Prophecy: Web of Deceit (Prophecy 3)

by M. K. Hume

  Prince Uther lacked subtlety, but he had such leashed violence in his nature that he could demand the attention of his listeners. That, coupled with a soldier’s understanding of what the warrior kings would know of campaigning, held him in good stead as he outlined the attack on the Saxon forces outside the city of Verulamium. The lords listened intently as Uther described how the use of his cavalry had achieved a brutal victory over the enemy. Then, to spontaneous acclaim from his audience, Uther launched into a workmanlike description of the siege and the fall of the city. Unused to such approval from his peers, he resumed his place with an expression of surprised and embarrassed pleasure.

  Ambrosius stood up. ‘And so we defeated the Saxons at Verulamium. Now Myrddion Merlinus of Segontium, whom some of you know, will explain the aftermath of our great victory.’

  Myrddion shot his master a startled glance. It had never occurred to him that Ambrosius might ask him to speak at the assembly, for he had no standing in this company. Any suggestions for united defences would come more appropriately from Ambrosius himself.

  But if I must do this thing, then I shall do it properly, Myrddion thought, as he descended the steps from his position behind the High King. The eyes of the crowd fixed on his tall, black-clad figure, and his sensitive ears caught a rumble of disapproval. Because after all is said and done, I am still a bastard.

  The great room was dark, windows being superfluous given the haste and necessary security of Myrddion’s plans. Ambrosius had ordered that perfumed torches and huge bowls of oil be lit to illuminate the vast space, including a circle of lamps round the centre of the hall. Myrddion stepped carefully into the circle and the flames caught the blue in his hair, the glitter of his eyes and the gold of his gems. As he raised his hand to quieten the crowd, the mellow light caught at his sun ring and turned the heart of the gem into a pinpoint of fire that captured the eyes of his audience. Silence fell – and a stillness that was both exciting and terrifying at the same time.

  ‘Yes. I am the Demon Seed, or the Devil’s Spawn, or whatever name you care to call me. I am a bastard, and you are affronted that I should be permitted to stand before you and address this regal company. Yet here I am, Myrddion Merlinus, named for both my fathers, and I speak the truth, even if you will revile me for it. I was named after the Lord of Light, who accepted me at my birth when no man stepped forward to claim me as his son. My second name I chose for myself after a hunting bird that my father could not tame. I am myself, and my sires have no bearing on whom or what I am. Accept me or reject me for whatever reasons comfort you, but your stance will not change what I know to be the truth.’

  The circular room stood still and wanting.

  ‘Verulamium was retaken by the Saxons once we had left, although its new masters are plagued by superstitions that prevent them from inhabiting its ruined streets. You should remember that the Saxons are afraid of wights and demons, and our increasing knowledge of their weaknesses is one of our great advantages over the invaders. To date, only Hengist has taken the trouble to attempt an understanding of our strategy and tactics.’

  The crowd growled, and Myrddion knew his words had struck home. He capitalised on his brief advantage.

  ‘But our enemies aren’t fools. Yes, they refuse to surrender in battle and they needlessly waste the lives of their men. They prefer to fight as individuals to win glory, and they tear down stone buildings to raise inferior structures. They believe their added height and reach make them superior in all things. But these beliefs are merely customs. They are deeply rooted in the northern way of life, but they will change with time as the Saxons learn who we are and the advantages of our way of life. They will copy our siege machines and learn our methods of combat, because they are as clever as we are. We, too, originally came from the cold north and even our gods are much the same as theirs. Whether we like it or not, we were invaders once and, historically, we are closer to the Saxons than we ever were to the Romans. At root, the Saxons are our cousins, and are only separated from us by the passage of time and by geography that does not allow us to recognise the best attributes of each other’s way of life.’

  The crowd howled its contempt, and King Lot leapt to his feet.

  ‘This is nonsense!’ he shouted. ‘This is treason! The Saxons are barbarians and are nothing like us.’

