Prophecy: Web of Deceit (Prophecy 3)

by M. K. Hume

  Below the parapet of stone that covered the flat top of the castle grounds, narrow paths snaked between knee-high grass blown flat and desiccated by the wind. The paths wound perilously around the sloping walls of the cliffs to small conical huts of stone that clung to the dizzying edges of the sheer drop to the waves below. Here the servants of the citadel lived, bred and died, generation upon generation, flowing back to the forgotten past when the tribe first crossed the Litus Saxonicum and defeated the blue-tattooed Picts. Tintagel had been ancient even then, and no man had set foot on her solid stones without the permission of her lord and master.

  Until now.

  Uther had disappeared, so Myrddion began the journey to the core of the labyrinthine fortress, remembering ancient legends of the Mother’s dwelling, another maze below the earth with a monster at its heart. Putting aside his superstitions, he climbed any stone stairs he came to, reasoning that Ygerne’s nest would be in the centre of the fortress at its highest point. Then, out of the claustrophobic silence of the winding corridors, he heard a woman wail in a shrill, unearthly crescendo of horror. Cursing, he followed the keening sound until, suddenly, it was cut off.

  ‘Where do you think you’re going, Merlinus?’ Ulfin whispered from behind the healer’s back. Myrddion felt the sharp point of a knife blade against his kidneys.

  ‘Do you plan to murder me from behind now that my usefulness is over? I promise you that if you send me to the Mother before my time, your days will be haunted by my unquiet spirit.’

  ‘I repeat, healer. Where are you going?’

  ‘I’m searching for Morgan before some idiot kills or rapes her. Uther Pendragon doesn’t need the whole Otadini tribe and their allies pouring over the wall with a thirst for his blood. Those mad northerners have very precise concepts of the duties owed to ravaged kinswomen.’

  The knife was withdrawn a fraction, and Myrddion began to check each of the four rooms running off a central set of worn stone steps that led to the highest point of the tower. The rooms were oddly shaped and very small and should have been cold and forbidding, for the walls were sealed with ancient mud to deflect stray breezes. Raw wooden shutters kept out the gusting, spiralling winds. However, the dun-coloured walls were mellowed to some extent by hanging fabrics of soft colours: rose, yellow-gold and verdant green reminded Myrddion of fields of rampant wild flowers. Perhaps Ygerne had woven these hangings with her own hands during the long years while she waited for her husband to return from his many battles. The threads were vegetable-dyed, so that the hangings shimmered and moved with a semblance of life that infused something plain and unadorned with subtle, changeable beauty, much like the colouring of the queen herself.

  Respectfully, Myrddion closed each door carefully. Only two remained for his attention and the healer feared to push on the old, hand-polished wood of the first. He pressed his ear to the door instead, knowing that Uther would not welcome any interruption if he was in the room with Ygerne, yet terrified that the queen might be seriously injured, even dying. His bargain with the High King had not included violence to the person of King Gorlois’s wife.

  There was no sound, only the loud beating of Myrddion’s frightened heart. Cautiously, he pushed open the door, which complained with a squeal of ancient metal straps. Conscious of Ulfin’s threatening presence at his back, Myrddion inched his way carefully into the darkened room.

  Something brushed his arm with a sting of fire and Myrdion instinctively threw himself sideways. A dark shape flew at Ulfin, all claws and wild hair, wielding a small knife with such deadly intent that it almost caught the seasoned warrior in the eye. The blade skidded along his forehead and the smaller figure stumbled. Too fast for Myrddion to intervene, Ulfin gripped the figure, twisted it in his arms and was about to break its neck when Myrddion’s wits returned.

  ‘Not for your life, Ulfin! It’s Morgan! Morgan, the queen’s daughter! Remember Uther’s orders.’

  ‘You bitch!’ Ulfin growled from the back of his throat as blood from a ragged slash across his forehead dripped into his eyes. ‘I’ll make you pay for that cut.’

  Before Myrddion could stop him, the guardsman broke the hand that held the knife with a deliberate twist of the fragile bones.

