Web of Deceit (55 page)
‘A rock and a whirlpool. We’d be easy meat for our enemies – they could
isolate us and slice us up like a side of beef. And where would we be then, if we didn’t have a savage like Uther who is the only king with the stomach for what must be done? I wish, however, that he didn’t enjoy slaughter quite so much.’
‘Death and destruction seem to ease his rages, master. So we go, I take it, to save Willa and Berwyn from what might be a nasty end.’
‘Yes. The first contingent of troops marches out tomorrow and the reinforcements will be called to their bivouac outside Noviomagus. By the time we arrive in the baggage train, the Dumnonii, Belgae and Dobunni troops will have joined the warriors from Uther’s Atrebates tribe. The High King is playing for keeps, and I believe he intends to slaughter the entire Saxon force.’
‘Then there will be much red work for us to do,’ Cadoc answered stolidly. ‘It’s time to pack for a prolonged campaign.’
Four weeks later, on a cold and moonless night when snow lay lightly over the forest floor of Anderida Silva and frozen branches creaked and groaned under the icy weight of winter, Myrddion huddled inside his heavy furs. From a low hill, he looked down at the silent host that had spread out into two great horns as they prepared to attack the two Saxon camps besieging the Celtic fortress. Even now, the Saxons were busily burrowing below the frozen stone walls of the fort or pounding on the wooden gates on the eastern and western flanks. The silent fortress seemed far too small from this distance to warrant the loss of life that would follow the engagement of the warring forces.
Uther’s encampment was in darkness, for even in these icy conditions the High King had ordered that no fires should be lit unless there was no other option. Men were huddled in mounds of snow and the horses were picketed out of sight in the forest. Every scout sent out from the Saxon lines and every courier had been summarily executed, although
few of the latter revealed the contents of the messages they carried for their commanders in Londinium. Even Uther admitted to a thrill of admiration for the courage of these Saxon warriors, but he killed them anyway.
‘The Saxons must know we’re here,’ Myrdion whispered aloud, more for comfort than with any expectation of a reply. Cadoc was snoring under the lead wagon and the night was deceptively still.
Snow crunched under a booted foot and Myrddion turned awkwardly in his cocoon of furs. A black figure, powerful and heavily muffled, approached his position through the charcoal tree trunks.
‘Who goes there?’ the healer hissed, feeling rather foolish at the melodramatic choice of words.
‘A friend, Merlinus. I’m Gorlois of the Dumnonii.’
‘King Gorlois? Lord, why do you come to me? I’d expect you to steer well clear of Uther’s storm crow.’
‘Walk with me, Merlinus. Have no fear, for I don’t plan to end your life by stealth, nor do I blame you for the sins of your master. Uther Pendragon is a law unto himself.’
The dark figure beckoned Myrddion into the treeline where they were unlikely to be overheard. As he moved to join him, Myrddion reflected on the ironies of life. Of all those who might have sought him out, here was Gorlois, the man he least wished to meet. He was almost sure that the Boar of Cornwall would harbour a grudge against him because of his position at Uther Pendragon’s court.
Fortunately, he was wrong. With an impatient gesture of one hand, Gorlois pulled back his cowl and lowered himself gingerly onto his haunches.
‘Get down, Myrddion, for I’d prefer not to be seen in your company. I’m watched all the time, even when I go for a piss. It took ten minutes to throw off my watchers when I went to the latrine this time, so even those clods will eventually realise where I am. Come closer.’
‘How may I assist you, my
lord? I must tell you that I have fallen out of favour with the High King, although he’s forced to keep me safe through his oath to his brother.’
Gorlois laughed softly. ‘I expect you wonder about stray arrows though, don’t you?’
Myrddion nodded, for there was no need for further explanation.
‘It’s so still and peaceful here, but the Saxons have created a little Christian hell outside Anderida itself. I am expected to ride in the vanguard to smash the enemy against the fortress gates tomorrow, so I also fear the stray arrow or the knife blade from behind. As I said, I am constantly watched, and Uther smiles at me as if he is contemplating a pleasant, easily digestible meal. I fear he intends to dine over my corpse before the week is out, but he’ll discover that I’m a source of stomach ache if he tries and doesn’t succeed.’
‘I’m sorry, my lord, but I have no authority with Uther Pendragon after the last alteraction between us. If I spoke in your favour, he would assume that you were guilty of treason and act accordingly.’
