Web of Deceit (29 page)

‘Where would you hold it, Myrddion? I’m ashamed to admit that I’m not familiar with the towns of the north after spending so many years abroad.’

Myrddion had spent hours considering this very question, so he had an answer at his fingertips. ‘Deva, master. Call the kings to Deva. The city has a Roman history and is a trading port. Most important, it is neutral and no king can lay claim to its allegiance. It lies halfway between Venta Belgarum and the wall, and its choice would indicate your willingness to stir out of your safe haven in the south. You already have useful ties with the Brigante, but look further, towards the Otadini and the Selgovae who protect the mountains between the Vallum Antonini and the Vallum Hadriani. No High King has sought favour with them before, but who better to guard your back while limiting Saxon and Jute advances into the north?’

Ambrosius poured another cup of wine and waved Myrddion towards the delicacies set out on the large silver platter. Gingerly, Myrddion chose the roasted leg of a small bird and nibbled at the crisp, sweet flesh while his master considered his suggestions. Once he saw his way clear, Ambrosius made his decision swiftly.

‘Deva it is, then. I’ll send out couriers tomorrow to all the tribes, no matter how small, to call their kings to Deva. Have you been there, Myrddion? No? Well, you shall lead the way. Uther will accompany you on the journey and he will organise the security measures, but you’ll be responsible for selecting a meeting place and determining the agenda for the meeting itself. Don’t fail me, Myrddion, because our success or otherwise at Deva will determine the future of our people for decades to come.’

Myrddion was aghast.

‘How can I fulfil such a major undertaking, master? I’m a humble healer. Your seneschal would be a far more suitable choice.’

‘Perhaps
so, but he’s as old as the mountains and twice as stubborn. Nor will his old bones permit him to ride for days on end. On the other hand, you always fulfil any task I set for you. Like your namesake, you fly very high. No, if you truly desire the kings to be assembled in order to negotiate a new treaty between the tribes, then you must obey me and do the necessary work.’

There was a pause, and then Myrddion made up his mind.

‘Very well, master, I will journey to Deva. No doubt I will have disagreements with your brother about deadlines and procedures, though, for Prince Uther distrusts me.’

‘I’m prepared to speak to my brother and stress that you are acting in my name, if that will make your task easier. But you’re still frowning, healer.’

‘I should remain silent, master, for you may not be pleased if I voice my opinions with candour.’

Ambrosius grimaced. ‘I absolve you from any blame, healer, but someone has to be honest with me. Do your reservations rest with me personally, or with the state of the west?’

‘With you, master, but you’ll not thank me if I’m blunt.’

Ambrosius frowned thunderously and Myrddion decided that he would be equally damned whether he spoke out or not. Finally, the king sat upright, poured out another cup of wine, took a deep breath and nodded to his healer. ‘Speak the truth. I’ll not resent honesty.’

Myrddion took a deep shuddering breath and silently asked the Mother to guide his words, for he realised the dangers of meddling in the affairs of the complex man who sat so easily in his company.

‘Of late, my lord, I have been concerned that you have cast caution to the four winds and risked harm both to your person and to the realm. Tonight, for instance, you ate and drank from the hands of a Pict hostage who is, I’ll admit, a beautiful and an engaging woman. As well, Pascent comes and goes from your presence at will,
and we have yet to verify his identity. Your people depend upon your judgement entirely, master, so we are forced to wonder if the kingdom would survive unscathed if you were to die at treasonous hands. I don’t know Andrewina Ruadh, or Bridei, or whatever her name really is, and she might be a perfectly innocent victim of Pict enslavement. But she might not be an innocent, my lord. As for Pascent, we don’t even know his true name – and he is eerily familiar to me. Truly, Lord Ambrosius, you are taking unnecessary risks with your life.’

Two spots of high colour appeared on Ambrosius’s cheeks and Ulfin, in the corner of the room, made a snorting sound as he snickered under his breath at Myrddion’s effrontery. Ambrosius leapt to his feet and, for a moment, Myrddion thought that the High King might reach out his slightly trembling fingers and throttle his healer, but the fit of fury passed quickly, although Ambrosius stood over the younger man in a pose that was both threatening and threatened.

