Web of Deceit (51 page)

He smiled at Myrddion, whose eyes had begun to tear up as he recognised the understanding in the prelate’s face.

‘I cannot hear your confession, nor can I give you the absolution that your heart desires. But I can listen, Myrddion, for I was pagan once and I know that God worked through me, even then, to lead my stumbling feet along the paths that he had destined for me. You may speak freely, for I’ll never betray a word said in this house. You have my oath as a bishop, a Roman and the son of a family who always took pride in the glory of their name.’

There was no good reason for Myrddion to unburden himself, other than his trust in the word of this compelling and interesting man. So, after all the years of silence and discipline that had held his emotions in check, Myrddion began to speak of what he had seen and done in the last two years of service to Uther Pendragon. At first, the words came slowly and painfully, but quickly turned into a flood as the healer felt the weight of his shame and guilt lift off his shoulders.

So this is why confession is so attractive to Christians, Myrddion thought.

‘Yet more troubles are to come, Lucius. I don’t know if you believe in prophecy and the sight. I imagine your beliefs preclude such superstitions, but I know that such things exist, whether we will them to or not. I am being pushed and pulled towards a dreadful event where I will have to balance the weight of my soul against the needs of our people in the west. Uther is a necessary evil, for only he can save the land from Saxon invasion at this time in our history. No other claimant exists who can
hold Ambrosius’s fragile accord together, so what am I to do?’

Lucius rose to his feet, his stern, beautiful face furrowed with care. His eyes, so black and lustrous, were far away in time and space as if he measured the lessons of the past before he spoke.

‘Uther is a dangerous man because he hates so thoroughly and so viciously. Nothing is beyond him – not murder, nor blasphemy nor the destruction of the whole land if it will serve his purpose. But his hatred is held in check by self-interest, which is your only hope. For too many years, he was a nameless warrior who had been cast out of his own lands. He’ll not risk such exile again, which gives you a weapon that can be used to hold his worst excesses in check.’

‘Aye, that is true,’ Myrddion replied slowly, his mind working swiftly and his eyes glowing with growing hope. ‘Perhaps I can play on that fear and keep him focused on the Saxons, rather than the madness that lies at his heart.’

‘Don’t mistake wickedness for madness, Myrddion. Like the creature he is named for, Uther is coldly savage and his hatreds are the same. He isn’t demented, but merely evil. That flaw, too, can be useful to you if you can forget the nonsense about his monstrousness, for evil is largely impotent.’

Myrddion nodded slowly and thought of Uther’s demand that Carys’s jewel be returned to him. That small theft was evil, not mad.

‘So what can I do in the trials that lie ahead?’

‘For good or ill, you hold a certain power over Uther Pendragon because of the oath he gave to his brother. You will need to base your decisions on what is good for the realm. Perhaps you will need to trample your personal honour into the dust at times, simply to save and serve the people. In that eventuality, I wouldn’t care to stand in your shoes. You are still young, and you have many bitter roads to travel before you die.’

Myrddion rose to his feet,
for the fog had cleared from his brain. Lucius had placed his strong, slender forefinger upon the crux of Myrddion’s problem. Now that he understood that his personal honour was less important than the welfare of the Britons as a whole, his path, thorny and painful as it was, seemed clearer.

‘Thank you, Bishop Lucius. No other man could have seen my dilemma for what it was, or defined it so clearly. May I speak to you again should I have the need, for there is a great loneliness in the power that Ambrosius thrust upon me?’

‘Of course, my son. If it is any consolation, Ambrosius Imperator must have trusted you more than any man alive to lay such burdens upon you. Perhaps he was unfair, but he had so little time and he loved this land. As do you.’

‘As do I,’ Myrddion replied sadly, and took his leave.

The busy afternoon passed in a blur of organisation. Onto Myrddion’s broad and unwilling shoulders fell the task of deciding the order of precedence and trying to prevent the very real threat of any tribal king’s feeling himself overlooked and insulted. For prudence’s sake, Myrddion placed Gorlois, his queen and his daughter halfway down a table where they were flanked by Llanwith pen Bryn on one side and Luka of the Brigante on the other. Thus Myrddion hoped to relieve Uther’s suspicions of a fancied plot between Gorlois and Leodegran by placing them far apart, and thereby avoid any direct conflict with the High King.

