Prophecy: Web of Deceit (Prophecy 3)

by M. K. Hume

  Gorlois is gregarious and open, Myrddion concluded. For all his muscles, he is a thinker, and it’s a potent mix in tandem with his obvious fighting skills. His warriors love him and they believe him to be invincible.

  The woman who rode into Deva with her father was a totally different matter. On a late afternoon, as the sun sent its last shimmer of scarlet to catch at her raven-black hair and lighten her lambent dark eyes, she was as seductive as her sister, but her extraordinary beauty was brittle, hard and capricious. Morgan, the lily of Cornwall, was a creature of the shadows that, even in the waning sun, already seemed to gather in her loosened hair.

  Myrddion assisted Morgan to dismount, and with a start of surprise Uther saw that the healer and the daughter of Gorlois were very similar in appearance. Both wore their black hair long, both were slender and both possessed a vivid strand of white hair that sprang from their right temples. Myrddion and Morgan, whom some people already called the fei for her peculiar ideas on the old religion, were like two sides of the same coin.

  ‘Welcome to Deva, my lady. May your visit be productive and pleasant,’ Myrddion murmured with his usual quiet grace as Uther greeted Gorlois. ‘The city is the richer for your beauty.’

  One slim white hand pushed playfully at Myrddion’s chest. A narrow blue serpent had been tattooed around the slender wrist, and he wondered why she should deliberately mar her fair skin. In the lengthening shadows, its red tongue seemed to flicker with life.

  ‘Ah! The famed Myrddion Merlinus, the Demon Spawn! I am honoured, my lord, that you deign to welcome a mere woman.’

  Recognising the sardonic humour in her dark eyes, Myrddion permitted his admiration to show in this duel of courtesy. He bowed. ‘How could I fail to pay homage to one who is already famed for her beauty and her talents? You’re hardly a mere woman, my lady.’

  ‘Your complimentary words hide your caution, Myrddion Merlinus,’ she riposted neatly. Her sudden laughter was like the sound of tinkling silver bells or the singing of live water over rocks. ‘Perhaps we shall be friends – or even worthy adversaries?’

  ‘Perhaps, my lady.’ Myrddion turned away, his thoughts in turmoil. Morgause, who had seemed so seductive only a few hours earlier, was swiftly paling into insignificance in the glow of Morgan’s smiling countenance and clever dark eyes.

  ‘Gorlois and his daughters are extraordinary people,’ Myrddion whispered to Uther. ‘Imagine what a son he could sire.’

  Uther snorted with scorn and surprise. ‘I cannot understand why you admire that Morgan creature,’ he snapped irritably. ‘The woman is like a death watch beetle, all hard carapace and glitter.’

  Myrddion showed his bemusement. ‘I never expected such poetry from you, my lord. Your skills on the battlefield are legendary, but now you prove that perception must be added to your talents. I’d prefer to call Morgan a slender serpent, like the vipers I saw in Italia. They are tiny, black and quite lovely in their deadliness.’

  ‘I can read character in a face like any other man,’ Uther snarled. ‘You’re jesting with me – and I’m not amused by it.’

  ‘I apologise, Prince Uther, for I meant no disrespect. Indeed, I agree with you, so it’s fortunate that you don’t feel the tug of her glamour. I do feel it, and it makes me afraid. Perhaps this council poses more potential difficulties than I originally thought.’

  ‘It’s too late to feel nervous about what you started, healer. We have made the necessary preparations and Ambrosius is committed, so we must do our best to ensure that the meeting is a success.’

  Over the next twenty-four hours, the tribal kings continued to arrive. Prince Luka represented the Brigante, and Myrddion wondered why his father kept himself distant from the great courts of the land. He filed the question away in his memory for later consideration and welcomed the tempestuous young man with a courtesy and respect that Uther did not bother to express. Luka grinned at Myrddion and the healer perceived a fleeting trace of gratitude in the Brigante’s mobile face.

  From the lands of the Ordovice, King Bryn ap Synnel came with his son Llanwith pen Bryn. As Myrddion had known these two powerful men during the years of his youth, when Bryn had been one of King Melvig’s most valued friends, he was able to greet them with sincere warmth.

