Prophecy: Web of Deceit (Prophecy 3)

by M. K. Hume

  The door closed on Ulfin’s fleeing form, and Ambrosius rounded on Myrddion. ‘Would you begrudge me the love of a woman or the companionship of a friend? I have lived for nearly forty years, alone and friendless, and I am weary of measuring every word and constantly doubting any person who offers their hand to me. Are all men and women false? Must I relinquish everything for the good of my people?’

  The final question was asked in a voice that actually trembled with an excess of emotion. Myrddion understood. He, too, knew the texture and taste of loneliness, and he too hungered for the sweet anodyne of a woman’s arms. But Myrddion Merlinus was not a king.

  ‘I don’t know, master. Truly I don’t. If Andrewina is the love of your heart, how can I deny her to you? But you cannot marry her or father children on her, for the tribal kings would see such a love as signs of weakness. I merely ask you to take more care. Please, lord, for I fear some deeper malignancy rises against you. The Saxons will not rejoice if you wring agreement from the kings, so it is entirely possible that they have already placed an assassin among the members of your court.’

  ‘I am a man, Myrddion. I’m not a god, and I cannot live an emasculated life forever.’ Tears were actually forming in the king’s eyes, and Myrddion was beginning to regret having initiated this conversation. ‘I’m becoming tired, for I have been beset with responsibilities for my entire life.’

  ‘You were born to bear these burdens, my lord. When men desire a throne, they forget the crushing weight that a crown can place on the head that bears it. I can’t answer you, because I don’t walk in your shoes. I simply beg you to beware the motives of everyone around you, even me. Trust your brother only, for you can be certain that he alone would die for you. Oaths and protestations of love or loyalty are easily uttered and are gone in the whisper of a breath, but blood will remain true.’

  Ambrosius’s shoulders slumped in defeat; he knew that Myrddion spoke the truth. ‘I will think on your words, Myrddion Merlinus, but you must leave me now, for Deva awaits your pleasure.’

  ‘I’m sorry for the pain I have caused you, Lord Ambrosius.’ Myrddion bowed and began to back out of the king’s presence. ‘Perhaps I shouldn’t have spoken.’

  But Ambrosius had no answer for his loyal servant. He sat down and rested his arms against his knees, clenching his fingers together as if fearing his grip on something nameless would weaken unless he tightened his hands until his bones shone whitely in the lamplight. The mellow glow haloed his fair hair with a coronet of gold, and Myrddion’s last glimpse of the king’s face caught an expression of desperation and recklessness that made his heart sink.

  Ambrosius wearies of the kingship and its heavy burdens, the healer thought as his footsteps echoed down the long corridors of the king’s hall. There will be no saving the kingdom if Uther is allowed to rule.

  Myrddion wiped his sweating brow and examined the engineers’ work with a nervous, calculating eye. Although the sawn columns and wooden rafters were ugly when compared with the elegance of the original Roman amphitheatre on the site, the newly built outer walls of stone gave the building an impression of permanence and imposing height. The roof was supported by heavy uprights of oak, and tiered stone seats mounted the raked floors inside the amphitheatre, providing ample room for the dozens of kings who would arrive in the next few weeks.

  Myrddion had achieved wonders out of nothing.

  His idea was simple. Only Ambrosius and his seneschal would stand, or sit, in the area where plays and amusements had once been enacted. No questions of precedence or prestige would arise concerning other seating within the building, for the tribal kings would be accommodated in a circle whereby no one would be closer to the High King than any of his peers. Any tribal lordling who anticipated a fierce squabble over which tribes were being favoured in the presence of the king would discover that every group would be equal, no matter how small.

  ‘When will this . . . this very large room be finally finished?’ Uther asked from behind the healer. His voice was curt, but Myrddion recognised a trace of respect in the question that Uther directed at him.

  He turned and saw that Uther was staring up at the rafters with an incredulous expression on his face. Secretly grinning, Myrddion pointed towards a group of local carpenters who were busily reinforcing the roofing beams.

  ‘See, lord prince? Once the roofing supports are in place, thatch will be laid to make the circular hall watertight. The servants will need to work by day and night to make this space comfortable, but I’m certain Ambrosius’s hall will be ready in time for the meeting of the tribal kings.’

