Prophecy: Web of Deceit (Prophecy 3)

by M. K. Hume

  Without waiting for a response, Lucius took the saddlebag down from his donkey and tied it into place over the withers of Ruadh’s horse.

  ‘With luck, Ulfin won’t discover where you leave the road, even with all this mud, although you must travel in easy stages to spare the child. I’ve packed clothes for the babe and more breast milk, but I fear you will need to find some watered cows’ milk before you arrive safely at your final destination. You also have dry rations and a tinderbox in the saddlebag, and you’d best take my water bottle.’

  ‘I can’t take all your supplies,’ Ruadh protested. ‘You’ll be hungry and thirsty.’

  ‘I’m a man of God and my Lord will provide for me. Your final destination is near Aquae Sulis, which is far off in the northwest. It is a famed Roman centre, so you will easily obtain directions to it.’

  Lucius fished out two small leather bags from his robe. The leather was warm where it had rested over his heart and when Ruadh hefted them, she heard the clink of coins.

  ‘This bag will purchase your supplies. I’d not have you go hungry on your journey, and you must pay for milk to nurse the child.’

  ‘I understand, Bishop Lucius, but where do I go in Aquae Sulis?’

  Ruadh was frowning with concentration and the bishop regretted the responsibility that was being placed on the woman’s narrow shoulders.

  ‘Don’t enter the city itself, but take the eastern road that turns off before the city gates. Once away from the city, follow the stone markers – I recall there are three of them. Eventually, you will come to a track and a gate branching off the main road to the right that leads up a steep hill. At the very top, you will find the Villa Poppinidii and its master, Ector, who will take you in. If you travel too far, you’ll reach a village which will set you on the correct route. Give Ector the coins in the second bag and ask him to foster the boy for my sake. One day, either I or another friend will contact him concerning the boy’s future, but until then Ector should raise the infant with his own son. You must not explain to Ector, or any other person, the details of the babe’s parentage, for it would amount to signing the boy’s death warrant. Do you understand, Ruadh?’

  ‘Yes, but are you sure that such subterfuge is necessary, Father?’

  ‘Aye. Uther is trying to kill his son, so I am hiding him in one of the last Roman enclaves in Britain, where the High King cuts very little ice. Nor will he seek the child within a Roman family, believing that the boy will be used as a tool by the tribal kings to weaken his hold on power. His own selfish madness colours his expectations of the actions of others. Yes, Uther will search diligently for the boy, but he’ll not find him where I am sending him.’

  ‘Should he have a name?’ Ruadh whispered, as she felt a tiny fist pull at her breast. She felt the ice of old losses melting, as if this child could bring back her own children.

  ‘Aye, he should. I have thought carefully on this matter, and I believe we should give him the name Artorex, which is a combination of Roman and Celtic words and, therefore, belongs to neither. Perhaps the boy will grow into such a powerful name – but perhaps he will not. We can give him life, but the rest lies in the hands of others.’

  ‘And what should I do after I deliver him to Ector, Father? Do I stay with the child, return to my master or head north into the land of the Picts to resume my old life? Tell me what to do, for I’ve not had a moment to consider what to make with the rest of my life.’

  ‘You have many miles to travel before you can rest, Ruadh. During your journey, you will discover what God has planned for you, so be careful how you go, little one. But I have one warning for you. For the sake of the babe, and for the soul of Myrddion, don’t tell your master where you take little Artorex. Meanwhile, I will remember you in my prayers.’

  Then Lucius slapped her horse across the rump, causing it to plunge down the hill towards the streamlet. Pensively, the prelate stood watching as Ruadh guided the horse deftly into the slowflowing ford where the setting sun was obscured by large willow trees. Straining, he watched her movements for as long as the dying light permitted, and when she had disappeared from sight, he mounted his donkey and applied a switch to its withers without causing the animal any hurt.

  ‘It’s time to go, faithful creature,’ he whispered softly into its long ear. ‘I wish I could protect Andrewina Ruadh, but she and Artorex must go where I dare not follow, lest Uther use me to murder his son. I cannot ensure the babe’s safety, but, still, I wonder if I’ll ever see him again?’

