Prophecy: Web of Deceit (Prophecy 3)

by M. K. Hume

  As he dismounted, a man who was completely swathed in sheepskins pushed open the rotting door to greet his visitor. A heavy, twisted crook of wood hung by its hook over one shoulder and a shaggy dog growled at Myrddion from between the shepherd’s wide-spread feet.

  ‘Who are you, and what are you doing up here? I’ll tell you outright that I’ve nothing worth stealing.’

  ‘I’m seeking the villa of Maelgwr and his noble wife Branwyn. I am her son, Myrddion Merlinus Emrys.’

  The shepherd ducked his head respectfully, but he made the sign to ward off evil when he thought Myrddion wouldn’t notice.

  ‘Come in then, young sir. I’ve got hard cheese, mead and some flat bread that’s not too old. I’ve also got a haunch of cold mutton. A wild dog killed the old ewe two nights ago and nothing goes to waste in these hills. You’re welcome to share what I have.’

  Myrddion hobbled his horse where some dry grass thrust its way through a thin powdering of snow. Stamping his feet and stripping off his knitted gloves, he thanked the shepherd for his generosity and ducked through the low entry.

  Inside, the unprepossessing hut was spartan but clean. A pallet of straw was laid out close to the central fire, and a tripod above the low blaze carried a heavy iron pot filled with hot water. Pointing to his pallet as a seat, the shepherd used a long hook to tilt the pot while he filled two coarse bowls with water to which he added viscous mead, releasing the smell of old honey that was both sweet and aromatic. A flat rock served as a platter for a heel of cheese, some rather mouldy bread and a slab of meat that had been carved from the unfortunate ewe’s leg.

  Myrddion refused the food, explaining that he had eaten at the inn in Tomen-y-mur, but he accepted the hot mead with his usual grace. Warming his blue-tinged fingers before the fire, he lifted the mug, which was steaming pleasantly in the dim light. The liquid was very sweet, and too cloying for Myrddion’s tastes, but he soon felt the warmth loosen the cold knot in his belly.

  ‘I thank you, my friend. Your hospitality to strangers is laudable, and it makes a nonsense of Tomen-y-mur’s reputation for being churlish and backward.’

  The shepherd scratched his greasy hair and looked puzzled. ‘Begging your pardon, master, but I only understand the half of what you said. I’m an ignorant man, but I’m a Christian and I share what I have with others. The priest tells us that we should give if we hope to receive. My name is Goll. I’m told that it means one-eyed, so my mother must have been confused. I’ve worked for Maelgwr for long years, and his brother Maelgwn before him, God rest his soul, and it suits me well enough. I like sheep and there’s more to looking after them than you’d think. Sheep aren’t very knowing, not like my Tomos here, so I have to help them with the lambing, keep them out of the cold, find new grass for them and cut winter feed for them in the autumn. My days are full.’

  The shepherd talked on, but eventually he ran out of words and Myrddion was able to ask some questions. ‘Is Maelgwr a good master? Does he treat you well?’

  ‘Aye, he’s a good enough master, I suppose, although he’s not like his brother. Now, there was a fine man. He was fair with his workers – too fair at times, if you take my meaning. But when he died . . .’ Goll crossed himself in the Christian fashion. ‘Well, we take the rough with the smooth at Tomen-y-mur.’ He paused. ‘You know how it is, sir. Masters come and masters go, but the sheep still need crutching and shearing.’

  ‘I understand, Goll. No master would care to live out here, but it’s quiet and peaceful. Do you ever see the mistress?’

  Goll snorted, but then he remembered that Myrddion was her son. ‘She’s very unhappy, sir, I don’t doubt. Never a body to speak to, and women set store by friends, don’t they? I never married because no woman would be willing to share this life. It’s said that your mother wasn’t willing to come to Tomen-y-mur in the first place, so her fits and starts are only natural, I suppose.’

  Even Goll looked doubtful at his excuses, so Myrddion hurried on with his questions. ‘I’ve heard that Maelgwr isn’t happy in his marriage and looks to . . . more pleasant pastures for his amusements,’ he hinted delicately. By suggesting he knew more than he did, he hoped to break down the shepherd’s natural reserve.

