Web of Deceit (64 page)
‘The woman has been reading the runes and telling fortunes like a fairground whore under my very nose. Keep your mouth shut, Botha, unless you have a desire to join Ulfin among the ranks of my foot soldiers. I am the High King, and I shall do as I choose.’
Uther waved the blood-covered blade in Botha’s face and the captain drew away in ill-disguised disgust. Uther’s eyes reddened further, and his expression hardened.
‘Get rid of the woman’s body by the time I return,’ he hissed. ‘I intend to go into the forest to hunt. Oh . . . and you can warn my wife that I expect her in my bed tonight – pregnant or not.’
Then Uther stalked away, leaving Botha and the servants to dispose of Muirne’s corpse, just another victim in a city filled with men and women who flinched away from Uther’s touch.
And every night that followed, Uther entered the same frightening dream and played out the same ugly scene. But he was weary of soothsayers, so he asked for no more dreamspinners, and determined to trust to the power of the sword to save him from the wrath of the gods.
‘I count him braver who overcomes his desires than him who overcomes his enemies.’
Aristotle,
Stobaeus, Florilegium
The trees were almost bare of leaves
in the fields beyond Ygerne’s window, and although she had no solid reason for her terrors but the dreams that came nightly, she was convinced that she would not live to see another green spring. While she had no dread of imminent death, believing that her immortal soul would be reunited with her beloved, her daughter’s descent into witchcraft and the fate of the child growing next to her heart demanded that she faced each day with courage. Although winter had yet to turn the weather bitter, grey skies threatened cold and freezing winds by morning and she sighed, remembering the previous winter and how her carefree happiness had fled so irrevocably.
As her confinement grew closer, she became convinced that she would die in childbirth, for over twenty years had passed since she had borne her youngest daughter. Like the season, she was producing her last fruit before the frosts of old age turned her into a barren old crone. She examined her huge belly, much larger than her other pregnancies, and feared that either the child would kill her, or her narrow hips would kill the child.
Then, as she contemplated the pale
landscape that was so like her mood, an ache began in her lower back and spread around her sides, a familiar constriction as muscles rippled with strain. A low moan escaped her lips as she felt the spasm strike her, building in her muscles as the child clamoured to be born. Biting her lip to silence any further outcry, she clutched at her belly and tried to breathe through the pain.
No, she thought desperately. When the child is born, it may die, so it can’t be born. I won’t allow it. None of this was meant to be.
She stood so still and so rigid that Ruadh sensed something was seriously wrong. Deftly twitching the crumpled covers into place over the queen’s bed, Ruadh decided to force her mistress to lie down, for Ygerne had been restless for days and had slept very little. By the time she reached Ygerne’s side, the queen’s shoulders had relaxed as the spasm passed, and she could catch her breath again. She turned to face her servant with a calm, untroubled face.
‘Are you ailing, mistress? You’re a little too pale for my liking.’
‘I’m quite well, Ruadh, so don’t fuss.’ Ygerne smiled sweetly but Ruadh wasn’t deceived. She noticed fine beads of sweat on the queen’s forehead, so Ruadh took her closed hand and carefully prised the fingers open. Red crescents from Ygerne’s nails marked her soft white palms.
‘You’ve gone into labour, haven’t you? Don’t lie to me! I’ve borne children, highness, so you can’t fool me easily. Have your waters broken yet?’
‘No, it’s just a twinge – and it’s of no moment.’ The queen wrapped both hands around her swollen belly as if to clutch the babe even closer to her heart. ‘I’ll rest and be strong again.’
‘Liar!’ Ruadh was incapable of tact. ‘It’s off to bed with you, madam. You will soon be a mother again, and then you’ll need all your strength. I’ll send word to the king and arrange for the midwife to come at once.’
Ygerne gripped Ruadh’s hands in both of hers with a clasp so fierce that the servant winced in pain.
‘I don’t want a stranger caring for me, Ruadh! Whatever her ability, that midwife smells. You’ve been trained by Master Myrddion and you’ve carried children yourself, so I’d like you to deliver my child if you are prepared to do so. Berwyn and Willa can assist you, for I don’t trust anyone else. Please?’
The queen
was becoming agitated, so Ruadh appeased her by agreeing to serve as midwife, although she was fearful of what Uther Pendragon would make of his wife’s decision.
