by M. K. Hume
Self-pity closed his throat and almost made him weep. He felt useless, unmanly and weak.
Ruadh rose gracefully to her feet. Those closest to Myrddion had grown fond of her but to the court of Uther Pendragon she would always be the Pict bitch who was the last love of Ambrosius Imperator. Now, sword-straight and proud, she met her lover’s eyes directly, until Myrddion was forced to turn away.
‘I’m no coward, Myrddion. Nor do I fear the animosity of the gods, for they have already taken everything from me but my life. Yet in answer to my prayers they have been sufficiently kind to have given you to me, so their curses can actually be blessings. I’ll not leave you, master, although staying at your side may bring about my death. Don’t try to persuade me or reject me, for it will not work, no matter what you say out of kindness. Such actions would be unnecessarily cruel and we’ll both suffer because of your scruples. For a change, I will choose my own fate, for I will run no more!’
Then she grinned impishly to dispel the mood of gravity that her words had created.
‘Besides, who would help you to dress in the mornings? You’d wear your tunic awry or inside out without my help, or put your left boot onto your right foot.’
‘As always, my lady, you speak truly,’ Myrddion answered seriously and bowed respectfully. ‘You make my days bearable.’
‘Get away with you and your sweet tongue, Myrddion Merlinus, for you’d charm the birds out of the trees.’ She slapped him playfully across the buttocks as she slipped out of the sleeping chamber. ‘You must hurry, beloved, for Uther awaits you.’
‘Sod him. He can wait.’
‘I heard that,’ she called back to him across the colonnade.
Wanting to respond childishly, Myrddion suddenly discovered that he was smiling, and that he was actually hungry. Bless Ruadh! She always finds a way to cure my worst horrors. I wish I loved her as much as she loves me.
A wise man understands his own heart and Myrddion had long realised how his women had manipulated him into this relationship with Ruadh. He had understood their motives and been quietly amused, but a wholly physical need had demanded the warmth of Ruadh in his bed and he had accepted their meddling without complaint. With clinical detachment, he had carefully examined his feelings for Ruadh and had discovered that he admired many qualities in her character, from her courage to her irrepressible sense of humour; but he also recognised that although his affection for her was deep and genuine, her loss would not cause him lasting loneliness.
‘Perhaps I lack the capacity for anything deeper,’ he whispered aloud. He enjoyed their sexual compatibility and was comforted by the release of all the pent-up furies of each day that was spent with Uther Pendragon. Besides, he could talk to her as an equal and vent his frustrations into a sympathetic ear. With mingled ruefulness and arrogance, he supposed he was using her in his way, as men are wont to do, but the current situation suited them both.
You think too much, and you’re a fool, he berated himself as he collected his map of the southern Saxon towns. He had received troubling news from Gruffydd overnight, and Uther must be informed immediately. First things first, Myrddion!
The tribal kings had ridden out at dawn on a wild boar hunt, a symbolism that was lost on no one, least of all Gorlois, the man it was supposed to threaten. Myrddion, therefore, was free to talk common sense to Uther. The noble ladies and their children were gathered in a warm room at the rear of the palace, sewing, playing at dice and amusing each other with gossip. Against all the odds, Venta Belgarum was at peace, at least for the moment.
Just as he raised his fist to rap on the timber frame at the entrance to Uther’s apartments, Botha tugged the heavy wooden door open. A deep furrow of worry creased the warrior’s eyes, usually the only sign that the captain betrayed of cracks in his composure.
‘Our master’s in a tear this morning, Myrddion. He had a bad dream last night and he’s considering consulting a wise woman. Take care what you say, for he’s wound up as tight as a wire garrotte.’
‘Who’s there, Botha? If it’s the healer, he’d better have good news.’ Uther’s shouted voice sent a small tremor up the fingers of Botha’s hand as it rested on Myrddion’s forearm. The fingers tightened on his flesh in warning, then fell away.
With a sangfroid he didn’t feel, and a cheerful nonchalance that was completely feigned, Myrddion strode briskly into Uther’s apartments. The dream-ravaged, depressed healer had vanished and a firm, fair statesman had taken his place.