  ‘Treason, King Lot? To speak the truth is hardly an attack on the crown. When I look at you impartially, my lord, I see a man whose height, girth and colouring is much like that of our enemies. I have been to Gaul, where I met and served the Frankish kings in peace and war. I served with the Visigoth king at the Battle of the Catalaunian Plain and I deeply mourned his death. I know these tribal men take the same pride in their ancestry within their own lands as we do. In many ways the similarities between us make us brothers of a sort, and across the Litus Saxonicum their friends and families are fighting to hold their own lands from new invaders even as we speak. They are motivated by the same forces that brought us to these isles and made us the masters here.’

  Lot shouted his objections to a chorus of agreement from his neighbours. ‘Why do you thrust such unpalatable facts down our throats, Myrddion Merlinus? Do you want to dishearten us? Do you want us to crawl into bed with our enemies? Are you in their pay?’

  Myrddion stiffened at the insult, and quelled his natural revulsion with difficulty. ‘Not at all, my lord. I serve the sick and the dying, and my oath of loyalty is to Ambrosius Imperator for the length of our lives. I have served many masters, but my heart belongs in these isles and I’ll never betray my people. But we must understand our foes so we can take advantage of their weaknesses and learn how to defeat them – finally and irrevocably. When you go into battle, do you do so with a blindfold on your eyes and one arm bound to your side? Of course not! Admitting that the Saxons are acting as we did when our people crossed the sea from Armorica, which our brothers call Brittany, is not treason – it’s just stating the inescapable truth. It means we can out-think them, because we’ve already been successful in driving out the Picts in the past.’

  The crowd lapsed into sullen attention. ‘What you say is true,’ Gorlois called from his seat. ‘Our ancestors took this fair land from the Picts hundreds of years ago. We succeeded because we worked as one people and we isolated the Pictish tribes from each other.’

  Myrddion shot him a grateful glance. ‘The Saxons seek to achieve the same results by taking and holding the Roman routes so they can isolate our peoples from each other. They have an advantage that our ancestors didn’t have: straight, well-made roads that link our towns and allow our troops to move quickly and safely with a certain degree of impunity. But roads can belong to anyone with the muscle and the intelligence to take them and hold them. The Saxons intend to overrun the defences of the nearest of the tribes through their use of these routes, consolidate their victories and then move on to their next victims. It will take time for them to achieve their aims, but they have all the years they need to defeat us.’

  ‘No! Never! It will not happen!’

  The kings shouted and roared, and Ambrosius winced. Perhaps ordering Myrddion to speak had been a tactical error after all. The High King almost stepped in to intervene, but Myrddion was quick to regain the initiative, raising his voice to be heard over the opposition.

  ‘How can we stop them? Earlier, King Lot, you decided that you were too far from the invaders to be open to the threat of attack. Ask yourself, is this true? I am led to believe that there is a fine, broad road that runs from Londinium to the steps of your hall. It is a Roman road, and it is now controlled by the Saxons who guard Verulamium.’

  ‘Then the road must be taken back,’ Lot roared.

  ‘Aye, but who should do the taking? And who should be responsible for holding it to ensure your continued safety? The Catuvellauni? The Coritani? The Brigante? The High King? No, King Lot, everyone here must become involved in retaking these essential thoroughfares from the invaders, and every tribe must be involved i
n holding the roads for our own use. Further, we must reinforce the Roman fortresses that the legions built, for our present needs are exactly the same as those of our Roman conquerors.’

  Uproar broke out again, but by this time more than a few kings were beginning to understand Myrddion’s confrontational style of explanation. In particular, Gorlois had grasped the importance of the roads and the fortresses that commanded the defensive positions along them, for there was a thoroughfare from Corinium to Durnovaria that made his own lands susceptible to attack.

  As smoothly as silk as it runs through the fingers, Myrddion ceded the floor to Ambrosius as, like Gorlois, the tribal kings thought of the roads that could easily bring an enemy to their own walls. The High King raised his hands for silence.

  ‘My healer has a unique means of gaining your attention, but I believe he proved his point. As one united nation, we must control the roads for the good of all the tribes, just as we must repair and inhabit the Roman fortresses that were built to protect those roads. Everyone must play their part, for every tribe represented here is under threat, no matter how distant that threat might seem. If we fail to find a common purpose, the Saxons will use our disunity to drive us into the sea, using our own roads and resources to defeat us.’