‘Let me talk to Captain Botha. He’ll ensure that my master sends me herbs to relieve your labour pains. If you wish, I’ll also ask Bishop Lucius to attend on you.’
‘Yes, please, Ruadh, for I’d like to make my confession in case I should die during the confinement.’
Ruadh realised how dangerous the queen’s agitation could be for both mother and child. She wanted Myrddion close to hand in case something went badly wrong with this birthing.
Having coerced Ygerne into resting on a comfortable, cushioned stool in the delivery room, Ruadh left her in the care of Berwyn and Willa and slipped out of the queen’s apartments to run pell-mell in search of the captain of the guard. She found Botha at the back of the High King’s hall, where he was guarding his master while Uther dispensed his own particular form of justice.
Nervously, she attracted Botha’s attention, knowing that Uther Pendragon would be offended by the presence of a female servant within his hall of judgment. Glancing cautiously at the king’s back, Botha beckoned to another guardsman to take his place and then slipped through the curtained doorway to join Ruadh in the long corridor that linked the hall with the living quarters of the palace.
‘Why do you risk the skin
on your back by venturing into the hall of judgment, woman? I hope you have a good excuse, for even your master won’t be able to protect you from a whipping if Uther is informed of your presumption.’
‘The queen has begun her labour and the king must be informed at once. He must also be advised that the queen has asked to be shriven by Bishop Lucius in case she should die during the birth. My lady has refused the services of the midwife and wishes me to bring the babe into the world, so I will require the tools of my trade from Master Myrddion, as well as soporifics, herbs to strengthen the blood, belly binders and clean bandages. My master will know what is needed.’
Acutely uncomfortable, Botha coughed with embarrassment, and swore to carry out Ruadh’s requirements to the letter, including the task of informing the king. Confident that he wouldn’t fail her, the Celtic woman hurried back to the queen’s apartments.
As soon as she entered the disordered delivery room, she could see that neither Willa nor Berwyn was coping with the demands of midwifery. Willa was distressed and almost in tears, but she had sent for hot water, knowing that cleanliness was important in childbirth. The girl was now almost thirteen and a beauty, regardless of her scarred arm which, self-consciously, she always kept covered by long sleeves and high necklines. She had an abundance of softly curled black hair which was usually kept under control by neat plaits but, in the turmoil, loose tendrils of hair had escaped to fall over her pale face. As she fetched water for her mistress, she ran one hand through the escaping locks, tousling her braids still further. Willa was usually painfully shy, but she was comfortable in the queen’s presence. She idolised Ygerne for her gentleness and grace, and was struggling to stay calm when Ruadh returned.
‘The queen says her waters have broken, Ruadh, and she must change into a shift for her travail, but she won’t stand still long enough for us to assist her.’
‘Hush, Willa, my darling. The hot water was a good idea, but we must insist that
Ygerne undresses. Master Myrddion demands that the body of a woman in labour should be cleansed to prevent evil humours from entering the womb, so you must find a roomy shift that she uses for sleeping while Berwyn and I undress and bathe her. Don’t be frightened, lass. Few women die when bearing children, else we’d never want to have them, would we?’
While Willa hurried to a carved clothes chest to find a pretty, loose shift that would make her mistress more comfortable, Berwyn and Ruadh bore down on Ygerne and forced her to stand still while they unlaced her gown of heavy rose wool. As they helped her out of her tightly bound inner garments and the delicate gauzy shift that she wore closest to her skin, the queen sighed with relief. Then Berwyn knelt before her mistress and sponged her loins and legs until Ygerne was clean and comfortable, although the process embarrassed her and caused her face to flush a becoming, girlish shade of pink.
Then, dressed in her loose shift but still unwilling to take to her bed, she was bullied into sitting while her long hair was carefully unbound, brushed and then plaited into two long braids that hung almost to her knees. Willa completed this task carefully, biting her lip with concentration, while Berwyn and Ruadh stripped the queen’s bed of the luxurious covers and found pillows to support Ygerne’s back. Ruadh remembered how her own russet hair had become wet with sweat and matted from her long hours of labour, so she understood how important it would be for her mistress to be tidy before the worst of the contractions began.
