by M. K. Hume
‘As do I,’ Myrddion replied sadly, and took his leave.
The busy afternoon passed in a blur of organisation. Onto Myrddion’s broad and unwilling shoulders fell the task of deciding the order of precedence and trying to prevent the very real threat of any tribal king’s feeling himself overlooked and insulted. For prudence’s sake, Myrddion placed Gorlois, his queen and his daughter halfway down a table where they were flanked by Llanwith pen Bryn on one side and Luka of the Brigante on the other. Thus Myrddion hoped to relieve Uther’s suspicions of a fancied plot between Gorlois and Leodegran by placing them far apart, and thereby avoid any direct conflict with the High King.
Once he had covered every eventuality that could be foreseen, Myrddion checked the solstice pyre in the forecourt before scurrying to the house of the healers to bathe and dress in his most sumptuous clothes. With his head still spinning with nasty possibilities, he dressed with the help of Ruadh and Cadoc, who had polished his jewellery to a brilliant gleam. Praxiteles would attend as his table servant and the old trader had found snowy linens in which to dress, although Myrddion imagined he would be chilled to the bone.
‘You’re too old to wear linen in the dead of winter,’ he chided his friend with real concern. ‘You’ll catch your death in that frigid hall.’
Praxiteles grinned and parted his snowy robe to reveal crude but effective fur breeches and boots, roughly laced up his legs. ‘Under my finery, I assure you that I’m very warm, master. And don’t fear for ructions during the ceremony, for I’ll do what I need to do to keep the meal moving smoothly.’
Myrddion had chosen to wear his customary black, but the women had found a length of finely spun wool that provided a grand, if funereal, long robe over his leather breeches and boots. A belt of silver links lay around his narrow hips and Brangaine brought in the fish necklace of electrum that had belonged to his grandmother, and fastened it round his neck when he wasn’t looking.
‘I can’t wear this,’ Myrddion exclaimed, flicking the glittering links with his forefinger. ‘This necklace is sacred to the Mother, and I am a man. Attending this feast will be difficult enough without offending her.’
‘The Mother will attend the ceremony whatever you do or say,’ Ruadh answered for them all. ‘Wear her mark so that all men know you for what you are. Give Uther something to ponder over.’
Myrddion snorted with scorn. ‘He’ll not recognise this piece of jewellery, nor understand its significance. Uther is a clod where religion and portents are concerned.’
‘But others will recognise her sign and tell him what it is. Head up, master, for you go to war for all of us this night. Start the new year under her favour.’
Against his misgivings, Myrddion submitted to their argument, thrust his rings upon his fingers and permitted the women to bind his hair with silver wire. With his sable-trimmed cloak tossed negligently over his shoulders, he felt equipped for some invisible battle and ventured out into the night, followed by Praxiteles who bore a bright, flaming torch.
As he passed the homes of the common folk of Venta Belgarum, the citizens were shocked by his appearance. The torch elongated his shadow until he seemed to be a veritable giant, while his black garb melded with the shadows so that he was almost invisible except for the pallor of his face and hands. But the reflection of the torchlight on the electrum scales of the fish necklace burned with a cold white fire and marked him as a creature of the darkness.
Myrddion entered the hall from the side, choosing to forgo the impact of a showy arrival through the great gilded doors. After checking the area devoted to the feast for one last time, he joined the noble guests as they milled in the anteroom, awaiting the High King’s pleasure.
Nervously, Myrddion examined the throng of brilliantly dressed guests. Servants wove their way through clusters of gossiping kings and their spouses to offer wine, chilled juices and tempting titbits designed to whet hearty appetites.
So far, so good. No one has grown restive . . . yet. Why is Uther keeping everyone waiting?
‘Ho, Myrddion,’ Llanwith called from a dim corner where Luka was seated on a purloined stool, looking a little pale. ‘When does the feast begin? I swear that half the guests will be drunk if we don’t eat soon.’
Myrddion shrugged noncommittally as he joined his two friends. ‘I have no idea, Llanwith. I imagine the High King is making a point about something.’
He explained the reasons for their seating arrangements and wrung a promise from them to act as a buffer between Gorlois and the High King.
