Web of Deceit (30 page)
Deva was a beautiful town, nestled at the very end of Seteia Aest where the waves lapped the stone wharves built by the Twentieth Legion centuries before. The city was gracious, with paved streets and a fair aspect, while the wind was sweet with salt, seaweed and the perfumes of flowers and trees. Wherever Myrddion gazed, every vista pleased the eye.
But Deva possessed a greater treasure than a fair setting and healthy
air. Myrddion had discovered the original legion hospital, a facility that was mostly deserted except for one aged healer who had worked in its echoing rooms since he was a young boy. Scoured by the sea breezes of the smells of old pain and death, it was a living memorial to what could be done to alleviate the effects of illness. Myrddion explored its rooms whenever he had a free moment, and he was particularly taken with the use of piped water within the structure. He was happy to see that the original builders had not used lead in their building materials but had settled for clay. While Roman surgeons weren’t always clean and hygienic, the presence of water pipes and channelling suggested that the healers of Deva had been advanced in their thinking.
Sunny, perfect days followed each beautiful morning as Ambrosius’s hall rose and the preparations for an historic and momentous meeting continued. Within the echoing, circular interior, the kings would decide whether Ambrosius would become a true High King, ruling the united tribes from the Vallum Antonini to Vectis island on the Litus Saxonicum. Then, as a true
dux bellorum
, Ambrosius would possess the authority to rule, and to drive the Saxons into the cold waters of the northern seas.
At long last, the Celts could become a nation, the Britons, who would grow to be a confederation of tribes fired by an ambition to preserve their world, even if they must die to achieve it.
‘Ave, Ambrosius,’ Myrddion whispered. ‘May you live long and rule well.’
History is, indeed, little more than the register of the crimes, follies, and misfortunes of mankind.
Gibbon,
The Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire
The
first
king to enter Deva in state was Melvyn ap Melvig of the Deceangli tribe, Myrddion’s own kinsman and the brother of his grandmother, Olwyn. Heavily armoured and lavishly bejewelled, he arrived at the head of a modest contingent of warriors. King Melvyn was grey with age and his back was bowed from the twin blows of fate that had taken his two eldest sons in a plague two years earlier. Far from home when disaster had struck, Myrddion never knew how bitterly Melvyn had regretted his kinsman’s absence when his own boys had withered and died.
Where was the family healer when he was really needed?
Now, wearing a simple diadem adorned with cabochon sapphires and river pearls, Melvyn was a rather sad figure. His face was set in the deep lines of old age and even his beard and moustaches were white
and thinning with the years. But the remembered hazel eyes were still kind as he swung from the saddle and advanced to embrace his great-nephew.
‘Well met, Myrddion. I didn’t expect to see you here, nor did I imagine you would greet us in the name of Ambrosius Imperator. I heard from the healer who returned to Segontium that you had arrived in Britain, so I expected you to reappear out of nowhere one day. But, as always, you’ve surprised me.’
At Myrddion’s side, Prince Uther waited impatiently for a formal introduction. Feeling the prince’s palpable irritation, Myrddion introduced his great-uncle to Uther, who swept Melvyn away to his quarters, assuring him that the High King was arriving that very day and would be pleased to dine with him that evening.
Myrddion grinned appreciatively. Uther was on his very best behaviour, and while no one could accuse him of being charming, he was struggling to be friendly and unthreatening. Of course, no one was deceived by that shark-like smile, but the prince’s determination to please the local kings in the name of his brother underscored the importance of the meeting.
Over the next two days, tribal kings and princelings rode into Deva, where Prince Uther and Myrddion met them. Uther had blanched at the suggestion that Ambrosius should stand in the open where an arrow could strike him down, while Myrddion perceived political and psychological advantages in keeping the High King away from the gaze of the crowd until the great meeting began. Thus, a mystique would be created, and a theatrical anticipation would add glitter to the ultimate moment of formal welcome.
The largest contingent of warriors rode with King Lot of the Otadini tribe, who arrived with his wife, Queen Morgause, and one hundred seasoned warriors. Initially, Myrddion swore at the size of the contingent and wondered aloud where he could billet such a group.
‘Just do it, healer,’ Uther
ordered under his breath. ‘Did you expect such a powerful king to travel across half of Britain without protection?’