  Goll shuffled his feet and gulped down his warm mead. The healer realised his host was acutely uncomfortable and was unwilling to gossip over the foibles of his betters. ‘I’ll confess my reasons for asking these questions, Goll. I’ve heard that Maelgwr would like to be rid of my mother, but until her grandfather died he didn’t dare to defy the king of the Deceangli. Now I’m afraid he may send her to the shades before her time.’

  Goll looked honestly shocked, and Myrddion could tell that he had never considered that his master might resort to murder to resolve his marital problems. But mixed with the shock was fear, as though the shepherd wanted his sharp-eyed visitor gone before he found himself in a situation where he could lose his head.

  ‘Never mind, Goll. It was wrong of me to ask you to inform on your master. I won’t breathe a word of what you’ve said today – I’d be in near as much trouble as you if they suspected me of meddling in my mother’s marriage.’

  The shepherd bit on nail until it bled and worry etched sharp creases between his gentle eyes. After a pause he began, ‘A red-haired slut works as a house servant, and there are many who say that my master visits her room late at night. The girl sleeps alone, which is rare enough to be a matter of gossip, but I’ve never seen anything myself. I can’t say what goes on in that house because I stay out here, away from it, where no man can blame me for what might happen.’

  Myrddion rose to his feet and offered Goll his hand. ‘I thank you for your mead and for your honesty. Now, how do I find Maelgwr’s house?’

  With Goll’s directions echoing in his head, Myrddion forced his horse into an unwilling trot, and after an hour he reached a long, low building at the brow of a hill a few miles from the sea. On the flat land below the house, neat fields edged with stone walls indicated some decent earth, and under a light sprinkling of snow Myrddion could see neatly ploughed furrows ready for the new growth of spring.

  The house on the hill was dun-coloured, sprawling and far less well kept than the fields below. As a weak sun tried to burst through black clouds that were pregnant with snow, a woman bustled out of the main doors carrying two buckets, which she began to fill from a well set into the muddy forecourt of the flint-and-mudsheathed house. Smoke drifted into the air from kitchens at the rear of the building, and snug barns appeared to house horses and milking cows. In the weak noontime sun, chickens picked desultorily at grain scattered on the bare earth or scrounged for long-dead seedpods around the farm buildings. Myrddion noticed that all the care and efficiency in the place seemed to be lavished on the outbuildings rather than the main villa, and he sighed at this evidence of his mother’s condition.

  The servant moved back towards the house carrying the two full buckets, which slopped water with every step. She appeared to be completely oblivious of the presence of a stranger, so Myrddion swung down from his horse and stood directly in front of her.

  ‘I am Myrddion Merlinus Emrys and I wish to speak to my mother, the lady Branwyn.’

  ‘I don’t know about that,’ the woman drawled, looking at him with vacuous eyes. ‘The master doesn’t welcome visitors, so you’d best be on your way.’ She attempted to brush past him, splashing water on his boots and trews.

  ‘Be careful, woman!’ Myrddion added a toe-curling oath, not his normal habit in front of servants, but this particular female was both truculent and dismissive.

  ‘If you want to beg for food, go to the kitchens at the back of the villa,’ she snarled, and Myrddion felt his hackles begin to rise. Perhaps he was nervous of the meeting with Branwyn, but whatever the cause, the woman’s arrant discourtesy rankled.

  Without any further thought, he snatched the buckets from her and upended them, splashing several curious chickens that set up indignant squawking and much flapping
of wings. Then, gripping her by the shoulders, he shook her roughly and forced her to look at him.

  ‘I don’t know what passes for manners from servants in this place, but I believe I made myself perfectly clear. I intend to speak to Maelgwr and I don’t mean when he gets around to noticing my presence. You will take word to him immediately that I desire to see him. I will wait for him in the triclinium and I require a glass of decent wine from you – if you are capable of finding any.’

  Ardabur Aspar would have smiled to see how much his bastard son resembled him at that moment. The servant saw the raised eyebrow and the palpable scorn in those black eyes, and for the first time she spotted the two ruby rings on his fingers. She paled visibly and tried to curtsey, which was difficult considering Myrddion was still restraining her.

