Prophecy: Web of Deceit (Prophecy 3)

by M. K. Hume

  Snow crunched under a booted foot and Myrddion turned awkwardly in his cocoon of furs. A black figure, powerful and heavily muffled, approached his position through the charcoal tree trunks.

  ‘Who goes there?’ the healer hissed, feeling rather foolish at the melodramatic choice of words.

  ‘A friend, Merlinus. I’m Gorlois of the Dumnonii.’

  ‘King Gorlois? Lord, why do you come to me? I’d expect you to steer well clear of Uther’s storm crow.’

  ‘Walk with me, Merlinus. Have no fear, for I don’t plan to end your life by stealth, nor do I blame you for the sins of your master. Uther Pendragon is a law unto himself.’

  The dark figure beckoned Myrddion into the treeline where they were unlikely to be overheard. As he moved to join him, Myrddion reflected on the ironies of life. Of all those who might have sought him out, here was Gorlois, the man he least wished to meet. He was almost sure that the Boar of Cornwall would harbour a grudge against him because of his position at Uther Pendragon’s court.

  Fortunately, he was wrong. With an impatient gesture of one hand, Gorlois pulled back his cowl and lowered himself gingerly onto his haunches.

  ‘Get down, Myrddion, for I’d prefer not to be seen in your company. I’m watched all the time, even when I go for a piss. It took ten minutes to throw off my watchers when I went to the latrine this time, so even those clods will eventually realise where I am. Come closer.’

  ‘How may I assist you, my lord? I must tell you that I have fallen out of favour with the High King, although he’s forced to keep me safe through his oath to his brother.’

  Gorlois laughed softly. ‘I expect you wonder about stray arrows though, don’t you?’

  Myrddion nodded, for there was no need for further explanation.

  ‘It’s so still and peaceful here, but the Saxons have created a little Christian hell outside Anderida itself. I am expected to ride in the vanguard to smash the enemy against the fortress gates tomorrow, so I also fear the stray arrow or the knife blade from behind. As I said, I am constantly watched, and Uther smiles at me as if he is contemplating a pleasant, easily digestible meal. I fear he intends to dine over my corpse before the week is out, but he’ll discover that I’m a source of stomach ache if he tries and doesn’t succeed.’

  ‘I’m sorry, my lord, but I have no authority with Uther Pendragon after the last alteraction between us. If I spoke in your favour, he would assume that you were guilty of treason and act accordingly.’

  ‘No, you misunderstand me, healer.’ Gorlois examined his nails intently as if some secret rested within them. ‘I don’t expect to die in the coming battle because Uther needs me at the head of his cavalry, but if he wants my death after that, then he’ll contrive it. I have no hope that he’ll see reason.’

  Gorlois picked up a handful of snow and pressed it between his fingers. With the grin of a light-hearted boy, he tasted the snow on his tongue and sighed deeply.

  ‘Life’s so good, isn’t it, healer? Every breath, every smell on the breeze, the taste of clean snow on my tongue . . . if I’m fated to die, I’ll miss the joy of living. Still, I’m over fifty summers by my reckoning and still hale and strong, and that happy state cannot last forever. I would be content to die in battle if I were spared the slow decline into infirmity, because no man wants to recognise pity in the eyes of his wife and children.’

  Myrddion remembered his great-grandfather, Melvig, who had lived to a remarkable old age; he had suffered as his strength declined. Myrddion nodded his head in understanding.

  ‘But if I should perish, my Ygerne will be exposed to the lust of Uther Pendragon. Because he has no shame, he makes his intentions quite blatant. I was surprised that he permitted her to return to Tintagel. I suppose he hopes to lay siege to her when I’m removed as an impediment.’

  ‘I’m afraid so, lord. Uther is crazed on the topic of Ygerne, although all his advisers have tried to dissuade him. It’s a sudden infatuation that rose out of nowhere, and I’ve tried to fathom it, but I don’t understand his reasoning. Uther has never shown any inclination to take a wife, so perhaps he desires your queen because she is unattainable?’

  Gorlois snickered, but his laughter was scant on humour. ‘Many men have desired my wife, but she remains faithful. I believe she would kill herself before she permitted any other man to lie with her. She doesn’t understand her own beauty and believes herself to be old, but her loveliness is still bewitching and will bring Uther to ruin if he continues to pursue her.’