  And so they came, the kings of the Durotriges of the south, the Atrebates, the Dobunni, the angry and sullen Demetae and the fresh-faced Silures. The dispossessed came as well, flint-eyed and rigidly polite, concealing a persistent simmer of anger over their lost lands – the Cantii, the Trinovantes, the Iceni and the Parisi. Almost as sullen in their demeanour were the leaders of those tribes who faced the menace of the invaders directly, namely the kings of the Catuvellauni, the Coritani and the Regni, men who held on to their broad acres with ever-weakening fingers. Finally came the tribes who rarely ventured out of their own lands. The Cornovii king left his mysterious forests and their deep valleys to make the short trip to Deva in company with the romanised Belgae of the verdant southwest. From the icy north on the edges of Caledonia, the Damnonii, the Selgovae and the Novantae tribes rode their shaggy-coated hill ponies into Deva with a peculiar, alien dignity.

  And so they came, for this gathering was to be the first meeting of the tribes who made up the fragmented nation of the Britons, and Deva marvelled at the wonders that journeyed to her door.

  The day of the Great Council arrived as the first leaves of autumn fell from the city’s trees in little drifts of gold, scarlet and orange. The vivid green of the hazels, lindens and oaks was sprinkled with a dusting of yellow and lime, while nut and fruiting trees were groaning with the weight of apples, pears and apricots that had sprung to sweetness in a warm summer. The golden days seemed endless, but Myrddion remembered that the fairest gifts of nature could also hide the direst punishments.

  At first, the kings were puzzled by the shape and nature of the newly furnished hall. Myrddion’s teams of women had worked industriously, so comfortable cushions softened the hard stone seats, while hangings of coloured wool warmed the grey flint and granite walls. The chequered cloaks of the tribesmen added to the splashes of colour that enlivened the cold stone. Myrddion heard Morgan’s laughter rise over the mumbled conversations of kings like a white gull taking flight. Searching through the blaze of colour and the flash of gems, he saw her slim form clad in funereal black so that the smooth column of her throat seemed very white below the blur of her face.

  She is amused by this circular space, he thought. She understands its implications.

  Some little time elapsed as the kings decided where to sit with their guards and servants behind and above them, while men-at-arms raised their tribal banners on the back walls. Fanciful birds and beasts, flowers and symbols of power rampaged there, adding their barbaric splendour to the regimented Roman structure. In the hum of excited voices and the air of expectancy and solemnity that slowly mounted in this vast glittering throng, Myrddion saw tangible proof that his own hard work had come to a splendid conclusion.

  Then the babble of voices slowly died as Ambrosius entered the space at the centre of the amphitheatre with Botha in his wake. Fully armed, the bodyguard bore a simple Roman curule chair, free of ornamentation or cushions, which he placed in the centre of the floor. Then he, Uther and Ulfin placed themselves in a loose semicircle facing the kings, with their weapons obvious in a meeting place where all other arms were forbidden.

  Ambrosius had accepted Myrddion’s advice and was dressed with stark simplicity in the Roman manner, clad in a tunic of snowy whiteness, a toga with a narrow edge of purple and his jewelled bangle as his only ornamentation. Although the High King had protested, Myrddion had urged Ambrosius to forgo wearing the imperial crown of Maximus.

  ‘You will alienate the tribal kings if you rub your status and your breeding into their faces. This is not the court of Ravenna, Rome or Constantinople. These kings believe themselves to be higher born than you are. You will lose dignitas by trying to out-glitter them, and the crown of Maximus wil
l only remind them of their defeat at the hands of Rome’s military might.’

  ‘But I am better born than any tribal king,’ Ambrosius had protested. ‘To be other than myself is to shame my ancestors.’

  ‘That is vainglory, my lord, and not worthy of your status. I know your ancestors were noble and great-hearted, but each of these men can trace his ancestry back for nine generations of pure tribal blood, which is their measure of legitimacy. You will always be an outsider in their eyes, so to compete with them would be a fundamental error. They know you were raised as a Roman, so dress as they expect. Such an admission will do you no harm with the Roman towns, for several magistrates and city fathers have come to our meeting from Aquae Sulis and Eburacum as well as Deva, and all three have retained forces trained in Roman military tactics. While they will sit in the second tier of the hall, they are important to us, for we need them as allies. By association, the Belgae are almost as Roman in manner as you are. You must be what you are, for that is your strength, but don’t rub the kings’ noses in your superiority.’