‘You dare too much, Myrddion, with your misplaced loyalty to my throne. Whom I take into my bed is my business, and whom I harbour as a friend is my decision.’

Then Ambrosius spun away and stalked over to Ulfin with an oath. Curtly, and with scorn, he ordered the smirking warrior out of the room. ‘You will gossip at your peril, Ulfin. No doubt you’ll report my healer’s lapse to my brother, but you leap above your station when you laugh at me in my presence. Now get out of my sight!’

The door closed on Ulfin’s fleeing form, and Ambrosius rounded on Myrddion. ‘Would you begrudge me the love of a woman or the companionship of a friend? I have lived for nearly forty years, alone and friendless, and I am weary of measuring every word and constantly doubting any person who offers their hand to me. Are
all
men and women false? Must I relinquish
everything
for the good of my people?’

The
final question was asked in a voice that actually trembled with an excess of emotion. Myrddion understood. He, too, knew the texture and taste of loneliness, and he too hungered for the sweet anodyne of a woman’s arms. But Myrddion Merlinus was not a king.

‘I don’t know, master. Truly I don’t. If Andrewina is the love of your heart, how can I deny her to you? But you cannot marry her or father children on her, for the tribal kings would see such a love as signs of weakness. I merely ask you to take more care. Please, lord, for I fear some deeper malignancy rises against you. The Saxons will not rejoice if you wring agreement from the kings, so it is entirely possible that they have already placed an assassin among the members of your court.’

‘I am a man, Myrddion. I’m not a god, and I cannot live an emasculated life forever.’ Tears were actually forming in the king’s eyes, and Myrddion was beginning to regret having initiated this conversation. ‘I’m becoming tired, for I have been beset with responsibilities for my entire life.’

‘You were born to bear these burdens, my lord. When men desire a throne, they forget the crushing weight that a crown can place on the head that bears it. I can’t answer you, because I don’t walk in your shoes. I simply beg you to beware the motives of everyone around you, even me. Trust your brother only, for you can be certain that he alone would die for you. Oaths and protestations of love or loyalty are easily uttered and are gone in the whisper of a breath, but blood will remain true.’

Ambrosius’s shoulders slumped in defeat; he knew that Myrddion spoke the truth. ‘I will think on your words, Myrddion Merlinus, but you must leave me now, for Deva awaits your pleasure.’

‘I’m sorry for the pain I have caused you, Lord Ambrosius.’ Myrddion bowed and began to back out of the king’s presence. ‘Perhaps I shouldn’t have spoken.’

But
Ambrosius had no answer for his loyal servant. He sat down and rested his arms against his knees, clenching his fingers together as if fearing his grip on something nameless would weaken unless he tightened his hands until his bones shone whitely in the lamplight. The mellow glow haloed his fair hair with a coronet of gold, and Myrddion’s last glimpse of the king’s face caught an expression of desperation and recklessness that made his heart sink.

Ambrosius wearies of the kingship and its heavy burdens, the healer thought as his footsteps echoed down the long corridors of the king’s hall. There will be no saving the kingdom if Uther is allowed to rule.

Myrddion wiped his sweating brow and examined the engineers’ work with a nervous, calculating eye. Although the sawn columns and wooden rafters were ugly when compared with the elegance of the original Roman amphitheatre on the site, the newly built outer walls of stone gave the building an impression of permanence and imposing height. The roof was supported by heavy uprights of oak, and tiered stone seats mounted the raked floors inside the amphitheatre, providing ample room for the dozens of kings who would arrive in the next few weeks.

Myrddion had achieved wonders out of nothing.

His idea was simple. Only Ambrosius and his seneschal would stand, or sit, in the area where plays and amusements had once been enacted. No questions of precedence or prestige would arise concerning other seating within the building, for the tribal kings would be accommodated in a circle whereby no one would be closer to the High King than any of his peers. Any tribal lordling who anticipated a fierce squabble over which tribes were being favoured in the presence of the king would discover that every group would be equal, no matter how small.

‘When will this . . . this very large room be finally finished?’ Uther
asked from behind the healer. His voice was curt, but Myrddion recognised a trace of respect in the question that Uther directed at him.

He turned and saw that Uther was staring up at the rafters with an incredulous expression on his face. Secretly grinning, Myrddion pointed towards a group of local carpenters who were busily reinforcing the roofing beams.

