Web of Deceit (47 page)
‘Truly, my king, I don’t believe that Gorlois harbours
any desire for your crown,’ Myrddion protested as mildly as he could. ‘He shows no signs of duplicity and my spies in Tintagel would know. He is simply more devoted to the people in the Dumnonii lands than to the rest of Britain.’
‘We’ll see!’ Uther snapped. ‘The banquet will be our first meeting. I’ve organised various hunts and amusements for the kings over the next ten days, but I’ll be too busy to meet any of them until that night. Make sure they all understand that.’
Gods! When will Uther learn that the mailed fist smashes the nut and makes it difficult to swallow for the shell grit?
But Myrddion’s face said nothing, although Uther knew precisely what he thought. In his quiet corner, Botha watched the two formidable men circle each other with words and his heart grew cold for the sanctity of his oath to his king. In the warrior’s imagination, Myrddion was a long, slim blade, sharp and light, but wicked in its flashing speed. His king was a heavy Celt sword, used to crush and hack through cringing flesh, and had no fear of the lighter blade or the narrow hand that wielded it, trusting to his animal instincts to outguess the healer’s intelligence. But Uther Pendragon was wrong. Botha could feel the power growing inside Myrddion Merlinus like a sea creature rising towards the light.
‘As you ask, so I shall obey, my lord,’ Myrddion replied enigmatically and Botha recognised the double meaning in the passive reply. The warrior was oath-bound to the High King, and knew he should speak his fears aloud to his master. On the other hand, he understood the frustration and the passions that drove Myrddion Merlinus because he had felt those same emotions often enough during the years he had served Uther Pendragon. He considered the question carefully, and decided that his personal code of honour did not demand that he should explain Myrddion’s growing resistance to a king who also had eyes to see and ears to hear.
So Myrddion left the king’s presence to explain to
Gorlois and those kings already in residence that Uther was too busy to join them. He did so with delicate, wry humour, in a way that left no one in any doubt that Uther’s healer did not approve of the situation. Gorlois quaffed his wine thoughtfully and joked with Leodegran and Llanwith pen Bryn with an absent, abstracted good humour and tried to interpret the fear that flitted through the black eyes of Myrddion Merlinus.
That night, in Ruadh’s arms, the horses of terror galloped through Myrddion’s dreams. Ygerne screamed shrilly through eyes that were wild with horror; Gorlois wept tears of blood above a severed neck wound; Morgan grew suddenly old and smiled widely to reveal that her tongue was now a hissing serpent . . . and an infant slimed with the blood of birth opened inhuman grey eyes and smiled at him with such trust that his heart almost broke in two.
Just when the images were more than he could bear to watch, they were blown away by an unnatural, freezing black wind and a cowled shape appeared. Whether it was man or woman, Myrddion could not tell. Human or god, he could not say. But his brain froze with terror.
‘You must do what must be done, my poor suffering son. When this child is born, then you will be free – for a time.’
‘Master . . . mistress . . . do not ask such dishonour of me, for I can go no further . . . I’ll die of shame. Why did you give me life to do such things as I know are coming? I’ll not obey! I’ll not do this thing!’
The voice in his ears was neither male nor female but was greater than either. It replied gently, but Myrddion knew that all the storms of this world, and the screams of every living thing upon it, could not drown out a single word.
‘You will do what must be done because you were made for this time. The road has been hard, my son, and will be harder still before I permit you to die, but everything I ask is necessary,
and nothing will compromise your honour. Others will break their oaths, although you will suffer for it, but you will finally be free.’
Then the figure lifted the cowl and Myrddion saw a succession of faces beneath the hood. There was his grandmother, Olwyn, gently smiling at him; Aetius sneered; Petronius Maximus nodded ruefully; Flavia’s lips trembled; face after face came and went in the blackness under the cowl.
Then other faces he did not know replaced the friends and enemies of his youth. Old and young, they flashed past his wondering gaze. A tawny-haired woman was replaced by a breathtaking beauty with golden hair and cerulean eyes. A gnarled old mercenary gave way to a huge, brooding barbarian. A woman with ice-white hair and eyes too blue to be anything but a dream smiled at him with heart-stopping love. And then the faces were gone, and Myrddion knew that his dream was almost over.
