by M. K. Hume
‘I don’t know how I can live with what Uther expects of me. We both know I’ll obey him. Because my mother was raped, I can attest that no good comes from such violence. But I’m trapped, so whom do I sacrifice? Those whom I know and love? Or those persons who deserve my respect? Whatever happens, I am damned if I do and damned if I don’t.’
Something in Myrddion’s voice caused Botha to pause, to think and then to respond with a fierce urgency. Perhaps the captain of the guard feared the healer would attempt to kill himself to escape the Gordian knot that Uther had bound around him.
‘But your birth was the result of a rape, Master Myrddion, so some good came out of an evil action, given all the lives you have saved as a healer. Our destinies are in the hands of the gods, if such things exist, but I believe there must be a balance in the vast distances of time and space, which demands that good must eventually prevail over wickedness and thwart the evil ones in the end. I am bound to believe this truth, or else my life would have no purpose. You must trust in your own goddess, and save as many innocents as you can.’
Myrddion hiccuped with distress, and Botha couldn’t tell if the healer laughed or wept – or both. ‘So, also, said Bishop Lucius of Glastonbury when he advised me. A man of war and a man of God have both seen my conundrum far more clearly than I have. I’ve tried to choose reason over emotion my whole life, because I’ve always found that it’s dangerous to love or to trust too much.’
‘You touch upon the riddles of the gods, Myrddion. Ultimately, we survive on faith or we fall into the abyss. In my judgement, you’re a man who possesses strong feelings, but then I’m not the one who is required to stand in your shoes. Whatever choice is made, you must stand by it.’ Botha laughed deprecatingly. ‘We argue philosophy in the teeth of a tempest.’
Myrddion didn’t dare to close his eyes after Botha left him in the healers’ tents, despite having been awake for nearly two days. He feared that he lacked the strength to bear the assault of the night terrors that would come.
So, weary and bowed with care, he sat with the corpse of Gorlois and explained to the shade of the great warrior how he would betray a selfless love. Myrddion begged the dead king’s pardon, because he could see the answer to Uther Pendragon’s demands so clearly that he wondered that the High King had not found the solution for himself. Near dawn, as the eastern sky began to stain with the faintest touch of rose, a feeling of peace stole into his heart. Either the goddess, Gorlois or his own inner voice finally accepted what had to be done and lifted some of the weight of responsibility from his conscience.
‘You are not to blame,’ the voice whispered. ‘Ultimately, some good can come from Uther’s wickedness and you will be given a second chance to redeem yourself. Place no trust in kings and believe only in the human desire for truth and beauty that cannot be gainsaid, even by the masters of the earth. Be at peace.’
Myrddion suspected that his inner voice was only wishful thinking, but he still accepted its comfort. Then, exhausted by worry and work, he closed his eyes and fell into a deep healing sleep, his tired head resting on Gorlois’s cold breast.
The snow clouds had thinned and weak sunshine broke through the cover to gild the shrouded land. Strangely, there were no birds calling and the winds had ceased to rattle the bare branches of the forest trees. Only a hunting vixen, over-late in her search for food, padded through the snow like a white ghost. She smelled the taint of death on the air, the scent that men brought with them to disturb the quiet of the forests, so she hastened to the den and her two cubs, which were almost old enough to fend for themselves. She carried a plump pheasant in her jaws to keep their hunger at bay and shivered at the delicious taste of blood in her mouth.
Behind her, the light brightened as another day dawned.
TINTAGEL CASTLE
CHAPTER XX
TINTAGEL
In nature there are neither rewards nor punishments, there are only consequences.
Ingersol, R.G., Lectures and Essays
Dragged into Uther’s presence with scant regard for his dignity or his position, Myrddion swayed with weariness in front of the High King. Uther’s bloodshot eyes were sunk deeply into his head, proof of a restless night. The corners of the High King’s mouth were drawn down while the bones of his skull were prominent with weariness, exposing a death’s head that predicted a withered old age.
‘Well, healer? While you were resting, I was awaiting your solution. It’s a pity your servant had to be cuffed around a little, but he denied Ulfin entry into the tent where you were sleeping beside Gorlois’s corpse. Perhaps the Boar has tempted you to join him?’
