Web of Deceit (34 page)

So young – and so embittered! ‘Have you remembered anything about your past as yet?’

‘No.’ The youth coloured and idly rubbed his long scarred fingers together. ‘And I’m beginning to despair that I’ll ever discover who I am.’

‘Perhaps the journey to Glastonbury will spark a memory,’ Ambrosius contributed, his strong face softened by sympathy. ‘Most tribal lords make a pilgrimage to that holy centre of learning at some time during their lives.’

‘I hope so, master.’

Yet Pascent was a gay, enthusiastic companion once the party rode away from Deva over a scattered carpet of tossed flowers, amid the cheers of its citizens. Riding behind the main group, Myrddion could understand Ambrosius’s attachment to the younger man. Even a freshening wind that required the king to don his fur-lined gloves couldn’t dampen the mood of festivity that transformed
the long journey into a pleasant interlude.

From Deva, they followed a secondary Roman road that skirted the deep green and midnight-blue forests of Arden to arrive at the Ordovice centre of Viroconium. There, at the behest of King Bryn, Llanwith pen Bryn joined their party to strengthen tribal ties with the High King and to receive instruction in the ways of a great court. Nervous and uneasy with the Roman brothers, Prince Llanwith gravitated to the only person he knew, Myrddion Merlinus.

As Viroconium fell behind, the landscape became wilder and more rugged. To the west, Myrddion could see the high grey mountains that called to him with a siren-song of home. As they crossed a number of swiftly flowing rivers via stone Roman bridges and forded any number of streamlets in every fold in the terrain, he became accustomed to the constant music of rushing water. His eyes were charmed by flowering gorse, the gold of autumnal trees and the delicate skeletal bones of aspens that had already dropped their leaves in long swathes of rust. The fat-tailed sheep that clung to every slope spoke of a peaceful countryside, and every village was inhabited by rosy-cheeked peasants who gazed on the panoply of the High King with eyes that were round with wonder.

‘It’s good to be so close to home,’ Myrddion murmured to no one in particular.

Llanwith, who was some few years older than the healer, lounged in the saddle with the ease of a born horseman. A deft kick in the ribs guided his horse beside Myrddion’s.

‘If you miss Segontium so much, why don’t you return there?’

Myrddion stared into the middle distance where a circular slate hut with a thatched roof was bleeding a trail of white smoke. The croft was well kept, and neat beds of vegetables were proof of careful husbandry. This journey was filling him with peace and a deep longing that he knew would be with him until he returned to the grey mountains and the sea that he loved.

‘Ambrosius
would not release me, nor would I break my oath of fealty. Initially, I was forced to serve, but I have come to accept that the High King is our greatest hope of salvation. He is an extraordinary man, Llanwith. Yes, he may be more Roman than Celt, but he loves this land and he has committed his life to serving it. A crown lies heavy on a head, and I’ve seen how little he relishes the constraints of rule, but his love for the Celtic peoples ennobles him. I will happily serve him for the rest of my life.’

For a moment, Llanwith rode beside the healer without speaking. Myrddion permitted the silence to lengthen, for few men can bear to endure a void and must rush to fill it. Over the years, he had discovered much to his advantage by this simple ploy.

‘But he seems to be very distant, Myrddion. We are used to rulers who are passionate, sometimes wilful and always excitable. Vortigern was such a man. For all his fits and starts, and despite his violence and acts of barbarism, we could still understand him. The Roman says all the right things and his manner is correct and pleasant, but Bryn and Melvyn complain that they cannot fathom the passions that stir his heart. Damn me, but I wish he’d lose his temper or act on a whim, just so I could read his true character.’

Ahead, a shepherd whistled piercingly from the hill with his crook hung over one shoulder. Shaggy with the thickening coats that marked the onset of the colder weather, two black and white dogs ran towards a small flock of sheep from opposite directions as they obeyed orders quite invisible to the High King and his retinue.

‘I am Ambrosius’s dog, and my task is to herd the sheep back to the fold. Although I betray my master when I discuss his private nature, I can promise you that he is a true son of the Atrebates, as passionate as you, friend Llanwith, but he has learned to hide his emotions for his personal protection. He longs to love as his heart dictates, but he cannot do so. He hungers to trust the men and women who serve him, but he cannot do so. Would you have him assassinated
because he was careless among those people in whom he places his trust?’

