by M. K. Hume
‘The Vessel of Thor was happy to oblige me at Verulamium, although he never believed you could defeat him. Gods, but I tried to explain to the fool that you have Loki’s own luck, and would see him worm-food before the day was out. The Saxons still don’t understand their enemy. I knew that I had only to wait, protected by my bruises, and I would win back the honour that I once had. And you believed everything I told you because I knew how to act like a lordling.’
‘I was never convinced, you nameless dog,’ Uther snapped, and slapped Pascent with a stinging blow across the mouth. ‘I’ll not use the alias that you took as your own, for I always knew you to be a cuckoo in the nest.’
The blow was not overly heavy, but the young man’s lip split, and he spat a gobbet of blood on to the cloth-covered floor. Then he smiled insolently at Uther with his bleeding mouth, but didn’t deign to answer him. Instead, he turned to face Myrddion with an air of reckless arrogance that entirely changed his countenance.
‘I suffered a moment of doubt when you turned up, healer. I was sure that you’d remember me, but my appearance must have changed in the eight years since we last met.’ Pascent grinned unpleasantly, displaying such triumph that Myrddion longed to emulate Uther and slap the young man’s handsome face. ‘I suppose I was little more than a boy at the time, so I bear you no ill-will for your memory loss. Even though you were a danger to me, I was determined to leave you in peace. After all, it was you who made sure we survived the horrors of Dinas Emrys.’
‘Shite!’ Myrddion swore. ‘I never saw it, fool that I am! You were fourteen, near fifteen, on that terrible night. Have I saved you so you can murder all our hopes? Are you so Saxon that you would destroy half your birthright?’
Uther strode forward and shook Myrddion bodily. The healer’s eyes were filled with tears, as once again he saw the long road that led from one generous action to a terrible outcome. Although Uther shook him until his teeth rattled, Myrddion was lost in the terrible machinations of fate.
A sharp slap bought the healer back to himself. Uther’s hand had left a red imprint across Myrddion’s pale face. ‘Who is he?’ Uther demanded.
‘I have never given a damn about the wars between the Saxons and the Celts,’ the captive snarled, his face twisted into an ugly rictus of hate. ‘I am a little portion of both, so how can I go to war against myself? The only person I ever truly cared about was my mother.’
Myrddion laughed hysterically, and Pascent bowed awkwardly in the healer’s direction, given that his hands were bound. ‘And now you can kill me, for I’ve done what I swore to do in the years before I became a man.’
‘Of course you have,’ Myrddion replied shrilly. ‘How could your honour not insist that you carry out a crime such as this?’ He turned back to Ambrosius, and his eyes were terrible with a dark knowledge.
‘My lord Ambrosius, High King of the west, this young man is Vengis, the eldest son of Vortigern and Rowena, a Saxon woman, who both perished at Dinas Emrys. He has come seeking blood price for the poisoning of his mother.’
CHAPTER XIII
THE KING OF WINTER
We owe respect to the living; to the dead we owe nothing but truth.
Voltaire, Lettres sur Oedipe
The oil lamps flickered in the darkening tent. Storm clouds were gathering, and a mist of rain obscured the sun. As he lay on his soft woollen pillows, Ambrosius’s face was so pale that he already looked like a corpse with his blued lips and haggard face, while the lamplight bleached the gold of his hair to the colour of pale ash. The light cast upwards from the lamp closest to him was reflected in his bloodshot eyes, so that Myrddion could fancy that his master was a reincarnation of Charon, calling for the lost souls he would carry to the Underworld on his time-warped, split and weathered ferry boat.
Uther’s face was obscured by shadow. As if seeking the solace of darkness, he had stepped backward when Myrddion had introduced Vengis, so that his body alone expressed the powerful emotions that caused his huge hands to clench and unclench as he sought for something he could rend and pound into the dust.
At the centre of the lamplight, his chin streaked with blood, Vengis talked and talked. Having hidden behind an affable mask of innocence for long, wearisome months, the young man relished the opportunity to justify his crime, to glory in his vengeance and to boast, like a common felon, about how clever he had been. Guilty and shocked, Myrddion had no choice but to listen.
