Web of Deceit (35 page)
A number of men and women lounged around a fanciful fountain of Triton blowing a conch shell which expelled a glittering shower of water. The women came in every size and colouring, and were dressed in peplums and robes of delicately woven, imported materials that revealed glimpses of their bodies. Musicians played in a discreet corner and Myrddion caugh snatches of conversations that ranged from the recent meeting of the tribal kings to living conditions in Rome, which were deteriorating after the murder of Flavius Petronius Maximus, to the latest fashions among the wealthier citizens of Aquae Sulis itself. Surprised, Myrddion eavesdropped on one young woman’s recitation of a poem by Sappho, a Greek woman from the isle of Lesbos, whose writings were considered both licentious and blasphemous throughout the lands of the Middle Sea. Myrddion had never expected such signs of sophistication and learning in a brothel.
‘Surprised, friend? You needn’t be. The Romans have always understood casual sex and have raised it to an art form, at least for the great ones of the land. These ladies are hardly the drabs that follow armies or ply their trade in filthy back alleys.’
Llanwith grinned irrepressibly. He had found a young red-haired girl with a shapely, lush body that she kept almost hidden under a yellow robe, and before Myrddion had time to protest he had scanned the crowd and beckoned to a tall, black-haired woman with deep brown eyes.
‘What’s your name, darling? My friend here is Myrddion Merlinus, healer and factotum of Ambrosius Imperator, our master. He’s shy, is our Myrddion, but he loves to talk.’
‘My name is Carwen, masters, named for my white skin.’ The girl dimpled prettily.
‘White
love,’ Myrddion said awkwardly, knowing he was babbling to fill the silence. ‘It’s a pretty name for a lovely girl.’
Carwen laughed and Myrddion was reminded of Morgan, but this girl’s eyes were kind as well as brilliant, and her merriment held no trace of sarcasm.
‘You do me honour, my lord, which is undeserved. I doubt my sire was concerned with the meaning of my name when he sold me at six years of age for the price of a flask of wine. But, praise to Lady Venus, my new mistress saw a trace of beauty in the urchin I was, and it was she who saw to my education.’
Myrddion’s mouth turned down with distaste, but Carwen punched him lightly on the chest and laughed, although Myrddion caught an edge of disappointment in her eyes.
‘Not that kind of education, Myrddion Merlinus. My mistress, Longus Longinia, is more Roman than anyone living in the Seven Hills and has modelled her house on the villas of the great courtesans of Rome. We were taught to speak and read Latin, and were instructed in music, literature and dance. Poetry is my forte, especially licentious verse, but my heart belongs to Horace, I’m afraid. We were even encouraged to develop religious beliefs to cater to the whims of our customers. I am Christian, and I am well versed in the story of Mary Magdalene, a whore who was saved by the Christus.’
Myrddion couldn’t help but look doubtful, for he felt that Carwen was in some way laughing at him, even as she pressed another cup of light white wine into his hands.
‘But you were right, matters of the bed were also part of my education, for my task in life is to please my customers, to converse with them while soothing their guilts and catering to their greatest needs. I serve unhappy men, like you, who fear to expose themselves to women of their own class. And sometimes they are old and ugly, but who am I to judge them? At heart they are lonely and lost, and I
help them to bear their unhappy lives. Is this wrong, Myrddion Merlinus?’
Myrddion was forced to face his prejudices, and as he looked at Carwen’s intelligent, beautiful face and mulled over her arguments he found little to revile. What compromises had he made to serve the greater good? Too many to name. And who, at times, had caused the greater harm? He had no doubt at all that he had. No, Carwen was a fair woman who earned her bread as best she could.
Her knee, pressed against his thigh as they sat on a marble bench, seemed hot against his skin. Her eyes were very bright and the pupils were enlarged so that his reflection swam in them when he looked at her. Despite himself, he raised one hand to stroke her heart-shaped face and felt the soft, peach-like down on her skin with a kind of heightened sympathy mingled with sharp sexual awareness. When Carwen captured his hand and kissed the sensitive palm and each individual finger, he felt his loins tighten with desire.
‘Come with me, Myrddion Merlinus. Don’t think . . . just be, my lord.’
