by M. K. Hume
Myrddion’s brows contracted for a moment at Uther’s casual insult to Llanwith by naming Ulfin, a simple warrior, before the prince. Unfortunately, Uther would never recognise his insults for what they were. The new king would always be careless of the feelings of others and now, as his thirty-eighth year approached, he would never change.
They strode past the chalk circles cut into the emerald green sod, shocking in their pristine white contrast. They moved through the small bluestone circle where the stones were the size of a small man and entered the last great circle. The grey sky spun dizzily as Myrddion turned to take in the whole magnificence of the Giant’s Carol.
The stone uprights were roughly chopped out of living rock, and were three times the height of a man. Atop these vast irregular monoliths rested precariously laid, flatter stones that, if they could be seen from above, formed a huge circle. Myrddion’s brain struggled to fathom how these gigantic blocks of rock could have been levered into position by human hands.
‘How did they build this structure?’ Uther asked, his voice hushed with awe. ‘How could these stones have been caused to fly into position?’
‘Legend tells us that Myrddion, the Lord of Light for whom I am named, set these stones in place at the beginning of recorded time. I cannot say how the circle was built, Lord Uther, for only a god could lift their vast weight. The legends also tell us that they were moved here from a spot many leagues away in the mountains of Cymru.’
Within the circle, even larger groups of uprights capped with other cyclopean stones formed a rough horseshoe. Here lay a large, almost flat monolith that looked like an altar that had been cast down by a giant. Around the altar, the circle danced and spun.
Off centre, a tower of wood rose high above the massive trilithons and dwarfed even their huge, grey mass. Using horses, ropes, levers and the cracking muscles of warriors and peasants, whole logs were being raised towards the heavens. Llanwith balanced himself precariously and shouted instructions as another log cut roughly to size was hauled up, spinning crazily, by the use of a framework of timber and ropes. Other sturdy men stood with Llanwith as they waited to manoeuvre each log into position.
King and healer watched the process, which seemed simple from below yet was fraught with danger above. Once Llanwith was satisfied that the log was in place, he shouted at Ulfin to take his place and climbed gingerly down the tall pyre to bow deeply to the new king.
‘Is the pyre almost finished, Llanwith?’ Uther demanded, squinting as the sun burned into his eyes from just above the horizon.
‘There’s one more log to place in a locking position. That will secure the whole construction and the platform can be winched up to the very top of the pyre,’ Llanwith replied, wiping his streaming forehead with his arm. ‘The work’s gone well for such a massive pyre, although five men have been killed and a score have been injured. We could have used your expertise if you had been here when the accidents happened, Myrddion, for we had no idea how to treat crush injuries.’
Myrddion would have hurried off to treat the poor souls who had been injured had Llanwith not detained him. ‘The wounded and the dead have been sent back to their families. No stain of blood or pain should be permitted to mar the pyre of King Ambrosius.’
For the next two days, while the tribal kings gathered, Myrddion concentrated on preparing for the rite of cremation, including shrouding the corpse in the finest cloth that Uther possessed. This task was unpleasant, for Ambrosius had been dead for many days, and although the weather was not warm the body was waxen, livid and very unlike the living, breathing Ambrosius. Myrddion used precious oils which Uther had received as a funeral gift from Gorlois to sweeten the cadaver and drive away the worst of the distinctive reek of corrupted flesh.
The days had shortened with the approach of winter, and Uther decreed that the ceremony should be conducted just before nightfall. Those kings in attendance would be invited to attend Uther’s coronation as his guests, as he could offer no hospitality at the Giant’s Carol. Myrddion admired the decision, reinforcing as it did the perception that the new king was smoothly assuming his brother’s throne.
Most of the kings came, except for those beyond the wall who had sent couriers to express their shock and sympathy at the murder of Ambrosius Imperator and make excuses for their nonattendance.
‘Words are cheap,’ Uther said curtly. ‘Provide me with a list of those kings who are not present. I will be particularly diligent in ensuring that their tributes are paid on time.’