‘It’s a cowardly act to punish an unarmed servant for a perceived slight,’ Myrddion protested hotly. ‘I hope that Cadoc has not come to lasting harm for my sake, but I’m also certain that there will be an accounting one day for atrocities done by others in your name.’
‘Brave words, Storm Crow! It’s fortunate that your friend will live, although he may have suffered lasting injury to his hand. However, as you are about to give me the information I want, I’ll permit you to treat him so he can be returned to health. I still need competent healers.’
Uther’s eyes were both cold and excited, for he knew he had finally taken Myrddion’s measure. Cadoc’s injury was a timely reminder to the healer of Uther’s ascendency.
How does he know that I’ve devised a solution to his problem? Myrddion thought with a sick realisation that he had no way out of his predicament. His mind returned again to Cadoc’s plight, for his faithful friend would be robbed of a means of earning his bread if Myrddion couldn’t repair his injured hand.
‘Whatever I have to say is for your ears alone, King Uther. The treachery I’ve planned is sickening to me, so to discuss it publicly is both shameful and foolish.’
Negligently, Uther dismissed his guard with a wave of his hand, except for Ulfin who had been the architect of Cadoc’s punishment. With a baleful stare in the warrior’s direction, Myrddion addressed the man as the contemptible vermin he was.
‘I won’t forget the injuries you inflicted on my friend’s hand, Ulfin, for you appreciate how much a healer depends upon agile fingers. Pray that I can set his bones so his tendons can do his bidding, else I might be inclined to foretell your future.’
‘I’m not afraid of you, healer, even if men say you’re a prophet of doom,’ Ulfin scoffed with a sneer. ‘A bag of wind cannot harm a true warrior.’
‘You’re not worth my attention, warrior or no,’ Myrddion snapped as he turned his back on the guardsman with the same imperious arrogance displayed by Melvig ap Melwy, his great-grandfather. The slight was so pointed that Ulfin flushed along his flat cheekbones.
‘As for your problem, your highness, you must enter Tintagel disguised as Gorlois, King of Cornwall. There is no other way to breach the citadel. The battle for the eastern gate of Anderida was a bloodbath, I’m told, so there will be armour and tunics aplenty belonging to Gorlois’s guard. They must be cleansed and used in your deception.’
From his cushioned chair, Uther peered up at Myrddion from under his golden eyebrows. ‘True! But even if I deck out my men in the Boar’s colours, I look nothing like Gorlois. For starters, I’m six inches taller than he was.’
‘A man’s height is immaterial when he’s on a horse, and you’ll be riding Gorlois’s destrier. Bors begged me to heal his uncle’s horse, and it’s in the care of my wounded servant. Every man in Tintagel’s garrison must know their king’s stallion, so you will ride Fleet-foot into the citadel. But I beg that the horse be permitted to survive, for I gave my word to King Bors that I would protect it.’
‘Very well,’ Uther replied coldly. ‘I don’t want the animal anyway.’
‘The Boar’s helmet and visor will disguise most of your face and your distinctive hair will be hidden. I will dye your brows black temporarily, but you must keep your eyes hidden as much as possible. Their colour is too distinctive.’
Uther nodded smu
gly. So far, Myrddion was making sense and the High King could see how the ruse would work.
‘If you arrive at Tintagel’s garrison in full darkness, preferably during the fogs that plague the coast, you will be further disguised. I expect you’ll have no difficulty filling Gorlois’s leathers and armour, for you are as broad-shouldered as he. Your legs will be a problem, but you should pass muster if you can hold them against your horse when you’re in sight of his men.’
A shadow passed across Uther’s tired face. ‘But our voices are quite different. I could not sound like Gorlois, no matter how hard I tried.’
Myrddion grimaced without mirth. ‘I’ve thought of an answer to that, sire. I’ll bandage your throat so the dressings are obvious and they will tell Tintagel’s guards without words that you have been wounded. A little dried blood will support the fiction, as long as you remember to croak any orders you give when you’re within earshot of the garrison. You’re wounded, so no one will wonder that you’re eager to be comforted by your queen.’
