Prophecy: Web of Deceit (Prophecy 3)

by M. K. Hume

  ‘Are you well, lord? Let me see your hands in case you’ve suffered some hurt.’

  ‘Stay away, damn you! If I’d wanted you, I’d have called for you.’

  Uther’s voice was hoarse and ragged with the last traces of an explosion of temper. The king plunged his hands into a basin of water and Myrddion watched the liquid darken in the dim light. Without being told, the healer knew that the stain would glow red in the lamplight.

  Shite, what has Uther done? Which poor soul has he harmed this time? Myrddion’s thoughts chased themselves in circles. Cadoc’s comforting presence at his back awoke the healer to another danger. His colleague would not survive knowledge of any misdeeds committed by the king.

  I must get him out of here without alerting him any further than he already is. Gruffly, Myrddion ordered his assistant out of the tent, and when his friend opened his mouth to protest his temper began to fray and his voice became unusually curt.

  ‘Wait outside for me, I said,’ he hissed. ‘Don’t argue, for I’m trying to protect you! And ask Botha to come in.’

  Without another word, but with a glance that spoke volumes, Cadoc left the tent.

  As Botha entered the tent with downcast eyes, Myrddion turned back to the king. ‘You have blood on your arm, my lord. Show me the wound so I can assess the harm that has been done to you. Tell Botha to summon the guard. If an assassin is on the loose, we can’t afford another murder. The realm wouldn’t survive the instability that would arise were you to die.’

  ‘Stay where you are, fool. I’m not bleeding. The bitch bit me, but it’s of no account.’

  Shite! The curse skidded through Myrddion’s brain and his unwilling eyes scanned the tent for Uther’s woman. A small heap lay under a blanket in the darkest corner of the tent, and Myrddion felt his gorge rise.

  ‘Botha?’ Myrddion whispered as he turned his back on the king and picked his way through scattered and broken furniture towards the still form under the coarse wool. The tiny figure seemed smaller than a child, while a spreading black stain, darker than the shadows, seeped into the blanket.

  Botha didn’t need any prompting. With a careful hand, he flicked the covering aside and stepped backward with a slow sigh. Practical to the end, he turned, approached Uther and helped him to remove a fine linen shirt that was spattered with blood, bundled it into a ball and disappeared out of the tent without a backward glance.

  While Uther dressed himself with something approaching good humour, Myrddion knelt beside the small woman. Her long black hair was thick with blood, which still seeped sluggishly out of deep wounds on her forehead. There were indentations in her skull and shattered bones in her forearms and hands. As Myrddion pulled the blanket down lower, he saw that her small pert face was misshapen and swollen, as if she had been badly beaten. Her eyes were wide and gazed out at something very far away that no mortal would ever see until the shades came for him with flowers or whips of fire.

  ‘There, there, little one,’ Myrddion whispered as he stroked her bloody, broken palm where fine bones had pierced the skin, careless of her caking blood as it transferred to his hand. Although his fingers were sticky, he still felt for the large vein in her neck. He knew he would find no pulse, for he was certain that no life remained in the boneless, slack-mouthed little creature. The stink of urine and faeces almost overpowered the reek of blood.

  Beside the body, a heavy pottery flagon lay in pieces as if it had been dropped by careless fingers. The coarse shards were stained with blood and lees of red wine had soaked into the sod.

  ‘Is she dead?’ Uther asked conversationally, pouring himself a cup of wine. His voice was quite calm, almost jovial, as he picked up his chair, uttering a mild oath when he felt the blood on it. Casually, he wiped his soiled hand on his tunic. ‘She’s more of a problem dead than alive. Gods, that girl would try the patience of one of the Christian saints, and she could nag a man to his death.’

  ‘Her death, certainly, my king.’ Although Myrddion had tried hard to strip his voice of any censure, he knew he had failed. Uther looked up at him with narrowed eyes from under his golden eyebrows.

  ‘It’s not your place to comment on what I do with my property, healer. Moderate your tone or get out! Since you’ve meddled in my business, I’d prefer that you were of some assistance, but I can easily dispense with your services.’

  The smile on Uther’s lips was particularly lupine, almost well fed, as if the frustrations of the previous day’s battle had been exorcised.

