Prophecy: Web of Deceit (Prophecy 3)

by M. K. Hume

‘I take it my mother’s quarters are this way?’ he asked over his shoulder, and began to stride down the colonnade. Maelgwr hurried to catch up on his plump legs, and led Myrddion to a small, mean room at the very back of the large rambling house. Impatiently, Myrddion unlatched the door. It was locked on the outside.

  ‘Is my mother kept penned in day and night?’ he demanded.

  ‘Only when she is unwell,’ Maelgwr answered, trying to suggest that this state of affairs was rarely necessary. ‘Or if she tries to hurt herself.’

  ‘Surely that is the precise time when she should be closely watched,’ the healer responded. ‘You may go now, stepfather, for I believe I can handle my mother by myself. Should she be out of her wits, I’ll give her a draught of poppy juice to settle her. And I would appreciate your leaving the door open, if you please. I believe that a feeling of constraint increases the distress of the mentally disturbed.’

  Maelgwr was hardly a stupid man. He must have realised that Myrddion wished to be certain that no one could lurk outside the door to listen to his conversation with his mother. However, the healer had manoeuvred him into a position where he had no choice other than to obey. As Maelgwr retreated back into the house, Myrddion took the precaution of placing a heavy footstool against the door to prevent it from being treacherously closed. Then, on quiet feet, he entered his mother’s room. Long before he reached her pallet, the sharp reek of urine assaulted his sensitive nose.

  Branwyn was a tiny mound on a filthy pallet, curled into the fetal position and barely visible except for a hank of long, greasy, matted hair. As he approached she lifted her head, took in his appearance and then cowered back into her soiled blanket.

  ‘It’s you! It’s you! I knew you’d come for me. You said you’d kill me. But I don’t want to die.’

  Myrddion spread his hands wide with the palms upward to show that he carried no weapons.

  ‘It’s Myrddion, Mother. I’ve met him, the beast who raped you. Did you hear me, Mother? I know his name.’

  ‘You’re the demon – and you’re lying to me.’

  ‘No, Mother! See? I am still a young man, far too young to be your demon. Perhaps I am the Demon Seed, but I certainly have no desire to kill you. You must know me. After all, you tried to kill me. But all is forgiven, Mother, so let me help you to sit up. No, don’t flinch away. I’m a healer now, and I can make you feel much better.’

  ‘Nothing can make me well,’ Branwyn wailed as he lifted her gently and supported her shoulders while he positioned two odiforous pillows under her torso and neck to support her upper body. Some trace of sanity enlivened her eyes, and as Myrddion assessed her condition he felt his anger begin to rise.

  He had feared to meet her. He remembered the proud, vicious woman he had last seen at King Melvig’s funeral. That creature bore no resemblance to the pathetic shell who now looked up at him with forlorn eyes.

  Her face had fallen inwards, so only the beak of her nose, her high cheekbones and the fine line of her jaw remained. Sunken cheeks and a toothless mouth suggested great old age, although she could be no more than thirty-seven summers.

  The hands that tugged at his tunic were skeletally thin and black with bruises. Still more contusions marred her upper arms, where the loose skin barely covered her bones. As Myrddion lowered the blanket and eased the dirty, sodden shift away from her body, marks of abuse were clear on her yellowish flesh. Nor were these marks the signs of self-abuse. Hands of different sizes had punched, slapped and pinched this pathetic creature, then left her in her soiled clothing behind a locked door. Many of the bruises were black, purple and fresh, but others were green and yellow. The injuries had been inflicted over a long period of time.

  ‘Don’t fret, Mother. I’ll organise some warm water to clean you, a shift to cover you and some salve for these injuries. You will soon feel much more like yourself.’

  A crafty look slid through the sick woman’s eyes.

  ‘You won’t try to poison me, will you? I know your game. You’ll bring me poisoned milk so you can lie with my husband in peace. I won’t drink it, I tell you. I won’t eat anything that comes from your hands. My son said you’d try to kill me – and he’s right.’

  ‘Yes, he is.’ Myrddion wanted to weep for this ruined old woman who had starved herself almost to death rather than perish at Seirian’s hands. ‘I’ll set everything to rights now, Mother, never fear. Myrddion is here, and even the goddess won’t save anyone who tries to harm you.’