Uther nodded. ‘It’s imperative that no word reaches Tintagel that Gorlois has perished. I’ve taken steps in that direction.’
‘I’m sure you have,’ Myrddion replied dryly, imagining the stiffening corpses of murdered couriers abandoned on the western road for the carrion birds. ‘Cloak your servants heavily. The weather is so vile at Tintagel that no one will question their identity. I don’t know the exact means by which Gorlois announced his approach to the garrison.’
‘I’ll discover it, never fear,’ Uther answered decisively and gestured to Ulfin, who left the headquarters at a trot. ‘I have a Dumnonii courier in Anderida who is still alive, so Ulfin will discover what I need to know.’
Myrddion felt ill. ‘Is another good man about to go to the shadows unmourned?’
‘He won’t be unmourned, Myrddion. Since you seem to care so much for the Boar’s warriors, you have my permission to say whatever prayers for the dead are necessary as you accompany me to Tintagel.’
Shock caused the colour to leach out of Myrddion’s cheeks. ‘Me? Why do you need me to go to Tintagel? I must tend to Cadoc and continue to care for those wounded in the battle. Don’t ask me to participate in Queen Ygerne’s betrayal . . . please. Leave me in peace now that I’ve told you how to achieve your desires.’
‘To inform on me as soon as I turn my back? Do you take me for a fool, Storm Crow? Besides, I’m told that the Lady Ygerne has a soft spot for you. It’s perfectly plain to me that Gorlois would need a healer on such a long trek home after being wounded.’
Uther’s face was elated, excited and predatory, and Myrddion knew that any pleas would simply feed his enjoyment of the healer’s discomfort.
‘Very well. If you insist, I will ride to Tintagel with you, but please give me leave to attend to Cadoc’s wounds before we depart.’
‘Agreed, Storm Crow.’ Uther smiled and sipped at a goblet of wine. With a graceful flick of the fingers, he casually picked up the scroll with its plan of Tintagel fortress. ‘I’ve memorised what is known of the king’s apartments, but we have many miles to travel, so the fiction needn’t begin until we reach the Dumnonii lands. We will then become warriors of their tribe.’ His gaze abruptly hardened. ‘There is one other matter I require of you, Myrddion. I want the severed head of Gorlois.’
Myrddion felt his knees tremble. ‘Why, lord? Why would you want to desecrate the corpse of a brave and noble man? I don’t understand.’
‘You aren’t privy to all my thoughts, healer. Just provide me with the head of the Dumnonii king in a leather bag. I don’t want it stinking before we arrive in Tintagel, so pack snow around it. I’m sure you know how to decapitate a dead body, for I’m told you did as much for your kinsman, the Deceangli king.’
‘That ceremony was carried out as part of an ancient ritual, my lord, and it was done with reverence. Not like . . . this.’
‘Do it any way you please – just do it. I require you and the head to be ready to depart for Tintagel by dawn tomorrow.’
Dismissed at last from Uther’s presence, Myrddion stumbled out of the High King’s headquarters. Botha’s sympathetic eyes followed him as he trudged out of Anderida through the soiled grey snow. Myrddion chose to walk to the tents of the healers in order to regain his composure before he reached his companions. Regardless of the cost to himself, they must not learn of Uther’s perfidy, for such knowledge was dangerous and their lives could be forfeit. Praying that he could play his part like a man, the healer drew on his last reserves of strength, and was comforted only by the remembered words of Bishop Lucius: ‘You will need to base your decisions on what is good for the realm.’
Myrddion recalled the grave expression on Lucius’s face as he offered advice to Myrddion before the fateful solstice feast. Lucius had been brutally frank. Myrddion must trample his personal honour into the mud of Anderida, deliberately, in full knowledge of the consequences of his actions. Uther had been destined to rule, and the healer’s choices had been taken from him, one by one.
When Myrddion entered the healers’ tent, Cadoc was huddled over a bowl of snow with his broken hand buried in the cold, melting mess. Surprised, Ruadh looked up from the slivers of wood she was shaping into splints to immobilise her friend’s fingers.
‘Thank all the gods that you’ve come! I’m not equal to setting bones, while Cadoc is contemplating suicide because he believes his hand will never work properly again.’