Myrddion’s reputation for wisdom and learning was such that the Ordovice prince paid serious consideration to his argument. Llanwith furrowed his thick brows and toyed with his luxurious beard in an action that was habitual when he was deeply consumed by thought.

‘So you’re saying that he must take care to appear almost inhuman in his calm and reasonable demeanour if he has any hope of survival as ruler of the Britons.’

‘That’s exactly what I’m saying. And would you choose to live in that way?’ Myrddion’s eyes were still fixed on the distant figure of the shepherd, who was following his flock towards a natural pen formed by a fold in the land and secured by a rather flimsy fence.

‘So the united kings are the sheep, while you and Prince Uther are Ambrosius’s dogs. I can think in metaphors too, my friend. Unlike my father, I can read.’

‘Yes, Llanwith. Noble sheep, but they are still beasts to be herded and protected from wolves and human predators. I thank the Mother that my birth freed me of the burden of rule. Caring for servants is quite onerous enough.’

‘You’re a cold fish at times, friend, but I like you none the less.’ Then Llanwith laughed, and an already bright day suddenly developed an added gloss.

Myrddion had never had a friend who was his equal, yet owed him nothing. Although Llanwith had shaken him for a brief moment with his reference to the coldness of his nature, so like Morgan’s barbed attack, he was beginning to depend on the bluff camaraderie of the Ordovice prince. In the evenings, Llanwith always appeared at the healer’s fireside with a flask of red wine and muddy boots which he rested on any available surface. His uncritical, open face masked a keen intellect that was honed by wide
reading on topics that he enjoyed discussing with Myrddion. They would often argue about military matters, for Llanwith was convinced that an eventual defeat of the Saxons would require new strategies utilising a combination of the disciplined approach of the Romans and the wild flair of the Celts. Myrddion admitted that Llanwith was his master in strategy and took pleasure in describing the Battle of the Catalaunian Plain in detail for the prince’s enjoyment. In the weeks that followed, Myrddion came to look forward to these conversations, for they eased the hollow of loneliness that lay behind his breastbone.

‘What about women, Myrddion?’ Llanwith asked one evening, as rain pattered softly on their leather roof and intruded into the tent in long, damp runnels. ‘Have you ever been in love?’

‘Yes, once, but I prefer to forget the experience,’ Myrddion said shortly. ‘I’ve learned to survive without sex.’

Llanwith gave an explosive snort of laughter.

‘Why? Do you confuse sex and love, my friend? One can exist quite pleasantly without the other. Why do you live like a Christian priest when the land is full of willing women who’d be happy to share your bed? I’ve seen how the women look at you.’ A sudden suspicion made Llanwith pause. ‘You don’t prefer men, do you? I’m not criticising, for we all have kinfolk who follow the Greek fashion in matters of love.’

‘No, not at all,’ Myrddion responded with a little scowl of affront. ‘I know you’ll laugh at me, but women frighten me more than a little. Except for one girl who loved me for myself, I’ve always been the means to an end for those females who have crossed my path. In Deva, Morgan tried to seduce me with promises of power, but no simple physical release is worth what I would have suffered afterwards.’

‘For Gwyddion’s sake, and I use the name of the trickster god deliberately, what do you think the war that exists between men and
women is all about? Men rule the roost, so women must be devious to protect their own interests. Men have brought this fate on their own heads because they don’t realise that women can be friends as well as lovers – indeed, many men would argue that they’re about as important as a good horse. I learned early that women have brains and hearts as well as breasts, so they’ll do anything for you if you respect and honour them. But if you hurt them or deride them, they’ll look to have their revenge on you in any of a number of unpleasant ways. Women can be devils.’

‘You can say what you like, Llanwith, and you can reason with me until the seas boil, but I have experienced how dangerous the slaking of one’s sexual desires can be. My own mother was driven mad by a man who forced himself on her, and I’d rather not do that to any woman.’

‘Nor would I, and nor would any true man. But rape is domination, not sex, and I’d never confuse the two. I swear, Myrddion, that you’ll become a twisted, unfeeling soul without the solace of women in your life. Don’t you enjoy lying with a willing woman? I’ve heard that some men are as sexual as an old tree branch, so you needn’t fear to be honest. We
are
friends, you know.’