‘No, you misunderstand me, healer.’ Gorlois examined his nails intently as if some secret rested within them. ‘I don’t expect to die in the coming battle because Uther needs me at the head of his cavalry, but if he wants my death after that, then he’ll contrive it. I have no hope that he’ll see reason.’
Gorlois picked up a handful of snow and pressed it between his fingers. With the grin of a light-hearted boy, he tasted the snow on his tongue and sighed deeply.
‘Life’s so good, isn’t it, healer? Every breath, every smell on the breeze, the taste of clean snow on my tongue . . . if I’m fated to die, I’ll miss the joy of living. Still, I’m over fifty summers by my reckoning and still hale and strong, and that happy state cannot last forever. I would be content to die in battle if I were spared the slow decline into infirmity, because no man wants to recognise pity in the eyes of his wife and children.’
Myrddion remembered his
great-grandfather, Melvig, who had lived to a remarkable old age; he had suffered as his strength declined. Myrddion nodded his head in understanding.
‘But if I should perish, my Ygerne will be exposed to the lust of Uther Pendragon. Because he has no shame, he makes his intentions quite blatant. I was surprised that he permitted her to return to Tintagel. I suppose he hopes to lay siege to her when I’m removed as an impediment.’
‘I’m afraid so, lord. Uther is crazed on the topic of Ygerne, although all his advisers have tried to dissuade him. It’s a sudden infatuation that rose out of nowhere, and I’ve tried to fathom it, but I don’t understand his reasoning. Uther has never shown any inclination to take a wife, so perhaps he desires your queen because she is unattainable?’
Gorlois snickered, but his laughter was scant on humour. ‘Many men have desired my wife, but she remains faithful. I believe she would kill herself before she permitted
any
other man to lie with her. She doesn’t understand her own beauty and believes herself to be old, but her loveliness is still bewitching and will bring Uther to ruin if he continues to pursue her.’
‘Aye, I believe you. Uther can’t rape your wife without destroying all personal credibility. Once you’re dead, his path to Ygerne is clear, but even a High King cannot take a tribal queen by force.’
‘You read my fears correctly, Myrddion. So . . . if I should die in battle, I beg that you try to protect her. She lacks any comprehension of the wickedness in the world and will not understand Uther’s ruthlessness. I’m terrified for her.’
Myrddion rose to his feet with a little grunt of effort. As he straightened his spine, he stared up at the dark sky where the stars were obliterated by heavy cloud cover and he could smell more snowfalls in the air. His mind ranged to distant Tintagel, a place he had never been, and tried to imagine the Lily of Cornwall and her marvellous, changeable
eyes in her home beside the turbulent ocean. His own black eyes were pained.
‘I should tell you, Gorlois, that I prophesied for Uther in Venta Belgarum and I threatened him that he would achieve his heart’s desire, but lose his soul in the getting. I fear I predicted your death. The goddess speaks in riddles when she speaks through my mouth, so I might be talking nonsense. But I promise you, Gorlois, that whatever happens I will serve your wife with all my strength. I will risk my life for her, and ensure she sees out her days in peace and plenty. Something whispers to me that she will survive Uther Pendragon and all his viciousness. After all, she is the daughter of Pridenow, warrior of renown.’
Gorlois sighed. ‘Aye, Pridenow was her sire, and Morgan will protect her in her own way.’ His eyes were ineffably sad. ‘You’ve comforted me, healer, because I believe you’ll try to keep your word. If a doomed man can give you a boon, then ask, for I am in your debt.’
As true warriors, king and healer stood together for a brief moment while the moon broke through the pregnant, threatening clouds to touch their faces with a rime of argent. As if on cue, snow began to fall once again, forcing Gorlois to raise his cowl. With surprising gentleness, he smiled at Myrddion out of the thick wool.
‘Ave, healer. Perhaps I’ll see you beyond the shadows.’
Myrddion discovered that he couldn’t trust his voice, so Gorlois disappeared into the dark of the trees without a farewell. Then the moon disappeared again and darkness blanketed the land as if a shroud had been spread over the earth.
‘Ave, Gorlois,’ Myrddion whispered. ‘Men will remember you as long as courage and loyalty count for anything.’
Then the healer returned to the wagons to watch over his small flock until the dawn came creeping out of the eastern sky.
