Prophecy: Web of Deceit (Prophecy 3)

by M. K. Hume

  The snowflakes began to fall faster and whitened Myrddion’s black hair. For a moment, Cadoc saw Myrddion as he would become in future years, tall and aristocratic like a king out of ancient days. The scarred healer shivered as the breeze suddenly increased in strength.

  ‘How will we manage without you, Myrddion?’ Cadoc whispered, tears streaking his fire-scarred face.

  ‘Why, Cadoc, you’ll survive very well. Llanwith pen Bryn will gladly employ a healer of your quality, and I will see you whenever I am sent out of Venta Belgarum. I’m not planning to die, and nor shall I vanish like a puff of smoke. For everyone’s safety, I wish to ensure that many leagues lie between Uther Pendragon and the ones I love. Grant me the peace to sleep easily at night, Cadoc.’

  ‘But he can still find us in Segontium, master,’ Cadoc whispered, scrambling for some means to stay by the side of the only person he had ever selflessly loved. ‘Distance would mean nothing to Uther Pendragon.’

  ‘But he won’t. Uther prefers the south and only ventures into the north on campaigns. He never even looks at subordinates, unless he has some duty for them, so he wouldn’t recognise you even if you were treating him. Fortunately for me, the Dragon has a simple, arrow-straight mind and no real talent for subterfuge.’

  Both Ruadh and Cadoc looked doubtful, so Myrddion hurried to explain. ‘Yes, he’s a beast, but I’ve never known him to disguise his feelings very well. His tactics are brutal and direct, and while they’re extremely effective, he’s not clever. No, he’ll not pursue you to Segontium, or trouble himself to think of you once you’ve gone.’

  Ruadh gripped Myrddion’s hand tightly. ‘The price that is asked of you is too high. Damn the goddess! And damn all the gods if they force you to live unloved and empty. Such servitude should not be any man’s fate.’ She wailed the final words, so one of Gorlois’s guards moved at the flap of the tent to check for danger in the snowy morning gloom.

  Myrddion tried to smile nonchalantly and waved the guard away. The warrior eyed the healers with narrowed, suspicious eyes, but he eventually returned to his post.

  ‘I’m the Demon Seed, remember, and I’ve been alone for half my life. Now, will you please do this service for me? If you love me, you’ll agree when I beg this sacrifice of you.’

  Unable to speak the hated words of acquiescence aloud, Cadoc could only nod. Ruadh refused, and Myrddion felt a deep pang as if the goddess had already determined his lover’s fate.

  ‘I have one other unpleasant duty to perform, and for that task I must ask you to leave me with Gorlois and the guards. But first, Cadoc, would you fetch my sword for me?’

  ‘Your sword? You’ve never used it before. You rarely bother to even wear it,’ Cadoc protested. Myrddion had been gifted with King Melvig ap Melwy’s sword when he had cut the head from his kinsman’s body, but Cadoc knew that the healer had never used the sword during the many years it had been in his possession.

  ‘Just obey me, Cadoc. Truly, it is best if you have no knowledge of what I do.’

  Unwillingly, Cadoc trudged off through the thickening snowfall towards the wagons while Ruadh cast a defiant glance in Myrddion’s direction and headed for the second tent where the bearers were caring for the wounded. Myrddion sighed again and tried to remember the last time he had been truly happy. As he looked out at the dimming landscape, the trees were like the corpses of summer, and the grey sea, just visible beyond Anderida, was a charcoal slab that looked solid from this distance. The healer shivered inside his black cloak and wondered if he would be at peace this side of the grave.

  Then, with squared shoulders, he elbowed his way into the surgical tent. He demanded time alone with the corpse of Gorlois, and such was his reputation that the guards reluctantly agreed. When Cadoc returned with his great-grandfather’s sword, Myrddion winced at the burning cold of the gold-plated scabbard and the sanguine glitter of its bloody jewels.

  ‘Leave me now, Cadoc, and keep the guards occupied for at least an hour. I’ll inform you when they can return.’

  With a reluctant, confused expression, Cadoc obeyed.

  Myrddion stood over Gorlois’s corpse for a moment as he recreated in his mind the ritual he had seen carried out by the Druids at Canovium. Then, before he could lose his nerve, he swiftly exposed the neck. Raising Melvig’s sword above his head, he prayed that Gorlois’s soul would speed like an eagle high above the winter clouds and onwards into the heart of the sun. Then he allowed the blade to fall.