  ‘Where is Botha when I need him? This tent is a pigsty, and something has to be done with that before it starts to stink up my space. Shite . . . and now her father will be annoyed, I suppose. I knew that his plan to foist his daughter upon me was a mistake all round, so I don’t see how he can legitimately complain. She was a pretty little thing, but she had no more sense than a child.’

  ‘Who is her father, lord?’ Myrddion asked with a sinking feeling in his gut. He was sickeningly aware that the High King was beyond his control, and all he could do was try to protect him from the consequences of his actions. But, under his urgency, Myrddion wanted to scream and sob with a revulsion that was soul deep.

  ‘What am I doing? Mother . . . Ambrosius . . . how could you ask this of me?’

  ‘Her name was Carys,’ Uther replied sourly. ‘But she wasn’t as easy to love as her name promised.’ He glared at Myrddion. ‘Where the hell is Botha? I’m hungry, but first I want this mess cleaned up.’

  ‘Who is Carys’s father, lord?’ Myrddion repeated gently, and despite the depth of his despair his voice adopted the practised, soothing tones that he used to quieten badly injured patients.

  ‘He’s Calgacus minor, the son of Calgacus major, the king of the Novantae tribe. He’s a pompous idiot who sets great store by an ancestor who resisted the Roman advance into the north at the Battle of Mons Graupius, centuries ago. He says his ridiculous name means sword wielder or something equally grandiose,’ Uther was explaining as Botha re-entered the tent.

  ‘At last, Botha! Where have you been all this time? I’m hungry.’

  ‘Burning your shirt, master.’ Botha managed to look stern, self-effacing, disapproving and obedient at the same time. ‘I presumed you didn’t want the world and his wife to know what happened to your woman?’

  ‘No, damn your eyes! I don’t want the Novantae to pull out of the accord, but I really don’t see what Calgacus expected to happen when he foisted his idiot daughter and her servants on my house.’ Uther looked irritably at his hands and picked at some dried blood under his nails. Myrddion took some heart from the king’s attempt at justification, although his excuses were half-hearted. Then, as he watched, the healer saw Uther’s face change as a sudden thought struck him. ‘I’d forgotten about that gaggle of women she takes with her everywhere she goes. They’re aware that Carys was with me.’

  ‘Calgacus minor must be convinced that his daughter was slain by Saxons,’ Myrddion mumbled in a voice that seemed to come from some hollow place in his soul. ‘The tribes between the walls are vital to your plans, my king, unless you wish to spend every spring and summer fighting in the north. Why in the name of everything holy did you kill her?’

  Botha took the bowl of bloody water and the stained cloth and disappeared, to be replaced by Ulfin, who took in the situation at a single glance. Myrddion’s stomach threatened to empty at the bland look in the warrior’s eyes.

  ‘The silly bitch complained that the ring I gave her was paltry,’ Uther muttered. ‘She said she was with child, so I should marry her and produce a legitimate heir. I don’t have the time for such nonsense, and I don’t want a snotty brat trailing around my palace at Venta Belgarum. Look at what Vortimer tried to do to his father. Brats grow up and threaten their sire’s safety, so I’ll have no doubtful heirs waiting to sever my windpipe when I’m not looking. Shite, any peasant bitch knows how to rid herself of an unwanted embarrassment, but Carys went on and on about the hero she carried in her womb. I will no
t tolerate a pregnant bitch making claims on me. Her father would get thoughts above his station – and nobody tells me what to do. I didn’t hit her hard at first, but then I lost my temper when she threatened to complain to him.’

  Two dead if the child is included, Myrddion thought morosely. No wonder the poor little thing was curled up – it was to protect the babe in her belly.

  ‘What did she expect when she tried to coerce me? Her death is her own fault,’ Uther continued petulantly, as if Carys’s ugly murder were an inexcusable inconvenience embarked upon solely to upset her master and king. To his everlasting shame, Myrddion said nothing.

  ‘Ulfin, take Carys’s maidservants to a place near the Saxon dead and ensure that they have a nasty accident. Kill some horses if you need to and use a couple of Saxon bodies to give credence to the tale.’ Uther paced as his mind worked swiftly. ‘And put a few bodies from our own dead with them, cleaned up and armoured. With luck, it will look as if the women were captured and good Celts died trying to rescue them. Do you have any problems with obeying my orders, Ulfin?’

