Web of Deceit (61 page)

‘I beg your pardon, Lady Morgan. Ulfin is . . .’ His voice trailed away for a moment, then strengthened as he focused on the task before him. ‘I must treat your wrist, my lady, so no historionics.’

Still her intense, unwavering stare never left his face. Uncertain whether shock or pain had stolen her voice, Myrddion crossed to the small window, opened the shutters and grasped several handfuls of salty snow from irregularities in the lichen-encrusted stones. Outside, the black night was full of howling voices in the icy gale.

Myrddion lifted Morgan’s wrist and packed a handful of snow around the swelling that distorted its delicacy. After initial resistance, she permitted his touch and even held the snow in place. Then they sat together in silence while Myrddion tucked the woollen blanket around her with gentle, sexless care.

Eventually, shocked and hurt, her loss of dignity defeated even Morgan’s rage. ‘You must promise me, prophet, if such you be, that he will die screaming for what he has done tonight,’ she whispered so quietly that Myrddion bent his dark head close to hers to hear her thready voice. ‘I can’t live cleanly while that animal breathes my air.’

‘Ulfin dines on the leavings of his master. He is an extension of Uther Pendragon’s inner darkness, so I promise that he rushes towards an inevitable, bloody fate. I don’t need to prophesy to know he’ll be punished. Can’t you see the doom and stupidity that dull his small eyes? If such an extreme is possible, I hate Ulfin even more than you do.’

Before Morgan could retreat into the cold space of her anger and abasement, the healer gently probed the narrow bones of her wrist and found the break where the hand bones met the complex network of tendons and veins in the wrist. He hunted through his satchel for his poppy tincture, then found a jug of water and poured a little into a plain pottery beaker. Using his body to hide his actions, he added several drops
of the tincture and swirled the beaker until it disappeared.

‘Drink, Morgan. You know my Greek oath precludes a convenient poisoning, so humour me and allow me to treat the break in your arm. If the Mother is kind, you’ll heal completely.’

‘What would it matter if you killed me anyway? My father must be dead, or you wouldn’t have the courage to enter Tintagel. Do what you want.’

Morgan seemed drained of the anger that had fuelled her, listless and defeated. She drank like a small child, in large gulps, and a little water slid down her chin. Myrddion gently wiped the moisture away from the corners of her mouth with the edge of her blanket. While he waited for the drug to take effect, he found a pair of wooden hairpins in Morgan’s jewel box in a clothes chest. When she made no protest, he searched the room for items that could be used as splints while the princess watched his efforts with dulling eyes.

‘Tell me how my father was killed,’ she whispered through swollen lips. ‘And don’t shake your head at me, Storm Crow. You owe me the truth, if only because you didn’t attempt to defend me from Uther’s dog. You let him humiliate me!’

Her voice was flat, almost matter-of-fact, but Myrddion dreaded the inevitable hysteria that would come when the numbness of shock wore off.

But he did owe her the truth, because he
had
cowered in the corridor like a craven dog while she was raped. Shame kept his voice at a whisper, but he managed to recount what he knew of Gorlois’s assassination with uncompromising honesty. Because he had nothing else to offer in reparation other than exposure of his part in the assault of Tintagel, he told her about her father’s decapitation and his excuses for complying with Uther’s demands.

‘I recited the holy prayers that were invoked during the ritual of beheading that was
used after the death of my grandfather. I hope I didn’t offend your noble father, because I attempted to carry out my task respectfully. I chose the lives of two girls who are neither noble nor important over the welfare of Queen Ygerne and yourself. Perhaps I did so for selfish reasons, so I can’t beg your pardon. Such a sham would serve no purpose, because I’d still be forced to betray you if I had the chance to live the past week over again.’

‘Honesty is refreshing, Myrddion.’ A little colour had returned to Morgan’s face and the first tears began to brim over her eyelashes. ‘My father was too fine and decent to be killed from behind. I acquit you of any guilt in his murder, for I know where to lay the blame for that crime.’

She lay back against the cushions and closed her eyes, although she still wept soundlessly. When a little time had elapsed Myrddion gripped her wrist, and with as much speed and dexterity as he possessed he slid the broken bone back into place and bound the wrist firmly with bandages. Then, using the wooden hairpins to hold the joint rigidly in position, he wrapped the lower arm as tightly as circulation permitted. When he finished, Morgan released her breath in a little hiss of pain and opened her eyes.

