Prophecy: Web of Deceit (Prophecy 3)

by M. K. Hume

  ‘I use senna as an emetic to purge the stomach and bowels of poison. It will scour the body clean, providing the poison hasn’t been absorbed into the blood.’

  As the healer spoke, Llanwith shoved his way into the tent, with a sweating brow that spoke of frantic exertion. ‘Is this the jar you wanted, Myrddion? It took an age for me to find it.’

  Ambrosius began to shake, great tremors stiffening his muscles and causing his body to convulse while his eyes pleaded for more life. His hands twisted in the cushions until the knuckles shone white with spasms of pain.

  ‘Hold him down, Uther, and place his belt between his teeth so he can’t hurt himself. Llanwith, search out a clean pannikin from one of the warriors. No one could poison all the guard.’

  Llanwith ran out of the tent and returned clutching a primitive drinking cup.

  ‘Now, hold it still for me.’ Carefully and calmly, Myrddion filled the cup with water from his flask. Then, with painful care, he measured a number of drops from the green glass jar into the fluid. He used the point of his own eating knife to stir the oily mixture.

  The convulsion had passed and Ambrosius was attempting to catch his breath, his face twisted into a rictus of pain. Yet the blue eyes were calm when Myrddion approached, and the healer felt the weight of the High King’s trust.

  ‘Uther will help you to drink, master. You will be vilely ill, but don’t fuss or feel unmanly. Fortunately, you have already been sick and some of the poison has been expelled. Now we’ll try to remove the rest.’

  ‘I’ve . . . soiled myself,’ Ambrosius panted in embarrassment.

  ‘Not to worry, my lord. You’re in my charge now, and I desire you to drink the water that Uther will raise to your lips. Every drop. It will taste terrible, but you shouldn’t care about that.’

  As gentle as any mother, Uther bent over his brother and lifted him into a sitting position before raising the beaker of emetic to his lips. The king grimaced at the oily, vile taste but gamely forced the liquid down before reclining, exhausted, against the pillows. When the purgative was all ingested, the High King began to vomit uncontrollably until his stomach was completely empty. Throughout this painful interlude, Uther supported his brother’s head, his face creased with love and a nagging anxiety that he failed to hide from the sharp eyes of the healer.

  When Ambrosius’s spasms had finished, Myrddion and Uther stripped him, cleansed his body with warm water, changed the bedding and then wrapped him in heavy woollen blankets. Exhausted from the convulsions, the High King drifted into a light doze.

  ‘What now?’ Uther demanded, as Myrddion began to repack his satchel.

  ‘We wait, Prince Uther. I suspect the assassin is a novice, and he used too much poison out of ignorance. Both Ulfin and Ambrosius vomited the worst of the toxin out of their systems almost immediately, and I’m confident my purgative will have removed the rest. It’s difficult to tell what damage has been caused, but whatever poison was used, it was quite potent.’

  ‘So where are you going?’ Uther snapped through lips that were a thin wound in his drawn face. ‘Ambrosius needs you.’

  ‘I am going to feed Ambrosius’s meal, piece by piece, to the city hounds. When one begins to show symptoms of poisoning. I’ll know how it was done and possibly be able to isolate the poison, which I hope will lead me to the culprit.’ Myrddion’s eyes rested on the salt box on the table. ‘I’ll take that box as well. I can’t imagine that the salt is poisoned, but I’m not taking any chances. I’ll return as soon as I have some information for you. The assassin must be caught or he will try again, so Ambrosius Imperator must be protected at all times. Who can care for him more zealously than you?’ Myrddion looked into Uther’s deceptively shallow eyes. ‘One more thing, Prince Uther. It is possible that the assassin might also make an attempt on your life, so you should look to your own safety.’

  Uther smoothed his brother’s wet hair back from his pasty forehead. Deep lavender shadows were scored under Ambrosius’s closed eyes and Myrddion prayed that the king had the deep wells of strength necessary to fight off this tangible proof of hidden malice.

  ‘I thank you, Myrddion Merlinus. Let me know the moment you isolate the poison. You may use Botha to enforce your will, as he is oath-bound to me and my house for life.’ Uther was unaccustomed to depending on anyone, and the words were dredged up with acute embarrassment.