Once he had covered every eventuality that could be foreseen, Myrddion checked the solstice pyre in the forecourt before scurrying to the house of the healers to bathe and dress in his most sumptuous clothes. With his head still spinning with nasty possibilities, he dressed with the help of Ruadh and Cadoc, who had polished his jewellery to a brilliant gleam. Praxiteles would attend as his table servant and the old trader had found snowy linens in which to dress, although Myrddion
imagined he would be chilled to the bone.

‘You’re too old to wear linen in the dead of winter,’ he chided his friend with real concern. ‘You’ll catch your death in that frigid hall.’

Praxiteles grinned and parted his snowy robe to reveal crude but effective fur breeches and boots, roughly laced up his legs. ‘Under my finery, I assure you that I’m very warm, master. And don’t fear for ructions during the ceremony, for I’ll do what I need to do to keep the meal moving smoothly.’

Myrddion had chosen to wear his customary black, but the women had found a length of finely spun wool that provided a grand, if funereal, long robe over his leather breeches and boots. A belt of silver links lay around his narrow hips and Brangaine brought in the fish necklace of electrum that had belonged to his grandmother, and fastened it round his neck when he wasn’t looking.

‘I can’t wear this,’ Myrddion exclaimed, flicking the glittering links with his forefinger. ‘This necklace is sacred to the Mother, and I am a man. Attending this feast will be difficult enough without offending
her
.’

‘The Mother will attend the ceremony whatever you do or say,’ Ruadh answered for them all. ‘Wear her mark so that all men know you for what you are. Give Uther something to ponder over.’

Myrddion snorted with scorn. ‘He’ll not recognise this piece of jewellery, nor understand its significance. Uther is a clod where religion and portents are concerned.’

‘But others will recognise her sign and tell him what it is. Head up, master, for you go to war for all of us this night. Start the new year under her favour.’

Against his misgivings, Myrddion submitted to their argument, thrust his rings upon his fingers and permitted the women to bind his hair with silver wire. With his sable-trimmed cloak tossed negligently over his shoulders, he
felt equipped for some invisible battle and ventured out into the night, followed by Praxiteles who bore a bright, flaming torch.

As he passed the homes of the common folk of Venta Belgarum, the citizens were shocked by his appearance. The torch elongated his shadow until he seemed to be a veritable giant, while his black garb melded with the shadows so that he was almost invisible except for the pallor of his face and hands. But the reflection of the torchlight on the electrum scales of the fish necklace burned with a cold white fire and marked him as a creature of the darkness.

Myrddion entered the hall from the side, choosing to forgo the impact of a showy arrival through the great gilded doors. After checking the area devoted to the feast for one last time, he joined the noble guests as they milled in the anteroom, awaiting the High King’s pleasure.

Nervously, Myrddion examined the throng of brilliantly dressed guests. Servants wove their way through clusters of gossiping kings and their spouses to offer wine, chilled juices and tempting titbits designed to whet hearty appetites.

So far, so good. No one has grown restive . . . yet. Why is Uther keeping everyone waiting?

‘Ho, Myrddion,’ Llanwith called from a dim corner where Luka was seated on a purloined stool, looking a little pale. ‘When does the feast begin? I swear that half the guests will be drunk if we don’t eat soon.’

Myrddion shrugged noncommittally as he joined his two friends. ‘I have no idea, Llanwith. I imagine the High King is making a point about something.’

He explained the reasons for their seating arrangements and wrung a promise from them to act as a buffer between Gorlois and the High King.

‘How do you expect us to deflect Uther if he is in a temper?’ Luka asked plaintively. He was feeling weary,
hot and very hungry.

‘Just do your best. You’re a long way from the head table, so the problem shouldn’t arise.’

‘Promises, promises,’ Luka muttered.

At that moment, the inner doors to the hall swung open and Botha summoned the kings to take their places for the solstice feast. As the guests were ravenous, they showed little concern for status and order of entry. Indeed, Botha had to press himself against the door jamb as the kings, their wives and their retinues made a concerted dash for their places at the tables.