‘See, lord prince? Once the roofing supports are in place, thatch will be laid to make the circular hall watertight. The servants will need to work by day and night to make this space comfortable, but I’m certain Ambrosius’s hall will be ready in time for the meeting of the tribal kings.’

‘Humph! It’ll be damned uncomfortable, even in summer, which is almost gone. I’d rather not sit on those stone benches for too long. It’s a recipe for bone ache or constipation.’

‘Women are already sewing cushions stuffed with lambs’ wool, my lord, and I’ve scoured the town for cloth in many different colours. The kings will be comfortable. Their banners can be hung on the upper walls once they decide where they will sit. As soon as the roof has been completed, a team of women will scour the area clean.’

‘Humph!’ Uther repeated dourly.

‘The kings, of course, will be billeted in suitable lodgings,’ Myrddion added. ‘I’ve almost completed the organisation of comfortable beds, good cooks and plentiful wine. The housing of their retinues is more difficult for I’ve no idea who is coming, or how many guards will accompany them. Still, the city fathers and the magistrates are co-operating, for their position as a neutral city was reinforced when the decision was made to site Ambrosius’s hall here. Because of its trading advantages, Deva is a wealthy city and the magistrates know she is a tempting target for ambitious kings.’

‘Humph!’ Uther responded once more.

‘Do
the security measures go well?’ Myrddion asked carefully. ‘Deva has very good walls, and the harbour is an effective bar to all but the most determined of enemies.’

‘Between you and me, healer, Deva is a nightmare to secure.’

Uther’s voice was almost friendly as he explained the difficulties involved in keeping his brother safe. According to Uther, walls were only effective if the gates could be closed against potential attack, but Deva was such an open city that the gates were never locked. He growled about the citizenry’s inability to appreciate the most basic concepts of defence. Accustomed as they were to protection from the legions, and then cushioned by their position as the trading hub of the central lands, Deva’s citizens were unwilling to contemplate any action that would kill off business.

‘Idiots!’ Uther muttered. ‘I’ve tried to explain that the presence of so many kings will be a huge temptation to assassins, but the city leaders look at me as if I’ve grown an extra head.’

‘Any external attack would have to come by sea, and the Saxons would be forced to sail their ceols around the southern coast of Britain to assail this town. Such an offensive is unlikely.’

Uther stared hard at Myrddion to satisfy himself that the healer was serious, and neither critical nor laughing at him. Satisfied that Myrddion regarded the problem of Ambrosius’s safety with the caution and respect it deserved, the prince checked the large structure, noting that two doors permitted entry and exit. He nodded with satisfaction.

‘My lord, I am worried that any attack on our king will not come from an external source but will be planned by persons closer to home. I am particularly concerned about the status of Pascent and Andrewina Ruadh. I’m sure I remember Pascent’s face from somewhere in my past, but I’ve been away from Britain for so long that I can’t remember who he is or where my memories come from. And I know Andrewina Ruadh appears to be biddable and seems content with
her lot, but women long for their children in ways that men will never understand. I can’t believe she stays with my lord willingly when her sons are far away and her husband is dishonoured and lacks a mourner.’

‘I just don’t like the bitch!’ Uther snapped. ‘And I don’t like Pascent. Something about that young man smells bad. I wonder if they could be in collusion.’

Myrddion considered Uther’s suggestion, but decided that a pact between a quasi-Pict and a Celt seemed unlikely. ‘I doubt it, Prince Uther, but you’ve watched them and you’d know more of their activities than I do.’

‘No, possibly not . . . but it’s a neat answer, for I neither like them nor trust them. But then, I don’t like many people, you included. Still,
you
do have your uses. Your plan for the fortresses is good, and I’m aware that we must control the Roman roads.’

And so Myrddion and Prince Uther came to an uneasy truce. Both were profoundly suspicious of two people who were enjoying the favour of the High King. And both were passionate in their opposition to Saxon incursions into the tribal lands, although each had quite different reasons for his position. Uther had gradually come to acknowledge the healer’s considerable abilities, while Myrddion grudgingly accepted that the prince was very good at what he knew best – those skills pertaining to war and killing Saxons. The truce was fragile, but both men realised that they now had the basis of a working relationship.