Web of Deceit (49 page)

‘Won’t that be lovely? The council will be all boring talk from tedious men who are determined to miss the blindingly obvious. The answers are very clear, too transparent for half those old dodderers. We need to squash the Saxons like bugs. All of us – in a concerted effort.’

‘Are you so eager to return to my tender care with a new set of wounds, Luka? I hope we’ll commit ourselves to an extended war in the south, but I don’t fancy your chances of being ready to ride very quickly. You’ve only just learned to walk again.’

Myrddion’s admonitions were half in jest, but for all Luka’s confident aspect his face was paling even as they joked. The Brigante was exhausted and was swaying dangerously.

‘It’s off to bed with you now, Luka, and no arguments, please. Cadoc will support you, because you’re likely to faint at any moment. If you plan to disagree with me, we’ll argue it out from your bed.’

Then, before Luka could protest, Cadoc had swept him up, carried him to his pallet and tucked him firmly between warmed blankets into which Brangaine had slipped a heated brick. Myrddion drew up a rather rickety stool and sat down beside the bed, and the two men engaged in conversation.

‘You’re troubled,’ Luka offered after half an hour of casual talk. Myrddion had learned that Luka was courageous, honest, blunt, and at times foolhardy when his personal honour was at stake. He raised one eyebrow at the Brigante prince, but he felt comfortable with the young man in a way that he rarely did with other men of his own age.

Perhaps, the healer acknowledged, Luka is more truly my equal in status than Cadoc, or Ambrosius, or even Cleoxenes. I was far beneath the latter two in experience and power, while Cadoc, for all his courage and willingness
to learn, does not share my understanding of the noble classes. What a vain creature I’m becoming!

So Myrddion unbent a little, and if he spoke more freely than was wise, Luka never betrayed him.

‘Uther is even more unpredictable than usual, the Saxons are sailing for the fortress of Anderida and Gorlois has managed to offend the High King’s sensitive feelings. Is that enough trouble to manage at once?’

‘It’s more than enough,’ Luka responded. ‘How did you get caught up in such a knot of intrigue, Myrddion? You don’t seem to be the kind of man who pursues power.’

For reasons unclear to himself, Myrddion found it easy to confide in Luka, and would have explained about his oath to Ambrosius had Llanwith pen Bryn not strolled into the small room with the easy grace of a large man who is perfectly in tune with his body.

Luka and Llanwith were acquaintances, for they were destined from birth to be part of the next generation of kings, but they had never socialised outside the parameters of formal feasts and tribal meetings. The men looked at each other warmly, but warily. Luka held the high ground, as he was a patient and therefore needed tender handling, but Llanwith had been unusually well educated and was curious to learn more about the heir to the throne of one of the largest and most powerful tribes in all the isles. Through jokes and good-natured rivalry, he could learn much of Luka’s character.

‘Luka, prince of the Brigante. I thought you were dead!’

‘I like you too!’ Luka retorted. ‘As you can see, not only am I alive, but I’m in full possession of my wits and I’m on the mend. I’m lucky enough to have a very thick skull.’

Llanwith grinned and checked under the covers with scant regard for Luka’s possible embarrassment. Myrddion envied the Ordovice prince his casual social skills.

‘There’s no woman lurking under
the blankets with you? Here’s a wonder. I was told you were the greatest . . . er . . . swordsman . . . in the west, and here you are in an empty bed. For shame, Luka! Your reputation will suffer for this.’

Despite Llanwith’s teasing tone, Myrddion was worried that Luka would take offence, but instead he gave a cheeky grin, lifted the covers and patted his pallet.

‘If you promise to take a bath, you can join me – if you’re so worried about my reputation.’ The saucy, very feminine wink that accompanied this invitation caused all three men to burst into spontaneous laughter. Luka was a natural mimic.

‘I wasn’t aware you nurture an inclination towards men,’ Myrddion retorted before he realised what he had said. ‘You must have a penchant for hair, Luka, because Llanwith has enough for three men – and I’m only referring to his back.’

Llanwith’s brown eyes glowed with amusement. ‘I’ll donate some of my excess hair to you if you like, healer. You’re uncommonly smooth-skinned for a Briton.’

‘I’ve always followed the Roman fashion,’ Myrddion replied with perfect seriousness. ‘I started plucking my body hair as a youth, and I’ve continued the practice ever since.’