‘Like hogs come to their master’s trough,’ Llanwith muttered darkly, but Myrddion refrained from making any comment. Ensuring that Llanwith had spotted the dark head of Gorlois in the crowd, Myrddion slipped away to a minor table at the back of the feasting hall where he sat with several city notables, on the fringes of this grand occasion.

His choice of position had not been motivated by false modesty. From his seat, he could watch all the actions of his master at the opposite end of the room as well as observe the tribal kings as they ate. When Praxiteles offered him heavy red wine from a gilded jug, Myrddion placed his hand across his goblet and asked for water, which Praxiteles hurried away to procure.

‘We are honoured by your presence, master healer,’ the town magistrate murmured politely. His heavy chain of office hung round his scrawny neck and Myrddion recognised the Roman workmanship in the decoration. Once he had been introduced to the civic leaders at the table and their overawed wives, he settled down to a programme of careful observation.

A group of musicians played drums, pipes and lutes for the pleasure of the crowd, while servants in blood-red livery moved around the room bearing huge jugs of wine.

But still Uther Pendragon was absent from the ceremony.

Then, just when the High
King’s absence was becoming an insult to the tribal kings, Uther entered in a robe of red slashed with gold. He wore the heavy crown of Maximus, which was studded with huge, blood-red garnets so that, under the glow of many oil lamps, Uther’s hair appeared to bleed. Flanked by Bishop Paulus, who looked distinctly uncomfortable, and Ambrosius’s seneschal, the old king of the Cantii tribe, the High King seated himself, with Botha and Ulfin standing directly behind his chair.

A murmur that began like a long, slow wave of noise washed across the room. Then, as if every voice had been cut off by a sharp knife, the room grew silent. The musicians laid their instruments to one side in response to a subtle movement of Botha’s hand.

‘Behold, kings of the tribes of Britain, the High King comes amongst us on this, the solstice, in the dying days of the year. Hail to Uther Pendragon, High King of the Britons.’

Botha’s voice had been impressive in its strength and solemnity and, as one, the kings and their retinues rose to their feet and lifted their wine cups high.

‘Hail to Uther Pendragon, High King of the Britons.’

Half a hundred voices shouted out the salutation, as if the noise would drown out any doubts that Uther might harbour about them. The rafters shook in response and the flames in the lamps dipped and swayed as if a strong wind had passed over them.

The tribal kings seated themselves, the musicians began to play a rousing tune better suited to a battle than a feast, and the food was carried into the dining hall on great steaming platters by staggering servants. Under a façade of merriment and good fellowship, almost frenetic in its nature, a mood of unease was building because of the stern, unbending visage of the High King. His face could have been carved out of a great slab of amber, it seemed so stiff . . . and so still.

Uther’s eyes roved around the hall, capturing the unwilling attention of one king after another. When his cold gaze passed on, that unfortunate king would gulp his wine
and address himself to his food with a feigned gusto that was wholly false. Myrddion was willing to wager that the fine venison and pickled vegetables tasted like dust and ashes inside their dry mouths.

Of the whole throng, only Gorlois met Uther’s gaze directly, although Llanwith and Luka avoided the king’s examination by maintaining animated conversations with the ladies next to them. Gorlois actually had the temerity to raise his wine cup in a silent toast to Uther, whose brows met in annoyance before acknowledging the toast.

Ave, Gorlois. It’s past time that Uther received a taste of his own treatment, Myrddion thought grimly.

The air seemed to crackle between the two formidable men, so that Llanwith felt the hairs rise on his arms. Uther’s eyes swivelled towards Gorlois’s ladies in a gesture meant to threaten and subdue. The blue eyes glittered like ice in his rugged, impassive face.

Morgan felt the power of his gaze and lifted her chin in defiance. She had dressed with care for this particular feast, understanding that her beloved father was under threat. Her hair hung down her back in a thick black wave of gleaming ebony, except for the silver lock that sprang from her right forehead. She had emphasised that forelock by plaiting it with silver wire, and her earrings were heavy baubles of the same metal, so flattering to her colouring, and strung with pearls of great price. Her dress was black, trimmed with sable for warmth, but the décolletage was laced low so that the swell of her perfect breasts was visible. With palms and nails stained with expensive imported henna and the skilful addition of lip rouge so that her mouth was a red wound in her milk-white face, she was a splendid, erotic figure.