Prophecy: Web of Deceit (Prophecy 3)

by M. K. Hume

  For the first time, Gruffydd looked vaguely interested, even though his brows were knit with irritation that such a young man should call his courage into doubt. When he eventually spoke, his voice was drenched with sarcasm.

  ‘Who are you, boy, to lecture me on the niceties of revenge? You’re hardly out of your teens and you don’t know the Saxons like I do.’

  At least he’s talking to me, Myrddion thought wryly, trying to retain a surface calm. He was heartily sick of arguing with this obdurate and embittered man, but he remembered the voice of the Mother in his dream and was left with a painful sense of urgency. Some of his feelings must have shown in his expression because Gruffydd began to chuckle.

  ‘Don’t like your own medicine, do you, healer?’

  ‘Not over much, Gruffydd. And I’m no boy. I wear my face smooth in the Roman style but beware that I don’t lose patience and leave you to die. The Mother told me that you were already fated to die under an oak tree, pinned to its trunk as a sacrifice to the northern god Baldur. The crows would have eaten your eyes while you were still alive, you fool, but the Mother has sent me to save you from this fate. She has plans to use you for another purpose. In my dream, she told me that your destiny is to have a great influence on the future of this land – whether you will it so or not. Beware, Gruffydd, for I’d not care to gainsay the Mother when she walks the cold roads of winter in her guise as the Hag. Listen to me, fool, and consider how much more satisfying your life would be if she shines her holy eyes upon you.’

  ‘This is superstitious nonsense!’ Gruffydd growled. ‘Where was the Mother when my parents screamed for her help? When I tried to pray to her, she turned her face away from me. I saved myself, so be damned to her and all the other gods who let my mother die in pain.’

  Myrddion felt the fingers of the Mother caressing his shoulders like smooth, water-washed bones of ivory. He felt her invisible serpents as they wound around his arms once again, as if a memory of babyhood still lived in his brain. Unbidden, unwanted and unstoppable, the words came vomiting from somewhere in the pit of her stomach. Gruffydd flinched, but Myrddion was no longer able to see the shambling man’s fear.

  ‘You will carry a sword, Man of Blood. It is very long and rich in gems, with a dragon on the hilt that devours the blade. You stand behind a giant whom I shall bring into birth, and you will rise high in the eyes of the tribes in the shadows of the giant’s hand. Do not deny me, Man of Blood. You will father children but your heart will be lost to the dragonlet, and in the child’s eyes you will learn what it is to be a man. Do not mock with a doubting heart, for I tested you in pain and loss so you could carry that sword as your reward. If you disobey me, I will come for you before the winter storms are done.’

  Myrddion fell heavily as Gruffydd’s clenched fist struck him squarely in the chest. Dragged back to his senses by pain, he lay supine on the wooden floor and stared up at the red-eyed man standing over him, who rashly began to draw his knife.

  ‘Stop, Gruffydd,’ Myrddion panted. ‘Stay your hand. Whatever I said, I have no knowledge of it. It was not I who spoke. Another’s voice used my mouth, and the message I uttered was for you alone.’ He curled into a ball while he coughed uncontrollably and tried to draw a full breath into lungs jarred by Gruffydd’s blow. With resignation, he accepted that his life could be forfeit.

  Gruffydd was bone pale, and he sat down on the stool with a thud as if his legs could no longer bear his weight. The man’s grimy hands were trembling, and the wickedly sharp knife fell unnoticed to the floor.

  Whatever I said has terrified him, Myrddion thought. He didn’t dare to speak aloud, so he made no sound except to gasp hoarsely as his breathing gradually came under control.

  And so silence reigned in the attic room, except for a cold stream of air that froze the warm breath of both men, so that vapour escaped from their lips as if they were out in the snow and the driving wind. Even the brazier spluttered under the vicious draught until, gradually and impossibly, the wind died in the small space and the room was warm once again.

  ‘What happened? What sword? What dragonlet? I don’t understand what you want of me.’

  ‘I don’t know, Gruffydd,’ Myrddion said wearily. ‘I told you that I didn’t say a word. Another presence has spoken through my voice, but you must obey if it wants you.’