‘You’ll kill me, or your brother will, once you have taken your last vile breath,’ Vengis stated proudly at Ambrosius’s recumbent form. ‘I have no illusions that my death will be either quick or painless. I could have eaten the pretty flowers in my cap if I had wished to escape the so-called justice of your court, but only a coward tries to escape the outcome that has been hungered for during year after lonely year of exile, as I wandered in the cold north with neither kinfolk nor friends to offer shelter. There is nothing you can do to me that could be as terrible as the years that have passed since the death of my mother at Dinas Emrys.’
‘How did you poison me? I know about the salt, but I doubt that you’ve had any experience as a secret murderer, which probably explains why you botched your first attempt. My brother and my healer took every precaution possible during the journey to Glastonbury.’
Vengis glanced at Myrddion, who returned his gaze and nodded in understanding.
‘You’ve figured it out, Demon Seed, haven’t you? My father used to call you the Black Raven of Cymru, and often said that you were the worthy son of a devil sire. But I never believed him because you tried hard to save my mother’s life. Still, I’ve cursed you often enough on this journey as you blocked my plans at every turn. Loki was laughing in Udgaad and did not see fit to smile upon me until two days ago, at a time when I was almost mad with despair. When I saw the cow in the meadow, the beast was cropping meadow saffron. I couldn’t believe my luck. Of course, I didn’t know whether the beast had been feeding on the plant for hours or days, so I took a few of the flower stems and placed them in my cap, just in case the cow’s milk wasn’t toxic. Uther had no idea what it was, even when he joked that I wore flowers in my cap like a girl. I almost laughed aloud at the dolt, and had to pretend that he had hurt my feelings. It’s easy to see that Prince Uther has never had to work at menial tasks like a beggar, just to prove his loyalty. My brother Katigern and I had to slave for the thane who took us in, for no amount of royal blood compensated for being born the sons of an animal like Vortigern. But the thane did me a favour, as it turned out, for I learned to keep his fine milking cows away from clumps of meadow saffron.’
Vengis paused for a moment as his tongue explored a loosened tooth.
‘Even so, only infants die of the small amounts of poison that are ingested in the milk of a cow.’ Uther’s voice grated like the sound of a whetstone dragged down a pitted blade. ‘At least, that’s what the healer says.’
‘Myrddion is correct . . . as always. But you were all so busy protecting the food the woman-killer ate that no one ever thought to check the cup. You poured the water yourself, Demon Seed. You gave me the means to kill your master and helped me to break the accord of the united kings.’ Vengis giggled childishly, and Myrddion’s blood ran cold.
‘You took some of the stems and the leaves and pulverised them in water,’ Myrddion interrupted. ‘Then you steeped the meadow saffron for as long as you could. Am I correct?’
Vengis nodded.
‘You used an old cup as a container and you’d have tossed it away later, when you eventually found the opportunity. You soaked the liquid up in a scrap of wool or very fine cloth and then put it in your jerkin. You took a great personal risk, Vengis.’
‘There was no risk to me. I only had to wait and act as I always did. I brought you the king’s cup and plate, as was my duty. How easy to wipe them clean and then squeeze the fluid, just a little, into the bottom of the goblet. Neither of you looked. For all your caution, Myrddion Merlinus, you never checked the cup, a
lthough you took it from me and filled it with water. The Gates of Hades were already opening for the High King, and you were still waiting for someone – me – to tamper with the food.’
‘Idiot!’ Uther hissed in Myrddion’s direction.
‘But I gave you the plate, Uther pen nobody. As always, you were ignorant of anything that didn’t involve brute force. A dragon? You? Where was your fabled ability to smell a Saxon, or half of one, anyway? I’d carefully wiped the plate over with my cloth, so it would have seemed very clean. You didn’t even notice what I was doing, and just ordered me away from Ambrosius while he ate off the poisoned plate. Too late! Too late!’
Vengis laughed again and the sound wasn’t quite sane. Myrddion wondered how long the poison of vengeance took to madden even the strongest of men . . . and Vengis was strong with his father’s venom.
‘So do what you wish with me, for I don’t care. If Ambrosius dies, any pain will be worth it. If he lives, my brother will hunt him down once he has risen to the position of thane.’
