Prophecy: Web of Deceit (Prophecy 3)

by M. K. Hume

  As her confinement grew closer, she became convinced that she would die in childbirth, for over twenty years had passed since she had borne her youngest daughter. Like the season, she was producing her last fruit before the frosts of old age turned her into a barren old crone. She examined her huge belly, much larger than her other pregnancies, and feared that either the child would kill her, or her narrow hips would kill the child.

  Then, as she contemplated the pale landscape that was so like her mood, an ache began in her lower back and spread around her sides, a familiar constriction as muscles rippled with strain. A low moan escaped her lips as she felt the spasm strike her, building in her muscles as the child clamoured to be born. Biting her lip to silence any further outcry, she clutched at her belly and tried to breathe through the pain.

  No, she thought desperately. When the child is born, it may die, so it can’t be born. I won’t allow it. None of this was meant to be.

  She stood so still and so rigid that Ruadh sensed something was seriously wrong. Deftly twitching the crumpled covers into place over the queen’s bed, Ruadh decided to force her mistress to lie down, for Ygerne had been restless for days and had slept very little. By the time she reached Ygerne’s side, the queen’s shoulders had relaxed as the spasm passed, and she could catch her breath again. She turned to face her servant with a calm, untroubled face.

  ‘Are you ailing, mistress? You’re a little too pale for my liking.’

  ‘I’m quite well, Ruadh, so don’t fuss.’ Ygerne smiled sweetly but Ruadh wasn’t deceived. She noticed fine beads of sweat on the queen’s forehead, so Ruadh took her closed hand and carefully prised the fingers open. Red crescents from Ygerne’s nails marked her soft white palms.

  ‘You’ve gone into labour, haven’t you? Don’t lie to me! I’ve borne children, highness, so you can’t fool me easily. Have your waters broken yet?’

  ‘No, it’s just a twinge – and it’s of no moment.’ The queen wrapped both hands around her swollen belly as if to clutch the babe even closer to her heart. ‘I’ll rest and be strong again.’

  ‘Liar!’ Ruadh was incapable of tact. ‘It’s off to bed with you, madam. You will soon be a mother again, and then you’ll need all your strength. I’ll send word to the king and arrange for the midwife to come at once.’

  Ygerne gripped Ruadh’s hands in both of hers with a clasp so fierce that the servant winced in pain.

  ‘I don’t want a stranger caring for me, Ruadh! Whatever her ability, that midwife smells. You’ve been trained by Master Myrddion and you’ve carried children yourself, so I’d like you to deliver my child if you are prepared to do so. Berwyn and Willa can assist you, for I don’t trust anyone else. Please?’

  The queen was becoming agitated, so Ruadh appeased her by agreeing to serve as midwife, although she was fearful of what Uther Pendragon would make of his wife’s decision.

  ‘Let me talk to Captain Botha. He’ll ensure that my master sends me herbs to relieve your labour pains. If you wish, I’ll also ask Bishop Lucius to attend on you.’

  ‘Yes, please, Ruadh, for I’d like to make my confession in case I should die during the confinement.’

  Ruadh realised how dangerous the queen’s agitation could be for both mother and child. She wanted Myrddion close to hand in case something went badly wrong with this birthing.

  Having coerced Ygerne into resting on a comfortable, cushioned stool in the delivery room, Ruadh left her in the care of Berwyn and Willa and slipped out of the queen’s apartments to run pell-mell in search of the captain of the guard. She found Botha at the back of the High King’s hall, where he was guarding his master while Uther dispensed his own particular form of justice.

  Nervously, she attracted Botha’s attention, knowing that Uther Pendragon would be offended by the presence of a female servant within his hall of judgment. Glancing cautiously at the king’s back, Botha beckoned to another guardsman to take his place and then slipped through the curtained doorway to join Ruadh in the long corridor that linked the hall with the living quarters of the palace.

  ‘Why do you risk the skin on your back by venturing into the hall of judgment, woman? I hope you have a good excuse, for even your master won’t be able to protect you from a whipping if Uther is informed of your presumption.’