  ‘Humph! It’ll be damned uncomfortable, even in summer, which is almost gone. I’d rather not sit on those stone benches for too long. It’s a recipe for bone ache or constipation.’

  ‘Women are already sewing cushions stuffed with lambs’ wool, my lord, and I’ve scoured the town for cloth in many different colours. The kings will be comfortable. Their banners can be hung on the upper walls once they decide where they will sit. As soon as the roof has been completed, a team of women will scour the area clean.’

  ‘Humph!’ Uther repeated dourly.

  ‘The kings, of course, will be billeted in suitable lodgings,’ Myrddion added. ‘I’ve almost completed the organisation of comfortable beds, good cooks and plentiful wine. The housing of their retinues is more difficult for I’ve no idea who is coming, or how many guards will accompany them. Still, the city fathers and the magistrates are co-operating, for their position as a neutral city was reinforced when the decision was made to site Ambrosius’s hall here. Because of its trading advantages, Deva is a wealthy city and the magistrates know she is a tempting target for ambitious kings.’

  ‘Humph!’ Uther responded once more.

  ‘Do the security measures go well?’ Myrddion asked carefully. ‘Deva has very good walls, and the harbour is an effective bar to all but the most determined of enemies.’

  ‘Between you and me, healer, Deva is a nightmare to secure.’

  Uther’s voice was almost friendly as he explained the difficulties involved in keeping his brother safe. According to Uther, walls were only effective if the gates could be closed against potential attack, but Deva was such an open city that the gates were never locked. He growled about the citizenry’s inability to appreciate the most basic concepts of defence. Accustomed as they were to protection from the legions, and then cushioned by their position as the trading hub of the central lands, Deva’s citizens were unwilling to contemplate any action that would kill off business.

  ‘Idiots!’ Uther muttered. ‘I’ve tried to explain that the presence of so many kings will be a huge temptation to assassins, but the city leaders look at me as if I’ve grown an extra head.’

  ‘Any external attack would have to come by sea, and the Saxons would be forced to sail their ceols around the southern coast of Britain to assail this town. Such an offensive is unlikely.’

  Uther stared hard at Myrddion to satisfy himself that the healer was serious, and neither critical nor laughing at him. Satisfied that Myrddion regarded the problem of Ambrosius’s safety with the caution and respect it deserved, the prince checked the large structure, noting that two doors permitted entry and exit. He nodded with satisfaction.

  ‘My lord, I am worried that any attack on our king will not come from an external source but will be planned by persons closer to home. I am particularly concerned about the status of Pascent and Andrewina Ruadh. I’m sure I remember Pascent’s face from somewhere in my past, but I’ve been away from Britain for so long that I can’t remember who he is or where my memories come from. And I know Andrewina Ruadh appears to be biddable and seems content with her lot, but women long for their children in ways that men will never understand. I can’t believe she stays with my lord willingly when her sons are far away and her husband is dishonoured and lacks a mourner.’

  ‘I just don’t like the bitch!’ Uther snapped. ‘And I don’t like Pascent. Something about that you
ng man smells bad. I wonder if they could be in collusion.’

  Myrddion considered Uther’s suggestion, but decided that a pact between a quasi-Pict and a Celt seemed unlikely. ‘I doubt it, Prince Uther, but you’ve watched them and you’d know more of their activities than I do.’

  ‘No, possibly not . . . but it’s a neat answer, for I neither like them nor trust them. But then, I don’t like many people, you included. Still, you do have your uses. Your plan for the fortresses is good, and I’m aware that we must control the Roman roads.’

  And so Myrddion and Prince Uther came to an uneasy truce. Both were profoundly suspicious of two people who were enjoying the favour of the High King. And both were passionate in their opposition to Saxon incursions into the tribal lands, although each had quite different reasons for his position. Uther had gradually come to acknowledge the healer’s considerable abilities, while Myrddion grudgingly accepted that the prince was very good at what he knew best – those skills pertaining to war and killing Saxons. The truce was fragile, but both men realised that they now had the basis of a working relationship.