Carwen rose, holding the captured hand that still tingled from the touch of her lips. With his mind torn between desire and revulsion, he followed her to a gracious staircase leading to the small bedchambers above the public rooms, where she pulled him over the threshold into her special domain.
The room was soft with pretty hangings that had been decorated with her own hands, and an elusive perfume rose from the wide bed. Carwen’s eyes were very wide and deep, and Myrddion had the strange notion that the Mother looked at him out of their warm broad depths. He had no power to stop her as she stripped the black leathers off his body and sighed at the milk-white beauty of his skin before she pressed him down into a nest of cushions.
Later, Myrddion would remember little of the hours he spent in that room. Carwen’s body was perfect and as white as his, except for
the brown aureoles of her nipples which hungered for his mouth. For the first time, he learned the pleasures to be found in giving as well as receiving, and he marvelled that the act was so much more than a mad, passionate coupling of hot bodies and even hotter love. At last, the healer who knew so much about the human body came to understand Llanwith’s assertions that there is a glory in muscles, brain, nerves and pleasure-centres that has no bearing whatsoever on love. He imagined, as he lay spent and happy in Carwen’s arms, how pleasant love must be when it was allied with sexual attraction. At the end, he could only feel pity for Flavia, who had used her seductive appeal as a tool to earn a comfortable life.
Who then is the courtesan? Carwen, who is honest, intelligent and giving, or Flavia, who prides herself on her bloodlines but will welcome anyone between her legs who will give her the comforts and status she craves?
Myrddion wouldn’t have willingly moved from the warmth of Carwen’s flanks firmly pressed against his, but a great knocking downstairs disturbed the sweet lethargy of successful lovemaking. Booted feet and demanding voices found their way to her door.
‘Up, healer!’ A rough voice heightened with a thread of panic called him from the bed. ‘You’re needed!’
Before he could cover his nakedness, Uther burst into the small sanctuary, ran his eyes over the scene, and threw Myrddion’s trews at him.
‘Get dressed, damn you! Ambrosius is ill and calling for you.’
Uther’s eyes were reddened with impotent fury, so Myrddion didn’t pause to ask questions. He threw on his clothing, snatched up the satchel that always accompanied him, and bent hastily to kiss Carwen.
‘I’ve not paid yet, lady, but I must leave with the prince before he explodes,’ he murmured in her ear. ‘I will return soon with your money.’
‘It’s
all been done, my lord, at the orders of Prince Llanwith. Come again, Myrddion, should Aquae Sulis cross your path. I will be waiting for you.’
Myrddion ran in Uther’s wake as Llanwith emerged from another room, tousled and looking even more like a bear than usual. He held a knife in one hand, while his other laced his trews into place.
Through clenched teeth, Uther spoke over his shoulder as the men clattered down the stairs. ‘I fear poison, healer. My brother is racked with convulsions and I fear he will die. Make haste, or I’ll hurry you with the flat of my sword.’
‘There’s no need, Uther. I’d happily give my own life for the safety of your brother. Lead on while Llanwith fetches a green glass jar from my saddle bags. Please, Llanwith?’
‘At once, Myrddion.’
Llanwith reached the door of the villa even faster than Uther, an amazing feat for such a big man, and disappeared into the early morning half-light.
As Myrddion and Uther emerged, a guard closed around them and the party set off at a soldier’s run, until Myrddion was panting with the strain. Nor did the pace slacken until they passed through the city gates and reached Ambrosius’s leather tent, which was surrounded by soldiers who were stirring like an ant’s nest disturbed by a playful boy.
Under a waning moon, the light was ruddy with torches. At the tent flap, Myrddion drew a deep breath as he felt the doom he had dreaded settle over his heart.
‘Not Ambrosius!’ he thought with a sickening sensation that began in his stomach and seemed to freeze his blood. Then, before his courage could fail him, the healer thrust the tent flap aside and steeled himself to do battle with the forces of treason.
In sorrow of soul they laid on the pyre
Their mighty leader, their well-loved lord.
The warriors kindled the bale on the barrow,
Wakened the greatest of funeral fires.
