Prophecy: Web of Deceit (Prophecy 3)

by M. K. Hume

  Once the body was bared for washing by Ruadh and Brangaine, Myrddion examined it with the care of a healer dedicated to his trade. The many contusions and small cuts that the warrior had suffered during the battle, despite his armour, would have meant an uncomfortable night for Gorlois if he had survived, but such were his fighting skills that the king had taken only two serious wounds. And one of them had been performed on the body after Gorlois had died.

  His brain racing, Myrddion straightened up. ‘Gorlois’s body tells us clearly what happened to him,’ Myrddion explained to Ruadh and Brangaine as he lifted the king’s powerful hand, which was stained with dried blood to a point well above the elbow. Obviously, Gorlois had killed many Saxons during the assault, for he had worn gauntlets and the blood had soaked through those protective leathers. What facial flesh had been visible between helmet and visor was similarly blood-spattered, and the fine spray of opposing warriors’ arterial blood had soaked armour, tunic and the wool beneath to reach the skin.

  ‘He was bathed in the blood of his enemies,’ Ruadh murmured, and her green eyes shone with admiration, for her Pictish upbringing still had the power to stir her sensibilities, especially with its emphasis on raw, indomitable courage on the battlefield. Sympathetically, Myrddion wondered if she thought of her lost children who still lived beyond the wall.

  ‘Gorlois was a superlative warrior – a master with sword and knife.’ Myrddion stared at both women across the king’s body. ‘But if you look at his wounds, you can see that he was killed from behind.’

  The healer pointed to a deep, blue-tinged and puckered puncture wound that entered Gorlois’s body below the left armpit where the armour was weakest. A long, narrow knife thrust had breached Gorlois’s ribs and lacerated his heart.

  ‘He was killed by a friend,’ Myrddion concluded, even as his mind rebelled at the evidence written on Gorlois’s body.

  ‘How so?’ Brangaine asked. Her hooded eyes were wide in surprise.

  ‘He was held from behind and stabbed with the left hand. Let me show you.’

  Myrddion stood behind Brangaine, gripped her round the neck with his right arm and then stabbed upward with an empty left hand. The two women could see, from the angle of penetration, that a knife thrust would have pierced the heart.

  ‘Perhaps an enemy warrior outflanked him,’ Ruadh suggested, her voice still analytical. None of them believed that Gorlois would retreat.

  ‘But why, then, would his killer turn him over after he fell and slice his throat open to ensure that he was dead? All warriors know when they have delivered a killing blow. See? Gorlois scarcely bled from the throat wound, and if his heart had still been beating the arterial spray would have drenched his corpse even more heavily than it’s already stained. That stroke was made after Gorlois had stopped breathing.’

  Myrddion pointed to the gaping wound that ran from left to right across Gorlois’s throat. Clearly, the killer had either continued to hold Gorlois upright and changed knife hands – a highly unlikely action – or he had bent over the king’s dead body and sliced his throat open like a butcher slaughtering a deer.

  ‘His killer was left-handed,’ Ruadh said unnecessarily.

  ‘Perhaps. But he used both hands for this sword stroke.’

  Myrddion assessed the long, even slice on the king’s throat as he indicated the entry point under the left ear. ‘See? A wider blade was used for this blow – a sword, judging by the shape of the wound. Like Uther’s guardsmen, this killer fights without the use of a shield, so he can carry a weapon in each hand.’

  Ruadh gently kissed the grey-blue mouth. ‘Ave, Brave Heart. Your enemy feared that you’d survive even this treachery.’ Her left hand touched the wound in the king’s side. ‘He was making sure.’

  ‘I’ll leave him to your ministrations, ladies, for his men will wish to send him to his ancestors with due reverence, preferably in Cornwall. He must be washed completely, perfumed and sewn into a shroud. I’ll send a bearer to clean the king’s armour, Brangaine, if you would wash his linens.’

  ‘If the sun ever shines again,’ the older woman whispered, and sighed. Except for a single message received through Botha, she had heard nothing of Willa and Berwyn, and her heart was aching.

  Only the nobility eschew the use of a shield in battle, Myrddion thought furiously. Saxons occasionally use axes and swords in tandem, but Uther’s guard are trained to fight with knife and sword. How could one of Uther’s guardsmen approach so close to the king in the midst of his own cavalry?