King Lot was a large, fleshy man who dressed with an epicurean flamboyance that rivalled any of the gilded young men of Rome. Favouring expensive, bold colours and dripping with gold, silver and furs, Lot cut an impressive figure. Even his bulk added to the suggestion of raw power that surrounded him. From his huge, hair-spotted hands to his hulking shoulders and thick, bowed legs, Lot’s appearance suggested the strength and endurance of an oak tree. Although he wasn’t tall, and his reddish hair was fast receding from a low, broad forehead, the impression of physical mass usually silenced any opposition when he bothered to speak his mind.
Under Lot’s watchful eyes, his troops seemed highly disciplined, and their small hill horses were proudly decorated with elaborately woven saddle blankets and ornamented harnesses while their manes and tails were plaited with silver wire. These tribesmen wore their polished body armour with the easy grace of men well used to riding many miles burdened with boiled oxhide shields and bronzed weapons. Even Uther clicked his tongue admiringly as he noted the wary eyes, rigid backs and stern demeanours of highly trained cavalrymen.
Myrddion was interested in Lot’s wife, for he had been told that Queen Morgause was a great beauty and the younger daughter of the famed king Gorlois, the Boar of Cornwall. Rumour suggested that she ruled in all domestic matters within the Otadini lands and was as formidable as her husband. As he stepped forward to assist her to dismount, the healer stared up at her cowled figure and wondered how a woman could demand, and receive, so much earthly power.
Then Queen Morgause swung out of the saddle, ignoring his steadying hand as she thrust the hood back from her heavy fur cloak, and Myrddion understood her glamour.
Morgause
was very tall for a woman and was extremely slender, although she had already born a clutch of sons. Her eyes were deeply set within finely sculpted cheekbones, but their changeable colour, somewhere between blue, green and hazel, threw them into prominence under her highly arched brows. Her hair was dark and vigorous, almost crackling with life in the slight breeze and braided with great intricacy around her small head, although wisps had escaped to curl around her delicate face. Her lips were rich, pink and pouting in a mouth that was made for seduction, and Myrddion felt a visceral, wholly sexual desire as her eyes settled on his face. She smiled slowly and luxuriantly, revealing small white teeth that seemed unnaturally sharp.
‘Your highness,’ he murmured and bowed very low to break the spell of those beautiful eyes. Later, Myrddion was surprised to discover that Prince Uther had been untouched by Morgause’s beauty, calling her a ‘harpy in the making’. Uther was never impressed by females, and took his sex where he found it with the careless greed of an unthinking animal.
‘She’s dangerous, that one,’ he hissed at Myrddion as they escorted the Otadini rulers to their billet. ‘Ostensibly, she’s come to see her father and her sister who are arriving from Cornwall later today. But, according to my sources, she loves to meddle. Lot only stirred himself to attend the meeting because of her insistence.’
‘Then she will be useful to us,’ Myrddion replied quietly. ‘Whatever her reasons for making such an arduous journey, we benefit from her presence. It’s certain that the other kings would not have promised to come if Lot hadn’t stirred from his fortress in Bremenium.’
‘Yes, but useful for how long? The bitch aims high, and she’d have the throne of the High King for her bucolic husband in an instant, if she could inveigle it out from under Ambrosius.’
‘There’s no chance of that,’ Myrddion said softly, for several Otadini
cavalrymen had come within earshot. Uther would never learn tact.
King Gorlois arrived from the south on the same pleasant afternoon, so Myrddion was kept busy organising more sleeping quarters. Fortunately, the Dumnonii contingent was smaller than Lot’s – but no less deadly. From their first formal greeting, Myrddion was drawn to Gorlois, whose open face and warm brown eyes encouraged friendliness. Myrddion wasn’t deceived by Gorlois’s natural grace, for he could see the marks of ruthlessness and power in the king’s heavy brows and in the deep creases that dragged down the mobile mouth. But Gorlois had qualities of courtesy and warmth that were as engaging as they were potentially dangerous.
Gorlois is gregarious and open, Myrddion concluded. For all his muscles, he is a thinker, and it’s a potent mix in tandem with his obvious fighting skills. His warriors love him and they believe him to be invincible.
The woman who rode into Deva with her father was a totally different matter. On a late afternoon, as the sun sent its last shimmer of scarlet to catch at her raven-black hair and lighten her lambent dark eyes, she was as seductive as her sister, but her extraordinary beauty was brittle, hard and capricious. Morgan, the lily of Cornwall, was a creature of the shadows that, even in the waning sun, already seemed to gather in her loosened hair.
