Web of Deceit (65 page)

‘Mother will be ill for a long time after the birth at her age, but Uther will still demand her absolute devotion and attention towards
him
. She will lack the necessary time to look after a babe while she warms Uther’s bed and panders to his whims. I will raise any girl that is born, and may the king have pleasure in what I make of her.’

Myrddion lowered his gaze. Anything rather than be forced to watch Morgan’s beautiful features twist into such ugliness of soul. The healer granted her the right to be angry at her father’s murder, just as he acknowledged her bitterness over her rape and the queen’s acceptance of Uther Pendragon as her new husband. But such cold fury! Perhaps the Christians who damned woman as the source of all sin had some truth on their side.

‘You should be aware, highness, that the Greeks were very knowledgeable about sin. They described you exactly when they said: “Those whom the gods would destroy, they first make mad.”’

‘Is that your best insult, healer? If so, our conversations will be short in future. Farewell for now, for I wish to learn how my mother’s confinement goes.’

Then Morgan moved away, swaying her womanly hips with conscious grace. But her attraction was lost on Myrddion, who saw the serpent in her willowy body and frigid eyes.

The hours stretched out like years, for Ygerne was too thin, frail and elderly to bear children safely. Ruadh refused permission for Morgan to enter the queen’s chamber, so Willa and Berwyn shuddered under her acid insults. But Ygerne remained the focus of all their toil and passion. Her muscles
had lost the elasticity of youth, and she suffered greatly as the child demanded to be born with a wilful, angry strength. Only Ruadh divined that her mistress was endeavouring to prevent the birth, fearing her husband’s wrath and the constant anxiety that would become her lot once her child was born.

The queen’s hair was soon drenched and dark with sweat, and her face pale with the effort she wasted in futile struggles. Her shift had been changed twice, while Berwyn and Willa sponged her body with cool water to relax her muscles and keep her as clean as possible. With a sick fear of her own inadequacies, Ruadh watched Ygerne’s contractions ripple through her belly as the queen arched her back and moaned in agony. Then, before her courage deserted her, she gave her a single drop of one of Myrddion’s soporifics diluted in water.

‘Scream if it eases your pain, mistress. There are no rewards for being stoic and silent,’ Ruadh urged. Willa stroked the queen’s forehead with a soft, cool cloth while Berwyn gave her a little more water to moisten her dry lips.

‘Thank you, Willa – that makes me feel much better. And thank you too, Berwyn. I cannot scream or make a spectacle of myself, Ruadh, for I’m not a peasant woman who drops her child in the fields. We noblewomen show our courage in our silence, and I’ll not betray either my breeding or my status.’

But the contractions grew ever stronger until Ygerne bit her lips hard enough to taste blood in her mouth. Despite her determination to suffer in silence, a thin cry was eventually dragged from her lips. She longed to sleep, but the child was inexorable and tore at her womb in its eagerness to enter the world. When Myrddion’s potion began to work Ruadh was both relieved and terrified, for the queen’s eyes grew dull and distant, although she cried out more freely in her agony.

Down the corridor, Uther heard his wife’s cries and was further irritated. Although Botha gave him heavy red wine, the drink merely fuelled his growing dislike of the whole disruptive and noisy process.

In vino veritas!
Myrddion thought bitterly as he watched the High King begin to lose his composure. Finally, when the cries grew so loud that the priests began to pray
in a corner of the room, Uther ordered Myrddion to walk with him to escape the tormented sounds.

Here it comes, Myrddion thought. The greatest test of my life is upon me. What am I going to do?

‘Not you, Botha. Stay here and guard the priests. We can’t have any harm befalling men of God,’ Uther ordered briskly as the captain moved to follow his master. ‘If I’m not secure in my own house in Venta Belgarum, then I’m never likely to be safe anywhere in these isles.’

Glumly, Myrddion followed the High King down the corridors, through courtyards and down dank steps into the foundations of the palace. Although the original building had risen straight from the packed sod, some enterprising builder had dug out a cellar and lined it with rough-hewn stones using the famed Roman mortar that made buildings so strong.

What king and healer entered was a small space, only fifteen feet square, that would be almost impregnable during an attack by enemies. Although the ceiling should have collapsed under the weight of stone and earth pressing down on it, the magic of the old Roman builders preserved the
curved barrel-shaped vault that was taller than the whole room was wide. Carefully, Uther closed the iron-bound door behind them, latched it securely and lit a wall sconce with an oil-soaked torch he had picked up on the way.