  Followed by Llanwith, Myrddion slid through the tent flap and made his way to the tent where the remains of Ambrosius’s meal had been taken. They found Botha there, and the healer asked him how Ulfin was faring.

  ‘He’s better, lord Myrddion. I had no trust in anything belonging to other men, so I used my own supply of salt and water. Once his stomach was completely voided, he regained his colour and seems much improved. Of course, he only tasted each item of food in the meal, while Lord Ambrosius ate a grown man’s share.’

  ‘Yes, so we must pray that my purgative worked in time. I hope we can quickly discover what poison was used, and how it was delivered to the king.’

  Botha nodded, and his understanding was clearly written in his intelligent eyes. ‘Poisoning is unmanly. It’s a woman’s weapon for those who lack the courage to attack their enemies face to face.’

  ‘Aye. This is a spiteful crime, and almost impossible to solve because the assassin acts with stealth. You are forced to wait for them to make a mistake and thus reveal their identity.’

  Before the hour was out, one of the hounds showed signs of poisoning after eating some of the stew from Ambrosius’s plate. Myrddion used his scalpel to give the poor animal a quick death, and the source of the poison was determined when another dog died after eating fresh meat that had been sprinkled with Ambrosius’s salt.

  ‘It’s the salt!’ Myrddion exclaimed to Botha, who was standing alongside him. ‘So we know that the poison is red in colour, and I can make a reasoned guess at what it is. But I can’t be certain, for I don’t traffic in potions of death.’

  ‘This assassin was cowardly – and clever,’ Llanwith muttered, while Botha spat on the earth with a strong, honest man’s revulsion. ‘Who would notice someone tampering with the salt box? It’s a horrible thought to know that Ambrosius was poisoned by his own hand.’

  Later, in Uther’s tent, the prince was ominously quiet when Myrddion reported his findings.

  ‘I believe our king was poisoned with realgar, but I can’t be sure. I’ve heard of it being used by assassins in Rome, Greece and, notably, in the north. The perpetrator was unfamiliar with its use because he made the crucial mistake of using an amount that was too large and too pure, so that Ambrosius vomited almost immediately and most of the poison was expelled before it could kill him, praise be to all the gods.’ Myrddion could read fear and dread in equal measure in Uther’s lupine eyes. ‘Poisoners usually take care to destroy any evidence of their potions. Search the camp by all means, but there’s little chance that we’ll find our assassin. Still, it’s worth a try, because any attempt as blatant as this one suggests to me that he won’t be deterred by failure, and will surely try again at the first opportunity.’

  Given something constructive to do, Uther stroked his brother’s face before stalking out of the sickroom, bent on a ferocious search of the whole camp. Heaven help any man or woman caught with a suspicious potion, Myrddion thought.

  ‘Assist me to rise, Myrddion,’ Ambrosius called from his sickbed. The healer almost smiled: his master had only been pretending to sleep. ‘I’m sure you have some restorative that will permit me to travel. I have no intention of dying in Aquae Sulis, so we must break camp and be gone by noon tomorrow.’ The king’s face was still very pale and his pulse was febrile, but his eyes were as sharp and as determined as ever. ‘Try to restrain Uther from harming Pascent, for the boy wasn’t even present when I ate.’

  ‘Of course, my king. I have sent Pascent to his tent, where he must remain while Uther searches for any hidden substances. As for your fitness to travel, I have tisanes tha
t will help with the nausea, stomach cramps and diarrhoea, and we must thank the Mother that your ill-wisher is a tyro in the cowardly art of assassination. He used far too much poison and you expelled it before it could irreparably harm your organs. Otherwise we would be building your funeral pyre.’

  ‘So much for food tasters and the protection they offer. How is Ulfin, incidentally? I’d forgotten him during my own travails, and he has always been a selfless servant of this family.’

  Myrddion grinned at his king. Ambrosius was so natural when he was free of protocol and public scrutiny and could speak his mind without guile or dissembling.

  ‘Ulfin hated swallowing the great quantities of salty water needed to cleanse his body of the toxins.’ Myrddion smiled. ‘He vomited until his throat was raw, but he will be well in a day or two.’

  ‘You don’t like Ulfin over much, do you, Myrddion?’ Ambrosius whispered, as he watched his healer fill a cup with hot water to steep some chopped leaves that he had produced from a jar.