A final face began to loom out of the pitch blackness, a face that seemed to belong to Uther Pendragon. There was the hair: wild, tawny and spiralled with curls. There was the same firm jaw and noble brow, but Uther never possessed such delicacy of cheekbone or nose. And then the eyes opened, and Myrddion saw that they were winter-grey and as chill as the northern ice packs.
‘May the heavens protect me,’ Myrddion screamed. ‘Who are you?’
‘I am what you desire most, the creature of your brain,’ the face answered, but Myrddion screamed anew. For this face spoke with the seductive voice of Queen Ygerne of the Dumnonii, wife of the Boar of Cornwall.
The easiest thing of all is to deceive oneself; for what a man wishes he generally believes to be true.
Demosthenes,
Olynthiaca
Still shaking within the shadow
of his dream, Myrddion attempted to fasten the strings of his tunic with fingers that trembled uncontrollably. Ruadh’s eyes were clouded with concern as she assisted him by smoothing the sable fabric over his broad shoulders and straightening the glossy leather hem around his trim hips. She knelt and laced his boots while Myrddion tried unsuccessfully to compose himself.
‘Master, you must take a few drops of poppy in hot water tonight. These dreams must not continue, beloved, else you will go mad.’
Absently, Myrddion stroked her red hair with fingers that had lost their natural dexterity. He felt her wince when his nails caught in a tangle of her curls, so he pulled away from her.
‘There will be no poppy, tonight or ever, for no soporifics can protect me from my dreams. In fact, they will only come with more intensity should I try to drug them away. You must avoid me for a time, Ruadh, for my affections can
be poisonous. Although I don’t intend it, those whom I care for always seem to die or be spirited away. I have too much esteem for you to risk your life, so leave me to my duties and my misery.’
Self-pity closed his throat and almost made him weep. He felt useless, unmanly and weak.
Ruadh rose gracefully to her feet. Those closest to Myrddion had grown fond of her but to the court of Uther Pendragon she would always be the Pict bitch who was the last love of Ambrosius Imperator. Now, sword-straight and proud, she met her lover’s eyes directly, until Myrddion was forced to turn away.
‘I’m no coward, Myrddion. Nor do I fear the animosity of the gods, for they have already taken everything from me but my life. Yet in answer to my prayers they have been sufficiently kind to have given you to me, so their curses can actually be blessings. I’ll not leave you, master, although staying at your side may bring about my death. Don’t try to persuade me or reject me, for it will not work, no matter what you say out of kindness. Such actions would be unnecessarily cruel and we’ll both suffer because of your scruples. For a change, I will choose my own fate, for I will run no more!’
Then she grinned impishly to dispel the mood of gravity that her words had created.
‘Besides, who would help you to dress in the mornings? You’d wear your tunic awry or inside out without my help, or put your left boot onto your right foot.’
‘As always, my lady, you speak truly,’ Myrddion answered seriously and bowed respectfully. ‘You make my days bearable.’
‘Get away with you and your sweet tongue, Myrddion Merlinus, for you’d charm the birds out of the trees.’ She slapped him playfully across the buttocks as she slipped out of the sleeping chamber. ‘You must hurry, beloved, for Uther awaits you.’
‘Sod him. He can wait.’
‘I heard that,’ she called back to
him across the colonnade.
Wanting to respond childishly, Myrddion suddenly discovered that he was smiling, and that he was actually hungry. Bless Ruadh! She always finds a way to cure my worst horrors. I wish I loved her as much as she loves me.
A wise man understands his own heart and Myrddion had long realised how his women had manipulated him into this relationship with Ruadh. He had understood their motives and been quietly amused, but a wholly physical need had demanded the warmth of Ruadh in his bed and he had accepted their meddling without complaint. With clinical detachment, he had carefully examined his feelings for Ruadh and had discovered that he admired many qualities in her character, from her courage to her irrepressible sense of humour; but he also recognised that although his affection for her was deep and genuine, her loss would not cause him lasting loneliness.
‘Perhaps I lack the capacity for anything deeper,’ he whispered aloud. He enjoyed their sexual compatibility and was comforted by the release of all the pent-up furies of each day that was spent with Uther Pendragon. Besides, he could talk to her as an equal and vent his frustrations into a sympathetic ear. With mingled ruefulness and arrogance, he supposed he was using her in his way, as men are wont to do, but the current situation suited them both.