  Deva was a beautiful town, nestled at the very end of Seteia Aest where the waves lapped the stone wharves built by the Twentieth Legion centuries before. The city was gracious, with paved streets and a fair aspect, while the wind was sweet with salt, seaweed and the perfumes of flowers and trees. Wherever Myrddion gazed, every vista pleased the eye.

  But Deva possessed a greater treasure than a fair setting and healthy air. Myrddion had discovered the original legion hospital, a facility that was mostly deserted except for one aged healer who had worked in its echoing rooms since he was a young boy. Scoured by the sea breezes of the smells of old pain and death, it was a living memorial to what could be done to alleviate the effects of illness. Myrddion explored its rooms whenever he had a free moment, and he was particularly taken with the use of piped water within the structure. He was happy to see that the original builders had not used lead in their building materials but had settled for clay. While Roman surgeons weren’t always clean and hygienic, the presence of water pipes and channelling suggested that the healers of Deva had been advanced in their thinking.

  Sunny, perfect days followed each beautiful morning as Ambrosius’s hall rose and the preparations for an historic and momentous meeting continued. Within the echoing, circular interior, the kings would decide whether Ambrosius would become a true High King, ruling the united tribes from the Vallum Antonini to Vectis island on the Litus Saxonicum. Then, as a true dux bellorum, Ambrosius would possess the authority to rule, and to drive the Saxons into the cold waters of the northern seas.

  At long last, the Celts could become a nation, the Britons, who would grow to be a confederation of tribes fired by an ambition to preserve their world, even if they must die to achieve it.

  ‘Ave, Ambrosius,’ Myrddion whispered. ‘May you live long and rule well.’

  CHAPTER X

  THE ROUND HALL OF THE CELTS

  History is, indeed, little more than the register of the crimes, follies, and misfortunes of mankind.

  Gibbon, The Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire

  The first king to enter Deva in state was Melvyn ap Melvig of the Deceangli tribe, Myrddion’s own kinsman and the brother of his grandmother, Olwyn. Heavily armoured and lavishly bejewelled, he arrived at the head of a modest contingent of warriors. King Melvyn was grey with age and his back was bowed from the twin blows of fate that had taken his two eldest sons in a plague two years earlier. Far from home when disaster had struck, Myrddion never knew how bitterly Melvyn had regretted his kinsman’s absence when his own boys had withered and died.

  Where was the family healer when he was really needed?

  Now, wearing a simple diadem adorned with cabochon sapphires and river pearls, Melvyn was a rather sad figure. His face was set in the deep lines of old age and even his beard and moustaches were white and thinning with the years. But the remembered hazel eyes were still kind as he swung from the saddle and advanced to embrace his great-nephew.

  ‘Well met, Myrddion. I didn’t expect to see you here, nor did I imagine you would greet us in the name of Ambrosius Imperator. I heard from the healer who returned to Segontium that you had arrived in Britain, so I expected you to reappear out of nowhere one day. But, as always, you’ve surprised me.’

  At Myrddion’s side, Prince Uther waited impatiently for a formal introduction. Feeling the prince’s palpable irritation, Myrddion introduced his great-uncle to Uther, who swept Melvyn away to his quarters, assuring him that the High King was arriving that very day and would be pleased to dine with him that evening.

  Myrddion grinned appreciatively. Uther was on his very best behaviour, and while no one could accuse him of being charming, he was struggling to be friendly and unthreatening. Of course, no one was deceived by that shark-like smile, but the prince’s determination to please the local kings in the name of his brother underscored the importance of the meeting.

  Over the next two days, tribal kings and princelings rode into Deva, where Prince Uther and Myrddion met them. Uther had blanched at the suggestion that Ambrosius should stand in the open where an arrow could strike him down, while Myrddion perceived political and psychological advantages in keeping the High King away from the gaze of the crowd until the great meeting began. Thus, a mystique would be created, and a theatrical anticipation would add glitter to the ultimate moment of formal welcome.

  The largest contingent of warriors rode with King Lot of the Otadini tribe, who arrived with his wife, Queen Morgause, and one hundred seasoned warriors. Initially, Myrddion swore at the size of the contingent and wondered aloud where he could billet such a group.