  Ulfin shook his head without any visible signs of concern, while Myrddion wondered if he would have time to warn the unfortunate young women before the warrior organised their execution. Many mothers north of the wall would weep if Uther had his way.

  ‘Don’t even think about it, Myrddion,’ Uther snapped as he recognised the desperate plan written on the healer’s face. ‘If your honour pains you, do what Botha does and refuse to dwell on any orders that compromise you. I value Botha a damned sight more than I care about you, so I accept his squeamishness. But not yours! Your task is to clean her up, stitch her into a shroud and organise a wagon to return her body to her father with a long letter of explanation. I’ll leave it to you to word the message in such a way as to cement Calgacus’s loyalty to me while inflaming the anger of his warriors. I can already tell that her sacrifice is going to be very useful to me, now that she’s safely dead and I’ve had a chance to think about it.’

  With shaking knees and nauseated by his complicity, Myrddion wrapped the childlike figure into the blanket once more. Uther was so cold and so calculating in his brutality that his murderous plan would probably succeed. After all, what could Calgacus do, so far from the place of his daughter’s death? And who would dare to call the High King of the Britons a liar?

  ‘Her body should remain here until your troops find the bodies of her maidservants. People will talk if I carry her corpse to the healers’ tent now.’

  ‘That’s the spirit, Myrddion. Now you can get on with your tasks. I’ll send her body before cockcrow, by which time my warriors will have discovered the atrocity. Be sure to show the necessary shock and outrage! Oh, and one other matter comes to mind. I want my ring returned before her body stiffens.’

  Gulping as he tried not to vomit, Myrddion eased a large freshwater pearl off the dead girl’s middle finger. When he handed it to Uther, the king put the jewel on his little finger, admired it for a brief moment, and then dropped it into a casket which he secreted in his scroll case.

  ‘Now get out, and do something to clean up that cowardly face of yours. You’ll set my guard to talking if you can’t control yourself. Anyone would think you’d never seen a little blood before.’

  Back at the healers’ tent, Myrddion drank two goblets of powerful Hispanic wine and ordered Cadoc to wake him before dawn. Aghast at his master’s ashen appearance, Cadoc would have asked awkward questions, but Myrddion pleaded exhaustion and fell on to his pallet fully clothed and gritty with mud. When he finally fell asleep, Ruadh carefully removed his boots.

  Waking was agony, Myrddion decided as Cadoc roused him by shaking his shoulder. The face of his assistant was perplexed, unsettled and suspicious. ‘What’s amiss, Cadoc? I can tell you’re bursting with information.’

  ‘Apparently the High King’s woman and her servants were stolen by a band of Saxons at dead of night, although how they pierced the defences beggars the imagination. Uther sent out troops to find them and a skirmish followed, during which the women were murdered by the Saxons. All the Saxons were killed.’

  Myrddion turned his face into his pillow and tried not to cry with shame and chagrin.

  ‘I hope this news is only a rumour, Cadoc. I’d not wish such a fate on gently raised young women.’

  ‘It’s not a rumour, master. Their corpses have been retrieved and the body of Uther’s lover has been sent to our women to be cleansed, stitched into a shroud and sent back to her father by wagon.’

  Unwillingly, Myrddion struggled to his feet and searched for his boots. ‘I’d best help Ruadh, Brangaine and Rhedyn complete the rituals. We will pray to the Mother for them.’ Somehow, Myrddion couldn’t force himself to meet Cadoc’s honest eyes.

  ‘Well, master, here’s the strange thing. I saw the dead warriors when they were brought into camp slung over the backs of their horses. Shite, Myrddion, I’d swear that I treated one of these men yesterday and he died before my eyes. Something’s going on, master, and I’m not a fool.’

  Myrddion hung his head with shame. ‘Say nothing, Cadoc, if your value your life. I beg you, stay clear of this whole mess and keep as far away from Uther Pendragon as you can. I’ll do everything that is necessary.’

  The healer would have brushed past his friend but Cadoc moved to bar his way. ‘You can’t protect me for ever, lord. I know that Uther killed that woman, and then set up this charade to hide his guilt.’ Cadoc lowered his hands on to Myrddion’s shoulders and forced him to meet his eyes. ‘And you knew, didn’t you, master? How could you protect such a man?’

