects in the
silken traps indicated that they were well established. Branwyn was no chatelaine, but she had never been so slatternly as to allow this level of dirt to occur in her house. His heart sank.

With an insolent swish of fine fabric, a red-haired girl flounced into the triclinium. She was dressed in an inappropriate shade of clear, strong yellow, and Myrddion recognised the garment as one of Branwyn’s bride gifts from Melvig ap Melwy, her grandfather. The girl carried an earthenware bottle and a common pottery mug that she slammed down on the table. Lifting her chin, she surveyed Myrddion from head to toe, taking in his muddy boots and customary black attire. She sniffed dismissively.

‘If you’ve come after money from your mother, you’re out of luck. Maelgwr is of no mind to waste his coin on the bastard son of a moon-mad old crone.’

‘I bid you good day as well, mistress,’ Myrddion replied sardonically, and swept her a bow that even Aspar would have admired. ‘Where is your master?’

The slattern blushed unbecomingly. Her flushed cheeks and the abominable colour of the dress did her red hair no favours. She was also far too full-breasted for the style and Myrddion suppressed a sneer at the sight of her flesh as it welled out of the straining fabric. The colour had looked well against Branwyn’s dark hair and brown eyes, but this young trull turned the garment into a strumpet’s garb. It was also sweat-strained at the armpits and grubby at the hem.

‘I serve the mistress and I decide what orders are given in this house,’ she snapped. Her confidence and arrogance made Myrddion’s heart plummet even further, for his mother must be in even worse health than he had feared if this young madam was caring for her.

‘Where are the children? Before you decide to answer impolitely, young lady, I would inform you that I serve as well – only my master is Ambrosius, High King
of the Britons. I am his personal healer, Myrddion Merlinus Emrys. You may have heard of me, but I fear you have the advantage over me. Exactly who
are
you, mistress?’

Finally aware that she had met her match, the hoyden tossed her head with what rags of pride Myrddion had left her. ‘I am Seirian, and I am the mistress of this house while the lady Branwyn is . . . indisposed.’

‘I repeat my question, Seirian. Where are the children? I’ve a mind to meet my brothers and sisters.’

‘The boys are fostered to local landlords and traders. The girls work at spinning and weaving and carry out other tasks where they are needed.’

‘Aren’t the small ones being taught their letters?’ he asked, although he already guessed at the answer.

‘And why would they be learning to read? They’ll only be married off to bring wealth to this house. That’s their only purpose.’

Myrddion felt heartily sorry for any children in Seirian’s care. ‘For the gods’ sake, woman, they are the great-grandchildren of a king. Their children could rule at Canovium, if chance or the plague were to kill Melvyn and his sons. Are you so stupid that you don’t understand that Lady Branwyn is the daughter of the High Priestess of the north? Where are your wits that you see no point in educating her children?’

‘My master decides these things, not I,’ she whispered sullenly, biting her lip.

‘I see.’ Myrddion lifted the wine jar and poured a little of the viscous liquid into the mug. The coarse pottery rim was gritty, as if the glaze was poorly applied, but this small inconvenience fled into insignificance as he washed the wine around his mouth before discourteously spitting the liquid out onto the flagging.

‘Cat’s piss would taste better than that brew. Is this the best that the master drinks?’

The slattern’s venomous glance was more instructive
than any lies she might tell, so any guilt at fouling the flagstones was quickly forgotten.

‘You could at least have fetched me the master’s wine, for I’m persuaded that he’d not wish the High King’s healer to drink such swill. I’ll not even use this mug, for I can’t believe my mother would purchase such inferior rubbish.’

Seirian’s flush had deepened to somewhere between puce and crimson. Having lost the duel of insults, she flounced out of the triclinium, leaving Myrddion to consider how far Branwyn had fallen when she had married her second husband.

Left to his own devices, Myrddion had some time to consider his own lapse in good manners, as well as the appalling behaviour of a girl not yet in her twenties and obviously unmarried, who felt secure enough to be rude to the eldest son of her mistress. Was Branwyn held in such little esteem?

All those years before, both he and King Melvig had told Maelgwr that they would be very concerned if Branwyn’s health should deteriorate. Since then, Myrddion had been absent for six years, and Melvig had been dead for nearly seven, so Maelgwr probably felt free to act as he chose. But had he done anything to harm Branwyn?

At that crucial point in Myrddion’s argument with himself, the master of the farm entered the triclinium, in all his dirt, without bothering to wash his hands. Fortunately, Maelgwr didn’t bother to offer his grimy paw to his stepson. Neither man liked what he saw.

The years had padded Maelgwr’s slender body with a soft blurring of flesh, while a double chin, plump beringed fingers, a heavy paunch and a rosy nose spoke eloquently of years of good living. The dirt on his hands indicated that he was not above trimming his orchard trees or weeding around the blackberry canes, but his soft leather
boots and a cloak of finely woven blue wool attested to a streak of vanity in his personality. At the moment, as he slung his cloak onto a divan, he expressed his displeasure by his pout and the faint, greasy sneer under the greeting he offered without the slightest hint of sincerity.

He’s up to something that’s not to his credit, Myrddion thought, as he rose gracefully to his feet.

‘I must apologise for Seirian and the other house servants if they offended you,’ Maelgwr said, as Seirian entered the room with a new wine flask and two horn cups. ‘Please join me.’