  ‘Gods, you’re an idiot!’ Myrddion cursed as Ulfin pushed the shocked woman back into the room and threw her onto a narrow bed more suited to a servant than a princess. Myrddion had time to notice the cell-like, spartan nature of the room, which possessed little furniture except for a pair of clothes chests and a single stool. A small pottery jar filled with dried flowers rested on the thick stone sill of the shuttered window. It was the only sign of femininity that Myrddion had ever observed in the Dumnonii witch.

  ‘Let me see to Morgan’s hand, Ulfin. By all that’s holy, don’t make her suffer. Don’t bring the wrath of the Mother down on us.’

  ‘Get out, healer, unless you like to watch.’ Ulfin raised one hand to his forehead and wiped away the blood while his left hand pinned the struggling, silent woman on the bed. ‘The bitch has scarred me for life, so I’ll treat her like the whore she is. Get out, unless you want to share her.’

  As Ulfin’s free hand was already busy stripping away his tunic and unlacing his leather breeches, Myrddion sobbed and backed away from the ugly scene. Once outside the room, he slid down to the icy floor and prayed to the Mother for those women in Tintagel who were being forced to suffer as the spoils of war. As he prayed, the screams in the last room began again, higher and higher, and the noise was infused with such loss that Myrddion covered his ears and beat his head against the floor until his blood soaked into the old boards.

  When the two rooms were finally silent, Myrddion was still unable to move. Images ran through his mind like thread on a spindle: bloody babies, bleeding feet, an old man in a huge bed covered with a white fur, a girl crucified over an open window, a woman with savage eyes and pointed teeth and, at the end of a long parade of horrors, a sword with a dragon on the hilt. It leaked blood from one end of the metal to the other in a thick, viscous stream.

  Just when he thought that he could bear no more, Myrddion felt a touch inside his mind that was as gentle as a Judas kiss. ‘You’ve done what had to be done, good son of my heart. As your reward, you will suffer my dreams no longer. Rise up now, for my daughters will need your ministrations.’

  The voice was neither male nor female, and Myrddion wondered why the whole fortress was not awakened by the androgynous thunder of it.

  ‘So this is the voice of the Mother – or God – or something. Or, perhaps, I’ve gone mad.’

  Both rooms were still, not with healing sleep or peace, but as if the gale outside had left this spike of stone at the very centre of a greater, cataclysmic whirlwind. Myrddion sat against the wall and waited. His time had come at last.

  CHAPTER XXI

  THE WOMAN OF GLASS

  Oderint dum metuant.

  [Let them hate, so long as they fear.]

  Accius Lucius, Atreus

  When Ulfin finally stalked out of Morgan’s room, Myrddion’s head had sunk upon his bent knees in exhaustion and he almost slept. Ulfin kicked him viciously on the thigh.

  ‘She’s all yours, if you want her. The bitch is as cold as the winds that blow from the Western Isles.’

  Myrddion clambered painfully to his feet as Ulfin swaggered away, fastening his heavy leather body armour as he went. ‘Watch your back, Ulfin, for I swear that you’ll die in the most grotesque way you can imagine. Nor will you recognise the blade when it comes after you.’

  Ulfin turned slowly and grinned nastily at the healer. Morgan’s knife wound had ceased to bleed but the edges of the skin were ragged and would scar badly. Let him wear her mark with pride, Myrddion thought savagely.

  ‘Do you prophesy again, healer? Or is it just more hot air?’

  ‘It’s a promise, Ulfin.’

  As the warrior began to strut away, Myrddion made a vow to himself. He determined that while he couldn’t take Ul
fin’s life with his own hands, he’d not lift a finger to treat the guardsman or alleviate his suffering if his wound should begin to rot.

  ‘You’re like an old toothless dotard who mumbles nothing but empty words,’ the warrior sniped back over his shoulder. ‘See to the hell-bitch, if you don’t want to use her yourself.’ Then Ulfin disappeared down the stone stairs that led to the lower rooms. His footsteps clattered on the hollowed stone treads with the sound of dry bones clicking together.

  Myrddion crossed the threshold of Morgan’s room cautiously, but no threat lurked in the deep shadows to harm him. Inside the claustrophobic space, Gorlois’s daughter was a dark shadow on her bed, rolled into a coarse blanket so that only a hank of long black hair was visible.