  The corpse was rewrapped with a pile of clean dressings and bandages fashioned to form the shape of Gorlois’s head. Only a few minutes sufficed to stitch the shroud together and re-cover the remains with the fur blanket. The ruse was too hurried to fool Bors for long but, with luck, Uther’s troop would be gone, as would Cadoc and the women, before the desecration was discovered.

  Myrddion placed Gorlois’s head in a leather bag and packed it with snow before heading off to collect the dead king’s armour and linens. Secrecy still mattered, and although the hand that had struck off the Dumnonii king’s head seemed cursed forever, perhaps Willa and Berwyn would be freed because Myrddion had obeyed the High King. He would do his utmost to ensure that Bors remained ignorant of Uther’s plans for as long as possible.

  With those items he prized most stored in his satchel, carrying the leather bag and wearing his sword, Myrddion saddled Fleet-foot and loaded the destrier with Gorlois’s armour. Then, before he lost his courage, he led the horse away from the tents. He was grateful for the heavily falling snow which filled his tracks and rendered horse and man almost invisible. Inside the fortress, he took refuge in the stables and gave Botha the severed head for delivery to Uther Pendragon. Ulfin collected the armour with the contemptuous sneer that was his habitual greeting to the healer.

  ‘I have done all that was asked of me, but I require horses for myself and furs to keep me warm. I have not dared to bring my own belongings, lest King Bors should become suspicious. Uther must provide for me.’

  While Ulfin shrugged with disinterest, Botha nodded slowly.

  ‘I’ll find everything you need, healer. I’ll also bring you stew and wine, if you choose to stay in the stables for the night. It’s wild outside today and the king wishes to leave before dawn, so you need to rest.’

  ‘Aye, so I must, for there are many miles to ride in the days to come.’

  The straw was malodorous and the scratching in the corners of the stables warned Myrddion that he shared his bed with rats. But he was beyond caring, for a man can only tolerate so much horror and loss before his mind becomes sated and his senses numbed. Exhausted, he determined to ignore the rodents on the oaken beams of the tack room, trusting that the Mother would protect her errant son. He fell into a deep sleep amid the straw.

  Outside, the snow had stopped at nightfall, to be replaced by a northern wind so bitter that every surface turned to ice. But in the straw, Myrddion slept on and on. He did not dream.

  The road to the west had proved to be harsher than anything that Myrddion had ever encountered during his arduous journey to the Middle Sea. Uther travelled fast and left foundering horses at every outpost as he continued his headlong rush to reach Tintagel before rumour travelled on the winds and warned Queen Ygerne that her happiness was over. Men and horses were rarely rested, and then only because Fleet-foot was integral to Myrddion’s ruse and the destrier’s strength must be preserved until the troop entered the precincts of the fortress. Confused and fractious, the stallion had not been ridden during the journey to ensure he could carry out his role in the entrapment of Ygerne.

  At the borders of the Dumnonii lands, the troop halted to rest, although Uther fumed at the necessary delay. Beside a shallow, ice-choked stream, the men were instructed to wash their bodies thoroughly, replait their wet hair in the fashion of Gorlois’s guard, and finally dress their shivering bodies in the cleaned and refurbished armour of the dead Dumnonii warriors. Wrapped in heavy, chequered Dumnonii cloaks that muffled their shapes and faces,
Uther’s guardsmen turned into Gorlois’s warriors under Myrddion’s watchful eyes, but the healer felt no sense of triumph at the success of his plan.

  Uther paced around the clearing in a fever of impatience. It was only with the greatest difficulty that Myrddion was able to force the High King to harness his mad energy and submit to having his brows darkened.

  ‘What’s that muck?’ Uther growled, eyeing a small pot filled with a dark, greasy substance.

  ‘It’s called stiblum, master, a woman’s cosmetic that is used to darken the area around the eyes and eyebrows. Ruadh permitted me to take her prized pot with the promise that I’d return it. Stand still and let me darken your brows. Then I’ll add some to the pouches under your eyes to suggest illness, and that will draw attention away from their colour.’