  A small, cold voice answered Myrddion’s unspoken question from within.

  The king’s guardsmen, and especially Uther’s couriers, can go anywhere they choose, both on the battlefield and off it, for their movements are governed wholly by the will of the High King. It would be interesting to discover where Ulfin was during the attack on the eastern gate.

  Myrddion acquitted Botha of the assassination. The captain of the guard would have obeyed his master, albeit unwillingly, but he would have killed Gorlois from the front.

  ‘I’ll see how Cadoc is managing with Gorlois’s horse,’ he said to the women, and left the tent.

  Watching as Cadoc stitched shallow slashes across the rump of the shivering beast, Myrddion had scarcely established that Fleet-foot would live when Ulfin appeared out of the darkness like a bird of ill-omen.

  ‘You’re wanted, healer. Don’t even consider taking your time, because Uther has decided your patients can survive without you for an hour or two.’

  ‘Tell the women where I am,’ Myrddion hissed at Cadoc before turning towards the wagon. ‘I’ll collect my warm cloak and healer’s bag if I’m to be gone so long, and I’ll check on how our young apprentices are dealing with the wounded inside the citadel as well. I refuse to freeze my arse off for Uther Pendragon, or for you, Ulfin. And you have my permission to repeat my words to him as, no doubt, you always do.’

  Ulfin fumed impotently, and watched the healer closely as he gathered his belongings. But Myrddion had spent too many months among the thieves and hired thugs of Rome to have learned nothing, and his scalpel went into the small sheath inside his boot in an impressive act of sleight of hand. Then, armed and feeling unnaturally dangerous, he mounted the horse that the guardsman had brought for him.

  The battlefield was unusually quiet, considering the carnage. A mound of Saxon dead had been flung unceremoniously to one side after the bodies had been expertly stripped of anything of value. A wagon was already filling with booty: weapons, and chests of torcs, arm-rings and other precious objects. The casualties among the Atrebates warriors were minimal, and Myrddion would have expected a mood of elation to buoy up the High King’s camp. They had won the battle but few men were celebrating, and Uther’s warriors simply plodded through the snow as they collected the dead in silence. The grey-faced men were almost somnambulistic in their movements, and an unnatural hush blanketed the activity around the open gates of the garrison.

  ‘How were conditions in the fortress?’ Myrddion asked Ulfin. ‘The survivors seem quite strong and hale.’

  ‘They were eating horse meat when the siege was lifted, so no one was actually starving. But Anderida has suffered her share of dead from stray arrows used by the Saxon peasantry, or from disease. We’ve been lucky that the siege was raised so promptly.’

  ‘Disease?’ Myrddion asked sharply, for any fevers and plagues were dangers to the whole army of the west.

  ‘Mostly the colds and breathing illnesses of winter,’ Ulfin sneered. ‘There’s nothing for you, Storm Crow.’

  ‘My name is Myrddion Merlinus, Ulfin, and I insist you use it.’ Myrddion’s voice was haughty and cold. ‘I am no farmer or peasant for you to bully, and I doubt that I’ll be out of favour with your master forever.’

  Ulfin grunted with amusement.

  ‘Very well then, Master Myrddion. Any illness that exists inside the fortress is no concern of yours, for they have their own healers.’

  Ulfin pulled his h
orse to a stop outside a stone-walled building in the centre of the circular fort. Warriors entered and left the building in a constant stream, so Myrddion deduced that Uther had made his headquarters at the hub of this Celtic hive. Strong winds were blowing from the sea with a tang of salt and seaweed, and the healer recalled the dunes that rose above the straits separating Segontium from Mona island. He longed to see those cold, grey waters again and feel the ancient peace of his home seep into his bones.

  The healer dismounted and followed Ulfin into the building, past Botha and several guardsmen, into a windowless inner room where Uther paced with his customary impatience. ‘Well, Storm Crow? I’ve done what you wanted and we have driven the Saxons away from Anderida. Now, for matters of urgency.’

  Myrddion drew in a shuddering breath. Here it comes, he thought fatalistically. Will I survive this trial of strength?

  ‘I have been told that Gorlois’s corpse rests in the tents of the healers. I trust that all due deference is being given to the mortal remains of the Boar of Cornwall? He died well, I hear.’

