Web of Deceit (9 page)

‘You’ve taken your time, healer. Was my messenger not sufficiently persuasive? As for you, Ulfin, we’ll discuss time management at a later date.’

Uther lounged on a couch, totally
at ease for all he had lived free from Roman customs for many years. Myrddion examined the prince’s clean-shaven cheeks and the wildly spiralling curls that were still as vigorous as they were in his memory. But Uther was now into middle age, and his face showed every vice that had been imprinted over the elegant bones and sculpted features of his face. An invisible aura of power hung around his head and shoulders, and Myrddion could almost hear the crackle of lightning.

The healer upbraided himself. Look into his eyes, fool! There’s more than power in there – there’s rage and a cold hatred as well. Apart from his brother, Uther hates almost everything.

Warned, Myrddion bowed his head with exquisite courtesy, judging the depth of his obeisance to a nicety. Uther was no king, but nor was he merely noble. A wise man would always treat that unpredictable nature with care.

‘Your servant was admirably clear and brief, lord. It wasn’t his fault that I have kept you waiting. I was partway through bandaging a young woman’s burns, so the delay was my fault entirely. Has the scar from your old wound faded?’

This final question deflected a gathering storm on Uther’s handsome features. He bared his forearm and Myrddion bent to examine a long, white furrow in the golden skin where a boar’s tusk had ripped apart the flesh and muscle.

‘As you can see, healer, your skills served me well. Now, reacquaint me with your name, for I like to know the details of my servants’ lives so that I might judge their characters. Ah, I see you have yet to learn how to guard those black brows of yours. Yes, you’ll serve me, healer, or I’ll be forced to apply pressure. No true leader permits a useful tool to pass unused through his fingers.’

‘Alas, lord, I am waited for in Segontium, so I may not remain here.’ Myrddion’s voice was implacable, but still courteous. His eyes roved over Uther’s face, and a chillier part of the
young man’s complex nature admired the prince’s icy calm.

‘You’ll serve me, healer, because I’ll find something that will persuade you. What is your name? I have no wish to call you by your trade, so answer me fairly.’

‘I am Myrddion Merlinus, previously called Emrys, Prince Uther. I have been healer to many kings, most recently to Flavius Aetius, the former
magister militum
of Rome.’

‘Impressive, but what do I care for failed generals who have met their fate? I’m more interested in your Roman name. Now I hear it again, I remember wondering at it before.’ As Uther’s mouth twisted with something that Myrddion decided to ignore, the healer determined to think carefully before he explained anything personal to this formidable man.

‘I’m the bastard son of a father who refuses to acknowledge me, so since his name is no longer material I have taken the name of his hunting hawk, a bird that declined to be tamed. And although you are scathing of my old master, I would remind you, my lord, that Aetius was always successful as a battle commander. He forced Attila, the Hungvari, to his knees at the Battle of the Catalaunian Plain, and was only assassinated at the hands of a fear-crazed emperor. Hubris is a dangerous sin, my lord, whether we are generals, princes or mere healers.’

‘Is that a warning, Myrddion?’ Uther chuckled, and the healer had no idea whether humour or sarcasm was the source of the prince’s amusement. ‘Like Aetius, Valentinian is dead, so why should I waste a moment’s thought on the strategies of other, failed minds? Still, you manage to pique my curiosity. You’re a man of many skills, Myrddion Merlinus, so I’ll not set you free to roam at will. You’ll accompany me to Venta Belgarum. My brother’s birth celebrations are due, so you’ll make an excellent gift for Ambrosius Imperator.’

‘You are gracious
to say so, Prince Uther, but I must decline your invitation. I am promised to accompany my servant, Finn Trutheller, to his new mistress, Annwynn of Segontium. Once there, I intend to spend a little time with my family and my king, Melvyn ap Melvig of the Deceangli.’

Uther frowned, lowering his huge, leonine head so that his blue eyes examined the healer from under his golden brows. His eyes were flat and expressionless, as featureless as shallow puddles of pale water.

‘I should be insulted by your refusal of my offer of preferment, but I accept that you are a prideful young man, Myrddion. But you must be made to listen to my demands so that pride doesn’t lead you into error.’