A fitful sun broke through the thick cloud cover as the kings, their retinues and an unusually large number of common citizens and peasants gathered at the great monument. The stiff wind that had howled across the great plain all day had finally dropped, which the kings took as a sign of the gods’ approval. Ambrosius’s body had been placed atop the great tower of wood, which had been drenched with oil on the lower tiers to ensure that the wood would burn fiercely. The kings had tokens of their fealty such as precious oils, sheaves of grain, garlands of flowers and boughs of fruit trees with the mature fruit still on them, and these were placed between the logs along with the villagers’ gifts.
The crowd was hushed, and Myrddion mounted the altar stone so all those present could see and hear him.
‘Hail, lords of the west. My master, Prince Uther, who will be crowned before you at Venta Belgarum, wishes you to attest to his judgment of the murderer of Ambrosius Imperator. Hail, Uther, lord of the west.’
Recognising their cue, Uther’s guard roared out, ‘Hail, Uther, lord of the west!’ a salutation which the kings were forced to follow.
Uther had dressed with care. Over his usual snowy tunic and purple-edged cloak, he had flung a wolf pelt that added a violent edge to his conservative dress. Unlike his brother, who had shunned decoration, Uther wore arm-rings of gold, several rings on his fingers, a golden band across his forehead indicating his status and a huge round pin to hold the wolf pelt in place. The heavy gems, the fur, his exuberant hair and his great height suggested barbaric magnificence with a warning of menace.
‘King of the Britons,’ Uther Pendragon roared. ‘Behold the man who slew our high king – not face to face like a warrior, but like a thief in the night – with poison. His name is Vengis and he is the eldest son of the Regicide, Vortigern, and his Saxon woman. This creature has betrayed his birth and served the interests of our enemies. He confessed his vile crimes against us to Ambrosius himself, in our presence, before the High King died. The men who will now stand before you heard that confession. Stand forth!’
Myrddion, Llanwith and the three warriors who had been guarding the assassin stepped forward and swore to the truth of Uther’s assertions. Then Myrddion told the assembly that he had recognised Vengis at the very last, and described the night of Vortigern’s death and his sons’ flight into the Saxon camps. The crowd growled sullenly.
‘I demand death for this traitor who preyed upon the generosity of Ambrosius, and then struck at the heart of the man who loved him,’ Uther howled. His repressed rage poured forth like hot ash and the kings trembled at his passion. ‘I demand your permission to burn him with his victim.’
Vengis was dragged forward.
His face was bleeding, as were his feet from the cruel stones of the road, and his mouth leaked a trail of blood. Uther had ordered that the murderer’s tongue be cut out so that the reasons for his crime could not be spoken. The killer was making a valiant attempt to be brave, but no man can face the pain of burning with equanimity.
‘Aye,’ Gorlois of Cornwall shouted, remembering the wisdom and generosity displayed by Ambrosius.
‘Aye,’ shouted the kings, one by one, and the young man’s bladder voided in terror.
At a nod from Uther, Vengis was dragged halfway up the pyre and bound to the logs with his arms and legs spread wide. Myrddion followed and pretended to test the bonds while he held grimly to the log structure with one arm, trying not to think about the long fall to the hard earth if h
is grip should fail.
The young man’s eyes were wild with terror and pain as Myrddion thrust Vengis’s own scrap of rag into his mouth. From below, Uther watched with a grin of approval, as if this final humiliation was a just punishment.
‘Swallow the fluid that is soaked into the cloth, Vengis,’ Myrddion hissed into his ear. ‘It has the juice of the poppy in it, and you’ll not feel the flames if you do as I say. I am betraying my new master by offering you mercy, but the choice is ultimately yours. You may spit out the cloth if you wish, but I have assuaged my conscience by offering you an anodyne.’
Then Myrddion climbed down to stand behind the kings, who gradually became silent as the light faded.
In the stillness, Myrddion could hear his heartbeats, like hammer blows, as he watched Vengis. The lad had not spat out the drug-soaked rag. Myrddion prayed that he would not lose consciousness before Uther lit the fire, for then his traitorous mercy might be suspected.