‘But I didn’t order the death of Rowena,’ Ambrosius whispered, his face genuinely pained. ‘Why did you believe I’d do such a thing?’
Vengis’s eyes opened very wide, as if such a possibility had never occurred to him. Since boyhood, he had nurtured a rumour in his heart, and now to be told it wasn’t true was more than he could accept.
‘You’re lying. My father swore that you had ordered her murder,’ he snarled, his face twisting like that of a child hovering on the point of tears. ‘The servant woman exposed the plot, and she named the traitorous Silure nobleman who was in your pay.’
Myrddion felt sick. He remembered poor Willow, hanging in the executioner’s hands, her neck broken and her body streaked with blood. She would have said anything to satisfy her terrible master, Vortigern, and feed his prejudices to the end. She may even have believed it, for Vortigern had never doubted that Ambrosius was his enemy.
‘So you have decided that the violence will never end, Vengis, as more and more blood price will be demanded until men forget that we ever existed? Must we kill and bleed by turn until the end of time?’
‘Take him away and make very, very sure the bastard is kept safe and well,’ Uther ordered, and the young man was dragged away.
In the silence that followed, Ambrosius searched his brother’s face with a sad, defeated understanding. ‘Did you order the death of Queen Rowena, Uther?’ he asked quietly, one hand outstretched towards his brother, who fell to his knees at the sufferer’s bedside. Uther took the proffered palm and kissed it, while Myrddion felt a wave of shame that he should witness such a private moment.
‘Yes, brother, I did. And in doing so, I’ve caused your death. The Saxon bitch killed Vortimer, who was your ally and our half-brother. While he was a weak man, he was our creature and our blood, so the woman could not be permitted to go unpunished for her crime. I knew you would forbid me to order her assassination, so I didn’t tell you. Her death exposed and maddened Vortigern, as I hoped it would, but I never thought that her sons would live to avenge her. To be honest, I never considered them at all.’
‘What did you think her sons would do?’ Ambrosius whispered with exasperation. ‘Welcome their freedom from their parents? Stay at Dinas Emrys to be murdered by Vortigern’s enemies?’
From the shadows, Myrddion realised that Uther could hardly speak for weeping. His shoulders heaved over his bowed head, which was buried in the pillows beside the High King’s. Ambrosius raised his hand with difficulty and stroked his brother’s wildly curling hair.
‘Don’t weep for what is done, Uther. Please, no guilt or shame should attach to you, for the goddess Fortuna has decided that the skein of my life must be shortened. Simply promise, in reparation, that you will obey my instructions in the scroll I have given to Botha. I will hold you to it from beyond the grave.’
Touched by Ambrosius’s greatness of heart and sickened by the cosmic joke that the gods had played on them all, Myrddion left the tent to await the return of Botha with a priest. He prayed that they would be quick.
A dark noon had given way to a stormy afternoon when two tired horses splashed their way into the camp in the teeth of driving rain. Scorning the violence of the elements, Botha wore his usual serviceable cloak, while his plaits streamed behind him in the wild, wind-torn air as he dragged his exhausted horse to a halt. By comparison, the cowled figure who sat astride a smaller horse was a compact figure muffled against the storm. As Myrddion raised a hand to assist the man to dismount, he was surprised to feel hard muscle through the coarse homespun of cloak and robe. A square, muscular hand with beautiful fingers gripped Myrddion’s forearm.
‘Thank you, my son. May the Lord protect us poor sinners during this sad time. Does the High King still live?’
‘Aye, lord. But he is failing, and I have neither the knowledge nor the potions to save him. I can only ease his pain.’
‘I am no lord, young man, only a humble priest of the high God.’ The priest’s hand, unadorned but for a worn thumb ring of orange gold, raised the cowl to reveal a face so Roman and so pure in its features that Myrddion could almost smell the scent of oranges and taste the light patina of dust raised by thousands of hurrying feet in the subura. Once again, he remembered the sun that had warmed him to the bone when he had served the sick and dying among the Seven Hills of Rome.