In the small, ominous silence that followed, Myrddion read much into Uther’s words. For a short moment, he thought that the prince would permit him to leave Verulamium unscathed, but then the blue eyes slowly rose and Myrddion was forced to repress a shudder.

‘No, my fine hunting bird, you will learn to come to my glove, or you’ll be caged. I thought you would understand me, Myrddion Merlinus. Truthteller can go to the devil for all I care, but you will journey to Venta Belgarum with me, either on the back of your horse – or in chains.’

‘Of what use is an unwilling servant?’

Uther considered Myrddion’s question seriously. ‘Depending on the servant, his usefulness will be gauged by me. I’m losing patience with you, Myrddion Merlinus, and I’ve nearly decided to drag you to Venta Belgarum in chains. Any patriotic tribesman would consider my proposal to be an honour. The reverse of patriotism is treason, a crime punishable by death, and at least you’d not be in a position to give succour to the Saxon cause.’

Myrddion recalled Willa’s warning and realised that he had no recourse but
to accept Uther’s decision, but his honour demanded that some concessions should be wrung from his opponent. His shoulders squared as he prepared to do battle against the wit of the prince.

‘I am prepared to swear allegiance to Ambrosius Imperator and to the crown, Prince Uther, subject to several conditions. I am no traitor, but my journeys have convinced me that we must find some equilibrium and commonality with the Saxons who have invaded our lands. I agree that they must not be permitted to overrun our homeland, or everything we cherish will be eroded away. But I’ll not willingly swear allegiance to a man who would coerce me or threaten me, my lord. I am not a peasant and I find it insulting to be forced into labour by a stronger, more ruthless hand than my own.’

Just when Myrddion expected Uther to become enraged, the prince grinned. ‘Bargaining, are we? I don’t give a tinker’s curse if you swear allegiance to me or not, as long as I am obeyed. I’m of a mind that you will be important in the coming wars, whether you choose it or not. Decide, Myrddion Merlinus! Do you come to Venta Belgarum? Or do you die?’

Myrddion looked around the triclinium at the hard faces of Uther’s guard, especially at a tall young man who stood directly behind Uther’s couch. In the faces around him, all he could read was disinterest, harshness and unquestioning obedience to their master. The healer knew he was weakened by his affection for the friends and servants who had followed him to the far ends of the known world.

‘I will journey to Venta Belgarum with you, Prince Uther. My fellow healer Cadoc and the Greek Praxiteles will accompany me, but Finn Truthteller and my other servants will need a cart and a horse to journey to the north. And they’ll need provisions. I’ll not leave a young family to perish on the wild, distant roads leading to Segontium.’

Uther laughed. His ruddy lips
glistened with amusement and something darker that lurked close to the surface of his nature, but the prince was honestly amused by Myrddion’s attempt to bargain with him.

‘Find a horse and cart, Botha. I care not where they come from, just root them out and present them to Master Truthteller with my compliments. Ulfin, you can be of some use and terrify the Gotti into parting with sufficient food to feed the travellers. If you do well, perhaps I’ll forget how slow you’ve been to obey my instructions – perhaps!’

The tall young guard nodded and would have left the triclinium with Ulfin hot on his heels, but Uther had not quite completed his instructions. ‘Make it fast, Botha! I am bored with Verulamium, now that it has yielded up its Saxon attackers. I’ll be on the road to Venta Belgarum by the morrow and I want my healer with me.’

‘I understand, my lord – and I live to serve,’ Botha replied in a voice that was firm and deep. As the two warriors turned to leave, Ulfin tried not to run from Uther’s presence.

As if Myrddion had ceased to exist, Uther returned to his beaker of wine and the healer realised that the audience was over.

Finn Truthteller was inconsolable when Myrddion insisted on sharing everything he owned with his former assistant. Botha had arrived within a brief hour, driving a lumbering farm cart drawn by two huge horses that tossed their pale manes and stamped their gigantic, hair-fringed hooves. Cadoc eyed the beasts with approval and Finn would have exchanged them for the oxen had Myrddion not refused his offer outright.

Cadoc was disappointed.

Bridie wept, which set her infant to crying lustily, until the Flower Maiden echoed to the noise of wails and tears. When Myrddion produced a purse
holding four golden coins, Bridie’s cries of grief became even louder as Truthteller attempted to refuse such largesse.