  ‘You want me to place myself on their level and create a bond between us?’ Ambrosius’s face had begun to show a dawning of understanding.

  ‘Exactly, my lord,’ Myrddion replied, his face wreathed in a smile of relief.

  And so the kings watched intently as Ambrosius took his seat before them with an open, welcoming face. The crown of Maximus, which had come to symbolise many bitter memories of defeat, was safely locked in an iron box in the king’s private quarters.

  When Ambrosius finally rose to his feet, the room became silent with expectation, apprehension and an undercurrent of resistance. Ambrosius looked like a king, perhaps even an emperor, in his simplicity and steadfast air of permanence. His firm jaw, his direct gaze and his scar, still livid and angry, marked him as a man of action. His appearance did him no harm in the eyes of the tribal kings, who wore their own puckered marks of sword, arrow or axe with pride.

  ‘Brothers and fellow kings, I welcome each of you to my hall on this momentous day, one that will change our destinies and our history forever. We have come from the four corners of the tribal lands of the Britons, over many weary miles, to address a common cause, namely a defence against a deadly enemy. If any of you see no reason for our assembly, if any of you do not fear for the safety of your borders, then speak out now before we address the issue of the Saxon menace to our collective peoples.’

  An uncomfortable silence fell. Myrddion had warned Ambrosius that the kings might be unwilling to speak freely.

  ‘I know that some of you might hesitate to express your opinions openly. But look around you, fellow rulers. While this hall was originally a gift from our erstwhile Roman conquerors, it is now a circular space where no man stands higher than another, not even a High King. It has been changed to suit our specific needs. All men are equal within this space, whether your lands are large or small, rich or poor, and no man who speaks his mind will be ignored, ridiculed or punished for his honesty. Do not fear to offend me, for we are all equal in strength, brotherhood and dignity within this hall.’

  Several kings looked doubtful, while Lot was loudly scornful. But a few lords of the smaller tribes nodded slowly as they began to absorb the implications of Ambrosius’s promise.

  ‘Now is the time, Ambrosius,’ Myrddion whispered. ‘Force out any opposition.’

  ‘I ask any man who sees little point in this assembly to come forward.’

  Immediately, the king of the Demetae tribe, a saturnine warrior with waist-long plaits, rose to his feet and advanced into the circle to address his peers.

  ‘I, Cadwallon ap Cael, believe that meetings of strangers cannot effect a great deal of change. I have heard that the Cantii and the Parisi are enraged because they have been driven out of their soft arable lands, and must accept charity, shelter and bread from brother kings.’ He glanced at the Cantii and Parisi contingents, sitting stiffly on their soft cushions, and sneered bitterly. ‘We of the Demetae were unfortunate to have been the recipients of Vortigern’s most lasting legacy. We are forced to live, cheek by jowl, with invited Saxon settlers who spawn on our best land and take what they cannot purchase. Where were the united kings when Vortigern invited Hengist and Horsa into our lands? Was there any protest from the united kings when Demetae fortresses such as Moridunum were stolen by the Saxons? You were grateful you hadn’t been placed in our position, so you abandoned us to our fate and tried to forget that we exist.’

  The silence in the room was absolute, broken only by the hollow echo of Cadwallon’s booted heels as he resumed his seat. His face was thunderous, but his neighbours were angrier still, and would have launched into justifications and recriminations had Ambrosius not raised his hands and demanded silence.

  ‘Cadwallon ap Cael speaks truthfully. The Cantii would not have been defeated by Hengist had he not been invited into Cymru by the regicide. The Parisi would not have been driven out of the north had my forces not defeated Hengist near Durovernum. We could chase reasons for what has come to pass all day, and never find an end to the blame. What has happened in the past is now our history, and we don’t have the luxury to change anything that has gone before. What is important are the decisions that are made at this meeting, and what those choices can mean for our future.’