  Although the kings would continue to argue about who was responsible for what, the day was already won. Ambrosius was endorsed as the High King of all the Britons, the concept of united tribes came into being and it was accepted that Deva should become the location where all great moots would take place in the future. The only business that remained to be finalised was the smaller details of the new accord.

  At last, Myrddion could rest, and perhaps the insistent voice in his head would be silent.

  ‘Well, Gruffydd, you did it,’ Myrddion whispered to the empty hall once the last of the kings had departed for a celebratory banquet. ‘Your simple idea is now the defensive plan of the Britons, so I thank the Mother for the day you crossed my path. You have already proved the virtue of her choice.’

  A peal of laughter interrupted Myrddion’s words and he turned to see Morgan’s mocking, amused expression. Dressed in unrelieved black with an amulet of great intricacy hanging between her breasts, she cut a barbaric figure as she moved out of the shadows near the door. Myrddion focused on the amulet and noticed that it was a huge obsidian eye. Her lips were very red and she flicked her tongue across them like a large black cat considering a tasty mouse pinned in a corner before her. Even her nails, which were stained with exotic henna, seemed to flex, ready to toy with Myrddion, and to draw blood while she caressed him.

  ‘Beware of hubris, Myrddion Merlinus. You may have won a great victory today, but you’ll pay for every demand your High King has wrung from us. Don’t blame the Mother, or this Gruffydd person, for what you have done. You have given our power to your Roman master.’

  ‘There is no other defence for our people, Morgan. Can’t you see how vital it is for the tribal kings to be united?’

  ‘Of course. I don’t deny your assessment of our situation, but being right is ultimately no defence in tribal politics. My father considers that you are a very clever adviser to the High King and our people, while King Lot has determined that you are an impediment to his ambitions. You gather enemies and friends in equal measure. Beware, for I dreamed that you carried a sword that dripped with blood, and that the gore swept over the whole land like a tidal wave that eventually drowned us all. You wield too much influence for any one man and, rightly or wrongly, you are fated to be the cause of our demise.’

  ‘You’re out of luck, lady,’ Myrddion hissed. ‘I’ll not permit myself to be frightened by night terrors. Nor will I accept that hubris drives me, for I’ve seen the effects of that sin too often to fall prey to it. I prefer to believe that I am a patriot, and my fate matters very little in the greater plans of the Mother.’

  ‘You are a dabbler! You enjoy puzzles, don’t you? You decided that the disunity of the tribal kings was a problem that needed a workable solution, so you devised one. You enjoy being the hidden puppet-master, don’t you? One day, Myrddion, you will solve one problem too many for your own advantage, and then you will learn that you must pay a price for that pride. Yes, one day your curiosity will drive you a step too far.’

  Myrddion shook his head in denial but he knew, in his secret heart, that Morgan had found a weakness in his character. He tried not to hurt other people, but he knew he loved to succeed, to fill a void in his soul caused by the years of scorn that had poisoned his childhood. Was he truly as uncaring as Isaac, a Jewish healer he had met when he was in Rome, who was driven to solve the mystery of disease by intellectual curiosity alone? Was he prepared to allow men and women to die so he could ultimately be proved to have been right? Perhaps Morgan spoke the truth.

  ‘Aye, you understand my warning. I can see the guilt in your eyes.’

  She laughed again and toyed with her victim like the feline she was. ‘At the moment, your own desires and the needs of the realm coincide. But in search of the greater good, you will eventually be driven to compromise your principles. You can’t have it all, Myrddion. After a fashion, I admire your ethics, but in many ways you are deluded. One day you will make too many sacrifices of other souls in order to achieve what you perceive is best for us. Like mine, Myrddion, your heart is cold.’

  It’s not! It’s not, Myrddion’s conscience screamed inwardly. I’d never allow an innocent to die in order to be proved right.