  ‘Aye, I believe you. Uther can’t rape your wife without destroying all personal credibility. Once you’re dead, his path to Ygerne is clear, but even a High King cannot take a tribal queen by force.’

  ‘You read my fears correctly, Myrddion. So . . . if I should die in battle, I beg that you try to protect her. She lacks any comprehension of the wickedness in the world and will not understand Uther’s ruthlessness. I’m terrified for her.’

  Myrddion rose to his feet with a little grunt of effort. As he straightened his spine, he stared up at the dark sky where the stars were obliterated by heavy cloud cover and he could smell more snowfalls in the air. His mind ranged to distant Tintagel, a place he had never been, and tried to imagine the Lily of Cornwall and her marvellous, changeable eyes in her home beside the turbulent ocean. His own black eyes were pained.

  ‘I should tell you, Gorlois, that I prophesied for Uther in Venta Belgarum and I threatened him that he would achieve his heart’s desire, but lose his soul in the getting. I fear I predicted your death. The goddess speaks in riddles when she speaks through my mouth, so I might be talking nonsense. But I promise you, Gorlois, that whatever happens I will serve your wife with all my strength. I will risk my life for her, and ensure she sees out her days in peace and plenty. Something whispers to me that she will survive Uther Pendragon and all his viciousness. After all, she is the daughter of Pridenow, warrior of renown.’

  Gorlois sighed. ‘Aye, Pridenow was her sire, and Morgan will protect her in her own way.’ His eyes were ineffably sad. ‘You’ve comforted me, healer, because I believe you’ll try to keep your word. If a doomed man can give you a boon, then ask, for I am in your debt.’

  As true warriors, king and healer stood together for a brief moment while the moon broke through the pregnant, threatening clouds to touch their faces with a rime of argent. As if on cue, snow began to fall once again, forcing Gorlois to raise his cowl. With surprising gentleness, he smiled at Myrddion out of the thick wool.

  ‘Ave, healer. Perhaps I’ll see you beyond the shadows.’

  Myrddion discovered that he couldn’t trust his voice, so Gorlois disappeared into the dark of the trees without a farewell. Then the moon disappeared again and darkness blanketed the land as if a shroud had been spread over the earth.

  ‘Ave, Gorlois,’ Myrddion whispered. ‘Men will remember you as long as courage and loyalty count for anything.’

  Then the healer returned to the wagons to watch over his small flock until the dawn came creeping out of the eastern sky.

  CHAPTER XIX

  THE JUDAS KISS

  If you gaze for long into an abyss, the abyss gazes also into you.

  Nietzsche, Beyond Good and Evil, iv

  Snow fell and turned the cavalry into grey ghosts of horsemen. It filled holes in the landscape so that every stride was a test of faith for men and beasts, while it muffled the thunder of the charge as well, so that the phantom wave of armed men was almost upon the Saxons before they were detected.

  A battlefield in the dead of winter, in flurries of snow, is a silent, unearthly dance where blood disappears into the pristine whiteness and the dead become little mounds on the flat plain. Even the clash of swords and spears is muted and eerie, and the cries of wounded men are distant and inhuman, like the far-off screams of hunting gulls.

  Only in the press of bodies, as boots and hooves struggle for purchase on black ice, is warfare fresh and real. As always, blood spray, spilled brains and hack
ed flesh are the offerings to the gods of war, although the snow soon covers the excesses of human savagery. A horse thrashes in a welter of snow, spilled entrails and blood until its throat is cut in a bright arc of scarlet. All too soon, its remains are covered by a thin white shroud. Even the blood freezes, and continues to leave a delicate tracery on tree trunks and stone walls. Winter death has a grim beauty, as delicate as a dying breath.

  From the distant treeline, Myrddion surveyed the silent battlefield and prayed to all the gods that Gorlois would live. Behind him, under cover, Cadoc set the fires to heat water and provide some warmth for the dying, but heavy flurries of snow from the passing storm obscured the two fronts of the battle so that neither healer could guess at the outcome.