  ‘I must sleep,’ Gruffydd muttered, shaking his shaggy head in confusion. ‘I’ll come tomorrow, before noon, when the light is stronger and I can’t see the shadows on your wall.’

  Then, like a wight, the man rose and slipped out of the attic on silent feet. One moment, Gruffydd was sitting on a stool, the next he had disappeared. ‘The man’s a ghost,’ Myrddion whispered, and then struggled to his feet, wincing as he moved.

  He removed his tunic and peered down at his chest. A huge bruise was already beginning to form around a lump that was swelling on his breastbone.

  ‘The bastard’s broken something,’ Myrddion cursed, and hunted up one of his own salves. Then he rolled himself carefully into a blanket and stretched out on his pallet. Even though his stomach growled with hunger, he was asleep almost immediately.

  ‘Your guest ate well, Master Myrddion,’ Cait said cheerfully as she scraped out the dead coals from the brazier into an old leather bucket. Myrddion rolled over on his pallet and groaned as he felt the pull of a cracked sternum.

  ‘Are you unwell, master? Can I help you?’

  ‘I’ll live, Cait. Although the next time my visitor swings a punch at me, I hope to duck in time. That Gruffydd’s deceptively strong.’

  ‘Gruffydd?’ Cait blushed a becoming shade of pink. Then, just as quickly, her cheeks paled. ‘If he hit you, he’ll be having me to answer to. It’s bad enough that he never washes and smells like some old animal, but I can forgive that, since he’s a man and knows no better. But to strike you, master, who does no harm to anyone, is an unforgivable sin.’

  The lass is smitten – and with Gruffydd of all people, Myrddion thought in amazement, while keeping his face prudently neutral. I wonder if he knows?

  ‘I fear I may have annoyed him, but he’ll return by noon and he’ll be much more amenable. Didn’t you recognise him when you served us last night?’

  ‘I didn’t look, sir. I’m no harlot and Mam says to keep my eyes down around strange men. Not that you’d permit anything to happen to me, but a girl must be careful.’ Then Cait was gone, and the room was colder without her sunny presence.

  Myrddion dressed slowly and washed in the warm water that Cait had brought in a glazed bowl that was the wonder of the inn. Only special guests were given the honour of using this large receptacle, a sign of the innkeeper’s supposed wealth. When Myrddion examined the bruise on his chest, he saw that the swelling had receded but the flesh was now a nasty shade of black and purple. Once he was dressed, he felt more optimistic.

  He found his woollen cloak and hurried down the stairs to the kitchen, where he was warmly welcomed. After breaking his fast, he made his way into Brychan’s dirty kingdom where the first tipplers were already propped on benches against the wall, supping bad ale.

  ‘Your friend Gruffydd is here and he’s asking for you,’ the host whispered conspiratorially. ‘And he’s not in a very good mood, so who do you want him to kill?’

  ‘You, if you persist with stupid questions,’ Myrddion snapped. ‘I’ve a feeling he’d happily do it for me. Where is he?’

  ‘In the corner. The darkest one, where such dogs belong, far away from decent folk.’

  ‘My thanks, Brychan,’ Myrddion grunted, knowing that the small courtesy would appease the innkeeper after his flash of temper. Brychan expected men of means to be difficult.

  A few long strides took Myrddion to the corner seat where Gruffydd slouched, more shadow than man. The gleam of upraised eyes was the only sign of movement in the black puddle of his form.

  ‘You’re here,’ Gruffydd said unnecessarily. ‘Sit you down then, and explain what happened last night.’


  Myrddion stroked his breastbone through his thick woollen shirt. The bruise still ached. ‘I’d appreciate it if you didn’t shut me up with your fist if I should start to speak again. Besides, the walls in this inn have ears. Let’s walk together. No matter how cold it is in the open air, it’s much cleaner than this flea-trap.’

  ‘It is that,’ Gruffydd replied, and surged onto his feet with more animation than usual.

  ‘I feel like a walk in the open, but perhaps a ride would be even better,’ Myrddion whispered softly. ‘I take it you have a horse?’ Gruffydd was sober, prickly and distracted on this grey morning, and the healer had no plans to annoy him further.

  ‘Aye, I keep a horse. She’s not young and she’s failing in her wind, but she’ll survive a short gallop, I expect. I had enough of being afoot when I was owned by the Saxons.’