  Despite his self-control, Myrddion’s eyes filled with tears. His mother continued to babble about a red-haired woman who would, according to her son’s prophecy, try to kill her. Once again, Myrddion cursed his ignorance of anything he said when the fits came upon him, especially in this particular instance. Could he have saved his mother her suffering if he’d known what had been predicted?

  ‘I promise, Mother. At last you’ll be safe.’

  Then, fuelled with murderous rage at the callous treatment Branwyn had endured, Myrddion stalked out of the stinking room and along the corridor, roaring for Maelgwr and Seirian as he went. The small girls in the atrium, their heads bent over piles of washed wool, shivered as he passed and turned their faces away from a countenance that was white with fury. They huddled together for comfort as the Demon Seed headed for the triclinium.

  Behind him, Branwyn screamed once, thinly, like a small bird caught in the talons of a hawk.

  ‘My mother is close to death from starvation and lack of water, but I see few symptoms of madness. And there is ample evidence that she has been slapped, kicked, pinched and punched. You are fortunate that I didn’t bring my weapons, because if I had my sword in my possession right now, I’d separate your head from your shoulders.’

  Maelgwr cowered back against the triclinium wall. He was unsurprised: after all, he had known what the healer would find when he entered Branwyn’s room. However, for nigh on twenty years he had heard tales of this Demon Seed who was known for his equable temper, his intellect and his reasoning. His mother had tried to brain him, and yet he had spoken in her defence when she had been brought before the king of the Deceangli tribe for punishment. What fool would do that? Maelgwr had expected anger from the young man, he had even expected a demand for reparation, but he had never anticipated such white-hot rage. This Myrddion Merlinus was shaking with fury, his hands were clenched into fists and his eyes were black holes burned into his white face.

  ‘Who has done this thing to my mother? Who has tortured her? Was it you, Maelgwr? Are you so lost to honour that you are entertained by pain? No, not you! You wanted to be rid of her, regardless of the fact that you were very fortunate to receive such a dowry, or to have such marriageable children that you could sell for profit as you now possess – because of her. You just wanted to see her gone like a used-up wineskin that’s not even worth refilling.’

  ‘Kill him to shut him up, Maelgwr,’ Seirian whispered. ‘He’s alone, so why are you so squeamish? Who’s going to know what happens to him?’ The servant girl leaned against a pillar of the colonnade in her stained finery. If she had expected Myrddion to show some trace of fear, then she misjudged him, for the healer rounded on her like a striking serpent.

  ‘Now I see it. You’re the one who inflicts the pain – you, and the women who fear you! You made a mistake when you wore my mother’s dress, because I remember everything she owned. I could tell what you were before you even opened your mouth.’ Seirian started to protest, but Myrddion raised one hand and pointed at her with a finger that was suddenly steady. ‘Be silent, woman, or you’ll never exercise that vicious tongue again.’

  ‘Yes, be silent, Seirian. Truly, you’re not helping,’ Maelgwr pleaded, and Myrddion saw beyond the bluster and the veneer of strength to the vain and ageing man who cowered under the skin.

  ‘I have lived a very long time in places that are far more terrible than Tomen-y-mur . . . and I have survived.’ Myrddion spoke in a soft and deliberate voice more chilling than his earlier rant
ing. ‘The High King knows where I am, for I am on his business. And many citizens in Tomen-y-mur know where I am for they directed me to your master’s house. Would you have him kill them all? The High King is Roman and we have an understanding, for I also have Roman blood. He will tear the pair of you into bloody pieces until you admit sins that you’ve never committed just to stop the agony. You sought to rise to my mother’s place with no more thought for the consequences than a moth that singes its wings in the fireplace. Now, send me a trustworthy woman, hot water, clean cloth and the satchel from my horse. And pray that the mistress doesn’t die from your abuse, or I’ll be forced to kill you myself.’

  What is happening to me? Myrddion thought. I’ve never felt such anger before. I swear I would happily kill the bitch, and enjoy it, at the least provocation.

  Fortunately for the house of Maelgwr, Branwyn accepted food from Myrddion’s hands, which surprised him more than anything else. Her flaming, scarfing madness seemed to have burned itself away, as if her mind had decided that all her small wounds had finally atoned for her surrender to Aspar on Segontium’s beach so many years ago. Now, she was as compliant as a child, and as wide-eyed, as if the voices in her head had loosened their hold and returned her to infancy. If she recognised Myrddion, it was without the ugly memories, as if he were one of her mother’s kin come to save her from an ignoble fate.