Fortunately, Uther was impatient to taste his revenge. With due ceremony, he used a long torch to light the four corners of the pyre, and as the light finally fled the sky the wood on the lowest levels began to catch, fuelled by the gifts from commoners and kings. With a great rush of heat, the tower began to burn fiercely as flame and smoke reached upward and obscured Vengis’s bound form. At the top, the white-shrouded figure of the High King seemed to twist in the shimmer of heat.
Ah, Ambrosius! You would have killed Vengis cleanly if you were here, for you would have understood his pain. I hope you are not offended by my intervention. Myrddion’s thoughts rose with the howling flames, and for a moment he saw Vengis’s face, head thrown back and bloody mouth gaping open. But the poppy had done its work and the blue eyes, so like those of his victim, were closed and blinded.
The pyre could be seen for many miles and men would later remember the pillar of flame that climbed into the night sky like a promise of the doom to come. Years later, they would remember Ambrosius’s death as the beginning of the west’s troubles, and curse Vengis and his line for ever.
But such anger was in the future. That night, as ash and cinders swirled through the Giant’s Carol, the kings imagined that the stones came to life and danced once again. They went to their tents in superstitious awe, while the smell of burning flesh pursued them into sleep.
Only Myrddion and Uther, flanked by Botha and Ulfin, remained awake as the pyre collapsed inward with a great whoosh of ash and charred wood. As Uther exulted in the carnage, Myrddion wept and remembered the kindness of Ambrosius’s blue eyes.
Shortly afterwards, the cold rain came, stinging their exposed flesh and driving them back to their tents. The night was washed clean so that, in the cold morning, only ash and a burned section of sod remained to remind Myrddion that Ambrosius had ever lived at all.
DISPOSITION OF CELTIC FORCES SOUTH OF CALCARIA
CHAPTER XIV
THE DOGS OF WAR
For all men kill the thing they love.
Oscar Wilde, The Ballad of Reading Gaol
More than two years later, Myrddion stared out at a silver web of marshes edging a long, slow river that led to Calcaria in the north, and as he stared at the detritus of battle he felt the deaths of a multitude of men press down upon his heart. The shallow slick of the marsh was red with the last dregs of the sun in a dusk that seemed interminable. Hours had passed since the Saxons had been driven into the river with a profligate waste of life. Cadoc and two younger healers were still wading through the foot-deep mud and rushes as they searched for any warriors who might have survived the battle, although Myrddion had little hope that the fierce fighting had left many men alive. The long half-light of summer seemed so peaceful in this landscape of nodding bulrushes and strange flowering plants that lived between earth and deep water, while insects still hummed and darted in the last of the light. The healer felt the mud grate under the soles of his boots and stared into the flags of daylight with eyes that were tired and dispirited.
The years in Uther’s service had been so very, very hard.
‘Hold him!’ Cadoc shouted abruptly. ‘In the name of all things good, pack the wound with mud, anything, until our master can treat him on the table. You!’ he roared, as he pointed to two warriors calmly splashing towards the higher ground. ‘Move your lazy arses and help us with this man. He’s still alive.’
When will this ordeal be over, Mother? Myrddion asked quietly while he dragged his feet out of the sucking mud with a weary surge of energy. While he wasted his time daydreaming about horrors, a man was lying, sorely wounded, who needed his assistance.
The two warriors grumbled all the way to the healers’ tents. The filthy scarecrow they carried between them was unrecognisable as either Saxon or Briton, for the slurry of blood and mud that caked his hair and blurred his features was so thick that he looked more like an earth golem than a man. Only his smallish stature pointed to the likelihood that he was a friend who had remained alive in a marsh full of dead men, one of the few who had struggled to reach the higher ground and the deep woods that hid Uther’s encampment and masked his numbers.
‘Be quick!’ Myrddion summoned his flagging will and forced the two warriors onward while Cadoc and his companions continued to search for the last of the survivors. ‘I’ll be damned if I’ll let him die after surviving this long in that stinking shit.’
Andrewina Ruadh had come running with Rhedyn on her heels. Slower because of his crutch, crippled Dyfri followed, and all three stared at Myrddion in surprise. They were unused to his cursing, and were equally perplexed by his distracted, irritated expression. Over this last summer their master had become increasingly silent, so that even the irrepressible Cadoc had been unable to lift his spirits or make him smile.