‘How do you expect us to deflect Uther if he is in a temper?’ Luka asked plaintively. He was feeling weary, hot and very hungry.
‘Just do your best. You’re a long way from the head table, so the problem shouldn’t arise.’
‘Promises, promises,’ Luka muttered.
At that moment, the inner doors to the hall swung open and Botha summoned the kings to take their places for the solstice feast. As the guests were ravenous, they showed little concern for status and order of entry. Indeed, Botha had to press himself against the door jamb as the kings, their wives and their retinues made a concerted dash for their places at the tables.
‘Like hogs come to their master’s trough,’ Llanwith muttered darkly, but Myrddion refrained from making any comment. Ensuring that Llanwith had spotted the dark head of Gorlois in the crowd, Myrddion slipped away to a minor table at the back of the feasting hall where he sat with several city notables, on the fringes of this grand occasion.
His choice of position had not been motivated by false modesty. From his seat, he could watch all the actions of his master at the opposite end of the room as well as observe the tribal kings as they ate. When Praxiteles offered him heavy red wine from a gilded jug, Myrddion placed his hand across his goblet and asked for water, which Praxiteles hurried away to procure.
‘We are honoured by your presence, master healer,’ the town magistrate murmured politely. His heavy chain of office hung round his scrawny neck and Myrddion recognised the Roman workmanship in the decoration. Once he had been introduced to the civic leaders at the table and their overawed wives, he settled down to a programme of careful observation.
A group of musicians played drums, pipes and lutes for the pleasure of the crowd, while servants in blood-red livery moved around the room bearing huge jugs of wine.
But still Uther Pendragon was absent from the ceremony.
Then, just when the High King’s absence was becoming an insult to the tribal kings, Uther entered in a robe of red slashed with gold. He wore the heavy crown of Maximus, which was studded with huge, blood-red garnets so that, under the glow of many oil lamps, Uther’s hair appeared to bleed. Flanked by Bishop Paulus, who looked distinctly uncomfortable, and Ambrosius’s seneschal, the old king of the Cantii tribe, the High King seated himself, with Botha and Ulfin standing directly behind his chair.
A murmur that began like a long, slow wave of noise washed across the room. Then, as if every voice had been cut off by a sharp knife, the room grew silent. The musicians laid their instruments to one side in response to a subtle movement of Botha’s hand.
‘Behold, kings of the tribes of Britain, the High King comes amongst us on this, the solstice, in the dying days of the year. Hail to Uther Pendragon, High King of the Britons.’
Botha’s voice had been impressive in its strength and solemnity and, as one, the kings and their retinues rose to their feet and lifted their wine cups high.
‘Hail to Uther Pendragon, High King of the Britons.’
Half a hundred voices shouted out the salutation, as if the noise would drown out any doubts that Uther might harbour about them. The rafters shook in response and the flames in the lamps dipped and swayed as if a strong wind had passed over them.
The tribal kings seated themselves, the musicians began to play a rousing tune better suited to a battle than a feast, and the food was carried into the dining hall on great steaming platters by staggering servants. Under a fa�
�ade of merriment and good fellowship, almost frenetic in its nature, a mood of unease was building because of the stern, unbending visage of the High King. His face could have been carved out of a great slab of amber, it seemed so stiff . . . and so still.
Uther’s eyes roved around the hall, capturing the unwilling attention of one king after another. When his cold gaze passed on, that unfortunate king would gulp his wine and address himself to his food with a feigned gusto that was wholly false. Myrddion was willing to wager that the fine venison and pickled vegetables tasted like dust and ashes inside their dry mouths.
Of the whole throng, only Gorlois met Uther’s gaze directly, although Llanwith and Luka avoided the king’s examination by maintaining animated conversations with the ladies next to them. Gorlois actually had the temerity to raise his wine cup in a silent toast to Uther, whose brows met in annoyance before acknowledging the toast.
Ave, Gorlois. It’s past time that Uther received a taste of his own treatment, Myrddion thought grimly.