  ‘You remain silent, Myrddion Merlinus, because you can’t gainsay me. Aren’t we a pair, you and I? We should be lovers rather than enemies, but I believe we’d tear each other to pieces as eagerly as we caressed.’

  Myrddion couldn’t speak. He felt as if his tongue had cleaved to the roof of his mouth and even his breath was dependent on this hated, seductive voice that laid bare his greatest weaknesses.

  ‘Still, I wonder if I’m being hasty. Perhaps there would be profit for us both if I welcomed you into my bed. No king – no High King – could resist us if we worked in concert.’

  A vista of power suddenly stretched itself within Myrddion’s mind and some part of him considered Morgan’s half-serious proposal with a terrible sincerity. Gasping, and almost in tears, he pulled himself back from the imaginary pit that had opened at his feet.

  ‘No, woman, you’ll not corrupt me. I’ll not betray my master for a promise of delight and power. Uther was right – he can recognise a dangerous whore when he sees one. I’m just a healer, and so I will remain in spite of your temptations and threats.’

  Morgan turned pale with anger. ‘My dreams are true, and I have no doubt that you’ll drown us all in blood.’

  ‘I obey the Mother, Morgan, the goddess who caused me to be born. I’ll pay any price that she exacts from me to save our people from enslavement, and I’ll not be tempted by your dreams or your fair, soft flesh, for you’d rot my soul away from within.’

  Myrddion turned his back on Morgan, so he couldn’t be ensnared by those glittering eyes that promised pleasures that equally sickened and excited him. He heard her soft footsteps on the stone floor as she turned, now laughing softly, and swayed off into the shadows of the great circular hall. When he turned back, she was a dark shape disappearing up towards the doors leading out of the council chamber into the growing night.

  As Myrddion left the amphitheatre by the opposite set of doors, he tasted salt in his mouth and vomited uncontrollably over the granite steps. Even when his stomach was empty, he continued to retch painfully until he felt light-headed with the voiding of more than just his last good meal.

  The trees outside the amphitheatre tilted crazily as he leaned against a pillar. Although full darkness had not yet blanketed Deva and the lamps had not been lit in all the darkening official buildings, an owl leapt into the air out of a copse of hazels in front of him with a clatter of wings and an impression of great eyes and sharp talons.

  ‘A curse is coming, Grandmother Olwyn. But what can I
do? Help me, Mother of us all. Help me to be strong.’

  But the blanket of night and something darker that hovered over Deva could not be averted. Wind caused the hazels to shudder and a sudden chill stripped a few more leaves from their branches.

  ‘All things must end,’ Myrddion whispered, but he had no idea why he spoke such a doom aloud, now that his master was poised on the very edge of success. The skies bled out the last of the day and Myrddion turned wearily towards the banquet hall and the resumption of his duties.

  AMBROSIUS’S ROUTE FROM DEVA

  CHAPTER XI

  ALL THINGS MUST END

  Overall, through the regions of earth,

  Walls stand rime-covered and swept by the winds.

  The battlements crumble, the wine-halls decay:

  Joyless and silent the heroes are sleeping

  Where the proud host fell by the walls they defended.

  Anonymous old English poem, The Wanderer

  The banqueting hall was located in the old forum, and as Myrddion approached the merry gathering his eyes were dazzled by the hundreds of lamps, many torches and several fire-pits that warmed the cold stone and lit the dark spaces. A statue of Jupiter, somewhat the worse for wear, presided over the feast from a heavy marble base, while a sculpture of Constantine guarded the exit from the hall. The faces of both sculptures were heavily weathered and Jupiter had lost his nose in some conflict during the latter years of the Roman occupation. Now the crowd of feasting men around their plinths ignored them as if they had never swayed the fortunes of the known world.

  Uther greeted Myrddion with an expression resembling good humour. ‘You did a good job in the council meeting, healer. When you started to speak, I considered removing your head from your shoulders just to shut you up, but then you set us all on end. Praise to Mithras, you put that fat fool Lot in his place and scared him silly with the suggestion that he could be under attack. Then, as the final coup, you left every person in the room looking to my brother for guidance. Well done!’