  A short time later the two men ventured out through the town gates into a landscape that was more mud than snow. Rather than risk the horses on the treacherous road, Myrddion led the way into the dark of the forest where tall trees blotted out the grey skies and skeletal branches rattled in the light wind. The thinner saplings had been cut down for firewood but superstition had spared the larger oaks in deference to memories of ancient rituals dating back to the druids. Such ceremonies were older than time. There, in the echoing stillness, only the hooves of the horses made any noise on the flinty scree, while the bare limbs of elm and aspen trees raised naked hands to a chill sky.

  At the centre of the wood, Myrddion drew his horse to a halt beside a forest giant so ancient that half its branches were dead and its trunk groaned dangerously in the bitter cold. Yet it seemed to be clinging tenaciously to life, just like the land around Tomen-y-mur.

  ‘Why this tree?’ Gruffydd asked, his teeth chattering from within his ragged cloak.

  ‘I don’t know. I just seemed to recognise it when I saw it.’

  Myrddion forced his horse closer to the oak so he could pat its seamed and shaggy bark. A streak of sap stained his wool-wrapped hands with a wet stickiness not unlike drying blood.

  Gruffydd shuddered.

  ‘I’ll serve you, Myrddion Merlinus. Not because I want to, nor even to take revenge on the Saxons, but because I’m afraid to gainsay the Mother. I swear I saw her shadow on the wall behind you when you spoke last night. May the gods help me, but this is the tree where I will be hanged if I refuse you. I thought I had no faith left in me, but I was awake all night trying to decide what to do. As the Mother said, perhaps your proposition will give some purpose to my suffering. Now tell me what you want of me.’ He laughed with a sound that was so hoarse and metallic that it could have come from Hades itself. ‘Or what she wants of me.’

  Myrddion decided, on the spur of the moment, to reject the use of a subtle approach to persuade Gruffydd. The man was frightened and confused, so Myrddion must convince him that what he asked made sense. Only the unvarnished truth would serve him now.

  ‘You speak Saxon, so you can pass on valuable information about troop movements to me. You can listen in inns and discover what the Saxons are thinking and where they’ll strike at us next. I’ll not lie. The work will be dangerous and could easily be the death of you. But you will be doing a great deal to help resist the Saxon advance into our lands. One way or another you will cause the death of many of them; they will curse the bad luck that seems to follow them whenever they attack us. We will ambush them before they can destroy our cities and murder other families like yours.’

  ‘I can journey into the Saxon lands, but whether I can live among them without vomiting is another matter altogether.’

  ‘I have complete faith in your ability to dissemble, Gruffydd, for you have fooled the Saxons for the best part of your life. What are a few more years, if your work undoes Saxon plotting to overrun our lands? Ultimately, Ambrosius will be paying in gold for your services, although your allegiance will be given to me, rather than directly to the High King. I will relay your discoveries to the appropriate authorities.’

  ‘Does the High King know he has a sorcerer for a healer?’ Gruffydd laughed coarsely.

  Myrddion whitened, and Gruffydd realised he had gone too far.

  ‘I’m not a sorcerer. Some twist in my blood through my mother’s kin has cursed me with these waking fits. Far sight, the hill people call it, and they count those who suffer it blessed. But I’d not have it, if I were given any choice. Absolve me from the sin of sorcery at least, although I have suborned you to join my service at the Mother’s bidding. Hate me if you wish, but acquit me of that particular abomination.’

  Gruffydd cursed the curiosity that had led him to speak so unwisely. He remembered the tale being whispered in the taproom, of the two magicians who had been sacrificed at Dinas Emrys in Myrddion’s stead when the healer was a child, so he understood the depths of the young man’s revulsion. Myrddion had been very young when two grown men had died because of his sight. Gruffydd said nothing further, leaving Myrddion to his own turbulent thoughts.

  For a whole week, Myrddion and Gruffydd spent the short, dim days together as Myrddion explained where the major Saxon enclaves could be found and showed Gruffydd his maps of the rich lands south of Londinium. Gruffydd had never imagined such wondrous things, and quickly memorised the network of roads that linked the settlements of the south. Despite his scepticism, the fledgling agent realised that the young healer had a gift for subterfuge and the skills to bring Ambrosius’s plan to fruition. He also had the wealth to ease Gruffydd’s path into the east.