If you gaze for long into an abyss, the abyss gazes also into you.
Nietzsche,
Beyond Good and Evil
, iv
Snow fell and turned the cavalry
into grey ghosts of horsemen. It filled holes in the landscape so that every stride was a test of faith for men and beasts, while it muffled the thunder of the charge as well, so that the phantom wave of armed men was almost upon the Saxons before they were detected.
A battlefield in the dead of winter, in flurries of snow, is a silent, unearthly dance where blood disappears into the pristine whiteness and the dead become little mounds on the flat plain. Even the clash of swords and spears is muted and eerie, and the cries of wounded men are distant and inhuman, like the far-off screams of hunting gulls.
Only in the press of bodies, as boots and hooves struggle for purchase on black ice, is warfare fresh and real. As always, blood spray, spilled brains and hacked flesh are the offerings to the gods of war, although the snow soon covers the excesses of human savagery. A horse thrashes in a welter of snow, spilled entrails and blood until its throat
is cut in a bright arc of scarlet. All too soon, its remains are covered by a thin white shroud. Even the blood freezes, and continues to leave a delicate tracery on tree trunks and stone walls. Winter death has a grim beauty, as delicate as a dying breath.
From the distant treeline, Myrddion surveyed the silent battlefield and prayed to all the gods that Gorlois would live. Behind him, under cover, Cadoc set the fires to heat water and provide some warmth for the dying, but heavy flurries of snow from the passing storm obscured the two fronts of the battle so that neither healer could guess at the outcome.
Gorlois had led the cavalry charge against the eastern gate and his orders had been concise and clear-cut. The gate to the fortress must not be breached by the besieging Saxons, and everyone who stood between Gorlois’s force and the wall must die. Meanwhile, Uther would lead a combined cavalry and infantry charge against the western gate. As expected, Uther’s horsemen carved through the Saxon force like a hot knife blade through snow.
‘Who’s winning?’ Cadoc asked as he coaxed another fragile flame to life in his hoard of kindling. He swore vilely as an unexpected skirl of wind caused the flame to lick his fingers with a sting of heat.
‘I can’t see clearly,’ Myrddion replied. ‘But the foot soldiers in Uther’s command are maintaining disciplined ranks so I suppose the Saxons at the western gate have been decimated. As for Gorlois, the fortress walls hide what is happening on that side of the citadel.’
Cadoc grunted sceptically. ‘I’ll warrant that Gorlois’s force was smaller than the squadrons of the High King,’ he muttered, as he sucked on his burnt fingers.
‘Shove your fingers in the snow, Cadoc. The cold will ease the pain of your burn,’ Myrddion said absently. ‘Damn me, but I can’t see a thing, so all we can do is wait until we discover whether the wounded are Saxon or Celt. As the victors will probably kill the enemy wounded, we’ll soon know the outcome of the battle. We
may even have to fight for our lives.’
‘Let’s just count the casualties,’ Cadoc agreed glumly.
Myrddion was almost relieved when the wounded began to arrive on foot, on horseback or carried by their companions. Exposure to the elements was a major cause of mortality, even in the balmiest of summers. In a winter snowstorm, among warriors who were already chilled from a night without fire, it was potentially disastrous. While Myrddion admired Uther’s ability to make quick, confident decisions, he deplored the High King’s disregard for the welfare of the men who fought under his standard.
‘Here comes the first of them,’ Cadoc shouted. He marshalled the apprentice healers to their working positions while the women collected bandages, water and the precious medicines that would save the lives of wounded patients. Myrddion turned regretfully from his vantage point and positioned himself at the forefront of the waiting healers as a line of trudging, staggering men floundered towards them through the deepening snow.
At a signal from Cadoc, the bearers moved towards the warriors and assisted the exhausted men to reach the relative warmth of the tents. In such brutal conditions, only the walking wounded had any chance of reaching the healers without assistance, but the frigid conditions had served one positive purpose, as Myrddion discovered when the first patients were prepared for treatment.
Cold slowed the rapid blood flow that was normally the most devastating of killers. Once Anderida was relieved and the gates were opened, Myrddion could send in a cadre of apprentice healers to care for the wounded and dying in relative warmth. But until that hour arrived, his tents could only accept those who managed to stagger through the winter snows. An increasing number succeeded in reaching the field hospital without bleeding to death.