  Now it comes. Uther has completed the first step towards achieving his ends.

  ‘No, my lord, Gorlois died from a cowardly knife thrust that pierced his heart from behind,’ Myrddion stated in a flat, unemotional voice. ‘Before his death, he had killed so many Saxons while securing the eastern gates of Anderida for you that he was slick with blood.’

  ‘His widow will mourn him, no doubt,’ Uther responded dismissively, although his eyes searched Myrddion’s face for some reaction. ‘But not for long, as I intend to take her to wife in honour of Gorlois’s great sacrifice for the west.’

  ‘May I speak freely, sire?’

  ‘You may, but remember whom you address, and the future of those little girls who wait in hope in Venta Belgarum.’ Uther’s cold voice was a threat to the bravest heart, but Myrddion felt oddly immune, as if he were following a predestined path.

  ‘She’ll not take you willingly, Uther. Despite their high birth and their arranged marriage, Gorlois and Ygerne loved each other to the exclusion of all others. She will die before she takes you into her bed.’

  Uther’s handsome, impassive face twisted with a powerful emotion that Myrddion didn’t recognise. ‘So you’d counsel me not to return Gorlois’s body to Tintagel in person?’

  ‘Frankly, my lord, she’d presume you were invading her husband’s fortress, lock the gates and let you cool your heels outside forever.’

  ‘Damn you, healer. You never seem to give me pleasant advice,’ Uther snapped, but without his usual repressed fury. ‘Just once I’d like one useful solution from you.’

  ‘Do you want the truth? Or a palatable lie?’ Myrddion retorted. He was tired of fencing with Uther and only the fate of Berwyn and Willa kept his voice neutral.

  ‘I’m afraid that you’re accurate on this occasion. Well, to Hades with convention or the opinions of the tribal kings. I want Ygerne and I’ll have her, so find a way to get me into Tintagel without having to lay siege to one of my allies. Do you understand me, Storm Crow?’

  ‘I understand you, but I won’t do it. I’ll not be a party to the rape of a newly widowed queen.’ Myrddion held his breath. He had never refused Uther outright before and his flesh crawled in expectation of a knife in the ribs or another blow to the head.

  Uther snickered quietly and Myrddion’s blood chilled. ‘You’ll obey my orders, Storm Crow, or I’ll use little Willa in Ygerne’s stead until you do what I ask. After I’ve finished with her, I’ll give her to my guard. How long do you think she’ll last? She’s a pretty little thing – but not very strong.’

  Although Myrddion had expected a similar threat, the actuality of pack rape, threatened by a High King, was so dishonourable that he took a backward step in spite of his best efforts to stand firm. Uther saw his involuntary action and grinned with triumph.

  ‘And when Willa is dead, I’ll start on the ugly little servant. I’ll warrant she’ll fight back, which I’ll enjoy. She’ll last longer too, because she’s a sturdy little beast, and that should please my men. Best of all, these women have no standing with the tribal kings and no one will protest at what happens to either of them. You’re the only man who cares whether they live or die.’ Uther paused and swallowed his wine with one gulp. ‘Don’t doubt my intentions, Storm Crow. I never threaten without delivering.’ He turned to his servant. ‘More wine, Ulfin.’

  As the king’s guardsman sprang to obey his master’s order, Myrddion tried to think.

  ‘There’s no way out for you, Myrddion Merlinus,’ Uther continued smoothly. ‘The girls, your healers and yourself will perish nastily unless you devise a way to smuggle me into Tintagel and learn to live with the consequences.’

  ‘Better men than you have tried to kill me since my infancy, but the goddess has decreed that I shall live until I am a very old man. Truly, you would earn my thanks if you decided to carry out your threat.’

  Gods, Uther has thought this out. He knows I’ll be forced to obey because I can’t bear the thought of Willa and Berwyn being raped and tortured. But how can I live if I betray Ygerne and the dead Gorlois, for my honour will be trampled in the dust. If I’m honest, I don’t want to die before my time.

  Myrddion’s thoughts were written on his agonised face and Uther fed on the healer’s indecision. The king gloated openly, and his blue eyes were almost colourless with enjoyment as he sensed the moment of victory over his adviser.

  ‘I don’t even know the geography of Tintagel,’ Myrddion protested and knew, as he spoke, that he was capitulating. The bitterness of failure rose in his gorge until he could taste the sour bile of vomit.