  Clutching at Ambrosius’s words to soothe their collective guilts, the greater number of the kings nodded wisely while Cadwallon elected to lounge on his cushions and jeer at their discomfort.

  Ambrosius continued. ‘We must clear the air before this meeting can begin. Personally, I applaud Cadwallon ap Cael for his brutal honesty – which is a challenge to us all. But we need more straight speech if we are to reach an accord.’

  King Lot rose to his feet, stepped into the circle and embraced the seated kings with widespread arms. From his vantage point, Myrddion recognised the oratorical skill in the Otadini’s gesture and the bluff, direct way he engaged his audience’s eyes before he began to speak.

  ‘I thank Ambrosius for bringing us to this gathering, but for those of us from the lands to the north of the Vallum Hadriani, any threat will most likely come from the northern Picts rather than the Jutes or the Saxons. I embarked on the journey to the south to attend this meeting only because I would meet my kinfolk here, rather than out of any conviction that the Otadini tribe needs the assistance of any other allies. Unfortunately for most of you, we are too distant for the Saxons to bother with us.’

  ‘Are you a proud Briton, or are you not?’ one of the Iceni lords shouted angrily as he struggled to his feet, for he bore an old axe wound that made movement difficult. ‘When we routed the Romans, your Otadini tribe was noticeably absent. Even when Boudicca was executed, ages ago, the kings of Britain said nothing. Too distant? Wait till the Jutes come battering at your gates. I’m told that their homeland makes your weather seem warm. And they will eventually arrive to defeat you and yours.’

  ‘Silence!’ Ambrosius demanded. ‘If we shout at each other and scream imprecations, all we’ll achieve is a schism that will never be healed, and in time the Saxons will destroy us piecemeal, just as they are doing at present.’ He waited until Lot swaggered back to his seat and the Iceni warrior sullenly resumed his place. ‘Our thanks must go to King Lot for stating the truth as the northern tribes see it – for without honesty this moot will fail. Our gratitude should also go to our Iceni friend for publicly expressing his anger. I know his feelings are commonly held in the east, but they have thus far been unspoken. This hall is where we speak what we truly believe, without fear of recrimination or reprisals.’

  Gorlois rose to his feet with a big man’s power, but chose to stand among the kings rather than speak from the centre of the room. Perhaps because he was reported to be a man of vision, straight speaking and loyalty, he lost neither dignity nor impact by this decision.

  ‘I chose to attend this meeting because I fear for a future without loyal friends at my back. Now I look for guidance and leadership tha
t, in the past, has been sorely lacking amongst the Britons. I also took heart from the High King’s decision to select Deva as the location for this meeting. The city is central within the tribal lands, for just as the Iceni and the Otadini tribes are as far to the north and east as our tribal lands extend, so my lands are equally distant in the southwest. I have fought alongside my neighbours and watched our brothers defeated piecemeal because we had no overriding strategy to protect the tribes as a whole. Also, I recall the years of Vortigern and his sons, and no man now living would choose to return to those days of blood, vengeance and tribute. So I have come to this meeting to listen and to contribute towards its success in forging a lasting and united Britain where we are all equal. I pray to all the gods that we leave Deva with a workable answer to the Saxon menace. If we don’t arrive at a treaty that commits us to communal defence, then our tenure of this land is finished.’

  Most of the kings and their retinues responded with cheers, drumming their shod feet on the stone floors and clapping their hands. So fierce and heartfelt was the response to Gorlois’s thoughtful speech that Myrddion began to think that the Boar of Cornwall could hold the key to the future.

  ‘I acknowledge the truth in the words of King Gorlois,’ Ambrosius said, saluting the Dumnonii in the Roman way with one clenched fist upon his chest. ‘No man stands higher in my esteem than the Boar of Cornwall, who is a true son of our gods.’

  He paused, so that the silence gave emphasis to the words that followed. ‘I have come to this meeting to speak my thoughts on the matters before us, but for those kings who have not heard the details, I call upon my brother, Prince Uther, to describe the battle and the subsequent siege of Verulamium, a conflict which has proved that the Saxon incursions can be stopped. Not easily, but our enemy is not invincible.’