  ‘Where’s Mother?’ she asked him several times. ‘Where’s Olwyn?’

  Patiently, Myrddion explained that Olwyn was dead but still looked down on Branwyn and cared for her. After she had been washed and her stinking bedding had been dragged away to be replaced by fresh wool and clean blankets, he picked her up in his arms and laid her down beneath the new coverlets. Her body was so wasted and light that she really could have been a child, and only her long limbs suggested that she had ever been a young woman at all.

  Myrddion was like a whirlwind when he was fired by strong emotion. On horseback, he scoured the small hamlets along the coast until he found a widow who his instincts told him was both good and of strong character. Without kin to care for her, the woman was near to starving herself, so Myrddion hired her to care for his mother and his sisters. On the journey back to Maelgwr’s farm, he warned Grannie Mairwen what she could expect to deal with as a part of her duties, and the stern Ordovice woman tightened her lips in understanding.

  ‘The lady Branwyn is your first concern, but I would like you to watch over my sisters as well. I trust nobody in that house and intend to repay them in kind for their ill treatment of my mother. This gold coin will give you standing, and you will receive another for each year of your service. Should my mother perish of other than natural causes, send a message to Goll the shepherd. He is a friend and will bring me down on their filthy heads. Should you feel fearful of my stepfather or his woman, go directly to Goll, who will know what to do to ensure your safety.’

  ‘Aye, master. I’ll take every care, both of them and of myself. Your mother will want for nothing.’

  Myrddion took another two gold coins from his leather pouch. ‘Speak to Goll and hire a man of your choice to act as your personal body servant. I will sleep more soundly, Grannie Mairwen, if I know you have a strong young man on hand to work for you and to give you protection. Please agree, so my mind can be at rest. Don’t be concerned about Maelgwr’s feelings because he will obey my instructions out of fear if for no other reason.’

  Myrddion smiled as he watched Grannie Mairwen with Branwyn. In her presence, his mother was calm and sweet-tempered, only becoming fractious when she was left alone for too long. Mairwen loved to talk and tell stories, of which she had a seemingly endless supply, and even Myrddion’s sisters would creep into their mother’s room and listen, although they took care to stay beyond Branwyn’s reach. Myrddion sighed as he imagined his mother’s murderous attacks on her children in the past, and wondered what harm her mania had done to these innocent girls.

  ‘What damage Aspar did!’ he told the empty air of the atrium. ‘But he’ll never pay for his manifold sins.’

  Such is life, his inner voice told him. But for now, it’s time to depart and be about my duties.

  Maelgwr and Seirian were left in no doubt what would happen to them if his mother suffered or perished at their hands. Unwillingly, Myrddion gave Maelgwr another gold coin to ensure that his mother was kept supplied with the necessities of life. Perhaps greed would work in tandem with the dread of Ambrosius’s axe to keep Branwyn safe.

  Then Myrddion rode away, knowing in his heart that Branwyn would forget him within the hour.

  After a brief stop at Goll’s hut to offer him payment if he would ensure that Myrddion was informed about his mother’s health, Myrddion returned to Tomen-y-mur. Then, with little regret, but carrying a heavy weight on his heart, the healer started his return journey to the south. Winter was finally releasing its icy hold on the earth and was promising a season of plenty in the coming spring.

  ‘I can soon be a healer again,’ Myrddion whispered to his horse. The white and black sheep on the green hillsides, the burgeoning fields and the sweet smell of mud and turned earth filled him with relief. The sadness of Tomen-y-mur had weighed heavily on his heart and he desired nothing more than to sleep in his own room surrounded by people he knew and loved.

  Venta Belgarum lay in wait behind walls that glowed golden in the late afternoon sun. A trick of the light edged the dressed Roman stone and its wooden palisades with a line of scarlet, like the flashes of a soldier’s red cloak or a memory of the legion’s pennons and eagles. Myrddion could almost hear the echoes of brazen horns rallying the centuries to march against their enemies. In the freshening wind that spoke of warmer weather to come, Myrddion heard fragments of screams, shouted orders and the cries of beasts in extremity, and he knew what lay ahead.

