Prophecy: Web of Deceit (Prophecy 3)

by M. K. Hume

  Uther slapped Myrddion on the back with bone-aching force. Surprised, the healer wondered if the prince was already drunk, but decided that Uther’s over-bright eyes and uncharacteristic bonhomie were signs of excitement at being unleashed to kill Saxons along the whole length of the tribal lands.

  ‘Have a cup of wine, healer. My brother has seen sense and is employing Ulfin as his taster once again, the Pict bitch has been sent back to Venta Belgarum and I only have Pascent to worry about. In short, I’m inclined to be pleased with you.’

  Myrddion accepted the finely chased wine cup in the spirit in which it was offered. ‘But is Lord Ambrosius pleased with me? As Ulfin no doubt told you, the High King resented my meddling in his affairs, but I’m pleased he is taking some precautions at last.’

  ‘Ambrosius enjoyed today’s proceedings,’ Uther explained. ‘We’re both in your debt, but don’t worry. You’ll do something to upset me, so consider tonight to be a brief holiday for us both.’

  Despite his misgivings and the pall that hung over him after his conversation with Morgan, Myrddion laughed and drank deeply. The heavy red wine warmed his stomach and eased some of the darkness in his thoughts. Servants bustled around the two men, bearing heaped trays of food or heavy wine jugs. The tables groaned under the best fare that Deva could offer, and Myrddion examined the banquet through the eyes of a man who had planned every detail carefully.

  In unusual accord, the kings sat together in geographic groups, for these men would be required to work with each other in defence of the roads and fortresses within their tribal areas. Nor could any king complain about the richness or variety of the food offered for their delectation. Whole geese stuffed with chestnuts, onions, tasty mushrooms and whole boiled eggs vied with every type of fowl, sides of venison, tasty rabbits and haunches of beef. Richly gravied stews swam with mutton, lamb and bacon fat. Bowls of fruit, both fresh and cooked with honey, tempted the heartiest of appetities with sweetness, while the fruits of the sea cooked in pastry or glazed and stuffed with sweetbreads were spread on steaming platters.

  But, try as he might, Myrddion could stomach nothing. Perhaps the long day had sucked the hunger out of him. Perhaps he was too weary to eat, having planned this feast for many anxious days. Whatever the reason, the healer drank one cup of wine too many and found his bed early, hoping that a night’s sleep would repair what months of effort had taken away.

  Several days passed in argument, eventual accord and feasting. Venonae, Ratae, Lindum, Melandra, Templebrough, Olicana, Verterae, Lavatrae and Cataractonium were apportioned among the tribes, to be manned and strengthened into functioning, efficient fortresses. In the south, Venta Silurum, Durnovaria, Calleva Atrebatum, Portus Adurni and Glevum were selected as towns of major importance which must be garrisoned by warriors who could take offensive action should the need arise. All told, each tribe was made responsible for at least one fortress, including the smaller towers along the two northern walls that would give protection against incursions by the Picts and limit those places where ceols and long ships could find safe harbour.

  Much of the argument centred on the fortresses that had already fallen into Saxon, Angle or Jute hands. The consensus was that the Saxons should be precluded from the use of any lands stolen from the Cantii, but logic ultimately prevailed over sentiment. The expenditure of lives and coin required to retake Verulamium was agreed to be unprofitable, just as the location of Londinium was determined to be too distant to warrant consideration.

  ‘In any event the land is dead flat in Londinium,’ Uther explained. ‘The Roman fortress on the Tamesis is too small to be of any use to us now, and any attempt to retain control over the city would be a nightmare. While the streets are broad, too many people dwell cheek by jowl in such density that our warriors would be killed in swathes in any attempt to drive the Saxons out. Besides, many tribal traders still dwell there, so the city is not wholly Saxon. In time, perhaps, Londinium might become a neutral city, protected for its trading links with the continent. If you order me, your highnesses, I’ll capture Londinium, but I’d lose it again as soon as I departed to fight another battle elsewhere. Like Verulamium, we’d lose more men than the campaign would be worth.’

  ‘Then it’s your belief that Londinium and Verulamium are lost?’ Ambrosius said. ‘Is that correct?’