  For a short time, Myrddion rested beside the crossroads before turning his horse towards Venta Belgarum in a leisurely walk. The animal would have to be nursed throughout the journey, for its legs still trembled and sweated. As the sun sank below the heavy cloud cover the afternoon dimmed around him, so Myrddion dismounted to walk in the fitful, failing light with the reins held loosely in one hand.

  He was still some distance from Venta Belgarum, where the road was busy with carts, farmers and several priests bouncing along on fat donkeys, when something blotted out the last of the afternoon light. Raising his eyes from the stony roadway, Myrddion looked up into the cold face of Ulfin, mounted on one of Uther’s favourite destriers. The guardsman’s eyes were hooded with dislike as his gaze swept over Myrddion’s person, his horse and the empty saddlebag that flapped against its flank.

  ‘Well met, healer. So, where have you have been so late in the day?’ Ulfin’s voice had lost none of its sneering superiority during his months of banishment, and Myrddion shaded his eyes with one hand and answered in a like tone.

  ‘It’s none of your business, Ulfin. I travel on the orders of Uther Pendragon and only the High King has the right to demand an explanation of me.’

  As fast as a striking snake, Ulfin whipped the ends of his reins directly at Myrddion’s face. Only the healer’s sharp reflexes saved him from a spiteful blow across the eyes.

  ‘If you want me to tell you anything, then I can assure you that you’re going about it in the worst possible way.’ Myrddion’s voice was silky as he examined his forearm, where the end of the leathers had raised a nasty welt.

  ‘Where’s your package? You know what I mean, so don’t disemble. The king has sent me to make sure that it’s gone for good.’

  ‘If you ride into the woods to the right of the standing stone, you will come to a small clearing. I left the package at the foot of a blasted oak.’

  Myrddion had taken the precaution of finding such a landmark, for he was sure that someone would check on his movements. The tracks of his horse and his footprints would lead through the mud and fallen leaves to the foot of a riven tree, a landmark of note, just as Lucius’s trail would lead away from it.

  ‘How can I be sure that you’re speaking the truth?’ Ulfin demanded sullenly. His small, piggish eyes roved over Myrddion’s face as if some answer lay in those handsome, ironic features.

  ‘You can’t, but only a madman would return to Venta Belgarum if he had disobeyed the High King’s instructions. In case you haven’t noticed, I’m not insane.’

  Ulfin snorted with disgust and spurred his horse. As the beast plunged past him, the healer noticed that Ulfin carried provisions. Perhaps the guardsman was learning to plan ahead.

  Ulfin rode through the foot traffic at a gallop, careless of the curses of travellers as they attempted to avoid him. As always, Ulfin approached his task aggressively, and once he reached the crossroads he searched the margins of the four verges for a trace of Myrddion’s horse. Once he found what he was seeking, he followed the crushed grass stems and broken shrubbery to a small clearing where an oak tree was reeling drunkenly after being struck by lightning.

  No child wailed in the exposed roots. Cursing Myrddion’s perfidy, Ulfin threw himself from his horse and followed a set of prints in the mud to the foot of the tree.

  No child. Another set of prints moved away to the western road, so Ulfin snatched up his reins and followed. ‘Got you!’ he whispered exultantly as he saw churn
ed earth where someone had departed, using the firm roadway where no tracks could be followed. Kicking his horse savagely in the ribs, Ulfin set off in pursuit, cursing the failing light and the poor visibility that was certain to slow him down.

  ‘I hope Uther flays the healer slowly. The bastard has attempted some trickery and is trying to save the child – I can feel it in my water.’

  So Ulfin travelled westward, cursing as he was forced to pick his way down dangerous slopes on a long straight road that threatened a nasty fall for those who were less than competent riders. This wide track was empty of traffic, for all sensible travellers had sought shelter for the night from the cold wind that was blowing in from the east. But Ulfin was desperate. Only the corpse of a dead child would redeem him in his master’s eyes, and Ulfin could not endure the humiliation of being barred from Uther’s confidences any longer. Better to freeze on the road than to return empty-handed.