‘Good morning, highness. Botha tells me that your sleep has been disturbed. I also had the night terrors last evening. But they pass, because they are only the messages of an unquiet brain.’
‘So you are an expert in dreams as well, are you?’ Uther sneered, sipped on his wine, grimaced and then threw the wine cup at Ulfin’s face. ‘This shit is sour. Find me something decent – or are you trying to poison me?’
Ulfin blanched and hurried away. ‘And find that wise woman while you’re about it,’ Uther shouted after him.
‘I can mix a sleeping draught that will banish all your night horrors, my king,’ Myrddion murmured in an attempt to placate his master.
‘You drink it, for I’ll not touch it. I remember how my brother died.’
‘You insult me, my lord!’ Myrddion protested rigidly. ‘I am oath-bound to protect you.’
‘Take it any way that pleases you, healer. Now, what brings you to me so early? Come on, out with it! I can see that you’re bursting with news.’
As Uther resumed pacing back and forth across his sumptuous bedchamber, Myrddion wished he had stayed in bed a little longer. Anything he told the High King would be rejected out of hand while Uther was in this difficult mood.
Uther stopped pacing abruptly as Myrddion remained silent. ‘Do you mean to disobey me, Merlinus?’ The High King’s voice was suddenly quiet and silky. Uther was always more dangerous when his voice became gentle and soothing.
Myrddion took a deep, settling breath. ‘No, my lord. Of course not. I received an urgent message from my spy in the Saxon east who is currently in Londinium. An unknown man came to my door before cockcrow late last night and was gone just as quickly, so I was unable to question him. But the hand that penned the Latin belonged to Gruffydd, whose intelligence has been so valuable to us in the past. I am forced to take his warnings seriously.’
Uther started to pace again, but without the frenetic energy of a few minutes earlier. His face was focused inward, and his eyes had become chill. The High King was always at his best in a crisis.
‘Well? You’d best tell me, unless you expect me to cool my heels all day while you decide what you think I want you to say. So – out with it.’
Myrddion untangled Uther’s sentence and shook his head swiftly. ‘I never prevaricate, master, nor do I attempt to weaken Gruffydd’s warnings. His messages are always too important to our cause to trifle with. Nor would I insult you by misrepresenting information that could be dangerous to you.’
Myrddion spread his map of the southeastern cities across Uther’s table and the High King stopped to examine it. The soldier in the king gave a little nod of approval at the placement of rivers, forests and villages on the rudimentary chart.
‘According to Gruffydd, ceols are preparing to sail out of Portus Lemanis to carry men to Anderida. They plan to dig in near its gates and lay siege during the winter months so they can make a concerted attack on the fortress during the spring when our warriors will have depleted their winter stores of grain. We’ll be unable to dislodge the Saxons if they become too entrenched, so we shall have to intercept them. Our enemies are like beetles boring into wood, or the lice that infest clean wool.’
Uther rubbed his freshly shaved jaw with a sword-calloused forefinger. ‘They breed too damned fast,’ he said as he moved his finger from his city to the fortress, attempting to judge the distance between them. ‘Anderida is close to my defensive lines, so I can only assume that the Saxons are trying to provoke me. They’
ll not have my fortress – not now and not ever! But why are they sailing now? They’ve always been reluctant to venture out to sea in the winter.’
‘It’s true that they’d not sail from Gesoriacum at this time of year, my lord, for that journey would be madness in the storms of winter. But they can hug the east coast if they sail from Portus Lemanis, and then trust in the gods to make a decent landfall. They are learning to act unpredictably, damn them.’
Uther snickered softly but Myrddion read no humour in the grating sound.
‘So they think that they can outfox the dragon. Well, we’ll see. Perhaps I’ll keep them waiting in the cold until spring, and then we’ll discover how well they manage against my cohorts. Perhaps I’ll march earlier.’
‘Is it wise to wait so long, my lord?’ Myrddion asked as mildly as he could. Uther’s scorn for proffered advice, coupled with his refusal to accept opinions that ran counter to his own strategic assessments, made him a very difficult master to counsel.