‘What are you thinking, healer? That you’re like to go to your death in this place? No one would ever find you, it’s true, and you could scream for hours without being heard. I found this bolt-hole with Ambrosius when I was a child, and we decided it was a place devoted to the worship of Mithras. See?’

Uther raised his torch and, above head-height, someone had painted the sacrifice of the soldier god in colours that were so lifelike and rich that the artist might have finished his masterpiece only yesterday. The utilitarian, grim room was suddenly a tiny temple, right down to a single square stone that had obviously been a miniature altar.

What a place in which to starve to death, Myrddion thought despairingly. Uther has planned this strategy well. With unconscious blasphemy, Uther seated himself on the altar stone, swung one leg reflectively and ran his eyes analytically over his healer.

‘We rarely see eye to eye, Myrddion, do we? But we both want the Saxons to be defeated for our people’s sake. Correct? You endure me, for you are increasingly aware that no one else can fill the role of High King better than I can. I see you nod in agreement.’ Uther laughed as if he had won some important and difficult test of strength. ‘Therefore, you obey me even when to do so sickens you. What does that make you, Myrddion Merlinus? A coward? A pawn?’

‘A hopeless fool!’ Myrddion responded cynically. Uther ignored the interruption and continued with his prepared speech as if his healer had not spoken.

‘A good servant of the tribes, I believe. You are a man for the times and that is
all
you are, Myrddion. Yes, I’ve coerced you, but you’d have regretted leaving me to my own devices if you had escaped from my clutches.’

‘I doubt that, your highness. You can prove your faith in me by returning Willa and Berwyn to my care. I’ll serve you anyway, as I swore to Ambrosius Imperator.’

‘It’s a sad but inevitable truth that no man remembers my brother any more. Ambrosius was
a great tactician, but he was weak and trusting, and that’s how he got himself killed. Pascent, or another of his ilk, would never burrow that close to me.’

Uther’s face was so arrogant and proud that Myrddion felt a little ill, although he was well used to the High King’s boasting. There was an element of truth in what Uther said that even Myrddion could not gainsay, so the healer remained silent and hoped that Ambrosius’s shade would forgive him.

‘If I must have an heir, it must not bear the tainted blood of Ygerne nor be contaminated by the memory of Gorlois. By Ygerne’s own account, she dreamed about her husband’s death decades ago through this sight nonsense she claims to have inherited from her father, Pridenow. I neither know nor care about family curses, but one excuse is as good as any other. Besides, you can see how such a child would remind the tribal kings of the Boar’s unfortunate death and the rumours surrounding the brat’s conception. Nor do I want a male version of Morgan snapping at my heels as I grow old. You can see, can’t you, Myrddion, with all your famed clarity of thought, that such an heir would be disastrous?’

‘Perhaps, but Fortuna has decreed that you
should
have such an heir. We cannot argue with the decisions of the gods and your son is likely to be much like you – or Ambrosius.’

Myrddion had chosen his words carefully, for he saw the way this conversation was heading. Was Uther truly mad enough to demand infanticide of him?

And how had Lucius deduced that Myrddion would be chosen by Uther to kill the unwanted child? Maybe it’s because I’ve been a useful pawn and have acceded to his demands again and again, including closing my eyes to the murder of Carys. The answer echoed in Myrddion’s head, reminding him of every concession, every time he had looked the other way, like Botha, and every stain on his honour that he had tried to pray away. Belatedly, a thousand years of Celt and Roman
ancestors awoke in Myrddion’s blood and he stood taller for their sudden appearance in his mind. The voices whispered encouragement to defy the High King’s words of threat and promise, while Myrddion allowed his slow anger to rise.

‘Rid me of this child, Myrddion. I’ll give the order for its exposure, never fear, so the weight of its death won’t be on your conscience. All you must do is take the brat into the woods and leave it there for the snows to work their mercy. Fortuna may yet save it – who knows? But I must be rid of this child if it isn’t fortunate enough to perish at birth.’

‘And then you’ll have a good reason to be rid of me,’ Myrddion answered evenly, his handsome face suddenly older and harsher beneath the fitful torchlight. ‘You’d turn me into an infanticide and make me your creature forever. I’m not surprised that you’ve chosen me to carry out this dreadful task, because I have been weak and I have permitted you to commit such sins that my soul shivers at the judgment that will eventually come to us both from the gods.’