  Ahead of him, Bishop Lucius drove his donkey towards a distant inn, conscious that his headlong rush to the safety of Glastonbury was suspicious in itself. But every mile travelled took him further from the ford and made Ulfin’s task just a little more difficult. His donkey was plodding with effort, and Lucius knew that the poor animal could not be driven too much further.

  The lights of the inn were tantalisingly close when Uther’s servant caught up with the bishop. He rode around his quarry before halting his horse in the very middle of the roadway.

  ‘By my oath, it’s the bishop of Glastonbury. Why are you abroad so late, Father? For that matter, why have you left the High King’s court in such unseemly haste? Surely the queen needs you at her side more than ever since her son has died.’

  ‘Ulfin!’ Lucius exclaimed and tried to lead his donkey round the guardsman, who moved his horse to bar the way again. ‘Why I left Venta Belgarum is my concern, not yours, so I must ask you to allow me to pass. I don’t answer to kings or to their servants – only to my God!’

  Ulfin was tired and irritable. A simple task had been made difficult by his failure to locate the child, so, not surprisingly, he lost his volatile temper. The guardsman threw himself from his horse, drew his sword and advanced on the bishop of Glastonbury.

  ‘Get off that flea-bitten ass and answer my question, or I’ll cut its throat, closely followed by yours.’

  Slowly, so as to gain the time to think, Lucius complied. Without knowing Ulfin very well, he was sure that he would be reasoning with a desperate thug, so he tried to look as inoffensive as possible.

  ‘I have many outstanding duties at Glastonbury and I informed the High King that I would depart for my home after the birth of Ygerne’s child. The High King is aware of my departure, and a donkey is hardly the mount for speedy travel if I intended an escape. I’m not hiding from anyone. The building you can see yonder with its lights ablaze is an inn owned by a man I know. He always seems able to spare a free bed and a cup of wine for a man of God. Why have you intercepted a man of the cloth who is going about God’s work?’

  Ulfin thrust his face so close to Lucius’s nose that the priest recoiled from the stink of unclean teeth. Roman to the core, he stood a little straighter and his still-dark brows rose with undisguised dislike.

  ‘Where’s the child?’ Ulfin demanded, insulted. ‘I am certain that you collected it and handed it over to someone else. And who would that person be, I wonder? Don’t bother to shake your head, priest, for you’re going to confess everything before I’ve done with you.’

  Lucius drew himself up to his full height, barely five foot seven inches, but generations of senators stared out of his brown eyes with a look so laden with disdain that Ulfin was momentarily taken aback.

  ‘Do you see a child? I’m a priest. What would I do with an infant?’

  Ulfin picked Lucius up by the front of his priestly robes and shook him as a terrier shakes a rat. One hand slapped Lucius’s face until the priest felt his lip split and blood began to trickle down his chin.

  Praying for forbearance, the bishop of Glastonbury tried to remain true to his vows of non-violence, but a ringing punch to the cheekbone drove him back onto his haunches in the mud and filled his head with the red mists of blood lust. His resolve snapped and he launched himself at Ulfin with a scream of unpriestly rage.

  The old patterns of training in unarmed combat, practised daily as a Roman officer, came instinctively to the fore, despite the many years Lucius had spent in the priesthood. Over-confident, Ulfin took too long to bring his sword to the ready, so Lucius had more than enough time to step inside his swinging blade and strike his neck a punishing blow with the base of his hand. As the blade suddenly gained weight in the guardsman’s fist and his arm began to sag, Lucius brought his knee up into Ulfin’s groin and the warrior fell to the ground before the priest’s satisfied eyes.

  Picking up the discarded sword, Lucius held the tip of the blade at Ulfin’s throat.

  ‘I’ve had enough of you and your accusations, servant of the king. If Uther Pendragon wishes to question me, then he can come to Glastonbury, but I fear he’ll get the same answers. I don’t know where his son is. Do you understand plain speaking, Ulfin? Anyway, isn’t Uther’s infant son supposed to be dead? I was told by Myrddion Merlinus that the babe was stillborn. Are you saying that the child still lives?’

  Ulfin’s face was a study of confusion, guilt and concern as he realised from his admissions that the priest was innocent of any collusion with the healer.