  ‘No, my king, I don’t like him at all. Botha, Uther’s man, is the very best of servants and warriors, and shows excellent judgement – but Ulfin is a sneak.’ Myrddion gasped as he burned his finger in the hot steam from the kettle. ‘I apologise, my lord. The Mother punishes me for arrogance and ill-will. I suppose I’ve had too little sleep.’

  Ambrosius struggled into a sitting position, although he paled a little with a spasm of pain. ‘I want your promise, Myrddion Merlinus, that you will obey me if any further harm should befall me in the near future.’

  ‘Nothing will harm you, Ambrosius, for we are on our guard now.’

  The eyes of the High King captured Myrddion’s and held them fast in their bright blue intensity. Myrddion marvelled that he had ever thought those blue eyes were cold, for the fierce, clear depths burned with an urgent passion.

  ‘I want your promise, Myrddion Merlinus. And then I will tell you what I demand of you.’

  ‘You ask much, lord. Perhaps too much.’

  The High King’s gaze would not set Myrddion free. He felt Ambrosius’s compulsion and need burn into his brain. ‘Do you care for me at all, healer? I have more trust in you than any other man on this earth, with the exception of my brother.’

  ‘Yes, I care for you, Ambrosius. And yes, if I must prove my fealty, I will swear to obey you, although my mind warns me that I will suffer for it.’

  Ambrosius lay back on the pillows and closed his eyes, exhausted by this simple exercise in force of will. The brief tide of energy drained out of him and the High King was a sick and ageing man again, one whose beauty was fading under the twin flails of illness and duty.

  ‘Uther will rule once I pass into the shades. He has the calculation, the coldness and the ruthlessness in his nature that will permit him to be a High King. But Uther sees the world in black and white, and people are either friends or enemies. Nor does he try to understand the motives of those men and women who are closest to him. I fear for him once he is free to be wholly himself.’ Ambrosius opened his compelling eyes. ‘Try to understand him, Myrddion. Uther never knew the softness of our mother, for our father died when he was very young and then she wed Vortigern.’

  Ambrosius’s face contorted with distaste and anger, and Myrddion recalled that the High King’s mother, Severa, had been Vortigern’s wife before he married Rowena. Shite! Myrddion thought sickly. Vortimer and Ambrosius were half-brothers.

  ‘Constans, our older brother, was murdered by Vortigern so that he could usurp the throne. Uther and I both adored Constans as all younger siblings do. So before he was nine years old, Uther was forced to accept that the world is a place where trust withers on the vine and love kills.’

  Even if he had known what to say or how to respond, Myrddion dared not interrupt these confidences. Whether the king’s mood was impulsive or coldly reasoned, Myrddion couldn’t tell.

  ‘We travelled together for a long, long time after we fled from Vortigern, forced to live off the charity of our kinfolk. Uther hated every slight and longed to return home, although he rarely complained. But something hardened in him during those years of rootlessness and shame. When we returned to Venta Belgarum, we came with mercenaries and even Vortigern hesitated to attack me from the front. His reputation was in tatters by then, and all sensible men shied away from the Regicide – but Uther had already learned how to hate. We had so little in our childhood, apart from each other, that he takes what he wants with greedy hands, and even I have difficulty keeping him under control.’

  ‘Lord Ambrosius, Prince Uther is my . . .’

  ‘No, Myrddion, you have to understand. Uther can be a great man. He has the capacity to lead the tribal kings to victory, even more ably than I ever could. But he could also become a monster without a calm and reasonable voice that would warn him of pitfalls placed in his path.’

  ‘Let’s hope that you live for a very long time,’ Myrddion replied, attempting to display a jollity he didn’t feel.

  ‘Don’t treat me like a child, healer, for a good king plans for every contingency. Uther is my beloved brother and heir, but there is a dark space within him that the throne will set free. You must stay with him, whatever the cost. You must guide him into safe channels of action in order to hold the accord together. But most important of all, you must ensure he begets an heir.’

  Myrddion’s jaw dropped. What did Ambrosius think he could do to sway an elemental force like Uther Pendragon?’

  ‘He would never listen to me,’ he protested. ‘Inevitably, he’d separate my head from my shoulders, for there’s no love lost between us. Even as I try to fulfil my oath to you, I’ll be digging my own grave.’