A pair of warm brown eyes looked through Myrddion, and the healer fancied that the priest saw every weakness and sin that marked his soul. The man had shaved his head in the Aryan tonsure but his remaining hair, cut militarily short, was raven black and frosted with grey. Feeling unsettled and superstitious, a condition he found disconcerting, the healer led the way into the tent of the High King, where Uther still crouched on the floor beside his brother. Myrddion turned away so he would not shame the prince by seeing his soundless tears.
‘I have come, my lord, to give you the consolation of our Master who promises you rest after all your struggles.’
Uther looked up, having dragged one forearm over his streaming face so he could examine the priest with dry eyes. Carefully, the Roman removed his sopping cloak to reveal a satchel, much like Myrddion’s own, slung over one shoulder. From it the priest took out a narrow length of fine cloth decorated with gilt, which he kissed reverently before placing it around his damp shoulders. Then he retrieved a small vial of oil and a golden cross rich with coloured cabochon gems that danced in the lamplight.
For the first time, Myrddion saw and heard the ritual of Extreme Unction, as Ambrosius bared his soul in confession in a faltering, thready voice. He would have left the tent, but Ambrosius became so distressed that Uther ordered him to remain. Like a long, slow wave of music, the Latin ritual lifted the gloom that hovered over the bed and the dying man who lay so still upon it, transfiguring the leather tent into a place of light and hope. Myrddion was almost swept away by the beauty of the prayers for Ambrosius’s soul, spoken in a Latin so pure that the healer wondered what gens had fathered such an extraordinary man.
‘You may sleep now, lord king, in the knowledge that my Master, Jesus of Nazareth, will take your hand and lead you into the presence of God. All your trials are over and you can, at last, rest in joy and peace.’
‘What is your name, priest?’ Uther asked with uncharacteristic humility.
‘I am Lucius, father of the flock of Glastonbury and a poor penitent.’
‘You are Roman,’ Ambrosius whispered, each word dragged out of him by the fierce will that forced his heart to beat.
‘I was Roman, but now I am nothing but the instrument of my God,’ Lucius replied, and stepped back from the king’s bed.
‘You must swear to obey my . . . wishes in the scrolls, Uther.’
‘I swear . . . but you don’t have to leave me. Fight to live! Don’t give up! We have always been together, brother, so what use is a crown to me if you are dead?’
‘Hush, Uther. All my hopes are in your hands now and you must do what has
to be done.’ Ambrosius slowly turned his gaze towards his healer, narrowing his eyes in the failing light. ‘Myrddion Merlinus? I hold you to your oath . . . and beg that you care for Andrewina Ruadh. I ask also that you remember me when the kings meet at Deva . . . I swear, that day was . . .’
Then the king’s breath stopped. His chest laboured to expand and contract as his eyes rolled backward in his head and his body stiffened. Then, as Lucius moved forward and stroked the waxen forehead, the body of the High King slowly relaxed, took another breath . . . then another . . . and, suddenly, the tent was utterly silent.
Myrddion turned away so he would not dishonour his king by weeping. Lucius placed one comforting hand upon his slumped shoulder and ushered him out of the quiet tent, now empty of the personality that had saved a kingdom.
In the icy, driving rain, the healer turned his face up to the black sky and wept unashamedly. No moon could pierce the heavy cloud cover, and Myrddion wondered if the sun would ever shine again. The sun king had ruled in the summer of their hopes, and as the cold winds had come after his great triumph at Deva his spirit had been stolen away.
‘What will we do without him?’ Myrddion spoke softly to the priest. ‘We are lost, and the isles of Britain will surely fall to the Saxons in time. Ambrosius was the best Roman I ever knew and he loved this land with his whole heart.’
Beside him, Lucius of Glastonbury stood like a bulwark against the gusting wind. His robe was plastered against his body, revealing a physique that had been shaped by hard, unrelenting work. When he spoke, his voice rose over the persistent howling of the storm.
‘But Ambrosius was also a Briton. He was born here, and he dreamed throughout his long exile of his desire to return. What else matters? Your friend is at rest now, Myrddion Merlinus. If you choose to weep, then do so for yourself, for I fear the days ahead will be harsh for men of goodwill.’ He dropped his voice so that only the healer could hear him. ‘The king of winter has come.’