  ‘The queen has begun her labour and the king must be informed at once. He must also be advised that the queen has asked to be shriven by Bishop Lucius in case she should die during the birth. My lady has refused the services of the midwife and wishes me to bring the babe into the world, so I will require the tools of my trade from Master Myrddion, as well as soporifics, herbs to strengthen the blood, belly binders and clean bandages. My master will know what is needed.’

  Acutely uncomfortable, Botha coughed with embarrassment, and swore to carry out Ruadh’s requirements to the letter, including the task of informing the king. Confident that he wouldn’t fail her, the Celtic woman hurried back to the queen’s apartments.

  As soon as she entered the disordered delivery room, she could see that neither Willa nor Berwyn was coping with the demands of midwifery. Willa was distressed and almost in tears, but she had sent for hot water, knowing that cleanliness was important in childbirth. The girl was now almost thirteen and a beauty, regardless of her scarred arm which, self-consciously, she always kept covered by long sleeves and high necklines. She had an abundance of softly curled black hair which was usually kept under control by neat plaits but, in the turmoil, loose tendrils of hair had escaped to fall over her pale face. As she fetched water for her mistress, she ran one hand through the escaping locks, tousling her braids still further. Willa was usually painfully shy, but she was comfortable in the queen’s presence. She idolised Ygerne for her gentleness and grace, and was struggling to stay calm when Ruadh returned.

  ‘The queen says her waters have broken, Ruadh, and she must change into a shift for her travail, but she won’t stand still long enough for us to assist her.’

  ‘Hush, Willa, my darling. The hot water was a good idea, but we must insist that Ygerne undresses. Master Myrddion demands that the body of a woman in labour should be cleansed to prevent evil humours from entering the womb, so you must find a roomy shift that she uses for sleeping while Berwyn and I undress and bathe her. Don’t be frightened, lass. Few women die when bearing children, else we’d never want to have them, would we?’

  While Willa hurried to a carved clothes chest to find a pretty, loose shift that would make her mistress more comfortable, Berwyn and Ruadh bore down on Ygerne and forced her to stand still while they unlaced her gown of heavy rose wool. As they helped her out of her tightly bound inner garments and the delicate gauzy shift that she wore closest to her skin, the queen sighed with relief. Then Berwyn knelt before her mistress and sponged her loins and legs until Ygerne was clean and comfortable, although the process embarrassed her and caused her face to flush a becoming, girlish shade of pink.

  Then, dressed in her loose shift but still unwilling to take to her bed, she was bullied into sitting while her long hair was carefully unbound, brushed and then plaited into two long braids that hung almost to her knees. Willa completed this task carefully, biting her lip with concentration, while Berwyn and Ruadh stripped the queen’s bed of the luxurious covers and found pillows to support Ygerne’s back. Ruadh remembered how her own russet hair had become wet with sweat and matted from her long hours of labour, so she understood how important it would be for her mistress to be tidy before the worst of the contractions began.

  Although still restless, Ygerne was abed when Bishop Lucius arrived at her door. When he entered the bedchamber, she was tucked under a fine woven sheet like a small child, with only her face and clasped hands visible to comply with the rules of modesty. Unlike many prelates, Lucius was not intimidated or repulsed by the mysteries of childbirth, so he prayed with her easily, heard her confession and calmed her with his serenity. Before he rose to leave, she gripped his hand and whispered in his ear so that
the other women couldn’t hear.

  ‘You must promise me that my child will be safe if I should die. My husband must have no part in the raising of it, for he would poison the poor little thing with his violence and suspicions. If I must die, my spirit will be at peace if you swear this oath to me.’

  ‘You’ll not die, highness. I predict that you will live to see your child grow strong and tall, but if it relieves your mind, I will vow to obey you. Your child will be safe, as the Lord High God is my witness.’

  Ygerne sighed, smiled and then grimaced as another contraction began.

  Lucius rose gracefully and bowed low before departing for the king’s rooms. But his mind was in turmoil, for he had made a sacred oath to Ygerne that would be difficult to keep if Uther decided to expose the child. He decided to make his excuses and depart for Glastonbury at the earliest opportunity. Bishop Paulus would baptise the child, so nothing remained to keep Lucius here any longer.