  Once he had finished his ministrations, Myrddion stepped away from the High King and watched as he donned a dead man’s clothes and armour. Gorlois’s trews were hopelessly short, so Uther changed back into his own serviceable leathers. He retained his own boots and lacings because his feet were so much larger than the Dumnonii king’s, but the armour fitted perfectly, and once heavily cloaked Uther was thoroughly disguised.

  ‘Now for the final touches,’ Myrddion told him. ‘Ulfin must plait all that hair into a cap and wind it round your head. Even one stray curl will spoil the fiction we’ve created.’

  Ulfin scowled and began the arduous ask of plaiting Uther’s mane of hair with a thunderous face. Although his intellect wasn’t swift, he was acutely aware that Myrddion was enjoying both the spectacle and his own discomfiture whenever Uther cuffed him for pulling too painfully on strands of the High King’s curls.

  Once Ulfin had finished, Myrddion drew a long bandage from his satchel and bound the king’s throat and part of his head to create the effect of a neck wound. Slushy mud was used to soil the clean cloth and support the appearance of an old wound. Uther provided a small amount of blood by cutting his thumb and pressing the wounded digit onto the cloth until Myrddion was satisfied that the bandage looked authentic.

  ‘What of me, lord? Do you suggest that I should disguise myself?’ Myrddion asked, his feet crunching nervously in the dry snow.

  ‘Why? Everybody knows Uther’s Storm Crow. We can only hope the garrison will assume that you’ve been sent by me to care for their master.’ Uther grinned whitely and Myrddion was reminded that the king had perfect teeth.

  ‘Try not to smile, my lord. Gorlois had a tooth missing in the front of his mouth.’

  Once they were dressed and muffled, the troop took to the road again, still riding hard but pausing regularly to rest the horses. Despite the freezing winds, the peasants gave ragged cheers at their lord’s passing whenever the warriors galloped through villages along the route. On each occasion, Uther raised his left hand in salute, obeying Myrddion’s orders that he must courteously acknowledge any peasants who recognised him.

  As the grey day dragged towards darkness, the trees began to grow sparser, except in hollows where the wind could not reach them. Those trees that raised their heads into the sea winds were contorted into bent, crippled shapes that suggested rows of trolls or strange earth demons that waved their naked branches in warning at the passing warriors.

  Carefully avoiding low branches in the deepening night, the troop followed the narrow tracks that wound towards the sea. The route had been carved out by horsemen and carts over countless years, for no Roman roads had been built along these fierce shores where naval landings were impossible and the sea was a wild, untamed thing. Occasionally, strong moonlight revealed the odd cove of pebbles lying between frowning cliffs and Myrddion could make out occasional glimmers of light that spoke of small fishing villages existing on the perilous edge of the great ocean. Land and sea had a wild beauty, and Myrddion discovered that he understood the contradictions in Gorlois’s character far better for having seen his country. Strong, vigorous and fierce, Gorlois had been more than a match for this wild coast, yet its alien beauty was echoed in the sentimentality and protectiveness that had softened the harsher edges of the Dumnonii king’s nature.

  ‘A savage and lovely place,’ Myrddion whispered aloud, but the sound of the horses’ hooves covered his momentary slip of the tongue. Prudently, Uther had ordered complete silence in the Dumnonii lands unless they were challenged. Dreading their arrival, yet wishing that this devil’s ride would soon be over, Myrddion clung to his mount like a limpet and tried to keep his mind blank.

  The troop paused at a great cliff that plunged hundreds of feet down to the boiling sea below. To both left and right, promontories thrust fingers out into the crashing cauldron of waves, but Tintagel on the left was shrouded in darkness as spume, fog and sea mist turned its peninsula into an indistinct outline.

  On the mainland below them, and reached only by a steep, treacherous path, the unmortared stone walls of the garrison shivered under gusts of the fierce wind. ‘May the gods be with us, for that path is deadly,’ Myrddion panted to Uther. ‘It’s solid ice, so we won’t be able to gallop on it.’

  ‘Sound the horn,’ the High King ordered, and lowered his visor. Somehow, chameleon-like, he hunched his broad shoulders within his fur-edged, chequered cloak. Myrddion was forced to blink his wind-dried eyes, because Gorlois had returned to life in front of him.