  His brother nodded regretfully. Ambrosius pressed home his advantage over the kings as they digested the unpalatable truth.

  ‘Understand me. We must not trade with the Saxons nor admit foreign merchants into our lands, for so it was that Londinium was originally taken by stealth. Portus Adurni and Magnus Portus will become our trading centres, for Dubris is lost to us. With apologies to our Cantii neighbours, I cannot see any tribal force being able to dislodge the Saxons from those wide, temperate lands of the south. Once again, the landscape is our enemy because of its open, flat terrain. But Anderida must be held, for that fortress exposes Anderida Silva and our southern cities to attack from the barbarians. If the Cantii and Regni tribes are agreeable, the southern coast can still be held.’

  Although many of the kings had never heard of these strange, exotic-sounding places, they caught Ambrosius’s urgency, and so certain key sites became priorities for defensive action by the Britons.

  It was soon determined that Anderida, Eburacum, Lindum and Durobrivae were essential to the survival of the united tribes. Piece by piece, an agreement was hammered out, and recorded by the scribes provided by the Christian bishops of the south. Even though many of the tribal kings could not write, they could press their intaglio rings into hot wax or make their marks beside the inscriptions of their names.

  From his usual vantage point, Myrddion regretted that the common tongue had no written form, requiring all the records to be translated into Latin. He was unsurprised that so few kings could write, because he understood that many noblemen shared his great-grandfather’s view of literacy. That venerable old king, Melvig ap Melwy, had considered that education weakened a strong man’s mind, his personal resolve and his ability to make decisions. Myrddion’s own education signified that King Melvig considered him disbarred by his illegitimacy from a career as a warrior or a ruler.

  Myrddion sighed with regret. Until the kings saw the benefits of learning, they would remain as backward in their thinking as their enemies.

  After a week of good food, better wine, carousing and wenching, the kings returned to their own halls secure in the knowledge that someone had taken the helm of the ship of state. They may only be oarsmen on that vessel, but the ship now had a purpose and a direction in which to steer. Myrddion bade them farewell with a feeling of anticlimax. Had it really been so easy?

  ‘So all our fears were unfounded,’ he commented to Uther as Gorlois, the last king to depart, rode away from Deva towards the southwest. The city was left feeling curiously empty after two weeks of hustle and bustle as the political centre of the British nation.

  ‘Thanks to the gods! We’re not out of the woods yet, and we’re still far from home,’ Uther replied. ‘I won’t sleep soundly until we’re back in Venta Belgarum.’

  ‘So when do we leave?’ Myrddion asked, his voice pitched casually to hide his eagerness to be home.

  ‘In four days. Ambrosius has taken it into his head to ride to Glastonbury, where he intends to give thanks to all the gods, including the Christian lord. Personally, Glastonbury gives me the horrors. Something old lives in that place. Don’t ask me what it is, because I leave all matters of fancy to you.’

  Uther was only half joking. Indeed, he often relegated matters pertaining to religion, superstition or the arcane to the healer for solving. This admission was, of itself, a sign that Uther had relented towards Myrddion. Their truce, fragile as it was, had warmed Ambrosius’s heart, for the High King considered that their cooperation was of significant importance to the safety of the realm.

  In the days before they left, Myrddion was kept busy liaising with the city fathers over the future care o
f the hall while negotiating, in Ambrosius’s name, the payment for outstanding expenses incurred by the tribal kings during their attendance at the moot. While Ambrosius went riding with Pascent and his nobles under the watchful eye of Uther, Myrddion organised the baggage train for their homeward journey, purchased supplies and made arrangements for the scribes to return to Venta Belgarum and their monasteries. There they would produce the master copy of the accord for Ambrosius, along with additional copies for the other kings who had attended the moot.

  ‘They won’t be able to read it, you know,’ Ambrosius told him one evening over a late-night supper.

  ‘What they do with the accord doesn’t matter, my lord,’ Myrddion replied. ‘They will be tied even closer to you by the magic of writing. It’s a simple ploy, I know, but it sets their words in iron, an oath that is not easily broken.’