‘Summon bearers to take him to the surgery. These dolts will kill him if they continue to carry him like a sack of old turnips.’
Two men materialised out of the nearest tent and ran to obey their master’s orders. Indifferent to the blood and caked filth that stained their clean robes, they carefully carried the wounded warrior to the hospital tent.
‘I need hot and warm water, clean cloths, and something to cut these rags off his body,’ Myrddion ordered, struggling to regain his usual crisp decisiveness. He stripped off his own mud-fouled tunic and sluiced his body with river water, wincing at the sudden chill against his goose-pimpled skin. Andrewina Ruadh, who was now simply known as Ruadh, handed him a length of old linen which he used to dry his torso. Then he donned his leather apron, which the women had cleaned since the bloodbath of surgery had finished in the middle hours of the afternoon.
‘My thanks, Ruadh,’ he whispered before turning to the other woman. ‘Rhedyn – lay out my tools without touching the blades.’ He felt the older woman stiffen, so he tried to smile in apology, although the muscles of his face felt stiff and unnatural. ‘I’m sorry, Rhedyn. I know you’d never do such a thing. I’m just tired.’
‘It’s been a long day, master,’ Rhedyn replied softly, accepting his apology. Her plain face and grey hair showed the marks of her hard labour as his assistant, but her eyes were clear and content. She had put aside the ugly and dangerous status of camp follower when she had first decided to follow the boy healer who treated her like a person of value. Now, eleven years later, she had travelled the world and gained an extended family of the heart, so she worshipped the man who had given her respect and purpose. But now she was worried about him, so she gave him little pats and caresses as she helped him to tie back his long hair.
Before lifting the wounded man on to the surgical table, the bearers lowered him gently on a length of oilskin outside the tent and carefully removed his leathers and armour. What could not be unlaced was cut away with old scalpels, until some tanned flesh was exposed to permit Myrddion’s careful examination.
The warrior was powerfully built with long, whipcord muscles that indicated stamina, and Myrddion deduced that he was probably a cavalryman judging by the calluses on his hands. The bat
tle had been fought on foot, for horses were useless in this landscape of mud and forest.
But who or what the survivor was would be immaterial if he died.
Ruadh handed him a large bowl of warm water and a precious piece of sea sponge which he used to sluice the body as clean as possible. Working in tandem with her master, Ruadh used cloth to dry the cleansed areas of skin as quickly as possible, paying particular attention to the man’s face and his flaccid penis. When Myrddion raised one eyebrow at her, Ruadh coloured and explained that men cared about their manhood only fractionally less than their honour.
Myrddion laughed naturally for the first time that day, and Ruadh congratulated herself silently for giving a man she loved so much a moment’s respite from his black moods.
Now that his patient’s face was clean, Myrddion recognised one of Uther’s strongest and most vocal allies.
‘It’s Prince Luka of the Brigante, Ruadh. We must save him if we can. Fetch Dyfri and ask him to prepare stimulants – the man’s lost too much blood.’
Luka’s initial wound appeared to have been a deep puncture in the shoulder which had obviously not totally incapacitated the hard-bitten warrior. But it must have slowed him down, as a number of cuts and slashes across his forearms, hands and knuckles showed he had narrowly avoided killing blows. The real damage had been done by a blunt instrument that had struck him on the forehead. Myrddion gently pressed his fingers round the ugly, odd-shaped bruise and was concerned when he sensed a faint irregularity in the skull. Brain fever killed slowly but inexorably, so Myrddion checked the back of the head, the ears and the mouth with great care.
‘Why do you always check the side of the skull opposite to the wound, master?’ Ruadh asked as she helped a bearer to lift Luka’s unconscious body on to the battlefield table.
‘I have observed that there is often damage to the brain on the opposite side of the skull to where the initial blow fell. I’ve seen it many times when the bone has been breached and the patient has unexpectedly died. In the past, I have occasionally carried out a post-mortem examination on the skulls of such patients.’