Uther nodded, confident that Myrddion would whine and complain, as he always did, and then, reluctantly, obey his king. ‘I’ll not kill you, Myrddion, for you are the only person who can run my spy network. Do this small thing for me, and you will be free of any more demands that might compromise you. To show my good intentions, your hostages will be returned. A newborn babe isn’t worth a moment of tears.’

‘True. Barely a moment. If I take the child, allow me one concession, Uther, one chance to provide you with my counsel without fear of reprisal. We are in the
temple of your soldier god, and we are planning a murder. For once, I would like to have the last word – even if I’m just another weak-minded fool.’

‘What are words to me? You may say what you like as long as the child vanishes.’

‘I have lost the gift of prophecy, Uther, but the Mother has sent me dreams for years that warned me of my fate, so I’m not surprised. You won’t ask this murder of Botha, because you trust him and you know he’d be sickened and likely to kill himself, even if he obliges you. You’re clever, Uther, but not as intelligent as you think you are. I am the Demon Seed, and you cannot kill me because you need me far too much. Once I have done what you ask, I’ll stay out of your way and I’ll not cause you any humiliation – you’ll do
that
to yourself. But all your murders, your plots and your vicious executions will do you no good, for their repercussions will accumulate despite your best efforts to control them. You are doomed, Uther, and your death will be as terrible as any I have ever predicted. Inevitably, you’ll be supplanted by a man who is your master in every way, because he’ll have to be, and though you try to kill him you will only make him stronger. I saw this portent years ago, although I struggled against my fate. You saw it too, in the dreams that cautioned you to kill no child. Muirne should have known you’d never listen, no matter what she said, or how she died. The bloody babe will live, no matter what we do today, and I will serve him in time, when you are in the cold, cold earth. No one will send your body to the pyre, out of fear and loathing of your person. They’ll be afraid to touch your corpse.’

‘Once I’m dead, I won’t care.’ Uther shrugged, but his face was very pale as Myrddion’s verbal barb worked its way into his brain where it would lodge and fester for the rest of his long and painful life. ‘As long as you are the one who kills the child, Storm Crow, I cannot be harmed by anything you say. Let the dreams come. I’ll not listen to them, nor change my road because of them, so to hell with the gods!’

‘Then I’ll obey your command, highness. But ask nothing further of me, for I will refuse. I will give you nothing from this day forward other than what our people expect.’

Then Myrddion bowed to Mithras and kneeled to pray at the altar. Uther quickly grew tired of
watching his healer’s piety and thought to give his fool a taste of the darkness.

‘Close the door when you’ve finished,’ Uther hissed as he turned to make his exit. ‘And don’t bother reporting to me about the minor details of the child’s death. To all intents and purposes, it died at birth.’

Uther took the torch to light his own way, but left the wall sconce burning. Once out of the chamber, Myrddion would have to retrace his steps in pitch darkness.

‘Aye, master,’ Myrddion whispered and then continued with his prayers. Out of the shades, Melvig came like the grizzled shadow of a wolfhound, his eyes bright and angry, and told his great-grandson what he must do. Olwyn, ever fearful for the common people she had always loved, whispered that he must trust to others in the ruse, because the High King was capable of killing every newborn infant in the land if he suspected Myrddion’s perfidy. And Branwyn, whom Myrddion thought was safely abed in Tomen-y-mur, came on a wave of perfume composed of salt sea air, dune flowers, sea weed and new death to whisper in his ear. He would have flinched away from her shadow in the darkness, but he felt the unfamiliar touch of his mother’s mind within his own and consented to listen to the warnings she brought from far away.

‘I never loved you in life, my son. How could I, given your conception? But learn well from your childhood, Myrddion. You can have no part in the babe’s upbringing, for you have been soiled by the will of the gods. This boy must travel to far-off places until Uther forgets that he ever existed. Even you, for the sake of your own soul, should not know his
whereabouts until he is almost grown. I am newly dead, laid on my bier and waiting to be interred in the chilling earth, so I can never speak to you again, but remember our long enmity, and free the child of this torture – at least. Let him grow clean and strong, able to love and to be untroubled by his parentage and his dangerous future.’