  ‘You’re to be congratulated, healer,’ Pascent murmured from his cosy spot near the fire-pit. The nights were becoming chilly, and Pascent’s blue fingers indicated that he felt the cold more than his masters.

  ‘Why?’ Myrddion asked. Pascent rarely spoke to him, so he was intrigued by the young man’s professed admiration.

  ‘At the meeting, you tore into the tribal kings for the sole purpose of driving them into Lord Ambrosius’s arms. Truly, a good defence is a powerful attack.’

  ‘You give me too much credit, Pascent. I merely spoke the truth as I saw it. Honesty can sometimes be a painful thing.’

  ‘Aye, unvarnished truth can be a knife in the side,’ Pascent murmured in agreement. ‘Kings can rarely afford such a luxury, for subterfuge is their protection and their greatest skill.’

  So young – and so embittered! ‘Have you remembered anything about your past as yet?’

  ‘No.’ The youth coloured and idly rubbed his long scarred fingers together. ‘And I’m beginning to despair that I’ll ever discover who I am.’

  ‘Perhaps the journey to Glastonbury will spark a memory,’ Ambrosius contributed, his strong face softened by sympathy. ‘Most tribal lords make a pilgrimage to that holy centre of learning at some time during their lives.’

  ‘I hope so, master.’

  Yet Pascent was a gay, enthusiastic companion once the party rode away from Deva over a scattered carpet of tossed flowers, amid the cheers of its citizens. Riding behind the main group, Myrddion could understand Ambrosius’s attachment to the younger man. Even a freshening wind that required the king to don his fur-lined gloves couldn’t dampen the mood of festivity that transformed the long journey into a pleasant interlude.

  From Deva, they followed a secondary Roman road that skirted the deep green and midnight-blue forests of Arden to arrive at the Ordovice centre of Viroconium. There, at the behest of King Bryn, Llanwith pen Bryn joined their party to strengthen tribal ties with the High King and to receive instruction in the ways of a great court. Nervous and uneasy with the Roman brothers, Prince Llanwith gravitated to the only person he knew, Myrddion Merlinus.

  As Viroconium fell behind, the landscape became wilder and more rugged. To the west, Myrddion could see the high grey mountains that called to him with a siren-song of home. As they crossed a number of swiftly flowing rivers via stone Roman bridges and forded any number of streamlets in every fold in the terrain, he became accustomed to the constant music of rushing water. His eyes were charmed by flowering gorse, the gold of autumnal trees and the delicate skeletal bones of aspens that had already dropped their leaves in long swathes of rust. The fat-tailed sheep that clung to every slope spoke of a peaceful countryside, and every village was inhabited by rosy-cheeked peasants who gazed on the panoply of the High King with eyes that were round with wonder.

  ‘It’s good to be so close to home,’ Myrddion murmured to no one in particular.

  Llanwith, who was some few years older than the healer, lounged in the saddle with the ease of a born horseman. A deft kick in the ribs guided his horse beside Myrddion’s.

  ‘If you miss Segontium so much, why don’t you return there?’

  Myrddion stared into the middle distance where a circular slate hut with a thatched roof was bleeding a trail of white smoke. The croft was well kept, and neat beds of vegetables were proof of careful husbandry. This journey was filling him with peace and a deep longing that he knew would be with him until he returned to the grey mountains and the sea that he loved.

  ‘Ambrosius would not release me, nor would I break my oath of fealty. Initially, I was forced to serve, but I have come to accept that the High King is our greatest hope of salvation. He is an extraordinary man, Llanwith. Yes, he may be more Roman than Celt, but he loves this land and he has committed his life to serving it. A crown lies heavy on a head, and I’ve seen how little he relishes the constraints of rule, but his love for the Celtic peoples ennobles him. I will happily serve him for the rest of my life.’

  For a moment, Llanwith rode beside the healer without speaking. Myrddion permitted the silence to lengthen, for few men can bear to endure a void and must rush to fill it. Over the years, he had discovered much to his advantage by this simple ploy.