‘You don’t pull it out by the roots, do you?’ Luka exclaimed, his eyes wide as he considered the work entailed in carrying out this operation. ‘Even around your balls?’

‘It must take for ever,’ Llanwith said curiously, examining Myrddion’s face with the keen interest of a man of intelligence. ‘Doesn’t it hurt?’

‘It was painful when I first started doing it,’ Myrddion told them, ‘but my hair seems to have got the message over the years, and it hardly ever grows now, except for the toughest parts of my face.’

‘But why do it?’ Luka asked. ‘Don’t you want to look like a man?’

‘Why? I can’t be a warrior because I’m a bastard. I worship the Mother, which is largely a female
practice, and I’m a healer, so my personal grooming affects my patients. So why not?’

Despite the common sense in his answers, Myrddion’s challenge had a bitter edge, causing both Llanwith and Luka to feel vaguely ashamed of their social gaffe. Their expressions sobered instantly.

‘Besides, I wish to appear as different as possible from my master,’ Myrddion continued. ‘It’s bad enough to be called Uther’s storm crow behind my back.’

‘True. He is the High King, so there’s no help for you in that regard, but I can understand that you would wish to distance yourself from him. That man’s . . .’

Luka interrupted before Llanwith allowed unwise words to pass his lips. ‘The word for the High King is unpredictable,’ he said firmly.

At that awkward point the three men parted, but Luka begged the others to return during the evening, for the nights drag on when an active man is forced to lie abed.

‘While your healers and servants are very worthy people, there’s not a beddable girl or a decent conversationalist among the whole bunch,’ he said, leering comically. ‘I’m starved for amusement.’

So their good mood was restored and promises were made, both spoken and silent, and it was clear to them all that a friendship was beginning to form between the three men.

‘Is this what you expect of me, Mother? A trine? I enjoy their company and they lighten my heart, but I’m fearful of speaking unwisely in their presence. I’m afraid of betraying myself.’

Myrddion spoke aloud, but only Rhedyn, who was collecting feverwort from the scriptorium cupboard, was close enough to hear his words. The woman smiled softly, for her master was in sore need of good companions.

When Myrddion returned to the king’s hall, the hunt had finished and servants were dressing a huge boar for the table. Inevitably, Gorlois had killed the monster
in a fearsome contest of brute strength and courage, and the carcass would take pride of place at the coming Samhain feast.

Myrddion paused in the shadows to listen to the servants while they singed the hair off the coarse hide.

‘What a beast! Look at the size of those tusks,’ the oldest man murmured as he measured the wicked, curved teeth along the length of his palm.

‘Aye, it’s huge. Yet King Gorlois attacked it with only a spear and a knife for weapons. On foot and alone, he planted his spear in the earth before him and braced it against his leg. Then, in its eagerness to destroy him, the boar leapt straight on to the weapon and impaled itself. Can you see the wound?’

The speaker had acted as one of the beaters, and his task had been to drive the boar towards the nobles who made up the hunting party. Two of his friends had bled to death when they were slashed by those wicked, sharp tusks. The speaker himself had been forced to climb a tree to escape the animal’s initial charge, so he had witnessed the conflict between it and Gorlois from the safety of a thick tree branch.

‘Only a man of enormous strength could have held that spear in place as the boar tried to climb down the blade to reach him. It drove the barb into its own heart. Gods, but Gorlois is a true man.’

‘Aye, his kind is rare,’ the older servant replied. ‘Would that the High King were as noble.’

‘Shut your mouth or we’ll both be served up for the High King’s pleasure like this dead meat. Gods, but you’re a talkative fool.’

Myrddion slipped away, considering how far Uther’s reputation had decayed and yet increased. Common men now feared him more than any other warrior in the west, but that fear had no admiration in it, only dread.

Aye, Uther is surely a dragon. And he
will come to regret his treatment of the lowest among us, Myrddion thought. After all, they are the ones who bleed for us in battle. If the king continues in this high-handed fashion, they will desert him.

Myrddion’s evening was not destined to be uneventful. He had scarcely entered the great hall before Gorlois left his conversation with the other kings and approached him with a personal request. Myrddion noticed that a smear of boar’s blood still stained the king’s leather jerkin at the neckline. The beast had almost reached his throat.