  ‘You are the only Saxon-speaking spy I’ve found thus far, so you are a vital strand in my web of information. Your gift for being able to remain undetected and unnoticed in odd corners will be priceless, but first we must do something about those scars, or devise some way of explaining them away.’

  ‘They could cause difficulties, couldn’t they? A ragged scarf and a sturdy woollen undershirt, well stained to discourage the squeamish among the Saxons, and several layers of disreputable clothes should see me safe enough.’ Gruffydd grinned engagingly and revealed surprisingly good teeth.

  ‘Here’s enough coin to smooth your way, but it’s not gold, I’m afraid, because that would attract too much attention. But there should be enough silver and copper here to purchase everything you need, starting with a decent horse. I will arrange for you to be paid a regular stipend in gold that will be hidden at a secret place or left in the care of some person you can trust. You will be well paid for your endeavours. When you need more coin for expenses, you need only visit me at the house of healers under the guise of being in poor health. Similarly, approach me there if you must speak to me urgently.’

  Gruffydd chortled. ‘I like my horse. But I’ll grant she’s like to drop dead on me, so she’ll need replacing eventually. You think of everything, Myrddion; it’s a pleasure doing business with you.’

  ‘You will usually find me in Venta Belgarum, because Ambrosius has give me a list of tasks that I’m unlikely to finish for years. In the meantime, I plan to design a means of communication whereby our circle alone can divine the meaning of our words. But such a system will take time to devise, so you must have patience with me in the meantime.

  Gruffydd found himself grinning rather foolishly. Suddenly, his life was being stretched purposefully out in front of him. He now had a future, which was an inconceivable thought a month earlier. He even felt the first stirrings of excitement; an emotion that he thought had disappeared with the deaths of his parents.

  ‘Just take care, Gruffydd. You’re precious to me, and not only because you’re my only Saxon-speaking spy. The Mother has told me of her plans for you, so I’ll pray to her to keep you safe. Besides, Cait will claw out my eyes if anyone should hurt you on my account.’

  Gruffydd flushed blotchily above his straggling beard. ‘It’s like to be the other way round. I’ve been thinking that she’s smitten with you, rather than me.’ As his face turned scarlet he looked absurdly young, causing Myrddion to remind himse
lf that they were roughly the same age.

  The healer laughed deprecatingly. ‘No, Gruffydd, I can assure you that I’m only someone who has been kind to her. It’s you, for some reason that I can’t fathom, who’s captured her heart. And if ever a girl needed a good man to give her a decent life, it’s Cait. Fortunately, now that you are in the employ of the High King, you’ll earn sufficient coin to take a wife, but I’m certain that you’ll need to accept her mother and her sisters into your life as well.’

  Myrddion’s thoughts turned increasingly towards the last thing he must do before he could return to Venta Belgarum and kinder weather. He had not seen his mother for over six years, and although they had no love for each other the ties of birth remained important to the young man. What he could tell her about Flavius Ardabur Aspar, and his home across the Middle Sea, might also relieve her irrational terrors and, perhaps, ameliorate her madness.

  One dark morning, with a heavy heart, Myrddion finally mounted his horse and set off for Maelgwr’s farm, where Branwyn and her brood dwelled with her second husband. Brychan had provided sketchy directions based on landmarks such as fallen trees and cairns of flint, so the young healer worried that he would miss one of the many signs and lose his way. On the other hand, guiltily, he knew he would welcome such an excuse to avoid the inevitable confrontation.

  ‘Why am I going to see her?’ Myrddion asked his horse as it trudged into a vicious, icy wind that blew straight from the sea. ‘The gods know she’ll not make me welcome. You’ll be lucky to receive even a nosebag of grain, whereas I’m more likely to wear her eating knife between my shoulder blades.’

  The rutted track spoke mutely of isolation. Few wagons made the journey into this wild place, which had plentiful supplies of clean water but soil that was more shale and flint than good, brown loam. Presently, in a deep fold in the hills where the water was caught in a rough-cut limestone basin, Myrddion saw a ramshackle shepherd’s hut with smoke pouring out of a hole in the roof, and turned his horse towards it.