‘Not really, but I am considering an answer for them that will kill two birds with one stone. I’ll let you know my decision when my plans are ready for implementation.’
Myrddion was instantly alarmed. Uther’s countenance was almost coy and his eyes seemed to contemplate a secret that he was savouring, a tasty titbit to enjoy. From harsh experience, the healer knew that such obvious machinations by the High King usually spelt pain and danger for someone close to hand.
Gorlois? Of course! He’ll send Gorlois to stop the rot at Anderida.
At that moment, Ulfin returned with a wineskin and handed his master a fresh cup, which Uther drank abstractedly. Other than Ulfin’s laboured breathing, for the guard had run to obey his master, Myrddion’s crisp voice was the only sound in the tense room. One finger pointed at the map as Uther stared down, his attention focused on the healer’s information.
But try as he might, Myrddion couldn’t draw Uther out, so the High King’s plans remained concealed, a conundrum for Myrddion to puzzle over while the king was plotting. Just as the healer was preparing to put his suspicions into words, a knock interrupted them and Ulfin ushered in a woman who bore all the outward characteristics of a country housewife. The wise woman had come.
Myrddion’s knowledge of women was too subtle to expect that all soothsayers famed for their prescience should look like crones, but even so, this woman’s appearance surprised him. She was small and round with very red cheeks that gave her face the appearance of a ripe apple. A white scrap of rag covered all her hair and her plump face was almost youthful in its lack of wrinkles. Merry brown eyes surveyed the king sympathetically, before she lifted her skirts to honour her master with a low curtsey.
‘What is your name, woman, and where do you dwell?’ Uther demanded, after Botha had ruthlessly searched her from head to toe.
‘My name is Muirne, the Sea Bright, and I was born in Hibernia. When I was a wee girl I married a man from Powys, but he died in Lord Ambrosius’s service. I was forced to settle in Venta Belgarum, far from my kin, for the sake of my little ones. I’ve kept hunger from the door with my ma’s cures for fever and the ague, and with a little fortune-telling, my king. My old ma always said that the seeing was a family curse, but it’s kept me and my little ones fed for many a cold winter’s night. They be grown now, so it’s sad I am to be so far from the green lands of my birth. But a woman cannot be complaining.’
‘No one here will care or listen,’ Uther said bluntly.
‘As you say, my lord, no one will listen. So . . . why do you come to me when the whole city knows that Mistress Morgan, who would choose to be a Druid like the wise ones who perished on Mona island so long ago, would gladly assist the High King with whatever ails him?’
‘I don’t trust the bitch,’ Uther replied curtly, but the fluid cadences of Muirne’s voice seemed to have soothed the worst of his anger. Myrddion could see no evil in her face, so he hoped she would not say anything to draw down Uther’s rage upon her hapless head.
‘Then tell me what you want, macushla, and I’ll try to help you.’
In a manner that was completely out of character, Uther sat and proceeded to recount his dream with neither shame nor argument. He ignored her use of the familiar diminutive, macushla, a word that Myrddion imagined had never before been addressed to Uther, and in contrast with his dealings with the tribal kings, his guard and Myrddion, he spoke with surprising candour.
‘In my dream, I stood in a wheat field where the healthy young plants came to my knees. While I stood there, spears rose out of the stalks and grew upwards towards the sun. I was forced to retreat from the field or be impaled on the long, leaf-shaped blades of iron.’
The wise woman, Muirne, nodded her head and her eyes became duller and darker. Myrddion imagined that he felt her mind probing outwards towards the king, seeking a breach in the shield that he used to disguise his worst and deepest feelings.
‘At the edge of the field, two women barred my way and foiled my chance of escaping to safety. I reached for my sword, but it had vanished in the way of dreams. One of the women laughed and I knew from her voice that she was that Morgan bitch. She offered me a plate of apples and said: “Now you’ll live forever, Uther, if that is what you desire, Child-killer.”