‘My wife is unwell and has a mild fever, so I’d like you to examine her. It’s probably nothing, but I’d be comforted by your opinion, master healer.’

‘I shall visit her highness at once. For propriety’s sake, I trust she keeps her daughter and maidservants with her?’

‘I’d not trust even you with her otherwise.’ Gorlois grinned easily, but Myrddion wasn’t deceived by the king’s warm brown eyes. A glint of steel behind those bland irises warned Myrddion that Gorlois meant every word he said.

Myrddion made his way to the Dumnonii rooms. The spartan apartment had been softened by hangings of an attractive rose shade, and something aromatic burned in a brazier beside a couch on which the queen sat, surrounded by her younger attendants. The atmosphere in the room touched the sensitivity in Myrddion’s soul and reminded him poignantly of his grandmother. Ygerne and Olwyn were much the same age, although his grandmother had been dead for many years. Olwyn had been lovely as well, although she had lacked the strange glamour of this slender woman. Even Morgan’s robes of unrelieved black and her downturned, angry brows could not dispel the aura of gentleness and beauty that embraced Queen Ygerne.

When she admitted him into this feminine sanctum, Morgan made her reservations very
clear. ‘Father acts unwisely to send Uther’s creature to help us. I’m perfectly capable of caring for my mother. As you may know, I understand more of herb lore than most healers – including you.’

‘You may speak truly, Lady Morgan. However, I have been ordered by your father to satisfy myself and him that Queen Ygerne suffers no serious illness. I must obey him.’

Morgan scowled even more darkly at Myrddion’s natural courtesy, but she stepped away so he could make a low bow of respect to the queen.

‘If you would allow me, highness?’ Myrddion lifted one slender wrist and felt for the pulse points in the Greek fashion. He could feel the steady beat of her blood under his sensitive fingers, and the perfume that rose from her skin, her hair and her clothing was intoxicating.

Releasing her hand, he laid his palm against her broad, high forehead in the age-old test for fever. Her skin was cool to the touch and a little dry, and her eyes were clear and showed no signs of discoloration or the hot glitter of illness.

‘Leave us,’ Ygerne ordered her maids. ‘You may stay, Morgan, but do me the courtesy of remaining silent. I wish to speak to Myrddion Merlinus free from bad-natured ears and the possibility of gossip.’

‘Really, Mother! Your servants would never inform on
you
,’ Morgan retorted.

‘I can find no sign of illness, your highness. In fact, I would say you are in superbly good health.’

Ygerne looked down into her lap, while her nervous fingers busily folded and refolded a strip of delicate fabric that she kept tucked into her sleeve. ‘My illness is not of the body, Myrddion. I need to consult you on another matter. Forgive my frankness, but I have heard that you have the gift of prophecy, which is a matter of interest to me. Is this
rumour true?’

Myrddion was puzzled, but not offended. He had no idea what Ygerne wanted of him, but he answered as honestly as he could, for to deny the rumours would be foolish. He was fully aware that most Celts were familiar with the story of Dinas Emrys and the Demon Seed.

‘I have had dreams that profess to be prophecy, my lady, and I have fallen into a waking fit on several occasions. I hate the very thought of these fits, and would prefer they did not happen.’

‘I understand more truly than you might think, Myrddion. My father, Pridenow, has been dead for many years, but he swore that the sight passed through his bloodline and I shouldn’t be frightened if unbidden images came to me, sleeping or awake. I am fortunate, for I have rarely felt this inner . . . touch . . . so I have largely been left in peace. My daughter, Morgause, feels it not at all, but Morgan claims that unbidden warnings have come to her on many occasions from the time of her earliest childhood. I cannot understand it, so I have prayed to the Virgin most earnestly to explain this gift. She chooses to ignore me.’

‘I am a man of science, your highness, like the old Greeks. I study the natural world to try to understand its secrets, so I endeavour to probe the world of my five senses as carefully and as dispassionately as I can. But I have never understood the secret of the sight, although I cannot doubt that some people are so afflicted, and often against their will. Perhaps it is just another sense that some people are able to use, like hearing or touch. Some people have a very poor sense of smell, and others cannot see very clearly. We are all different, my lady. Why do you ask?’