You think too much, and you’re a fool, he berated himself as he collected his map of the southern Saxon towns. He had received troubling news from Gruffydd overnight, and Uther must be informed immediately. First things first, Myrddion!
The tribal kings had ridden out at dawn on a wild boar hunt, a symbolism that was lost on no one, least of all Gorlois, the man it was supposed to threaten. Myrddion, therefore, was free to talk common sense to Uther. The noble ladies and their children were gathered in a warm room at the rear of the
palace, sewing, playing at dice and amusing each other with gossip. Against all the odds, Venta Belgarum was at peace, at least for the moment.
Just as he raised his fist to rap on the timber frame at the entrance to Uther’s apartments, Botha tugged the heavy wooden door open. A deep furrow of worry creased the warrior’s eyes, usually the only sign that the captain betrayed of cracks in his composure.
‘Our master’s in a tear this morning, Myrddion. He had a bad dream last night and he’s considering consulting a wise woman. Take care what you say, for he’s wound up as tight as a wire garrotte.’
‘Who’s there, Botha? If it’s the healer, he’d better have good news.’ Uther’s shouted voice sent a small tremor up the fingers of Botha’s hand as it rested on Myrddion’s forearm. The fingers tightened on his flesh in warning, then fell away.
With a sangfroid he didn’t feel, and a cheerful nonchalance that was completely feigned, Myrddion strode briskly into Uther’s apartments. The dream-ravaged, depressed healer had vanished and a firm, fair statesman had taken his place.
‘Good morning, highness. Botha tells me that your sleep has been disturbed. I also had the night terrors last evening. But they pass, because they are only the messages of an unquiet brain.’
‘So you are an expert in dreams as well, are you?’ Uther sneered, sipped on his wine, grimaced and then threw the wine cup at Ulfin’s face. ‘This shit is sour. Find me something decent – or are you trying to poison me?’
Ulfin blanched and hurried away. ‘And find that wise woman while you’re about it,’ Uther shouted after him.
‘I can mix a sleeping draught that will banish all your night horrors, my king,’ Myrddion murmured in an attempt to placate his master.
‘
You
drink it, for I’ll not touch it. I remember how my brother died.’
‘You insult me, my lord!’ Myrddion protested
rigidly. ‘I am oath-bound to protect you.’
‘Take it any way that pleases you, healer. Now, what brings you to me so early? Come on, out with it! I can see that you’re bursting with news.’
As Uther resumed pacing back and forth across his sumptuous bedchamber, Myrddion wished he had stayed in bed a little longer. Anything he told the High King would be rejected out of hand while Uther was in this difficult mood.
Uther stopped pacing abruptly as Myrddion remained silent. ‘Do you mean to disobey me, Merlinus?’ The High King’s voice was suddenly quiet and silky. Uther was always more dangerous when his voice became gentle and soothing.
Myrddion took a deep, settling breath. ‘No, my lord. Of course not. I received an urgent message from my spy in the Saxon east who is currently in Londinium. An unknown man came to my door before cockcrow late last night and was gone just as quickly, so I was unable to question him. But the hand that penned the Latin belonged to Gruffydd, whose intelligence has been so valuable to us in the past. I am forced to take his warnings seriously.’
Uther started to pace again, but without the frenetic energy of a few minutes earlier. His face was focused inward, and his eyes had become chill. The High King was always at his best in a crisis.
‘Well? You’d best tell me, unless you expect me to cool my heels all day while you decide what you think I want you to say. So – out with it.’
Myrddion untangled Uther’s sentence and shook his head swiftly. ‘I never prevaricate, master, nor do I attempt to weaken Gruffydd’s warnings. His messages are always too important to our cause to trifle with. Nor would I insult you by misrepresenting information that could be dangerous to you.’
Myrddion spread his map of the southeastern cities across Uther’s table and the High King
stopped to examine it. The soldier in the king gave a little nod of approval at the placement of rivers, forests and villages on the rudimentary chart.
‘According to Gruffydd, ceols are preparing to sail out of Portus Lemanis to carry men to Anderida. They plan to dig in near its gates and lay siege during the winter months so they can make a concerted attack on the fortress during the spring when our warriors will have depleted their winter stores of grain. We’ll be unable to dislodge the Saxons if they become too entrenched, so we shall have to intercept them. Our enemies are like beetles boring into wood, or the lice that infest clean wool.’