Although still restless, Ygerne was abed when Bishop Lucius arrived at her door. When he entered the bedchamber, she was tucked under a fine woven sheet like a small child, with only her face and clasped hands visible to comply with the rules of modesty. Unlike many
prelates, Lucius was not intimidated or repulsed by the mysteries of childbirth, so he prayed with her easily, heard her confession and calmed her with his serenity. Before he rose to leave, she gripped his hand and whispered in his ear so that the other women couldn’t hear.
‘You must promise me that my child will be safe if I should die. My husband must have no part in the raising of it, for he would poison the poor little thing with his violence and suspicions. If I must die, my spirit will be at peace if you swear this oath to me.’
‘You’ll not die, highness. I predict that you will live to see your child grow strong and tall, but if it relieves your mind, I will vow to obey you. Your child will be safe, as the Lord High God is my witness.’
Ygerne sighed, smiled and then grimaced as another contraction began.
Lucius rose gracefully and bowed low before departing for the king’s rooms. But his mind was in turmoil, for he had made a sacred oath to Ygerne that would be difficult to keep if Uther decided to expose the child. He decided to make his excuses and depart for Glastonbury at the earliest opportunity. Bishop Paulus would baptise the child, so nothing remained to keep Lucius here any longer.
‘It seems we are all in the hands of God,’ he whispered to Botha as they made their way to Uther’s apartments, feeling like a coward and sympathising with Myrddion Merlinus who was, to all intents and purposes, the only effective conscience governing the behaviour of the High King.
‘Yes, my lord, so I hope that your God is listening to your prayers.’
Uther had reluctantly cancelled his judgments to await the birth of his first child, and was enduring the proffered congratulations of nobles and servants alike with scarcely hidden irritability. The High King was no fool, and he could read curiosity and
amusement in the sharp faces of his nobles as they enjoyed the whole scandal surrounding his
marriage. ‘Well, rot them and their title-tattle!’ Uther swore vilely. ‘The sooner the brat is dead, the better. And then all mention of Gorlois will be forgotten.’
As he knocked and entered the luxurious rooms, Lucius saw that Uther was in a vile temper, but he was sullenly enraged rather than displaying his customary ungoverned fury. From a sideways glance at Botha, who had become quite wooden and mute, the prelate deduced that a brooding Pendragon was far more dangerous than an openly furious one.
Within a few moments, Lucius had learned that the High King considered the child to be an unwanted and unwelcome intrusion into the normal patterns of his life. While most men would be excited at the birth of an heir, Uther was mindful of his night terrors and the prediction of his seer that he would suffer because of a blood-covered infant. His resentments were all too visible, and Lucius worried that he would act intemperately. Even the eventual arrival of Paulus, the timid bishop of Venta Belgarum, failed to calm him. This child was a potential disruption and Uther wanted no changes to his way of life.
When Myrddion arrived, burdened with supplies for Ruadh’s use, he was forced to wait in the corridor until Uther deigned to see him. As he paced, Morgan passed by with a servant in tow. Her eyes were mocking and cruel, and Myrddion was immediately on his guard.
‘Save your efforts, healer,’ she said impassively, although the scum of gloating in the hard brown depths of her eyes belied her solemn face. ‘The child may survive its birthing, but it’s fated that no heir of Uther will live past a single day.’
‘Do you plan infanticide, woman? Are there no depths of depravity you won’t plumb to take your revenge for Gorlois? Your father would be ashamed if you killed an innocent babe.’
Myrddion knew he was making another enemy with his all too truthful attack, but Morgan’s smug confidence had burrowed under his self-control.
‘Why are you so scrupulous, Myrddion? I won’t kill the child: Uther will do it for me. He has terrible dreams, you know. I simply congratulated him on the birth
of a fine, strong son who would become the greatest man in the tribal lands. Uther’s face was a picture of jealousy and chagrin. He is planning how his own child will die, even as we speak.’
‘And if it’s a girl? What then, Morgan? He’ll not order a female to be exposed.’ There were no words for the horror and disgust that Myrddion felt, for Morgan had played her games with Uther Pendragon to perfection. Her triumph turned her cold eyes the colour of warmed amber, for Myrddion had admitted, without words, that Uther intended to kill his own son. Now, Morgan smiled luxuriously, as if she tasted something sweet and delicious.