‘Show me,’ Myrddion demanded with some of his old authority, and Cadoc lifted his hand out of the basin and laid it on a clean cloth on the surgical table. Myrddion noticed that the body of the Dumnonii king had been moved to an improvised bier and was covered with a fine fur cloak. Two Dumnonii guards stood at each end of the shrouded corpse.
‘Ah,’ Myrddion murmured, and grinned at Cadoc as he probed his assistant’s knuckles and finger joints with his own sensitive fingertips. ‘See? The bones haven’t pierced the skin, so your chances of healing properly are excellent.’
Without warning, Myrddion pulled on Cadoc’s forefinger and felt the knuckle bones slide back into position. Taken by surprise, Cadoc barely had time to scream.
‘That knuckle was only dislocated. That’s one finger that Ulfin didn’t break, and with a thumb and a forefinger you can still hold a scalpel, praise be to the gods of healing.’
‘That hurt!’ Cadoc protested, but Ruadh noticed that the spectres had retreated from his warm brown eyes.
‘Now for the others. Brace yourself, Cadoc, or you’ll frighten our patients.’
Obediently, Cadoc bit down on a plug of leather while Myrddion rapidly set the other three fingers. Of them all, only the last joint caused some difficulty. Shaken, waxen with pain but still bright-eyed under a thin wash of unshed tears, Cadoc looked up at his master hopefully as Myrddion bound and splinted the last of the damaged digits.
‘You’re lucky that Ulfin is a thug and a bully who’d rather prolong agony than do his job properly. You have several dislocations because he was bent on making you suffer rather than destroying your hands. The break in the little finger is the only one that troubles me and you might experience some difficulty in moving it. I won’t know for sure until the splints come off, but I believe you’ll still be a healer once the bones knit together.’
‘Then I must give my thanks to Bran, Don and all the great ones. I’d sooner be dead than crippled, even though I sound like a coward. But what of you, Myrddion? Something has shaken you, so don’t try to deny it.’
‘Come outside, both of you. I’d rather not speak in front of these good men.’
The day was barely born, but after a promising beginning of weak sunshine the cloud cover had returned as if to hide Anderida and the plots and counterplots that were being spun within it. Myrddion looked up at the flinty sky and spied a few flakes of snow beginning to fall.
‘I will be leaving Anderida in company with King Uther and his men early tomorrow. Once we’ve gone, you are ordered to put the wo
unded into wagons and take them to the fortress. They’ll be warm within its walls, and the apprentices can care for them well enough.’
‘Why?’ Cadoc asked flatly, his clever eyes fixed on Myrddion’s face.
‘Because I’m ordering you to take one wagon with all the tools of our trade to Segontium, out of harm’s way. Don’t shake your heads. I’m being forced to carry out despicable tasks for the High King because he regards you as hostages. He is aware of my affection for you all, and knows he can force me into compliance by making threats against your lives. You must take Brangaine, Rhedyn, Dyfri and Ruadh and flee before he realises you’ve escaped his clutches.’
‘Brangaine won’t leave Venta Belgarum as long as Willa is held in captivity,’ Cadoc warned his master. ‘And I’m reluctant to go, although I’d be prepared to take the others to a place of safety if you allow me to return to your service.’
‘No!’ Myrddion’s voice was strengthening. ‘I’ll be forced to serve Uther for as long as my friends are close at hand, for he’s a dragon in thought and deed. You are in ever-present danger in my service, and I insist that you flee. You may recall that your hand was broken to ensure that I complied with every detail of Uther’s plan. In the hard years that lie ahead, I cannot spend every moment looking over my shoulder for fear of what he might do to you.’
‘I’ll not leave you,’ Ruadh said. Her mouth pursed stubbornly and Myrddion read a willingness to die in her green eyes. ‘The others must go, but Uther is a strange creature and I don’t believe he’d kill his brother’s woman. I don’t care, anyway. You may say what you choose, master, but I intend to stay.’
‘You may have to tie her down, Cadoc, for I can’t risk more blood on my soul,’ Myrddion said so softly that his voice was little more than a whisper. ‘Praxiteles has already left Venta Belgarum with the rest of the household, and he’ll meet you in Segontium on your arrival.’