‘What about my mother? What has happened to the queen?’

‘I don’t know, my lady. While you are sleeping, I’ll do my best to find out what has befallen her.’

Morgan closed her eyes and seemed to drowse, although she was obviously in considerable pain. As he began to rise from his knees on the wooden floor, she murmured a last message from the brink of unconsciousness.

‘When I wake, we’ll become implacable enemies, Myrddion Merlinus. But on this night, the truth should be spoken between people such as you and I. Tomorrow, I’ll try to tear down everything you’ve planned and suffered for, I swear by my life, but my grudge is not against you. I was no maiden, so Ulfin stole nothing from me but my dignity . . . but I’m surprised at how dead I feel
inside. Do you understand what I’m trying to say? I’m rambling . . . but anything I do to you over the rest of my life isn’t aimed at you, but at your master. I’ll not rest until all the heirs of Maximus are dead, root and branch, and Pendragon is only a fireside ogre to frighten small children.’

‘Hush, Morgan. Nothing matters more than healing sleep, so close your eyes,’ Myrddion crooned. She obeyed like a small child and slid into poppy-induced unconsciousness. While she slept, Myrddion prayed for both their souls.

When the winds had stilled a little and a glimmer of light greyed the eastern sky, Myrddion uncoiled his long body from his uncomfortable position guarding the doorway. In the corridor he discovered Botha leaning against one of the raw walls, so he begged the captain to find a woman to tend to Morgan’s needs.

When he described what Ulfin had done, Botha bit his lip. ‘That fool grows worse and worse. There’ll be blood spilt and enemies made for years to come over this. Uther will be furious – he ordered us to spare Gorlois’s daughter.’

‘Sin has a very long shadow, Botha; we’ll all pay for last night.’

The captain nodded and deserted his post to search for a serving woman. Before he returned, the door to Ygerne’s apartment opened and Uther crossed the threshold, his face impassive and his hair tangled from sleep.

‘You’re here, Merlinus? Good! In the absence of her women, the queen needs your ministrations. But he careful what you touch, or what you see. Everything in that room is now my personal property for as long as I choose to keep it.’

‘Morgan was raped by Ulfin, so I’ve had to set a broken wrist and give her a soporific to help her sleep,’ Myrddion said baldly. ‘Botha is finding a servant to tend to her needs.’

‘That fucking idiot!’ Uther snapped, his good humour momentarily shattered. ‘I thought my orders were explicit. Ulfin will be sorry that he disobeyed
my instructions, especially as the Otadini tribe will be after
my
head, not his.’

Myrddion bowed his head to hide his satisfaction. No more fitting punishment could befall Ulfin than the displeasure of his master.

The room that Myrddion discovered behind the closed door was larger than Morgan’s cell, but it was tiny compared with even the smallest apartment in Uther’s hall at Venta Belgarum. Yet for all its cramped proportions, and even in the cold, dim light of another winter’s dawn, Ygerne’s hangings and her gentle spirit transformed the spartan space into a rosy nest. Lost in the large bed that had been her refuge since childhood, the queen was huddled like a damaged infant.

With sick revulsion, Myrddion followed her glazed, dry eyes to a clothes chest, where her husband’s greenish head rested on a tangle of torn-down wall hangings. Only the sweet smile that Myrddion had placed on that livid face was vaguely familiar. Ygerne stared blankly at the ruined features.

Myrddion crossed the small room with two quick strides and threw the edge of a soft yellow weaving over the monstrosity. Uther has treated rape and seduction like a pre-emptive strike. How the Dragon understands extortion! In one stroke, he has deliberately crushed Ygerne’s spirit, ensured her compliance and filled her mind with terror for her daughter, by giving her her husband’s head.

‘Uther’s such a cold-blooded bastard,’ he whispered. ‘He had every eventuality covered before we departed from Anderida.’

He approached the huge bed and Ygerne responded by cowering as far from him as possible. Her eyes were wide and glazed, and she sucked pathetically on her thumb as she searched for comfort.

‘Please, highness, it’s only Myrddion, and you know I won’t hurt you. Please permit me to satisfy myself that you’re unhurt.’