  Gorlois had led the cavalry charge against the eastern gate and his orders had been concise and clear-cut. The gate to the fortress must not be breached by the besieging Saxons, and everyone who stood between Gorlois’s force and the wall must die. Meanwhile, Uther would lead a combined cavalry and infantry charge against the western gate. As expected, Uther’s horsemen carved through the Saxon force like a hot knife blade through snow.

  ‘Who’s winning?’ Cadoc asked as he coaxed another fragile flame to life in his hoard of kindling. He swore vilely as an unexpected skirl of wind caused the flame to lick his fingers with a sting of heat.

  ‘I can’t see clearly,’ Myrddion replied. ‘But the foot soldiers in Uther’s command are maintaining disciplined ranks so I suppose the Saxons at the western gate have been decimated. As for Gorlois, the fortress walls hide what is happening on that side of the citadel.’

  Cadoc grunted sceptically. ‘I’ll warrant that Gorlois’s force was smaller than the squadrons of the High King,’ he muttered, as he sucked on his burnt fingers.

  ‘Shove your fingers in the snow, Cadoc. The cold will ease the pain of your burn,’ Myrddion said absently. ‘Damn me, but I can’t see a thing, so all we can do is wait until we discover whether the wounded are Saxon or Celt. As the victors will probably kill the enemy wounded, we’ll soon know the outcome of the battle. We may even have to fight for our lives.’

  ‘Let’s just count the casualties,’ Cadoc agreed glumly.

  Myrddion was almost relieved when the wounded began to arrive on foot, on horseback or carried by their companions. Exposure to the elements was a major cause of mortality, even in the balmiest of summers. In a winter snowstorm, among warriors who were already chilled from a night without fire, it was potentially disastrous. While Myrddion admired Uther’s ability to make quick, confident decisions, he deplored the High King’s disregard for the welfare of the men who fought under his standard.

  ‘Here comes the first of them,’ Cadoc shouted. He marshalled the apprentice healers to their working positions while the women collected bandages, water and the precious medicines that would save the lives of wounded patients. Myrddion turned regretfully from his vantage point and positioned himself at the forefront of the waiting healers as a line of trudging, staggering men floundered towards them through the deepening snow.

  At a signal from Cadoc, the bearers moved towards the warriors and assisted the exhausted men to reach the relative warmth of the tents. In such brutal conditions, only the walking wounded had any chance of reaching the healers without assistance, but the frigid conditions had served one positive purpose, as Myrddion discovered when the first patients were prepared for treatment.

  Cold slowed the rapid blood flow that was normally the most devastating of killers. Once Anderida was relieved and the gates were opened, Myrddion could send in a cadre of apprentice healers to care for the wounded and dying in relative warmth. But until that hour arrived, his tents could only accept those who managed to stagger through the winter snows. An increasing number succeeded in reaching the field hospital without bleeding to death.

  Blue with exposure and trembling from shock, some wounded men stumbled into the tent bearing hideous wounds that should have caused almost instant death from blood loss. Myrddion quickly assessed the potentially fatal slash wounds, and then set to work at speed, directing the younger apprentices to clean and stitch the wounds speedily so that patients could be given some small chance of survival.

  As always, Myrddion chose to labour over those patients where his unerring skill was vital, usually the most dangerous puncture wounds where arrows were still embedded in the flesh. Of all the healers, only Myrddion was sufficiently deft and confident with a scalpel to offer a reasonable hope of success. With a few considered strokes of the blade, he could carve a barbed arrowhead out through the entry point, where alternative treatments might prove to be life-threatening.

  In some cases, where it was the only option, the healer was forced to remove the arrowhead on the reverse side of the body. In this treatment, Myrddion could prepare a path for the arrow by opening healthy skin and carefully avoiding the tangled skeins of blood vessels and muscle until he could grip the iron tip of the arrowhead with fingers or forceps. He would then draw the arrow through the body. These through wounds were easier procedures for both healer and patient than any other option, because the barbs couldn’t lacerate the flesh.

  Considering the size of the opposing forces and the ferocity of the battle, all too few men arrived at the tents of the healers. When a courier brought the news that Anderida was secured, Myrddion sent healers and wagons to the two battlefields and the really grim treatments began. As usual, few Saxons were found alive, and none of those who were, no matter how hideously wounded, was permitted to set foot inside the citadel.