  ‘Come, Lady Morgan, I’ll not harm you, but your wrist needs treatment if you wish to use your hand properly in the future. Don’t be afraid of me. You know I’m only a tool of the Mother – for good or for ill – so we serve the same mistress.’

  Morgan surged up and the rough cover slid away from her white, naked body. Ivory flesh, black hair and a soft fur triangle between her legs were carelessly exposed, as were the bruises caused by the hands and knees that had been used to force her into physical submission. Purple and blue, the marks of Ulfin’s large paws and sharp fingernails covered her breasts, her thighs and the narrow column of her throat. A single bite mark that had drawn blood revealed the brand of Ulfin’s ugly mouth on Morgan’s pale breast.

  But Myrddion had no time to be either embarrassed or ashamed by Morgan’s nakedness, for her burning black eyes bored into his from a face that was swollen, bruised, tear-stained, but undefeated. Her fury was a live, cold thing, more intense than Uther’s rages, so that Myrddion took a step back from such all-consuming loathing.

  ‘I beg your pardon, Lady Morgan. Ulfin is . . .’ His voice trailed away for a moment, then strengthened as he focused on the task before him. ‘I must treat your wrist, my lady, so no historionics.’

  Still her intense, unwavering stare never left his face. Uncertain whether shock or pain had stolen her voice, Myrddion crossed to the small window, opened the shutters and grasped several handfuls of salty snow from irregularities in the lichen-encrusted stones. Outside, the black night was full of howling voices in the icy gale.

  Myrddion lifted Morgan’s wrist and packed a handful of snow around the swelling that distorted its delicacy. After initial resistance, she permitted his touch and even held the snow in place. Then they sat together in silence while Myrddion tucked the woollen blanket around her with gentle, sexless care.

  Eventually, shocked and hurt, her loss of dignity defeated even Morgan’s rage. ‘You must promise me, prophet, if such you be, that he will die screaming for what he has done tonight,’ she whispered so quietly that Myrddion bent his dark head close to hers to hear her thready voice. ‘I can’t live cleanly while that animal breathes my air.’

  ‘Ulfin dines on the leavings of his master. He is an extension of Uther Pendragon’s inner darkness, so I promise that he rushes towards an inevitable, bloody fate. I don’t need to prophesy to know he’ll be punished. Can’t you see the doom and stupidity that dull his small eyes? If such an extreme is possible, I hate Ulfin even more than you do.’

  Before Morgan could retreat into the cold space of her anger and abasement, the healer gently probed the narrow bones of her wrist and found the break where the hand bones met the complex network of tendons and veins in the wrist. He hunted through his satchel for his poppy tincture, then found a jug of water and poured a little into a plain pottery beaker. Using his body to hide his actions, he added several drops of the tincture and swirled the beaker until it disappeared.

  ‘Drink, Morgan. You know my Greek oath precludes a convenient poisoning, so humour me and allow me to treat the break in your arm. If the Mother is kind, you’ll heal completely.’

  ‘What would it matter if you killed me anyway? My father must be dead, or you wouldn’t have the courage to enter Tintagel. Do what you want.’

  Morgan seemed drained of the anger that had fuelled her, listless and defeated. She drank like a small child, in large gulps, and a little water slid down her chin. Myrddion gently wiped the moisture away from the corners of her mouth with the edge of her blanket. While he waited for the drug to take effect, he found a pair of wooden hairpins in Morgan’s jewel box in a clothes chest. When she made no protest, he searched the room for items that could be used as splints while the princess watched his efforts with dulling eyes.

  ‘Tell me how my father was killed,’ she whispered through swollen lips. ‘And don’t shake your head at me, Storm Crow. You owe me the truth, if only because you didn’t attempt to defend me from Uther’s dog. You let him humiliate me!’

  Her voice was flat, almost matter-of-fact, but Myrddion dreaded the inevitable hysteria that would come when the numbness of shock wore off.

  But he did owe her the truth, because he had cowered in the corridor like a craven dog while she was raped. Shame kept his voice at a whisper, but he managed to recount what he knew of Gorlois’s assassination with uncompromising honesty. Because he had nothing else to offer in reparation other than exposure of his part in the assault of Tintagel, he told her about her father’s decapitation and his excuses for complying with Uther’s demands.