  ‘That’s easily remedied,’ Uther said with his chin raised in triumph. ‘Botha!’ he bellowed in the direction of the outer door.

  ‘Master?’ The captain of the guard entered the room hastily and read Myrddion’s shame at a single glance. Dropping his eyes, he bowed to his master and awaited his instructions.

  ‘Show the healer our plans of Tintagel and explain its particular problems.’

  Still impassive, Botha collected a scroll from Uther’s campaign table and rolled it out with a deft flick of his wrist. ‘As you can see, healer, Tintagel is a leaf-shaped peninsula surrounded by sheer cliffs that plunge down to the sea on all sides. A narrow neck of land links the castle with the mainland and a very narrow bridge of wood crosses this expanse of rocks and the wildness of the sea. The garrison has been constructed on the landward side to protect this entrance, so any attack becomes bogged down before the bridge is even reached.’

  ‘You’re suggesting that it would be impossible to take Tintagel by force,’ Myrddion said, interested in the puzzle despite his abhorrence of the task.

  ‘It’s an impossible siege in the short term,’ Botha agreed. ‘The defenders have their own wells and can fish the seas with impunity, so an attacking army might have to wait outside Tintagel for a year or more.’

  ‘So force of arms is pointless and that’s why you need me,’ Myrddion muttered bitterly, swivelling his eyes to stare at Uther with growing understanding. ‘I must discover a strategy to attack a fortress held by two defenceless women.’

  ‘Yes, that’s precisely what I require of you. You gave no less assistance to my brother – or to Vortigern before him.’ Uther’s voice was stony and inflexible, warning Myrddion that no pleas would be accepted. ‘You will obey me – with alacrity.’

  ‘Neither Vortigern nor Ambrosius required me to act like a barbarian who makes war on women. Even Vortigern’s idea of warfare was clean, by comparison.’

  Myrddion’s words were unwise and he was speaking without reflection, but Uther wasn’t provoked. The High King knew that his healer might protest all he chose, but he would ultimately be forced to comply with his master’s wishes.

  ‘I will need your map, and I will need time to think,’ Myrddion whispered, so that Uther had to strain to hear him. ‘I can’t pull Tintagel Castle onto the mainland by magic, because
I don’t have any charms that I can use, even if such things existed. Only stealth will open the citadel to you and, as it has never fallen, I must have time to find its weaknesses.’

  Myrddion knew that his voice lacked conviction and he accepted that he had surrendered to Uther’s threats. But he still intended to play for time.

  ‘You have the hours of darkness in which to complete your task, so pray that there’s no sun tomorrow, if you require more time. King Bors will be ordered to secure the fortress and bury the dead to keep him out of the way. Nor will any Dumnonii courier be permitted to reach Tintagel with the sad news of Gorlois’s death. You’ll think hard, Myrddion Merlinus, for many lives depend on your intelligence and your capacity for deceit.’

  The healer staggered out of Uther’s rooms and ran into the open air. To the amusement of the guardsmen who lounged around Uther’s headquarters, he vomited violently into the pristine snow. Try as he might to quell his stomach, his body was racked by spasms until his throat was raw and his stomach was empty. He felt as if he had been poisoned.

  ‘Come, master healer, your time is short,’ Botha’s voice said softly from behind him. The captain laid a sympathetic hand on the younger man’s shoulder. ‘I’ll accompany you to your tent.’

  Carefully, and almost tenderly, Botha assisted Myrddion to mount his horse and then led him back through the garrison. The moon broke out of the cloud cover and Myrddion realised that time was painfully short. What could he do? How could he hope to protect the queen, without damning Willa and Berwyn to Uther’s retribution?

  ‘How can you serve this king, Botha? How can you listen to such monstrosities with a still and patient face?’

  Botha turned in the saddle and halted his mount by pulling on the reins. ‘He is my master and I am oath-bound to him, right or wrong. Usually, my king is mindful of my honour and doesn’t ask anything that would compromise me, and so I’m able to serve, albeit with a heavy heart. My lord Uther is the High King. He will save our people from the Saxon menace, and while I shudder at the measures he uses to fight this war, I will die to preserve him. Please try to understand that while I try to retain my honour, my oath comes first.’