  ‘Do you understand, woman? I mean now!’

  ‘Aye, sir. The master’s in the orchards and I’ll send for him immediately. Come in, come in. Begging your pardon for making you wait, but I didn’t realise who you were.’

  Myrddion followed her into the house and onwards to the best room, where she dusted down a dirty plank bench with her skirts before scurrying away, apologising as she went.

  Myrddion gazed around the well-proportioned room, where signs of past luxury could still be discovered in the faded whitewash and furniture that was well crafted and beautiful, although it was scuffed now and scratched for lack of maintenance. Several obvious cobwebs adorned the corners of the triclinium and the number of dead insects in the silken traps indicated that they were well established. Branwyn was no chatelaine, but she had never been so slatternly as to allow this level of dirt to occur in her house. His heart sank.

  With an insolent swish of fine fabric, a red-haired girl flounced into the triclinium. She was dressed in an inappropriate shade of clear, strong yellow, and Myrddion recognised the garment as one of Branwyn’s bride gifts from Melvig ap Melwy, her grandfather. The girl carried an earthenware bottle and a common pottery mug that she slammed down on the table. Lifting her chin, she surveyed Myrddion from head to toe, taking in his muddy boots and customary black attire. She sniffed dismissively.

  ‘If you’ve come after money from your mother, you’re out of luck. Maelgwr is of no mind to waste his coin on the bastard son of a moon-mad old crone.’

  ‘I bid you good day as well, mistress,’ Myrddion replied sardonically, and swept her a bow that even Aspar would have admired. ‘Where is your master?’

  The slattern blushed unbecomingly. Her flushed cheeks and the abominable colour of the dress did her red hair no favours. She was also far too full-breasted for the style and Myrddion suppressed a sneer at the sight of her flesh as it welled out of the straining fabric. The colour had looked well against Branwyn’s dark hair and brown eyes, but this young trull turned the garment into a strumpet’s garb. It was also sweat-strained at the armpits and grubby at the hem.

  ‘I serve the mistress and I decide what orders are given in this house,’ she snapped. Her confidence and arrogance made Myrddion’s heart plummet even further, for his mother must be in even worse health than he had feared if this young madam was caring for her.

  ‘Where are the children? Before you decide to answer impolitely, young lady, I would inform you that I serve as well – only my master is Ambrosius, High King of the Britons. I am his personal healer, Myrddion Merlinus Emrys. You may have heard of me, but I fear you have the advantage over me. Exactly who are you, mistress?’

  Finally aware that she had met her match, the hoyden tossed her head with what rags of pride Myrddion had left her. ‘I am Seirian, and I am the mistress of this house while the lady Branwyn is . . . indisposed.’

  ‘I repeat my question, Seirian. Where are the children? I’ve a mind to meet my brothers and sisters.’

  ‘The boys are fostered to local landlords and traders. The girls work at spinning and weaving and carry out other tasks where they are needed.’

  ‘Aren’t the small ones being taught their letters?’ he asked, although he already guessed at the answer.

  ‘And why would they be learning to read? They’ll only be married off to bring wealth to this house. That’s their only purpose.’

  Myrddion felt heartily sorry for any children in Seirian’s care. ‘For the gods’ sake, woman, they are the great-grandchildren of a king. Their children could rule at Canovium, if chance or the plague were to kill Melvyn and his sons. Are you so stupid that you don’t understand that Lady Branwyn is the daughter of the High Priestess of the north? Where are your wits that you see no point in educating her children?’

  ‘My master decides these things, not I,’ she whispered sullenly, biting her lip.

  ‘I see.’ Myrddion lifted the wine jar and poured a little of the viscous liquid into the mug. The coarse pottery rim was gritty, as if the glaze was poorly applied, but this small inconvenience fled into insignificance as he washed the wine around his mouth before discourteously spitting the liquid out onto the flagging.

  ‘Cat’s piss would taste better than that brew. Is this the best that the master drinks?’

  The slattern’s venomous glance was more instructive than any lies she might tell, so any guilt at fouling the flagstones was quickly forgotten.