The air seemed to crackle between the two formidable men, so that Llanwith felt the hairs rise on his arms. Uther’s eyes swivelled towards Gorlois’s ladies in a gesture meant to threaten and subdue. The blue eyes glittered like ice in his rugged, impassive face.
Morgan felt the power of his gaze and lifted her chin in defiance. She had dressed with care for this particular feast, understanding that her beloved father was under threat. Her hair hung down her back in a thick black wave of gleaming ebony, except for the silver lock that sprang from her right forehead. She had emphasised that forelock by plaiting it with silver wire, and her earrings were heavy baubles of the same metal, so flattering to her colouring, and strung with pearls of great price. Her dress was black, trimmed with sable for warmth, but the décolletage was laced low so that the swell of her perfect breasts was visible. With palms and nails stained with expensive imported henna and the skilful addition of lip rouge so that her mouth was a red wound in her milk-white face, she was a splendid, erotic figure.
But Morgan’s eyes, so like those of her father, were almost black in the flickering light and she seemed mocking, challenging and wise beyond her years. Myrddion could see her raised profile, so pregnant with messages for the High King that he imagined he heard her response to Uther penetrate his brain.
Do not touch me or mine, or I will make you suffer for eternity.
Uther’s anger was palpable as he raised his wine cup, drank deeply, then rammed the goblet down on the table with sufficient force to bend the soft gold. Bishop Paulus jumped with fright, and watched his earthly master out of nervous, uncertain eyes.
The High King’s medusa stare moved to Gorlois’s most treasured possession, Queen Ygerne, who was speaking animatedly to Prince Luka about the need for noblewomen to better the lot of their servants and farmers. Luka had been dazzled by Ygerne at first and had been content to watch her smiling face, paying little attention to what she said. But her warmth, eagerness and intelligence had soon captured his attention, and he realised she was a woman of tenderness, as well as a creature of inexplicable glamour.
Uther laid eyes on Ygerne for the first time and saw the Dumnonii queen at her absolute best. Knowing that her husband was beset on all sides by the High King’s enmity and the passive acceptance of the situation by his peers, she had dressed with exceptional care. She understood that a soft, pale rose shade suited her admirably and had sacrificed a bolt of imported cloth from her dowry for the occasion, with underskirts of cream and pale dovegrey. Her dress was modest but the fragile, valuable cloth was light, revealing the slender beauty of her form and accentuating the whiteness of her throat as it rose out of the antique gems that formed a heavy collar of rubies and garnets at her neck.
Above this flower-coloured confection, her pale face captured every flicker of the lamplight, accentuating the changeable nature of her expression. Her high cheekbones were polished by the light, as were her broad forehead and delicate, narrow nose. She was too distant for Uther to see the true colour of her eyes, but he was sure that they were pale. Her mouth drew the High King’s eyes with its uncoloured, cosmetic-free voluptuousness and seemed to drag his gaze towards the concealed swelling of her breasts.
Across that room of colour, laughter and raucous noise, Myrddion saw Uther bite his lip until the healer feared that blood could come gushing out. He followed the track of Uther’s stare and saw Ygerne, unconscious of the scrutiny of the High King’s pale eyes as she laughed at one of Luka’s jokes. She tossed her head in unconscious coquetry, and even beneath the gauzy rose veil her luxurious hair was trying to escape from her plaits. Corkscrews of curl softened the fine bones of her face, and even Myrddion wondered what it would feel like to loosen those bindings and set that long, wonderful hair free so he could bury his face in it.
Myrddion swivelled his gaze back to Uther.
‘Oh, Mother! No!’
The councillors and the magistrate stared at Myrddion, aghast at the words that had unconsciously burst from his mouth.
For under Uther’s fixed stare was the lust of a man who has kept his bodily desires under rigid control for decades. Unbidden, Ygerne had wakened something that had slept within the basic nature of the High King, something filled with longing and desire that had never been satisfied by any living woman. Perhaps it was a buried memory of a long dead mother. Perhaps it was the idealisation of womanhood treasured by a callow youth. But there, whatever its source, was a compulsion so foreign to the coldness of Uther’s nature that Myrddion could feel the heat in his master’s eyes from across the whole length of the hall. The king was entrapped in the woman’s face, a forbidden woman who would never smile upon him.