‘I’ll not take it, master. That purse is yours, and it was earned at enormous personal cost. I would have remained a madman wandering the mountains of Cymru were it not for you, so how can I take your hard-earned coin?’

‘Please, Finn. You’ve earned my gratitude over many weary miles of patient service. And so has Bridie. Her limp should remind you every day of how much she has relinquished by obeying my wishes. Regardless of your protestations, my friend, you leave with my blessing. And, if they are willing, I want you to take Rhedyn and Brangaine and the children with you for their continued safety.’

Brangaine was torn between the choices suddenly open to her, for Willa’s huge green eyes haunted her, waking and sleeping, and the child’s safety consumed her thoughts. But almost as compelling was her fear of being an unattached female without any means of earning a living when she lacked a master to give her status. Now, faced with two unsatisfactory options, she was struck dumb with the weight of her responsibilities. Eventually, she opened her mouth to agree to head north to Segontium, but Willa pushed her way forward to face her master. The child’s face was very serious and earnest as she made her foster mother’s decision for her.

‘Lord Myrddion, my mother would agree to leave with Finn for my sake.’ The child’s rusty voice was oddly persuasive and Myrddion recognised the same tone of command that he used at times when hard decisions must be made. ‘She does not wish to leave you, but she loves me enough to throw away her security. But she need not, for I’ll not go to Segontium whatever you say. Venta Belgarum is where she who must not be named wishes me to be . . . even though I am frightened. We are all her
tools and I have come to realise that she saved my life for some purpose.’ She turned to Brangaine. ‘I must go with the master to Venta Belgarum, because the Mother wills it.’

Brangaine’s shoulders slumped in the light of her daughter’s vivid, insistent eyes. Then she turned to face Myrddion while her arms wound tightly around the child.

‘What should I do, master? What should I do?’

‘I don’t know, Brangaine, but perhaps Willa is right. Perhaps our destiny has always led to Venta Belgarum, and although we try to avoid our separate fates the Mother will have her way, no matter how we struggle to gainsay her.’

‘Aye, master, I know.’

Then Brangaine wept, as if Willa had already been torn from her arms.

Rhedyn elected to stay with Brangaine to help with the children, so in the end just Finn Truthteller and his young family took road for Segantium. The only person who was overjoyed to see them climb into their wagon and set the horses in motion was Gron, the innkeeper. All day, he had been predicting dire consequences to the inn for sheltering the healers, until his wife longed to brain him with her best iron cooking pot.

‘After they’ve gone, the eyes of Uther Pendragon will turn away from us. At least some of them are leaving, but I’ll not rest easy until I see the back of all of those cursed healers.’

‘You’d not have to worry about coming to the prince’s attention if you didn’t water the wine,’ Fionnuala hissed, her plump breasts quivering with the dislike she often felt for her spouse. ‘These healers have brought custom to the Flower Maiden . . . and if they go, you’ll have nothing to complain about, will you? Be careful what you wish for, husband.’

Gron eyed his angry wife
out of the corners of his eyes and tried to look affronted, which failed dismally because of the shifty look that was etched into his cadaverous face.

But later, when Myrddion paid their account at the inn and made arrangements for their departure, Gron felt a strange reluctance to pad the bill in his usual custom. The landlord would breathe more easily once the healers had gone, but perhaps there were worse dangers ahead than strange, outland travellers.

Venta Belgarum was far away, and Uther soon chafed at the slow speed of the journey. The prince usually drove his troops mercilessly so that they seemed to appear, fully armed and thirsting for blood, under the walls of any Saxon fortress they encountered. Like smoke, the tribesmen came and went at will. Unfortunately, Myrddion’s oxen were unmoved by Uther’s desire for haste and plodded along in the rear at their usual slow pace. Eventually, Uther decided to desert the healer’s party, leaving them with a guard of half a dozen mounted cavalrymen while he sped onward like an arrow loosened from a bow. On his order, the foot soldiers broke into a brisk trot and Myrddion marvelled anew at the discipline and fortitude of men who marched to war with their weapons in a pack upon their backs. As they ran, the warriors sang lustily and Myrddion’s heart trembled in his chest as tuneful voices sang tales of long gone days when his people ruled his wild and beautiful land unopposed.

Gold-hilted in his hand I see his sword;

Two spears he holds, with spearheads grim and green;