  THE BATTLE OF VERULAMIUM

  ROUTE TAKEN BY AMBROSIUS’S ARMY FROM VENTA BELGARUM TO VERULAMIUM

  CHAPTER VIII

  BACK ON THE ROAD

  Qui desiderat pacem, praeparet bellum.

  [Let him who desires peace, prepare for war].

  Vegetius Renatus, Epitome institutionum Rei Militaris

  As he approached the walls of Calleva Atrebatum, the healer saw a huge contingent of foot soldiers marching out of the city gates and heading in his direction. Cavalry rode on the edges of the force and Myrddion could see the twin banners of Ambrosius and Uther snapping in the light breeze at the head of the column. Moving to the very edge of the roadway, he halted his horse as the army began to flow past him.

  After half an hour, the baggage train hove into view and Myrddion saw Cadoc handling the reins on the first of the two wagons used by the healers. As Cadoc recognised the stationary horseman he gave a wild battle yell, and a wide grin enlivened Myrddion’s face. Everything would now be well. His searing anger, the incomprehensible pressure of the Mother and the impossible task of building a spy network in Cymru would be as nothing if he and Cadoc were about to travel together once again in the train of an army.

  As Cadoc drew the horses to a halt, Myrddion noted the presence of Dyfri and Aude, while Praxiteles drove the second wagon with Rhedyn and Brangaine alongside him. He threw himself from his horse while Cadoc leapt from his wagon, and the two men gripped each other hard by the forearms before embracing. Then they stepped apart, grinning like fools, and slapped each other on the back with exaggerated and embarrassed force.

  ‘What’s Ambrosius about?’ Myrddion asked, once he had satisfied himself that his household in Venta Belgarum was safe and well. ‘The whole army seems to be on the move. And siege machines! What city is about to feel the wrath of Uther?’

  ‘Verulamium has been occupied by a detachment of Saxons who attacked as soon as the winter snows were finished. Apparently, their thane is a man called Thorketil whose ceols recently arrived from the north and sailed up the Tamesis river. He must have been certain that the Celts were thoroughly cowed, for he immediately took control of all the roads leading t
o and from Londinium and has been sending his scouts further afield with each new day. Verulamium never stood a chance. Thorketil’s strategy was very similar to Uther’s, for he attacked the civilians in the countryside and the hamlets until the citizens of Verulamium opened their gates and begged for mercy. May they take pleasure in their captivity! All news from the city has dried up, so only prayers to the Tuatha de Danaan can help the poor fools until we get there.’

  ‘What’s known of this Thorketil?’ Myrddion asked, for the name was not remotely Saxon in nature.

  ‘It’s said that he comes from the north of Frisia, close to Jutland, so perhaps he is more Jute than Saxon.’ Cadoc shrugged expressively. ‘He calls himself the Vessel of Thor and claims that the God of War fills his body and soul in battle and this inner strength brings success to his people. His fearsome reputation runs ahead of him, and so the High King must stop him, if only to prove that the gods haven’t turned against us.’

  ‘So – we are bound for Verulamium?’

  ‘Aye,’ Cadoc replied as he hoisted himself back up onto the wagon. ‘For good or ill, we go to Verulamium.’

  The healers hadn’t served at a battle since the Catalaunian Plain at Châlons, and Myrddion had hoped never to experience such carnage again. Still, his heart lifted as he rode beside the wagons, for they were setting off on the familiar journey that led to the old, recognisable patterns of violent death. He understood this small world of blood and violence where he fought with all his physical and intellectual strength to drive the twins of chaos away from his tents. Better this life of action than death, destruction and the strange dreams of foreboding he had experienced during the past few months.

  Before the armies reached Pontes, where a tributary of the Tamesis river headed off to the north east, the cavalry broke away from the main force and began to ride direct to Verulamium at speed with Uther at their head. Myrddion was relieved to see the tall figure disappear into the wood, for although neither brother had approached him since he had joined the baggage train, Uther had eyes in the back of his head and would have been advised of the healer’s return almost immediately. At Pontes the rest of the army divided, the main body following the tributary towards Verulamium while a century, or a contingent of eighty men, remained with the baggage train, which could not stray off the roads with safety and needed to stick to the broad paths leading to Londinium. Left unprotected, it would soon have been stripped bare by the local Saxons.