As he examined Ygerne’s empty eyes, Myrddion pondered that some hurts are more lasting than
stab wounds or broken bones. Ygerne’s spirit had vanished, leaving a husk to sleepwalk through her imprisonment. With careful treatment she might recover, but not while Uther was free to force himself on her as often as he wished. No one could protect her from the man who now owned her. Although the queen was naked beneath the covers, Myrddion knew better than to touch her.

‘Please talk to me, highness. Gorlois wouldn’t have wanted you to be harmed, so I must discover if you have any wounds.’

‘No.’ The monosyllable was so softly whispered that it was little more than an exhalation of breath.

Knuckles rapped on the door, and Ygerne’s eyes swivelled towards it, the pupils dilated with panic.

‘Don’t be afraid, highness. No one will harm you while I am here.’

She seemed to recognise him then, so Myrddion hurried to open the door and deal with the interruption speedily.

Botha hovered awkwardly on the threshold. ‘I’ve arranged for the cook to stay with Lady Morgan, as most of the younger female servants are . . . ill,’ he whispered. ‘Do you need anything further?’

The captain was acutely embarrassed, and obviously wished he was leagues away from Tintagel. Shame-faced, he refused to acknowledge the cowering figure of the queen in the large, tumbled bed, and seemed ready to run at the slightest provocation.

‘Get rid of that head,’ Myrddion hissed. ‘Gorlois’s head. Covered – on the clothes chest. Wrap it and take it away so the queen won’t be distressed any further.’

A succession of painful emotions was clearly written on Botha’s open face as his eyes flickered over Uther’s instrument of mental cruelty. With obvious distaste, and using his body as a shield, he carefully bound
the wrapped head before carrying it out of the queen’s bedchamber.

‘It’s all true – Gorlois is dead, and all my bad dreams were portents of the future,’ Ygerne whispered. ‘I should never have gone to Venta Belgarum, or I should have killed myself before I permitted the High King to touch me. Too late! Too late!’

She sighed again and her flower-like face looked as if it would shatter at the slightest touch. ‘Is my daughter alive? Is she safe?’

‘Yes, highness. Her wrist has been broken, so I’ve drugged her to give her bruises a chance to heal – but she will be well again within a very short time.’

Ygerne mewed in distress, then her countenance smoothed as if a hand had wiped her crumpled face with a damp cloth. ‘Such is the fate of women, I suppose. Men will always take what they desire, and will always suffer for their lusts. My father and my husband protected me all my life, so I didn’t recognise how cruel men could be. You were right, Myrddion, for the sight is only insight, but I didn’t understand the lengths that men could go to in their determination to satiate their desires. The visions I had in the past should have prepared me for my awakening to what other women learn in girlhood.’

Myrddion listened, and was relieved that the queen seemed to be rallying as her daughter’s plight forced her to return from the empty space inside her head. Her words seemed lucid, although he regretted the blame that the queen placed on her own prior ignorance.

‘What will become of me?’ Ygerne asked in a voice so flat that Myrddion doubted she was speaking to him. But it gave him an opportunity to reassure her, so he answered as honestly as he could. At least he could offer her some frail shadow of hope.

‘Uther won’t harm you any more than he has already done, highness, because you are his property now – for a time. He will soon tire of you. He always does – and then he will permit you to return to Tintagel
alone. I promised Gorlois that I would help you, and I swear to you that I will.’

Outside the shutters, a gust of wind hit the fortress and moaned through the cracks in the wood to stir the hair on Myrddion’s neck. Within the small room, Gorlois’s spirit seemed to be crying out to his beloved, and neither queen nor healer dared to break the low groan of sound.

So they waited in their separate miseries on the desires of Uther Pendragon, High King of the Britons. Both knew that their master would soon return and neither had any hope that the king would show them mercy.

Spring came at last with a flush of warmth and regeneration, and with it, Uther’s army marched into the Dumnonii lands to rescue their master and escort him home to Venta Belgarum.

At Anderida, when he discovered that Gorlois’s head had been removed and that the High King had ridden post-haste to Tintagel, King Bors had fumed over the betrayal and had sworn that the Dumnonii tribe would refuse to follow Uther Pendragon in the future. Leaving the fortress unsecured and driven by fears of treachery, the Dumnonii force had ridden fast and hard to Tintagel in an effort to protect Queen Ygerne. Failing, Bors had surrounded the fort in a visceral surge of fury and had refused to allow the High King and his troop to depart.