  Myrddion wished he had time for the luxury of tears, but he had a scroll to write to preserve Ambrosius’s dream. ‘Unfortunately, I am oath-bound to both Ambrosius and Uther. I don’t expect you to understand, because I can’t make sense of it myself. At this moment, I would prefer to be blind so that I couldn’t see what I am forced to do. But I’m not, and my oaths compel me to comply with Uther’s demands. I wish I was anywhere but here, even back in Rome where my hands and my soul were still clean.’

  With a pang, Myrddion longed for the calm, pragmatic presence of Praxiteles, whose age and intelligence would have provided some comfort. Cadoc had been too faithful and too true to be soiled by this dishonour.

  Cadoc dropped his hands and lowered his eyes. ‘That oath will be the end of you, master. I will keep my mouth shut, but not to save my own neck – only to spare you pain. Please, master, you must avoid that man whenever you can.’

  ‘I wish I could, but he won’t let me.’ Myrddion’s anguished cry begged Cadoc to understand the trap that was closed around the healer’s neck. These was no going back.

  As the sun rose redly over the marshes and carrion birds flapped from corpse to corpse, Myrdion sat at a camp table and wrote a hasty scroll which would be sealed with Uther’s intaglio ring. The lie came easily to his pen, probably because no one in the north would ever read it other than a scribe or a priest, and they would be obligated to repeat the falsehood word for word, regardless of what they might believe. In this case, Myrddion was confident the Novantae king would accept his explanation. Further, to reinforce the words on the scroll and to ensure the message reached the Novantae intact, a courier would be required to recite its contents as well.

  So, in Britain, an inability to read or write was no drawback for a king.

  ‘Calgacus minor was a fool,’ the healer whispered softly. ‘A daughter should not be risked so that a parent can secure preferment. I wonder if Calgacus will weep for Carys, or is she just a lost opportunity to further his ambition?’ Myrddion realised that he was talking to himself, and unwisely at that. Perhaps I’m a little mad, he thought, and stared out over the land as he tried to reach the calm centre that lived within his spirit.

  At first, all he could see in the new morning was a vista of carrion birds, several wild dogs and the mud-coloured bodies that barely disturbed the nodding heads of the reeds. But then he raised his eyes above
the swamps and beyond the river and saw fields laid out like a flat green carpet, broken by glints of distant water that spoke eloquently of rich pastures and smallholdings in Saxon hands.

  ‘I can’t bring myself to hate Hengist’s kin,’ he whispered again. ‘I wish them gone, perhaps, but the kind of loathing that Uther feels for them is so . . . so pointless and destructive.’

  Those distant lands were a wide green sea, and Myrddion fancied that if he had the strong wings of his namesake, the merlin, he would be able to view the flat grey sea beyond. Neither ocean nor land cared if he suffered, or if Uther was a dark and twisted monster under his tall, handsome form. The peasants who tilled that soil wanted peace, a surcease from the floods that tried to reclaim their fields in bad weather, and children and grandchildren to speak their names aloud after they were dead. Only fools and healers chose to live in a half-world of pain and suffering.

  For a brief moment, Myrddion savoured an idyll of rural life, and then he laughed at his own foolishness. Until he was released from his oath, he must play at dice with a smiling, unpredictable demon and try to save as many lives as he could while doing his best to preserve the ways of the Britons. Myrddion was fully aware that he would eventually come to loathe himself.

  ‘There’s no help for it,’ he sighed, and at last peace released the tensions in his shoulders and the pain in his heart. But even as he dreamed in the warming sunshine, nothing could heal the fresh wounds in his spirit.

  CHAPTER XV

  THE BOAR OF CORNWALL

  In a short while the generation of the living are changed and like runners pass on the torch of life.

  Lucretius, De Rerum Natura

  Gorlois and his wife sat before a warming fire and broke bread sweetened with new honey as they talked in the desultory fashion of husbands and wives who have been happy together for many peaceful years. The low golden flame from the fireplace lit Ygerne’s face, and as Gorlois examined those beloved features he marvelled anew at the radiance that shone out of her eyes and sweetened her expressive mouth. How wondrous that a man far from his first youth, and one who had never been a handsome figure, should be loved by such a woman.