Myrddion swore with crude pungency and the ladies at his table drew away from him with distaste and shock. Apologising absently, the healer watched Ygerne’s eyes turn from Luka’s face and rise in response to the urgency of Uther’s stare.
She saw, she understood and, as all women do, she knew.
For a moment, the queen’s eyes widened with recognition, and Myrddion saw a tremor run through her whole body and reach her hands, which clutched the table edge with white-knuckled panic.
She sees the lust of the king, Myrddion thought, his mouth parched with panic. What will she do?
The blush started at her throat and rose upwards in a delicate wave. Many women of pale complexion look blotchy when they flush, but Ygerne could colour and simply appear lovelier as the veins so close to the skin suffused her face with rose-petal pink. The queen’s eyes dropped to break the contact, unwittingly exposing the length and delicacy of her lashes so that, if possible, she was more beautiful than before. Pinned by the king’s stare, she sat like an effigy under the crazed intensity of his blue gaze, until Morgan whispered in her father’s ear, her eyes masked and hard.
Gorlois summed up the situation at a glance and would have risen to his feet had Llanwith not stamped forcibly on his foot, causing him to wince in pain. Ygerne turned to her husband, hung on his arm and whispered urgently into his ear. As the Dumnonii king bent to listen, his brows knitted together and his head shook in rejection, but Ygerne pressed herself against him and Myrddion could tell that she strained every muscle of her body to keep her husband seated.
With a quick word to her daughter, Ygerne rose and Morgan swathed her in a heavy cloak. With a deep bow to the High King’s table, both women moved swiftly from the feasting hall, while one of Gorlois’s guards followed in their wake.
The small scene had taken little more than a moment and most of the guests had been oblivious of the lightning-charged danger in the hall. Gorlois’s tanned face was pale and his eyes burned like coals in the linen-whiteness of his face, so that Myrddion rose and hurried towards their table. He was too late. Uther was standing up, and the room gradually became silent.
‘King Gorlois, your lovely queen leaves our feast early. Why?’ The demand was harsh and Gorlois flinched. He swallowed audibly.
‘My Ygerne sometimes experien
ces sudden headaches which come upon her when she is over-excited. Your excellent food, your wine and your entertainment have been far too rich for a lady used to the quiet halls of Tintagel. She begs your pardon for any discourtesy, but my daughter, Morgan, will prepare a sleeping draught for her. Tomorrow, I am sure, she will be well again.’
Uther’s expression was impossible to read but the message in his words was crystal clear.
‘I shall depend upon it, Gorlois, have no fear.’
The High King’s mood for the remainder of the feast was sullen and introverted, although his guests enjoyed his bounty with gusto. The small incident that had caused Queen Ygerne and Morgan to flee from the hall had been noticed by very few except for those at the centre of the storm. The tables groaned with food and cups overflowed with wine, while laughter, music and shouts rose to the great oaken rafters like flocks of coloured birds. Among that gilded throng, Myrddion was sunk in gloom as he watched Uther’s face with a sick fascination. Against all reason, the High King refused to enjoy the luxury and opulence of his own feast, while his eyes watched the doorway that had swallowed Ygerne. Perhaps she would return!
Gorlois glowered, and all the combined jokes and sensible suggestions of Luka and Llanwith could not defuse his brooding, growing anger. The High King had stared at his queen as if he wished to devour her, and the Boar was insulted to his very soul.
Oblivious of the currents of anger, resentment and distrust that ran beneath the glittering feast, the crowd poured out into the forecourt at Uther’s command, leaving behind scattered bones and food scraps all over the tables and the marble floors. Uther’s dogs scented meat and began to scavenge among the scraps once the crowd had deserted the hall for the Samhain fires.
With a murmur of wonder at the size of the structure, the crowd clustered around the base of the pyre in air so cold and crisp that their breath steamed. Then, while servants brought baskets of farewell gifts for the god of the old year, the lords and ladies stepped forward with sheaves of wheat, fruit, dried flowers and other symbols of renewal and hope.