‘I took an apple and bit into it. Oh, but it was the sweetest, juiciest apple I’ve ever tasted. But the woman simply laughed with triumph and spun in a circle until she was only a puff of rancid-smelling air. I looked down at the apple and the flesh went black and shrivelled in my hand.
‘The other woman smiled sadly under her cowl and lifted her arms to embrace me. I knew I’d be safe if I loved her and protected her, but I noticed her swollen belly and she told me that the child was mine. I was furious because she had no face and sought to trap me because I am the High King, so I wrenched a spear out of the wheat and stabbed her in the swelling of her pregnancy.’ Myrddion’s gorge rose at the murderous image. ‘The spear went right through her body, and I felt sure that she and her hell-spawn would die, but she lowered her hands and said: “So it shall be. The child will prevail.”’
Uther’s gaze settled on the face of the wise woman. ‘Then the sun seemed to split and I woke up.’
Muirne rocked on her heels and her face grew as pale as an old sun-bleached shell.
‘Lord, I beg you not to blame me for my reading of your dream. Surely, the gods touched you in your sleep to warn you of troubles that lie ahead. In your heart, you know the messages that came to you in these dreams as well as I do, but I fear that you will order my death for speaking of the fate that might befall you.’
Uther looked thunderous and impatient by turns, and Myrddion held his breath. ‘I don’t know the meaning of my dreams, woman: you’ve been brought here to explain them to me. I’m a soldier, not a soothsayer. I don’t intend to have you killed, whatever you might say, but I warn you that I’ll know if you lie to me. I’ll surely punish you for that presumption.’
Uther’s voice was so controlled that Myrddion was immediately on his guard. The healer understood his master, and he knew that he couldn’t trust this stranger king one single inch. Poor Muirne! Uther will keep his oath, but he has only promised that she won’t die. There are worse things than death.
‘The wheat field is our land, which has suddenly become your enemy and begins to turn against you. That you could pluck a spear from it should be a good sign, master, but the presence of the women changes the meaning to a threat. You mustn’t use the war between our people and the barbarians in any way to further your ambitions. The spear, and your actions against the pregnant woman, will turn on you and you will fail in your purpose.’
‘Who is this woman who claims that an infant will defeat me?’ Uther’s voice remained calm, but his soft voice only deepened Myrddion’s nervousness.
‘Does it matter, my lord? Your dream merely acknowledges that you will try to kill the fruit of your loins. Morgan said as much when she called you a child-killer. Do not fall into this e
rror, my lord, if you wish to secure your throne. Kill no children! The Morgan in your dream offers you immortality because of it, but you discover that the gift is poisoned and you will be remembered forever as a monster if you fall into this trap. The gods are warning you clearly, my lord, for I take the cowled figure to be the Mother, and the other gods fear her fury as much as we mortals do.’
‘Your answers are plausible, woman, but what if I’ve already killed a child? Is my fate already decided and set in stone?’
Myrddion could see the cogs of Uther’s mind grinding out the unspoken name, Carys, and the healer hoped that the High King felt a twinge of regret, if not of shame, for the pregnant girl’s murder.
Muirne shook her head so vehemently that Myrddion feared it would fly clean off her shoulders. The ghastly image caused his heart to race and his hands to tremble. ‘No, lord. No. The subject of your dream has not happened. I can swear to you that the growing grain signifies things that are yet to come, so the gods wish you to take heed of their messages.’
‘Enough!’ Uther whispered. Then the room grew very still as he rested his hand on his chin and thought out her warnings. ‘Give this woman a piece of gold and take her to an apartment in the palace.’ He half turned and spoke softly to Botha. ‘She stays with me until her usefulness is over.’ He turned back to Muirne. ‘Do not weep, Sea Bright. If your words are true, then you will be able to warn me of the danger when the time comes. You are a wise woman, aren’t you? I’m loath to allow you to speak unwisely to those who might be curious about my affairs, so you must dwell with me until I decide otherwise.’
As Muirne turned to go, Myrddion smiled slightly in relief. He gripped her forearm in farewell, and was horrified to feel her death in her bones. He almost recoiled from the knowledge, but an inner voice told him to offer her his own words of comfort. She would have need of his wisdom.