  ‘But he seems to be very distant, Myrddion. We are used to rulers who are passionate, sometimes wilful and always excitable. Vortigern was such a man. For all his fits and starts, and despite his violence and acts of barbarism, we could still understand him. The Roman says all the right things and his manner is correct and pleasant, but Bryn and Melvyn complain that they cannot fathom the passions that stir his heart. Damn me, but I wish he’d lose his temper or act on a whim, just so I could read his true character.’

  Ahead, a shepherd whistled piercingly from the hill with his crook hung over one shoulder. Shaggy with the thickening coats that marked the onset of the colder weather, two black and white dogs ran towards a small flock of sheep from opposite directions as they obeyed orders quite invisible to the High King and his retinue.

  ‘I am Ambrosius’s dog, and my task is to herd the sheep back to the fold. Although I betray my master when I discuss his private nature, I can promise you that he is a true son of the Atrebates, as passionate as you, friend Llanwith, but he has learned to hide his emotions for his personal protection. He longs to love as his heart dictates, but he cannot do so. He hungers to trust the men and women who serve him, but he cannot do so. Would you have him assassinated because he was careless among those people in whom he places his trust?’

  Myrddion’s reputation for wisdom and learning was such that the Ordovice prince paid serious consideration to his argument. Llanwith furrowed his thick brows and toyed with his luxurious beard in an action that was habitual when he was deeply consumed by thought.

  ‘So you’re saying that he must take care to appear almost inhuman in his calm and reasonable demeanour if he has any hope of survival as ruler of the Britons.’

  ‘That’s exactly what I’m saying. And would you choose to live in that way?’ Myrddion’s eyes were still fixed on the distant figure of the shepherd, who was following his flock towards a natural pen formed by a fold in the land and secured by a rather flimsy fence.

  ‘So the united kings are the sheep, while you and Prince Uther are Ambrosius’s dogs. I can think in metaphors too, my friend. Unlike my father, I can read.’

  ‘Yes, Llanwith. Noble sheep, but they are still beasts to be herded and protected from wolves and human predators. I thank the Mother that my birth freed me of the burden of rule. Caring for servants is quite onerous enough.’

  ‘You’re a cold fish at times, friend, but I like you none the less.’ Then Llanwith laughed, and an already bright day suddenly developed an added gloss.

  Myrddion had never had a friend who was his equal, yet owed him nothing. Although Llanwith had shaken him for a brief moment with his reference to the coldness of his nature, so like Morgan’s barbed attack, he was beginning to depend on the bluff camaraderie of the Ordovice prince. In the evenings, Llanwith always appeared at the healer’s fireside with a flask of red wine and muddy boots which he rested on
any available surface. His uncritical, open face masked a keen intellect that was honed by wide reading on topics that he enjoyed discussing with Myrddion. They would often argue about military matters, for Llanwith was convinced that an eventual defeat of the Saxons would require new strategies utilising a combination of the disciplined approach of the Romans and the wild flair of the Celts. Myrddion admitted that Llanwith was his master in strategy and took pleasure in describing the Battle of the Catalaunian Plain in detail for the prince’s enjoyment. In the weeks that followed, Myrddion came to look forward to these conversations, for they eased the hollow of loneliness that lay behind his breastbone.

  ‘What about women, Myrddion?’ Llanwith asked one evening, as rain pattered softly on their leather roof and intruded into the tent in long, damp runnels. ‘Have you ever been in love?’

  ‘Yes, once, but I prefer to forget the experience,’ Myrddion said shortly. ‘I’ve learned to survive without sex.’

  Llanwith gave an explosive snort of laughter.

  ‘Why? Do you confuse sex and love, my friend? One can exist quite pleasantly without the other. Why do you live like a Christian priest when the land is full of willing women who’d be happy to share your bed? I’ve seen how the women look at you.’ A sudden suspicion made Llanwith pause. ‘You don’t prefer men, do you? I’m not criticising, for we all have kinfolk who follow the Greek fashion in matters of love.’

  ‘No, not at all,’ Myrddion responded with a little scowl of affront. ‘I know you’ll laugh at me, but women frighten me more than a little. Except for one girl who loved me for myself, I’ve always been the means to an end for those females who have crossed my path. In Deva, Morgan tried to seduce me with promises of power, but no simple physical release is worth what I would have suffered afterwards.’