  ‘You could at least have fetched me the master’s wine, for I’m persuaded that he’d not wish the High King’s healer to drink such swill. I’ll not even use this mug, for I can’t believe my mother would purchase such inferior rubbish.’

  Seirian’s flush had deepened to somewhere between puce and crimson. Having lost the duel of insults, she flounced out of the triclinium, leaving Myrddion to consider how far Branwyn had fallen when she had married her second husband.

  Left to his own devices, Myrddion had some time to consider his own lapse in good manners, as well as the appalling behaviour of a girl not yet in her twenties and obviously unmarried, who felt secure enough to be rude to the eldest son of her mistress. Was Branwyn held in such little esteem?

  All those years before, both he and King Melvig had told Maelgwr that they would be very concerned if Branwyn’s health should deteriorate. Since then, Myrddion had been absent for six years, and Melvig had been dead for nearly seven, so Maelgwr probably felt free to act as he chose. But had he done anything to harm Branwyn?

  At that crucial point in Myrddion’s argument with himself, the master of the farm entered the triclinium, in all his dirt, without bothering to wash his hands. Fortunately, Maelgwr didn’t bother to offer his grimy paw to his stepson. Neither man liked what he saw.

  The years had padded Maelgwr’s slender body with a soft blurring of flesh, while a double chin, plump beringed fingers, a heavy paunch and a rosy nose spoke eloquently of years of good living. The dirt on his hands indicated that he was not above trimming his orchard trees or weeding around the blackberry canes, but his soft leather boots and a cloak of finely woven blue wool attested to a streak of vanity in his personality. At the moment, as he slung his cloak onto a divan, he expressed his displeasure by his pout and the faint, greasy sneer under the greeting he offered without the slightest hint of sincerity.

  He’s up to something that’s not to his credit, Myrddion thought, as he rose gracefully to his feet.

  ‘I must apologise for Seirian and the other house servants if they offended you,’ Maelgwr said, as Seirian entered the room with a new wine flask and two horn cups. ‘Please join me.’

  Myrddion nodded, realising that his silence was unnerving Maelgwr more than any intemperate words could. The healer watched carefully as his host poured the wine into the cups, to ensure that nothing was added. He was determined that he would not eat in this house unless the food was prepared by his own hands.

  ‘Now.’ Maelgwr handed a full cup of wine to Myrddion and gulped at his own. ‘How may I assist you, stepson?’

  Myrddion sipped slowly on his wine. The vintage was soft and smooth, definitely superior to the vinegar piss he had been offered earlier.

  ‘I’m here to v
isit my mother. Is that so strange? I’ve been away in Gaul, Rome and Constantinople for some time, and on my return I became the High King’s personal healer. I have come into the north on the orders of Ambrosius, so I have taken this opportunity to visit unannounced. I hope I’ve not inconvenienced you?’

  Both men showed their canines as they smiled with a wholly false bonhomie.

  ‘My house is your house,’ Maelgwr replied grandiloquently, although his smile wavered a little. ‘But I’m sure you realise that my darling Branwyn often wanders in her wits. Do you think it is wise to see her, given that she feels so much animosity towards you?’

  Myrddion smiled with the same feigned friendliness and trust. ‘Yes, I do. As I’ve already explained, I am a healer, and I am now in possession of some information that may improve her health.’

  Maelgwr proceeded to flatter, explain and complain as he detailed the difficulties of arranging such a visit as Myrddion requested. For his part, the healer sipped his excellent wine and permitted his host to babble. Obviously, Maelgwr was unwilling for the son to see his mother, while Myrddion was equally determined to batter down the door of her sleeping room if necessary. At the back of his mind, he wondered why so many impediments were being raised to deny him access to his mother.

  Finally, as Maelgwr embarked on yet another complicated description of his wife’s many mental ailments, Myrddion decided that enough was enough.

  ‘Show me to her room at once. Maelgwr. I may be able to lift some of the weight from your shoulders, and I cannot think of a single reason to refuse me – unless you have something to hide.’

  Maelgwr blanched and tried to remonstrate, but the younger man cut through the babble with ruthless efficiency by placing his cup on the greasy table and walking off towards the atrium.