by Mike Ashley
“Where is here?”
“This is my palace. I am told that it was built long ago by the Romans. Here I live. We are many miles from Centwine’s tun. You are safe from recapture for the time being.”
“Why?”
“I do not understand.”
“Why have you helped me? You are Centwine’s sister and a Saxon.”
“Shall we say it is because I admire a brave man.”
Myrddin shook his head. “I still do not understand,” he said.
The woman moved closer and lit a torch.
“Have no fear, Myrddin, for I am a healer among my people. You have nothing to be alarmed about.”
“You dressed my wound?” he asked.
“It will heal soon, but it will leave a scar.”
Myrddin gazed up, still bewildered.
Although the light from the flickering brand torch was not good, he could see that the woman, Lowri, was handsome. More voluptuous than pretty. Her features were heavier than Gwendoloena’s. He found the comparison came naturally. The features had a slight grossness that was more sensual. Lascivious was the word that eventually came to mind. Her features were dark and rounded, the lips pouting enticingly. Her figure was full but not unattractive.
She smiled down at him and her hands removed the strips of linen on his chest.
“Ah,” she nodded approvingly. “The wound is healing well. I will anoint it with more balm to quicken the process.”
“You have also given me some compound to sedate my mind, haven’t you?”
Lowri looked quickly at him.
“You are, indeed, a wise man. You were in need of tranquillity of the mind to bear the pain of the wound. I shall give you nothing more if you do not wish the sedation. But balm you must have to heal your wound.”
Myrddin felt no anxiety.
“Do what you can, healer, for I can do nothing until I am healed.”
Lowri nodded, then bent to her task, pouring a cooling balm over his chest. She poured a drink from a flagon and left it by his bedside.
“You may take this if the irritation grows strong in the night. It is up to you. By dawn the pain of the wound may bring a fever. I shall be here and help you. But, if my prediction holds true, you will be quite well by dusk tomorrow.”
“I still do not know why you are doing this,” Myrddin said. “Especially if Centwine is your brother.”
Lowri shook her head.
“We may talk about that when you are better. Now try to rest. By dawn the fever will come.”
Lowri was right.
Myrddin awoke from his sleep, or, at least, he thought he had. One part of his mind told him he was in a hot, sweating fever, yet shivering in bed. Another part awoke him in a dark cavern and as he moved towards its interior he saw Gwendoloena smiling at him, imploring him to come to her arms. Yet when he did so, he saw that her head was attached to a long scaly neck, the neck of a huge reptilian dragon. A sword was in his hand and, crying in terror, he hacked and hewed at the beast, while all the time, the head of Gwendoloena implored him to help her.
He started from the bed screaming, one hand stretched out before him as if to fend off danger.
Firm hands on his shoulders pressed him back to the pillows.
“Quiet now! You have been dreaming.”
He stared about him and then focused on the face of Lowri.
He saw that there was a twilight outside the room. He was still lying in a sweat-sodden bed, hot and sticky from the hours of his fever.
“I thirst,” were his first words.
The woman Lowri reached forward and brought a cup to his lips. It was water, ice cold and refreshing. She allowed him only a few swallows.
“It is not good to drink so much at once,” she reproved, reaching out to dab at his perspiration-coated brow with a cooling cloth.
Myrddin heaved a deep sigh.
“The fever came as you said it would.”
Lowri grinned.
“And the wound has begun to heal without infection, as I said. Tomorrow, after a night’s sleep, you will be able to get up and walk about.”
“Then I shall need to know why you have helped me,” he murmured, allowing himself to fall back into the bed. A deep natural sleep overcame him even as she replied.
“You will know . . . tomorrow.”
In the bright, morning light, he felt refreshed, strong, and his mind was clear and sharp. A slave came with water for him to wash while another brought him food and drink to break his fast. He indulged freely and then a third slave arrived with fresh clothes to replace the ones that had been torn off his back at Centwine’s tun. He dressed and they fitted him well.