  Ambrosius managed to chuckle with a rusty, painful humour dredged up from an abused throat and lungs. ‘Not he, Myrddion,’ he croaked. ‘Uther has one great weakness. He loves his brother, so fetch me a scroll and ink. Make sure the pen is sharp and new, as my hand is unsteady. I must set my wishes in Latin so that Uther will be bound by his affection for me, and I will tell him that he is to keep you close to him, for my sake.’

  ‘Lord . . .’ Myrddion began, but he saw the iron in the High King’s eyes and knew that all arguments were fruitless. ‘I’ll send for the scroll and some writing materials.’

  ‘Good. I know the fate I am laying upon you, and I’d not damn you to such a future if I had any choice in the matter.’ Then Ambrosius laughed with a trace of his old gaiety. ‘Perhaps I’m thinking with the superstitions of an old granddam, while I’m fated to live for decades.’

  ‘Aye, lord,’ Myrddion replied cheerfully, and found a servant to obey the High King’s wishes. Something in the nagging, doleful voice in his skull warned him that the horrors of the last twenty-four hours weren’t yet over. Myrddion remembered the owl at sunset in Deva, and shivered as a sudden premonition began to press on his heart.

  Spare me from service to Uther Pendragon, Mother. I fear that he will steal my soul.

  The road to Glastonbury was clearly marked, for untold numbers of pilgrims had made the journey along this path as they sought communion in this special place with its long hierarchy of gods. Once, according to distant memory, Glastonbury had been an island in an inland sea, and several warriors who had been to the ancient sanctuary were eager to show Myrddion petrified shells that they had found and strung on thongs round their necks. Myrddion marvelled at the perfect, stone-like beauty of these small, coiled shells that were near as old as the hills that rose in green mounds around them. Surely the gods had decreed that this strange valley was a sacred place, raised from living waters to praise the various gods who had been worshipped there for years beyond counting.

  Still waxen in colour, Ambrosius had taken to his horse on the second day of the journey, scorning to approach holy Glastonbury like a mendicant on a stretcher.

  ‘I am the High King of the Britons and I’ll come to the bishop as one – on my two good legs.’

  Neither Uther nor Myrddion dared to gainsay him.

&nb
sp; For fear of poison, Ambrosius ate boiled eggs and drank only water and new milk purchased from local peasants and delivered to Ambrosius in Uther’s own hands. On several occasions, Uther milked the cows himself. Myrddion approved of these simple precautions for medical reasons, because Ambrosius was far from well and this simple fare could only be beneficial for him. Myrddion personally boiled all the drinking water and guarded it zealously so that there was no opportunity for malice that could harm his master. But the journey to Glastonbury was slow, and every day on the road increased Myrddion’s forebodings.

  On the eve of their intended arrival at the monastery, disaster stole into the camp and turned their precautions to nothing. In the distance, the tor rose from the valley floor and the stone tower on its crown was an accusatory finger pointing to the gods.

  As had become customary, Myrddion and Uther served all meals to the king. As the cup bearer, Pascent was only permitted to bring the king’s goblet and plate to Myrddion or the prince, while his every movement was watched closely as Ambrosius ate. Pascent dined in the High King’s company, but the steely suspicions of Prince Uther, who harboured serious doubts about the boy, killed the Saxon captive’s appetite. Out of loyalty, Ambrosius still demanded Pascent’s presence whenever they made camp and refused to listen to Uther’s carping. The High King swore that laughter would heal him more quickly than medicine, but Myrddion nursed his own doubts about the young man and watched every move of his deft fingers when he was in Ambrosius’s tent.

  That night, just as Myrddion was sinking into sleep, Botha appeared in his tent and shook him to wakefulness with a rough hand. ‘The High King has taken a turn for the worse. Come quickly, as our lord is like to die.’

  Myrddion snatched up his satchel without pausing to ask questions. In a camp that was suddenly stirring anxiously, he ran between the dying fires on bare feet until he reached Ambrosius’s tent. The scene inside caused his heart to sink.

  Ambrosius had vomited and soiled himself in his extremity. His hands and feet were ice-cold and his circulation was low, and Myrddion could clearly see a frightening blueness in the king’s nails and lips as if his patient was suffering from a disease of the heart.