  ‘I recited the holy prayers that were invoked during the ritual of beheading that was used after the death of my grandfather. I hope I didn’t offend your noble father, because I attempted to carry out my task respectfully. I chose the lives of two girls who are neither noble nor important over the welfare of Queen Ygerne and yourself. Perhaps I did so for selfish reasons, so I can’t beg your pardon. Such a sham would serve no purpose, because I’d still be forced to betray you if I had the chance to live the past week over again.’

  ‘Honesty is refreshing, Myrddion.’ A little colour had returned to Morgan’s face and the first tears began to brim over her eyelashes. ‘My father was too fine and decent to be killed from behind. I acquit you of any guilt in his murder, for I know where to lay the blame for that crime.’

  She lay back against the cushions and closed her eyes, although she still wept soundlessly. When a little time had elapsed Myrddion gripped her wrist, and with as much speed and dexterity as he possessed he slid the broken bone back into place and bound the wrist firmly with bandages. Then, using the wooden hairpins to hold the joint rigidly in position, he wrapped the lower arm as tightly as circulation permitted. When he finished, Morgan released her breath in a little hiss of pain and opened her eyes.

  ‘What about my mother? What has happened to the queen?’

  ‘I don’t know, my lady. While you are sleeping, I’ll do my best to find out what has befallen her.’

  Morgan closed her eyes and seemed to drowse, although she was obviously in considerable pain. As he began to rise from his knees on the wooden floor, she murmured a last message from the brink of unconsciousness.

  ‘When I wake, we’ll become implacable enemies, Myrddion Merlinus. But on this night, the truth should be spoken between people such as you and I. Tomorrow, I’ll try to tear down everything you’ve planned and suffered for, I swear by my life, but my grudge is not against you. I was no maiden, so Ulfin stole nothing from me but my dignity . . . but I’m surprised at how dead I feel inside. Do you understand what I’m trying to say? I’m rambling . . . but anything I do to you over the rest of my life isn’t aimed at you, but at your master. I’ll not rest until all the heirs of Maximus are dead, root and branch, and Pendragon is only a fireside ogre to frighten small children.’

  ‘Hush, Morgan. Nothing matters more than healing sleep, so close your eyes,’ Myrddion crooned. She obeyed like a small child and slid into poppy-induced unconsciousness. While she slept, Myrddion prayed for both their souls.

  When the winds had stilled a little and a glimmer of light greyed the eastern sky, Myrddion uncoiled his long body from his uncomfortable position guarding the doorway. In the corridor he disc
overed Botha leaning against one of the raw walls, so he begged the captain to find a woman to tend to Morgan’s needs.

  When he described what Ulfin had done, Botha bit his lip. ‘That fool grows worse and worse. There’ll be blood spilt and enemies made for years to come over this. Uther will be furious – he ordered us to spare Gorlois’s daughter.’

  ‘Sin has a very long shadow, Botha; we’ll all pay for last night.’

  The captain nodded and deserted his post to search for a serving woman. Before he returned, the door to Ygerne’s apartment opened and Uther crossed the threshold, his face impassive and his hair tangled from sleep.

  ‘You’re here, Merlinus? Good! In the absence of her women, the queen needs your ministrations. But he careful what you touch, or what you see. Everything in that room is now my personal property for as long as I choose to keep it.’

  ‘Morgan was raped by Ulfin, so I’ve had to set a broken wrist and give her a soporific to help her sleep,’ Myrddion said baldly. ‘Botha is finding a servant to tend to her needs.’

  ‘That fucking idiot!’ Uther snapped, his good humour momentarily shattered. ‘I thought my orders were explicit. Ulfin will be sorry that he disobeyed my instructions, especially as the Otadini tribe will be after my head, not his.’

  Myrddion bowed his head to hide his satisfaction. No more fitting punishment could befall Ulfin than the displeasure of his master.

  The room that Myrddion discovered behind the closed door was larger than Morgan’s cell, but it was tiny compared with even the smallest apartment in Uther’s hall at Venta Belgarum. Yet for all its cramped proportions, and even in the cold, dim light of another winter’s dawn, Ygerne’s hangings and her gentle spirit transformed the spartan space into a rosy nest. Lost in the large bed that had been her refuge since childhood, the queen was huddled like a damaged infant.