  The ram’s horn sounded, eerie and plaintive, as the troop rode down the path with its dizzying descent. Only Fleet-foot moved ahead briskly, confident on home ground and familiar with every treacherous twist in the approach to the garrison. Recklessly, Myrddion urged his own horse to follow in Uther’s wake, careless of the black ice that caused a beast behind him to slide dangerously on its haunches. The horn sounded again, and torches sprang into life in the garrison as several armed men reached the small court before it, huddled in heavy furs to withstand the wind that howled from the black sea.

  ‘Make way!’ Myrddion shouted, his voice blown into rags by the gale. ‘Gorlois comes home to Tintagel, so make way!’

  Uther scarcely paused at the garrison and raised his left fist in Gorlois’s customary salute. A part of Myrddion was amazed at how acutely Uther must have observed his Dumnonii rival, for the action was a perfect mimicry of the Boar’s salutations.

  ‘I am home,’ Uther croaked in a voice that was scarcely audible. ‘A Saxon nearly got me, but I’m hard to kill.’

  The guards laughed at their master’s gallows humour and Uther rode on as his troop clattered behind him, sawing at their horses’ bits to keep their heads up in the treacherous conditions. They rode into the sea mist, and were suddenly confronted by dizzying drops on either side of a narrow wooden bridge.

  Uther didn’t hesitate. Fleet-foot knew his stable was near and that he would be fed sweet hay and clean water to reward him after the long ride. Given his head, and as eager as his rider, the stallion leapt away as Myrddion and Uther’s personal guard clattered behind. Hooves on the wooden planks of the bridge sounded hollowly, and one horse screamed shrilly as the whole structure shivered slightly in the gale. Then they were across and a steep, winding path led them upward, up and up – towards raw flint walls that towered above them until Myrddion felt dizzy and sick, and could only grip his horse’s mane for dear life with whitened knuckles.

  A hastily opened gate welcomed them into a dark, narrow forecourt, and Tintagel was taken.

  While the guard disposed of the few men protecting the lower gate with disciplined efficiency, Uther dismounted and tossed the reins of Gorlois’s horse to a boy who had come from the small stables, his eyes blurred with sleep. Myrddion watched the boy’s expression change to one of terror as he saw the two gatekeepers die in fountains of their own arterial blood.

  ‘Bar the gates and then follow me,’ Uther hissed at Ulfin. ‘Your men may have any women they find in the fortress, save only for the queen and her hell-born daughter. But tell them to be quiet about it, for any undue noise will rouse the garrison and we can do without an assault.’

  ‘
Aye, lord,’ Ulfin grunted, and beckoned Botha to his side to relay his master’s orders. Out of unexpected and uncharacteristic sensitivity, Uther had capitalised on Ulfin’s unquestioning obedience, and left his captain in a subordinate role that spared Botha from compromising his personal code. Myrddion grudgingly admitted that his treatment of Botha was one of the rare decencies in the High King’s behaviour.

  Perhaps there’s hope for him after all, Myrddion thought. The healer trusted that the captain’s cool head would save as many lives in Tintagel as possible, so he took his satchel from his saddle and gripped the free hand of the stable boy who was still frozen with fright, although he clutched Fleet-foot’s reins with the other.

  ‘Listen to me, boy. Do you want to live? You do? Then obey me to the letter. Take the horses into the stables, and treat them as you would for your master. Stay with them, groom them, and feed them grain from your store, for they have travelled many long miles. But whatever you hear, do not leave the stables and you might survive the night. Do you understand?’

  The youth stared up into Myrddion’s eyes and nodded dumbly. The healer handed over his own horse and gathered the reins of several others, until the stable lad began to function in his customary, comforting routine, although his face was ashen under the wind-torn moon. The mist that had disguised their approach had been blown away on this bare outcrop of stone, and they were surrounded by the thunder of crashing waves and howling winds below the inner wall and the citadel.

  High king and healer surveyed legendary Tintagel. The fortress was small and primitive, and built of unmortared stone that was lined with a thick stucco of mud, dung and straw. Roughly circular in shape, with protruding additions that had grown randomly around a central tower, the fortress had an archaic set of thatched roofs over a framework of undressed oaken branches. Tintagel’s great age was clearly written in the primitive building methods that were stitched together with younger, more sophisticated rooms, built by the ancestors of King Gorlois.