His chest, though he was conscious of the healing wound, did not trouble him at all.
This Lowri was a good healer, he admitted.
The door opened and another slave, or perhaps it was the same one, bowed low:
“My lady requests your attendance if you are ready, my lord.”
Myrddin sniffed, for he disapproved of such subservience. He had heard of the Saxon institution of slaves and knew that those who wore iron collars on their neck had no freedom at all among the Saxons but could be bought and sold at the whim of their owners.
“Lead me to her, man.”
The slave bowed obsequiously.
Myrddin was astonished by the affluence and beauty of the villa as he was led from the chamber across an elegant courtyard, with a marble fountain, into a set of more private chambers and out into a small sun-filled but secluded courtyard.
Stretched on a couch was the woman, Lowri.
She gazed up languidly and smiled.
“You are better, Myrddin from beyond the western mountains.”
Myrddin returned her smile and inclined his head.
“Thanks to you, Lowri of the West Saxons.”
She waved her hand for him to be seated on the couch next to her.
“You put fear into my brother’s heart,” she chided, as he obeyed. “You are young to be so well trained as a shaman.”
“I studied under the adepts since I was a baby. It is not by age that one is judged but by knowledge.”
“Truly spoken. Nevertheless, my brother was fearful. Be warned that out of fear is born hate and it is my suspicion that the next time you meet he will kill you.”
“Will there be a next time?”
Lowri pouted and looked uncomfortable.
“If you are wise, Myrddin, as wise as you have shown yourself knowledgeable and unafraid, you will avoid Centwine.”
“I have little intention to renew our relationship,” grinned Myrddin. “But it may be, if we do meet again, that it will be I who will kill him.”
Lowri leant forward a little and gestured to a jug of mead which a slave carried forward.
Myrddin shook his head.
“Mead is not for drinking this early in the morning for it causes men to lose their senses or sleep to overcome them. And there is much I should know.”
Lowri waved the slave to depart.
“There is much that I should know also, Myrddin,” replied the woman. “I risk my life to save you from drowning and healed your wound. Tell me, truly, are you Gereint of Dumnonia’s spy? Did you come into this land to spy for our enemy, Gereint?”
Myrddin shook his head.
“I know nothing of the king of Dumnonia. I came here for . . . for my own reasons.”
“Your own reasons?” She frowned.
“I spoke the truth to your brother, lady. I came seeking someone.”
“A Briton, you said.”
“Indeed. A Briton.”
Myrddin eased himself in his chair and, in shifting his position, he suddenly caught sight of a banner decorating the wall of a room, whose open doors led onto the courtyard. In surprise he sprang up.
“What is it?” demanded Lowri, alarmed.
Myrddin took a pace or two towards the room.
There was no mistaking it. It was the banner with the embr
oidered knot that he had last seen carried by Centwine as the raiders left Llanelen.
“What banner is that?” Myrddin demanded, reseating himself. “I think that it is familiar to me.”
Lowri followed his gaze and shrugged.
“As thane to Cynric, my brother, Centwine, often carries that battle banner. It was carried for Cerdic, Cynric’s father, years ago.”
“It is Cynric’s battle banner?”
“Yes.”
“Ah!” Myrddin breathed out slowly. He felt confusion. Questions tumbled into his mind and yet he could not articulate them.
“Tell me something of yourself, Myrddin, and of this person whom you seek in our kingdom,” pressed Lowri.
“Of me there is little to say. I came to this kingdom with no intent to harm it but merely to recover something.”
“Even more mysterious,” Lowri said. “You are a handsome and mysterious man, Myrddin. I have become attracted to you.”
She reached out and laid a cool hand on his cheek.
Myrddin tried to shake off the thoughts of the mysterious banner, and concentrate on Lowri. She was being deliberately provocative, her sensuous lips pouting, the expression one of promising excitement.
“You are a handsome woman, Lowri,” he conceded absently. “Tell me, your brother is close to your king Cynric?”