  ‘It seems we are all in the hands of God,’ he whispered to Botha as they made their way to Uther’s apartments, feeling like a coward and sympathising with Myrddion Merlinus who was, to all intents and purposes, the only effective conscience governing the behaviour of the High King.

  ‘Yes, my lord, so I hope that your God is listening to your prayers.’

  Uther had reluctantly cancelled his judgments to await the birth of his first child, and was enduring the proffered congratulations of nobles and servants alike with scarcely hidden irritability. The High King was no fool, and he could read curiosity and

  amusement in the sharp faces of his nobles as they enjoyed the whole scandal surrounding his marriage. ‘Well, rot them and their title-tattle!’ Uther swore vilely. ‘The sooner the brat is dead, the better. And then all mention of Gorlois will be forgotten.’

  As he knocked and entered the luxurious rooms, Lucius saw that Uther was in a vile temper, but he was sullenly enraged rather than displaying his customary ungoverned fury. From a sideways glance at Botha, who had become quite wooden and mute, the prelate deduced that a brooding Pendragon was far more dangerous than an openly furious one.

  Within a few moments, Lucius had learned that the High King considered the child to be an unwanted and unwelcome intrusion into the normal patterns of his life. While most men would be excited at the birth of an heir, Uther was mindful of his night terrors and the prediction of his seer that he would suffer because of a blood-covered infant. His resentments were all too visible, and Lucius worried that he would act intemperately. Even the eventual arrival of Paulus, the timid bishop of Venta Belgarum, failed to calm him. This child was a potential disruption and Uther wanted no changes to his way of life.

  When Myrddion arrived, burdened with supplies for Ruadh’s use, he was forced to wait in the corridor until Uther deigned to see him. As he paced, Morgan passed by with a servant in tow. Her eyes were mocking and cruel, and Myrddion was immediately on his guard.

  ‘Save your efforts, healer,’ she said impassively, although the scum of gloating in the hard brown depths of her eyes belied her solemn face. ‘The child may survive its birthing, but it’s fated that no heir of Uther will live past a single day.’

  ‘Do you plan infanticide, woman? Are there no depths of depravity you won’t plumb to take your revenge for Gorlois? Your father would be ashamed if you killed an innocent babe.’

  Myrddion knew he was making another enemy with his all too truthful attack, but Morgan’s smug confidence had burrowed under his self-control.

  ‘Why are you so scrupulous, Myrddion? I won’t kill the child: Uther will do it for me. He has terrible dreams, you know. I simply congratulated him on the birth of a fine, strong son who would become the greatest man in the tribal lands. Uther’s face was a picture of jealousy and chagrin. He is planning how his own child will die, even as we speak.’

  ‘And if it’s a girl? What then, Morgan? He’ll not order a female to be exposed.’ There were no words for the horror and disgust that Myrddion felt, for Morgan had played her games with Uther Pendragon to perfection. Her triumph turned her cold eyes the colour of warmed amber, for Myrddion had admitted, without words, that Uther intended to kill his own son. Now, Morgan smiled luxuriously, as if she tasted something sweet and delicious.

  ‘Mother will be ill for a long time after the birth at her age, but Uther will still demand her absolute devotion and attention towards him. She will lack the necessary time to look after a babe while she warms Uther’s bed and panders to his whims. I will raise any girl that is born, and may the king have pleasure in what I make of her.’

  Myrddion lowered his gaze. Anything rather than be forced to watch Morgan’s beautiful features twist into such ugliness of soul. The healer granted her the right to be angry at her father’s murder, just as he acknowledged her bitterness over her rape and the queen’s acceptance of Uther Pendragon as her new husband. But such cold fury! Perhaps the Christians who damned woman as the source of all sin had some truth on their side.

  ‘You should be aware, highness, that the Greeks were very knowledgeable about sin. They described you exactly when they said: “Those whom the gods would destroy, they first make mad.”’

  ‘Is that your best insult, healer? If so, our conversations will be short in future. Farewell for now, for I wish to learn how my mother’s confinement goes.’