Myrddion assisted Morgan to dismount, and with a start of surprise Uther saw that the healer and the daughter of Gorlois were very similar in appearance. Both wore their black hair long, both were slender and both possessed a vivid strand of white hair that sprang from their right temples. Myrddion and Morgan, whom some people already called the
fei
for her peculiar ideas on the old religion, were like two sides of the same coin.
‘Welcome to Deva, my lady. May your visit be productive and pleasant,’ Myrddion murmured with his usual quiet grace as Uther greeted
Gorlois. ‘The city is the richer for your beauty.’
One slim white hand pushed playfully at Myrddion’s chest. A narrow blue serpent had been tattooed around the slender wrist, and he wondered why she should deliberately mar her fair skin. In the lengthening shadows, its red tongue seemed to flicker with life.
‘Ah! The famed Myrddion Merlinus, the Demon Spawn! I am honoured, my lord, that you deign to welcome a mere woman.’
Recognising the sardonic humour in her dark eyes, Myrddion permitted his admiration to show in this duel of courtesy. He bowed. ‘How could I fail to pay homage to one who is already famed for her beauty and her talents? You’re hardly a mere woman, my lady.’
‘Your complimentary words hide your caution, Myrddion Merlinus,’ she riposted neatly. Her sudden laughter was like the sound of tinkling silver bells or the singing of live water over rocks. ‘Perhaps we shall be friends – or even worthy adversaries?’
‘Perhaps, my lady.’ Myrddion turned away, his thoughts in turmoil. Morgause, who had seemed so seductive only a few hours earlier, was swiftly paling into insignificance in the glow of Morgan’s smiling countenance and clever dark eyes.
‘Gorlois and his daughters are extraordinary people,’ Myrddion whispered to Uther. ‘Imagine what a son he could sire.’
Uther snorted with scorn and surprise. ‘I cannot understand why you admire that Morgan creature,’ he snapped irritably. ‘The woman is like a death watch beetle, all hard carapace and glitter.’
Myrddion showed his bemusement. ‘I never expected such poetry from you, my lord. Your skills on the battlefield are legendary, but now you prove that perception must be added to your talents. I’d prefer to call Morgan a slender serpent, like the vipers I saw in Italia. They are tiny, black and quite lovely in their deadliness.’
‘I can read character in a face like any other man,’ Uther snarled. ‘You’re jesting with me – and I’m not amused by it.’
‘I
apologise, Prince Uther, for I meant no disrespect. Indeed, I agree with you, so it’s fortunate that you don’t feel the tug of her glamour. I
do
feel it, and it makes me afraid. Perhaps this council poses more potential difficulties than I originally thought.’
‘It’s too late to feel nervous about what you started, healer. We have made the necessary preparations and Ambrosius is committed, so we must do our best to ensure that the meeting is a success.’
Over the next twenty-four hours, the tribal kings continued to arrive. Prince Luka represented the Brigante, and Myrddion wondered why his father kept himself distant from the great courts of the land. He filed the question away in his memory for later consideration and welcomed the tempestuous young man with a courtesy and respect that Uther did not bother to express. Luka grinned at Myrddion and the healer perceived a fleeting trace of gratitude in the Brigante’s mobile face.
From the lands of the Ordovice, King Bryn ap Synnel came with his son Llanwith pen Bryn. As Myrddion had known these two powerful men during the years of his youth, when Bryn had been one of King Melvig’s most valued friends, he was able to greet them with sincere warmth.
And so they came, the kings of the Durotriges of the south, the Atrebates, the Dobunni, the angry and sullen Demetae and the fresh-faced Silures. The dispossessed came as well, flint-eyed and rigidly polite, concealing a persistent simmer of anger over their lost lands – the Cantii, the Trinovantes, the Iceni and the Parisi. Almost as sullen in their demeanour were the leaders of those tribes who faced the menace of the invaders directly, namely the kings of the Catuvellauni, the Coritani and the Regni, men who held on to their broad acres with ever-weakening fingers. Finally came the tribes who rarely ventured out of their own lands. The Cornovii king left his mysterious forests and their deep valleys to make the short trip to Deva in company with the romanised Belgae
of the verdant southwest. From the icy north on the edges of Caledonia, the Damnonii, the Selgovae and the Novantae tribes rode their shaggy-coated hill ponies into Deva with a peculiar, alien dignity.