She frowned, unused to her advances being deflected.
“Centwine is Cynric’s thane and right-hand man. Why?”
“I would go to Cynric’s court. Where does it lie from here?”
Lowri laughed a little falsely.
“Truly, I think you are here to spy on Cynric to wish to hurry to his court and dismiss a more promising dalliance here. Cynric’s fortress lies over the next hill but I would have a care of going there. Any Briton found wandering about on his own would be cut down within half a mile of it. Cynric does not love Britons.”
“I hear the opposite,” Myrddin threw out the bait.
Lowri frowned.
“How so?”
“I hear that Cynric is enamoured of a British princess.”
The woman gave a dismissive sniff.
“The daughter of the former king of the Isle of Wight.”
“Just so. Gwendoloena of Ynys Wyth.”
Suddenly Lowri was suspicious.
“What do you know of this?” Her eyes widened in sudden realization. “Is it for this Gwendoloena that you have come to this kingdom? Is it for her that you seek?”
Myrddin hastily shook his head but he had not fooled the Saxon princess.
Lowri smiled softly in satisfaction.
“So? It is true that Cynric is enamoured of this Gwendoloena. If you seek her, then you may rest assured that you will never see her again. She is beyond your powers of rescue. She is now safely lodged in the fortress of Cynric, beyond the hills there. Do you desire her yourself or has Gereint sent you to test out the land for a stronger force to come and attempt a rescue?”
Myrddin stood up. He tried to keep the irritation from his face. He had let his own arrogance lead him into admitting more than he should have done to this strange Saxon woman.
“I do not seek her, lady,” he denied. “I was curious about the stories that I had heard. That was all. I am no spy, nor am I enamoured of her.”
Lowri rose and stretched languidly.
She looked at him appraisingly under lowered lids.
“If that is so, it is not hard to disprove. I have a strange attraction to you, Myrddin from beyond the western mountains. Come and prove to me that you do not care aught for this Gwendoloena.”
She turned with slow, languorous movements, and walked into one of the darkened side rooms which surrounded the courtyard.
Myrddin glanced round quickly.
The only exit was barred by an armed slave. The only thing he could do was play along with Lowri and wait until he had a chance to leave without suspicion. He could not deny that his youthful male vanity was flattered by the Saxon woman’s overt erotic ardour. What man could deny such sensual adulation?
He hesitated but a fraction before he turned and followed Lowri into the bedchamber.
IX
When he awoke, Centwine was bending over him with a knife held at his throat.
Behind Centwine’s shoulder stood Lowri. She was combing her hair and smiling absently.
“I told you that it would be easy to discover his secret, brother. Where you waste time in torture, often physical gratification will bring better results.”
Myrddin silently cursed himself for a fool. He had been a fool all along, falling prey to temptation that any novitiate of the order would have spurned. And he was supposed to be a “man of oak wisdom”. He deserved to die at the hands of these Saxons for his stupid folly. He cursed his youth and his stupid vanity. Truly had the Venerable Fychan taught that danger breeds best on too much confidence. Vanity had led him into overconfidence. His expression told Centwine the truth of what his sister was saying.
The Saxon thane chuckled grimly.
“So? You are come to our land in search of the lady Gwendoloena? So either you come as a spy for Gereint or you are come to rescue her because you are in love with her yourself? Yes, I think the latter reason is the one. How noble! Never did I think the welisc were possessed of such nobility.”
He spat on the floor to emphasize his cynicism.
“Yet it is true, brother,” Lowri said indifferently. “His love-making was like lying with a tree trunk, so indifferent to my body was he, his mind was clearly on thoughts of his welisc bitch.”
Centwine’s hand came up and he hit Myrddin hard across the mouth.
“How were you going to effect a rescue?” he snarled. “Are there others waiting nearby to aid you?”
Myrddin blinked but did not reply.
“Where are your warriors?” demanded Centwine.
The hand struck again.