  The guardsman used profanities that would have made a man of God quiver. A look of pure malevolence warned Lucius that the guardsman wasn’t finished. ‘You can’t watch over me all night, priest. Sooner or later, you’ll lower your guard and then I’ll have you. By the gods, I’ll make you scream before you tell me everything you know.’

  Lucius grinned recklessly. ‘I think not, servant!’

  Then he raised his voice in a hoarse roar of pretended panic and pain. ‘Thieves! Footpads! Sound the alarm! Awaken at the inn! I am under attack! Lucius of Glastonbury is under attack.’

  Behind Ulfin, Lucius saw the doorway of the inn open, so he redoubled his screams as several men poured out onto the roadway and began to run in his direction. ‘You’d best leave before they kill you out of hand,’ the bishop warned, and threw Ulfin’s sword onto the roadway.

  Ulfin cursed again, rose to his feet, gripped his horse’s mane with his left hand and leapt into the saddle, pausing only to collect his sword where it quivered, point down in the mud, on the weedy verge. Then he thundered off at a gallop in the direction from which he had come.

  ‘I’ve done all I can, Andrewina Ruadh. The rest depends on you.’

  After Ruadh’s punishing ride, his steed was in such poor condition that Myrddion Merlinus led the horse on foot all the way to Venta Belgarum. Man and horse were exhausted, for the moon had almost completely risen by the time the closed gates of the city came into view. The night was so cold that his exhaled breath left little puffs of vapour in the air, and horse and rider were both shivering with cold when their journey ended.

  After pounding with his clenched fist on the gate, Myrddion had to wait impatiently for some little time before the gatemaster roused himself, thrust on a pair of breeches and staggered out into the darkness to open the smaller door within the large, reinforced and barred gate. Thanking him, Myrddion threw him a coin for his trouble.

  ‘The king’s healer ain’t so bad for all that men call him the Storm Crow,’ the gatemaster told his sleepy wife. ‘Look! He gave me a silver piece just to let him into Venta Belgarum.’

  ‘Umm,’ his wife murmured, and opened one eye. ‘Why would anyone be abroad on a night like this? Mark my words, there’s trouble ahead.’

  ‘But we’ve still got the silver,’ the gatemaster chortled, and bit on the soft metal for emphasis. He was a practical man.

  Unaware that he was the topic of idle speculation, Myrddion strolled directly to Uther’s hall after leaving his horse at the king’s stables in the care of ostle
rs who were none too pleased to be wakened in the middle of the night. At least, Queen Ygerne would require an explanation from him, so he made his way directly to her door. There were no questions from the guard, although several warriors looked at him sideways from under their brows with expressions that Myrddion couldn’t fathom. In the queen’s apartments, he found two strange women sitting with Morgan and the Mother of the Britons.

  ‘Tell me that it’s all a lie, Myrddion Merlinus,’ the queen begged when she recognised her visitor. ‘You took my son to your house of healers because it was sickly, or so Willa told me before she was taken away. I don’t understand, Myrddion. I saw the boy. I saw him with these two eyes and he was strong and lusty. He had Pridenow’s eyes, as if my father had come back to me from out of the shadows. He can’t be dead!’

  Myrdion lowered his head to hide his lying eyes. ‘Your child is lost to you, highness, where neither you with all your love, nor I with all my skill, can find him. I wish it were not so, for your sake.’

  The queen sobbed as if her heart would break, while across the sumptuous gilded bed Morgan smiled enigmatically. Did she guess how carefully Myrddion had worded his reply to the queen? Even now, was she factoring a new possibility into her poisonous plans for her stepfather?

  Myrddion shrugged. He didn’t care what Morgan did to Uther. The High King had earned Morgan’s interpretation of vengeance. First things first.

  ‘Where are Willa, Ruadh and Berwyn?’ he demanded, so that it became Morgan’s turn to flinch and ponder a politic reply. As usual, the queen’s daughter decided to enjoy the echo of another person’s pain.

  ‘They’ve gone, Myrddion Merlinus. Aye, you’re the Storm Crow indeed, for those whom you love seem to vanish in a puff of smoke. Don’t ask us. We were summoned to attend to my mother when she was left alone. You could ask Botha, I suppose, because he knows everything that my stepfather does.’