Myrddion sighed. Friendship appeared to be making demands on his privacy.

‘Very well, Llanwith. I desire women like any other man and, yes, I hunger for willing bed partners. Does that satisfy you?’

‘For the moment. I can see that I will be forced to stir myself.’

Llanwith changed the subject before the two men could find themselves at odds with each other. Myrddion was grateful for the respite, but a niggling feeling at the back of his mind warned him that Llanwith hadn’t finished with his belated sexual education.

The retinue reached Glevum via one of the minor roads, and Myrddion shuddered to see the damage from fire and siege that was still etched upon the town’s venerable walls. Most of the damage
inside the new gates had been repaired, and Ambrosius was eager to see all the places where the battle between Vortigern and Vortimer had taken place. Although the sun shone warmly and a gentle light played gracefully over the long grasses of the flat earth by the river, the trailing willows reminded the healer of that grim night when Vortigern’s forces outflanked the army of his son. At Ambrosius’s insistence, Myrddion recounted the stages of the battle, and pointed out the spot from where Vortimer’s siege machines had attacked the moving shields devised by Myrddion to protect Vortigern’s warriors from the bombardment of boulders, old iron and fire. When he described the advance of those clumsy covered platforms, and how they were disassembled to make a simple bridge over the river, Ambrosius insisted on pacing out the attack.

‘It was brilliant tactics! Vortigern was a genius in his way. Who designed and constructed these machines?’

The High King’s eyes were intense, and Myrddion was certain that Ambrosius was filing the information away within his retentive memory until the time came when he would use it to meet his own strategic requirements.

‘I did, my lord, but I wasn’t really sure what I was doing at the time. I was simply developing a vague idea into a practical concept.’

‘Aye, I expected as much. I’ll instruct Uther to provide you with a scroll so you can draw those machines for me to study. The time may come when we’ll need ideas like these.’

After Glevum, the road widened and was soon busy with local traffic. Warriors, peasant farmers, traders, priests and cattle being herded to market shared the straight thoroughfare with Ambrosius’s retinue. Word spread quickly, and when the travellers reached Aquae Sulis the population met the High King outside the widely opened gates with heaped flowers, excellent wine and ales, music and crowds of excited citizenry. Myrddion was amazed to see the fusion
of Roman and tribal architecture that existed amicably within the city walls.

‘Aquae Sulis, home of the Roman west and a place where anything is on sale,’ Llanwith chortled and gave Myrddion a wink. ‘Ambrosius will be occupied by the city fathers tonight, leaving us free to play.’

‘Don’t be ridiculous, Llanwith. I’ve new supplies to purchase and organise. I’ll be too busy to spend my time tomcatting with you.’

‘Just come to the baths then, Myrddion,’ Llanwith wheedled, with his eyes rolling comically in emphasis. ‘You haven’t lived if you’ve never experienced a real Roman bath.’

‘I practised my craft in Rome for a year, you clod. Do you think I stayed dirty for all that time? The Romans are masters at cleanliness and comfort. Still, I must admit that a bath would be relaxing.’

‘See how easily you’re corrupted when it’s something you really want?’ Llanwith retorted and bore Myrddion away.

The baths were a welcome relief after a long journey on horseback. The waters of Aquae Sulis were believed to have healing properties, and lounging in the tepidarium and drinking a cup of wine Myrddion acknowledged how tense he had been as his muscles slowly began to relax. Llanwith gambolled in the steaming waters like a large, hairy seal, completely indifferent to his nakedness, while Myrddion was content to rest his head against a mosaic of fanciful sea creatures and dream away the evening under the vaulted roof.

But Llanwith had different plans for their continued pleasure, and all too soon Myrddion was dragged away, rosy with cleanliness, along the broad streets of Aquae Sulis.

‘I know a house nearby, very exclusive, where the women are clean and very talented.’ Llanwith winked broadly. Although Myrddion protested that he had no desire for a woman, gainsaying Llanwith pen Bryn was like trying to stop the tide, an impossible task.
Unwillingly, the healer was dragged into a stylish atrium, sweet with the perfume of late flowering trees and exotic oils that burned like small stars in wall sconces.