“I do not think he has any warriors,” interposed Lowri, dispassionately. “I think this poor moon-struck calf came of his own accord. He must have followed you from Llanelen for he recognized the battle banner.”
“Llanelen?”
Centwine peered forward and then swore.
“By Thunor’s stroke! I recall you now! You are the warrior who was fighting with our men in the courtyard of that abbey. So? You have done well, my sister. Now we know the dog.”
Myrddin moistened his lips.
“If I am to die, Saxon, tell me what your battle banner means. What is the symbol of the knot?”
Centwine raised a quizzical eyebrow.
“The banner? It was a trophy, a prize of war, taken in the time of Cerdic. We use it to remind the welisc of our conquest.”
“From where did you seize it?”
“Why would you want to know?” demanded Lowri, interested for once.
“I told you, I think I recognize it.”
“Well, before you die, welisc, I will tell you,” sneered Centwine. “And that death will be very soon. Get to your feet.”
Centwine backed off the bed.
Myrddin knew he had little choice. He made to rise, pretended to fall back, seizing the hand of the Saxon thane, and then exerting such pressure that, with the momentum of his backward fall, he heaved the surprised Saxon over his head. It took but a split second. His hand grabbed for the knife. Even before Lowri had uttered her scream, he had seized the knife and buried it in Centwine’s heart.
Then he was up, grabbing the woman and swinging her round to act as a shield before him as several slaves burst through the door to investigate the sounds of the commotion.
“Tell them to back off,” hissed Myrddin, “or you will be the next to die, lady.”
“Leave us!” screamed Lowri in terror. “Leave, or he will surely kill me.”
Reluctantly, the slaves edged out of the door.
“Now,” whispered Myrddin, savagely, for he still nursed an anger that he had been so fooled by this voluptuous woman for her own ends, “we shall
walk slowly to the front of this villa. Order your slaves to have my horse saddled and my weapons waiting for me.”
Again, Lowri saw no alternative but to obey him. But after she had given the instructions she snarled at him: “It will avail you nothing, Myrddin. You may have killed Centwine but I also know your purpose. You are going to Cynric’s fortress to get the welisc bitch. Have no fear, for I will ensure that Cynric will be waiting for you.”
Myrddin bit his lip.
“Then if you are to warn Cynric, ’twere best I kill you now.”
Lowri had regained her composure now. He would kill her to save himself or for any one of a number of life-threatening reasons, but she knew he would not kill her in cold blood merely to silence her.
“I know about you ‘men of oak wisdom’. You have a code of honour which will not allow you to kill a defenceless woman, even a woman of an enemy race, just to silence them.”
Myrddin smiled thinly.
“This is true but . . .”
He spun her round quickly and stared deeply into her wide, surprised eyes, giving all his concentration to the ancient art which the Venerable Fychan had shown him.
“Your mind to my mind, Lowri,” he whispered intently. “Your soul to my soul. Concentrate, concentrate and sleep, sleep and in your sleep you will forget, forget . . .”
He saw her eyes glazing, the eyelids drooping, in spite of herself.
“Forget all about Myrddin, about Gwendoloena, forget about all this . . . Now, walk with me slowly to the gate where I will mount my horse and ride away. And you will then sleep. You will dismiss your servants, go to your bed and sleep, sleep for a day and a night and nothing will awake you until you arise refreshed but still in forgetfulness about what has happened. Do you understand?”
“I . . . understand,” she whispered.
Turning her again, he walked slowly with her through the courtyards of the villa, while slaves stood watching and scowling at him. Someone had brought his saddled horse, another handed him his weapons. Lowri stood passively, staring into the middle distance, while he buckled on his sword belt and clambered into his saddle.
“Sleep and forget!” he called and then he had kicked at his steed and sent it bounding away from the villa. But no cries of alarm came to his ears. The slaves seemed to be awaiting orders from Lowri, the sister of Centwine, but no orders appeared forthcoming.