Dark o’er the blaze the wood-smoke mounted,
The winds were still, and the sound of weeping
Rose with the roar of the surging flame
Till the heat of the fire had broken the body.
Anonymous Anglo-Saxon poem,
Beowulf
The
interior
of the tent was too still, too theatrical, to be quite real, Myrddion decided as he thrust his way into the large space. Although he was pale and feverish, Ambrosius’s eyes still blazed with so much life that he gave the illusion of being the only person in the tent. Awkward and nervous, Pascent stood at the head of the High King’s folding cot, wringing his hands in distress, while Ulfin lay curled in one corner of the tent. The bodyguard was pallid, and sweating in his own vomit.
‘Remove the food taster. He’s obviously as sick as his master,’ Myrddion
ordered Botha who, in turn, nodded at two of Uther’s guard. Ulfin was carried away. ‘Feed him saline water . . . salt in water . . . as much as he can stomach. Then, if he doesn’t purge himself, stick your fingers down his throat,’ Myrddion instructed Botha, who nodded impassively. ‘And keep him warm. Shock kills.’
Myrddion scanned the tent and saw evidence of a meal of stew and bread. A flagon of wine sat on the folding table, close to an upturned chair. He summoned another of Uther’s bodyguards.
‘Remove the food and drink and keep it in a safe place until I can examine it. You, Pascent, as you’re unaffected, I need to know what the others ate that you didn’t touch.’
Uther’s lips drew back from his teeth and he growled deep in his throat like a dog. ‘Answer quickly, or you’ll wish you’d died at the hands of the Saxons.’
‘Don’t you think I’d have taken pains to eat some of the poison if I was the assassin?’ the young man retorted, his eyes as shallow as marbled glass. ‘I was fortunate because I arrived late for dinner. I wasn’t here to serve the king as was my custom. You know that I always wait on Ambrosius, my prince, but I was delayed. When I arrived, I spooned out some stew for myself, but hadn’t begun to eat it when Ulfin was struck down.’
‘Go to your tent, boy, if you know what’s good for you,’ Uther snarled. ‘And stay out of my way. If you stir before I’m ready for you, I will kill you slowly, deeming you to be trying to escape. Do you understand?’
‘How could I not, sir?’ the young man replied stiffly, and left the High King’s tent with a rigid back and an expression of affront. He bowed punctiliously to each person as he passed out through the flap, in company with a tall, sardonic warrior.
‘Could we arrange for one of the servants to clear up this mess?’ Myrddion asked Uther. ‘Where in Hades is Llanwith? I need that emetic.’
‘Explain!’
Uther demanded abruptly, even as he cast a length of cloth over Ulfin’s vomit and made sure a bowl was close to his brother’s hand.
‘I use senna as an emetic to purge the stomach and bowels of poison. It will scour the body clean, providing the poison hasn’t been absorbed into the blood.’
As the healer spoke, Llanwith shoved his way into the tent, with a sweating brow that spoke of frantic exertion. ‘Is this the jar you wanted, Myrddion? It took an age for me to find it.’
Ambrosius began to shake, great tremors stiffening his muscles and causing his body to convulse while his eyes pleaded for more life. His hands twisted in the cushions until the knuckles shone white with spasms of pain.
‘Hold him down, Uther, and place his belt between his teeth so he can’t hurt himself. Llanwith, search out a clean pannikin from one of the warriors. No one could poison all the guard.’
Llanwith ran out of the tent and returned clutching a primitive drinking cup.
‘Now, hold it still for me.’ Carefully and calmly, Myrddion filled the cup with water from his flask. Then, with painful care, he measured a number of drops from the green glass jar into the fluid. He used the point of his own eating knife to stir the oily mixture.
The convulsion had passed and Ambrosius was attempting to catch his breath, his face twisted into a rictus of pain. Yet the blue eyes were calm when Myrddion approached, and the healer felt the weight of the High King’s trust.
‘Uther will help you to drink, master. You will be vilely ill, but don’t fuss or feel unmanly. Fortunately, you have already been sick and some of the poison has been expelled. Now we’ll try to remove the rest.’
‘I’ve . . . soiled myself,’ Ambrosius panted in embarrassment.