  ‘Pain is the killer,’ Myrddion repeated many times to his assistants. Battlefield experiences over many years had taught him well, and he used every hard-won lesson to thwart the snow, the cold and the chill wind that turned his feet to ice. But even the worst days eventually end.

  The High King sent no orders and, to Myrddion, this lack was a blessing. Despite Uther’s crimes, he was necessary to the survival of the western kingdoms. But, worryingly, few patients had come from the eastern gate where the fighting had been fiercest, so no news had been received of Gorlois’s fate. Myrddion was forced to take the pragmatic view that this lack of news was positive.

  The hour must have been very late when the cortège made its way to the healer’s tents. Cadoc saw the torches first, a snake of horsemen bearing improvised bundles of sticks bound with oil-soaked cloth that had been set alight to guide the way. Myrddion knew what had happened long before the horsemen reached the higher ground.

  Eerily, the flickering lights did little to pierce the darkness, even though the snow had ceased to fall. Heavy cloud cover blackened the heavens so that even the glistening whiteness of snow banks barely managed to lift the gloom. The horsemen were black shapes against the grey, and the red glow of the torches touched helmets or mailed shoulders with a bloody glow. Within the twin ranks of horsemen a single beast plodded stoically, its hide shining with blood. A darker shape lay across its back, and Myrddion swiftly washed his bloody hands, cleansed his face with a handful of snow to sharpen his wits and waited outside the main tent for the cortège to arrive.

  As he had already guessed, the horsemen were part of Gorlois’s personal guard. They led the king’s horse, which was faltering from weariness and a slew of shallow wounds, as it bore its dead master to a point where his body could be prepared for the funeral pyre. Myrddion swallowed and prepared himself to do his duty.

  ‘Myrddion Merlinus?’ a dark-visaged, bearded warrior shouted as the horsemen halted under the sanguine light of their torches.

  ‘I’ve come to meet you, for I can guess your purpose,’ Myrddion responded sadly. ‘You carry the body of Gorlois who was the King of the Dumnonii tribe. This night is one for mourning, for the noble Gorlois was a man of unimpeachable honour.’

  ‘You speak the truth, Storm Crow.’ Myrddion ignored the insult, for he saw the stark sorrow in the eyes of the middle-aged warrior. ‘I am Bors, who will rule in Gorlois’s stead, but I’m only half the man
my uncle was, and I cannot conceive how any man could fill his boots or lift his sword.’

  Myrddion sighed and bowed his head as several warriors dismounted and lifted the king’s shrouded corpse from the back of his shivering horse.

  ‘Care for the master’s steed also, Myrddion, if healing a wounded animal doesn’t insult you. Fleet-foot is his name. He bore my cousin proudly, and suffered painful wounds without complaint during many campaigns. I’ll return him to the green fields of Cornwall where he will sire stallions to carry my own sons.’

  The warrior’s voice was heavy with loss, yet he remained proud and fierce, so that Myrddion saw the seeds of another great Dumnonii king in the dark, bearded face.

  ‘Cadoc will care for Fleet-foot without shame, for this horse is also a warrior as brave as any man who lives or dies on the fields of war. I shall personally see to the preparation of King Gorlois’s body. Have no fear, for Gorlois was my friend and I will treat him like my own kin.’

  ‘I don’t doubt you, Myrddion, but I do distrust the High King. I will leave a contingent of officers to guard my lord until such time as his ashes are offered to the sun.’ Myrddion nodded in agreement, for he understood the bitter distrust and the slow-burning anger in the eyes of Prince Bors. Gorlois had survived a hundred skirmishes, but now, conveniently, he was dead.

  With due honour, the body of Gorlois was carried into the surgical tent and laid out on Myrddion’s table. Ruadh began to remove the heavy armour from the corpse while Myrddion eased the crested helmet up from the king’s snarling face. As his fingers smoothed the stiffening muscles of the mouth into a half-smile, Myrddion felt an ache of regret. These last offices for an honourable and noble man should be performed by Gorlois’s wife and daughters, but they were far away, so the healer vowed that the corpse of the Dumnonii king would be treated with all the respect and love that his own family would have brought to the task.