  ‘Just do it, healer,’ Uther ordered under his breath. ‘Did you expect such a powerful king to travel across half of Britain without protection?’

  King Lot was a large, fleshy man who dressed with an epicurean flamboyance that rivalled any of the gilded young men of Rome. Favouring expensive, bold colours and dripping with gold, silver and furs, Lot cut an impressive figure. Even his bulk added to the suggestion of raw power that surrounded him. From his huge, hair-spotted hands to his hulking shoulders and thick, bowed legs, Lot’s appearance suggested the strength and endurance of an oak tree. Although he wasn’t tall, and his reddish hair was fast receding from a low, broad forehead, the impression of physical mass usually silenced any opposition when he bothered to speak his mind.

  Under Lot’s watchful eyes, his troops seemed highly disciplined, and their small hill horses were proudly decorated with elaborately woven saddle blankets and ornamented harnesses while their manes and tails were plaited with silver wire. These tribesmen wore their polished body armour with the easy grace of men well used to riding many miles burdened with boiled oxhide shields and bronzed weapons. Even Uther clicked his tongue admiringly as he noted the wary eyes, rigid backs and stern demeanours of highly trained cavalrymen.

  Myrddion was interested in Lot’s wife, for he had been told that Queen Morgause was a great beauty and the younger daughter of the famed king Gorlois, the Boar of Cornwall. Rumour suggested that she ruled in all domestic matters within the Otadini lands and was as formidable as her husband. As he stepped forward to assist her to dismount, the healer stared up at her cowled figure and wondered how a woman could demand, and receive, so much earthly power.

  Then Queen Morgause swung out of the saddle, ignoring his steadying hand as she thrust the hood back from her heavy fur cloak, and Myrddion understood her glamour.

  Morgause was very tall for a woman and was extremely slender, although she had already born a clutch of sons. Her eyes were deeply set within finely sculpted cheekbones, but their changeable colour, somewhere between blue, green and hazel, threw them into prominence under her highly arched brows. Her hair was dark and vigorous, almost crackling with life in the slight breeze and braided with great intricacy around her small head, although wisps had escaped to curl around her delicate face. Her lips
were rich, pink and pouting in a mouth that was made for seduction, and Myrddion felt a visceral, wholly sexual desire as her eyes settled on his face. She smiled slowly and luxuriantly, revealing small white teeth that seemed unnaturally sharp.

  ‘Your highness,’ he murmured and bowed very low to break the spell of those beautiful eyes. Later, Myrddion was surprised to discover that Prince Uther had been untouched by Morgause’s beauty, calling her a ‘harpy in the making’. Uther was never impressed by females, and took his sex where he found it with the careless greed of an unthinking animal.

  ‘She’s dangerous, that one,’ he hissed at Myrddion as they escorted the Otadini rulers to their billet. ‘Ostensibly, she’s come to see her father and her sister who are arriving from Cornwall later today. But, according to my sources, she loves to meddle. Lot only stirred himself to attend the meeting because of her insistence.’

  ‘Then she will be useful to us,’ Myrddion replied quietly. ‘Whatever her reasons for making such an arduous journey, we benefit from her presence. It’s certain that the other kings would not have promised to come if Lot hadn’t stirred from his fortress in Bremenium.’

  ‘Yes, but useful for how long? The bitch aims high, and she’d have the throne of the High King for her bucolic husband in an instant, if she could inveigle it out from under Ambrosius.’

  ‘There’s no chance of that,’ Myrddion said softly, for several Otadini cavalrymen had come within earshot. Uther would never learn tact.

  King Gorlois arrived from the south on the same pleasant afternoon, so Myrddion was kept busy organising more sleeping quarters. Fortunately, the Dumnonii contingent was smaller than Lot’s – but no less deadly. From their first formal greeting, Myrddion was drawn to Gorlois, whose open face and warm brown eyes encouraged friendliness. Myrddion wasn’t deceived by Gorlois’s natural grace, for he could see the marks of ruthlessness and power in the king’s heavy brows and in the deep creases that dragged down the mobile mouth. But Gorlois had qualities of courtesy and warmth that were as engaging as they were potentially dangerous.