Myrddion nodded, realising that his silence was unnerving Maelgwr more than any intemperate words could. The healer watched carefully as his host poured the wine into the cups, to ensure that nothing was added. He was determined that he would not eat in this house unless the food was prepared by his own hands.

‘Now.’ Maelgwr handed a full cup of wine to Myrddion and gulped at his own. ‘How may I assist you, stepson?’

Myrddion sipped slowly on his wine. The vintage was soft and smooth, definitely superior to the vinegar piss he had been offered earlier.

‘I’m here to visit my mother. Is that so strange? I’ve been away in Gaul, Rome and Constantinople for some time, and on my return I became the High King’s personal healer. I have come into the north on the orders of Ambrosius, so I have taken this opportunity to visit unannounced. I hope I’ve not inconvenienced you?’

Both men showed their canines as they smiled with a wholly false bonhomie.

‘My house is your house,’ Maelgwr replied grandiloquently, although his smile wavered a little. ‘But I’m sure you realise that my darling Branwyn often wanders in her wits. Do you think it is wise to see her, given that she feels so much animosity towards you?’

Myrddion smiled with the same feigned friendliness and trust. ‘Yes, I do. As I’ve already explained, I am a
healer, and I am now in possession of some information that may improve her health.’

Maelgwr proceeded to flatter, explain and complain as he detailed the difficulties of arranging such a visit as Myrddion requested. For his part, the healer sipped his excellent wine and permitted his host to babble. Obviously, Maelgwr was unwilling for the son to see his mother, while Myrddion was equally determined to batter down the door of her sleeping room if necessary. At the back of his mind, he wondered why so many impediments were being raised to deny him access to his mother.

Finally, as Maelgwr embarked on yet another complicated description of his wife’s many mental ailments, Myrddion decided that enough was enough.

‘Show me to her room at once. Maelgwr. I may be able to lift some of the weight from your shoulders, and I cannot think of a single reason to refuse me – unless you have something to hide.’

Maelgwr blanched and tried to remonstrate, but the younger man cut through the babble with ruthless efficiency by placing his cup on the greasy table and walking off towards the atrium.

‘I take it my mother’s quarters are this way?’ he asked over his shoulder, and began to stride down the colonnade. Maelgwr hurried to catch up on his plump legs, and led Myrddion to a small, mean room at the very back of the large rambling house. Impatiently, Myrddion unlatched the door. It was locked on the outside.

‘Is my mother kept penned in day and night?’ he demanded.

‘Only when she is unwell,’ Maelgwr answered, trying to suggest that this state of affairs was rarely necessary. ‘Or if she tries to hurt herself.’

‘Surely that is the precise time when she should be closely watched,’ the healer responded. ‘You may go now, stepfather, for I believe I can handle my mother by myself. Should she be out of her wits, I’ll give her a draught of poppy juice
to settle her. And I would appreciate your leaving the door open, if you please. I believe that a feeling of constraint increases the distress of the mentally disturbed.’

Maelgwr was hardly a stupid man. He must have realised that Myrddion wished to be certain that no one could lurk outside the door to listen to his conversation with his mother. However, the healer had manoeuvred him into a position where he had no choice other than to obey. As Maelgwr retreated back into the house, Myrddion took the precaution of placing a heavy footstool against the door to prevent it from being treacherously closed. Then, on quiet feet, he entered his mother’s room. Long before he reached her pallet, the sharp reek of urine assaulted his sensitive nose.

Branwyn was a tiny mound on a filthy pallet, curled into the fetal position and barely visible except for a hank of long, greasy, matted hair. As he approached she lifted her head, took in his appearance and then cowered back into her soiled blanket.

‘It’s you! It’s you! I knew you’d come for me. You said you’d kill me. But I don’t want to die.’

Myrddion spread his hands wide with the palms upward to show that he carried no weapons.

‘It’s Myrddion, Mother. I’ve met him, the beast who raped you. Did you hear me, Mother? I know his name.’

‘You’re the demon – and you’re lying to me.’

‘No, Mother! See? I am still a young man, far too young to be your demon. Perhaps I am the Demon Seed, but I certainly have no desire to kill you. You must know me. After all, you tried to kill
me
. But all is forgiven, Mother, so let me help you to sit up. No, don’t flinch away. I’m a healer now, and I can make you feel much better.’

‘Nothing can make me well,’ Branwyn wailed as he lifted her gently and supported her shoulders while he positioned two odiforous pillows under her torso
and neck to support her upper body. Some trace of sanity enlivened her eyes, and as Myrddion assessed her condition he felt his anger begin to rise.

He had feared to meet her. He remembered the proud, vicious woman he had last seen at King Melvig’s funeral. That creature bore no resemblance to the pathetic shell who now looked up at him with forlorn eyes.

Her face had fallen inwards, so only the beak of her nose, her high cheekbones and the fine line of her jaw remained. Sunken cheeks and a toothless mouth suggested great old age, although she could be no more than thirty-seven summers.

The hands that tugged at his tunic were skeletally thin and black with bruises. Still more contusions marred her upper arms, where the loose skin barely covered her bones. As Myrddion lowered the blanket and eased the dirty, sodden shift away from her body, marks of abuse were clear on her yellowish flesh. Nor were these marks the signs of self-abuse. Hands of different sizes had punched, slapped and pinched this pathetic creature, then left her in her soiled clothing behind a locked door. Many of the bruises were black, purple and fresh, but others were green and yellow. The injuries had been inflicted over a long period of time.