  Then Morgan moved away, swaying her womanly hips with conscious grace. But her attraction was lost on Myrddion, who saw the serpent in her willowy body and frigid eyes.

  The hours stretched out like years, for Ygerne was too thin, frail and elderly to bear children safely. Ruadh refused permission for Morgan to enter the queen’s chamber, so Willa and Berwyn shuddered under her acid insults. But Ygerne remained the focus of all their toil and passion. Her muscles had lost the elasticity of youth, and she suffered greatly as the child demanded to be born with a wilful, angry strength. Only Ruadh divined that her mistress was endeavouring to prevent the birth, fearing her husband’s wrath and the constant anxiety that would become her lot once her child was born.

  The queen’s hair was soon drenched and dark with sweat, and her face pale with the effort she wasted in futile struggles. Her shift had been changed twice, while Berwyn and Willa sponged her body with cool water to relax her muscles and keep her as clean as possible. With a sick fear of her own inadequacies, Ruadh watched Ygerne’s contractions ripple through her belly as the queen arched her back and moaned in agony. Then, before her courage deserted her, she gave her a single drop of one of Myrddion’s soporifics diluted in water.

  ‘Scream if it eases your pain, mistress. There are no rewards for being stoic and silent,’ Ruadh urged. Willa stroked the queen’s forehead with a soft, cool cloth while Berwyn gave her a little more water to moisten her dry lips.

  ‘Thank you, Willa – that makes me feel much better. And thank you too, Berwyn. I cannot scream or make a spectacle of myself, Ruadh, for I’m not a peasant woman who drops her child in the fields. We noblewomen show our courage in our silence, and I’ll not betray either my breeding or my status.’

  But the contractions grew ever stronger until Ygerne bit her lips hard enough to taste blood in her mouth. Despite her determination to suffer in silence, a thin cry was eventually dragged from her lips. She longed to sleep, but the child was inexorable and tore at her womb in its eagerness to enter the world. When Myrddion’s potion began to work Ruadh was both relieved and terrified, for the queen’s eyes grew dull and distant, although she cried out more freely in her agony.

  Down the corridor, Uther heard his wife’s cries and was further irritated. Although Botha gave him heavy red wine, the drink merely fuelled his growing dislike of the whole disruptive and noisy process.

  In vino veritas! Myrddion thought bitterly as he watched the High King begin to lose his composure. Finally, when the cries grew so loud that the priests began to pray in a corner of the room, Uther ordered Myrddion to walk with him to escape the tormented sounds.

  Here it comes,
Myrddion thought. The greatest test of my life is upon me. What am I going to do?

  ‘Not you, Botha. Stay here and guard the priests. We can’t have any harm befalling men of God,’ Uther ordered briskly as the captain moved to follow his master. ‘If I’m not secure in my own house in Venta Belgarum, then I’m never likely to be safe anywhere in these isles.’

  Glumly, Myrddion followed the High King down the corridors, through courtyards and down dank steps into the foundations of the palace. Although the original building had risen straight from the packed sod, some enterprising builder had dug out a cellar and lined it with rough-hewn stones using the famed Roman mortar that made buildings so strong.

  What king and healer entered was a small space, only fifteen feet square, that would be almost impregnable during an attack by enemies. Although the ceiling should have collapsed under the weight of stone and earth pressing down on it, the magic of the old Roman builders preserved the curved barrel-shaped vault that was taller than the whole room was wide. Carefully, Uther closed the iron-bound door behind them, latched it securely and lit a wall sconce with an oil-soaked torch he had picked up on the way.

  ‘What are you thinking, healer? That you’re like to go to your death in this place? No one would ever find you, it’s true, and you could scream for hours without being heard. I found this bolt-hole with Ambrosius when I was a child, and we decided it was a place devoted to the worship of Mithras. See?’

  Uther raised his torch and, above head-height, someone had painted the sacrifice of the soldier god in colours that were so lifelike and rich that the artist might have finished his masterpiece only yesterday. The utilitarian, grim room was suddenly a tiny temple, right down to a single square stone that had obviously been a miniature altar.