by M. K. Hume
What a place in which to starve to death, Myrddion thought despairingly. Uther has planned this strategy well. With unconscious blasphemy, Uther seated himself on the altar stone, swung one leg reflectively and ran his eyes analytically over his healer.
‘We rarely see eye to eye, Myrddion, do we? But we both want the Saxons to be defeated for our people’s sake. Correct? You endure me, for you are increasingly aware that no one else can fill the role of High King better than I can. I see you nod in agreement.’ Uther laughed as if he had won some important and difficult test of strength. ‘Therefore, you obey me even when to do so sickens you. What does that make you, Myrddion Merlinus? A coward? A pawn?’
‘A hopeless fool!’ Myrddion responded cynically. Uther ignored the interruption and continued with his prepared speech as if his healer had not spoken.
‘A good servant of the tribes, I believe. You are a man for the times and that is all you are, Myrddion. Yes, I’ve coerced you, but you’d have regretted leaving me to my own devices if you had escaped from my clutches.’
‘I doubt that, your highness. You can prove your faith in me by returning Willa and Berwyn to my care. I’ll serve you anyway, as I swore to Ambrosius Imperator.’
‘It’s a sad but inevitable truth that no man remembers my brother any more. Ambrosius was a great tactician, but he was weak and trusting, and that’s how he got himself killed. Pascent, or another of his ilk, would never burrow that close to me.’
Uther’s face was so arrogant and proud that Myrddion felt a little ill, although he was well used to the High King’s boasting. There was an element of truth in what Uther said that even Myrddion could not gainsay, so the healer remained silent and hoped that Ambrosius’s shade would forgive him.
‘If I must have an heir, it must not bear the tainted blood of Ygerne nor be contaminated by the memory of Gorlois. By Ygerne’s own account, she dreamed about her husband’s death decades ago through this sight nonsense she claims to have inherited from her father, Pridenow. I neither know nor care about family curses, but one excuse is as good as any other. Besides, you can see how such a child would remind the tribal kings of the Boar’s unfortunate death and the rumours surrounding the brat’s conception. Nor do I want a male version of Morgan snapping at my heels as I grow old. You can see, can’t you, Myrddion, with all your famed clarity of thought, that such an heir would be disastrous?’
‘Perhaps, but Fortuna has decreed that you should have such an heir. We cannot argue with the decisions of the gods and your son is likely to be much like you – or Ambrosius.’
Myrddion had chosen his words carefully, for he saw the way this conversation was heading. Was Uther truly mad enough to demand infanticide of him?
And how had Lucius deduced that Myrddion would be chosen by Uther to kill the unwanted child? Maybe it’s because I’ve been a useful pawn and have acceded to his demands again and again, including closing my eyes to the murder of Carys. The answer echoed in Myrddion’s head, reminding him of every concession, every time he had looked the other way, like Botha, and every stain on his honour that he had tried to pray away. Belatedly, a thousand years of Celt and Roman ancestors awoke in Myrddion’s blood and he stood taller for their sudden appearance in his mind. The voices whispered encouragement to defy the High King’s words of threat and promise, while Myrddion allowed his slow anger to rise.
‘Rid me of this child, Myrddion. I’ll give the order for its exposure, never fear, so the weight of its death won’t be on your conscience. All you must do is take the brat into the woods and leave it there for the snows to work their mercy. Fortuna may yet save it – who knows? But I must be rid of this child if it isn’t fortunate enough to perish at birth.’
‘And then you’ll have a good reason to be rid of me,’ Myrddion answered evenly, his handsome face suddenly older and harsher beneath the fitful torchlight. ‘You’d turn me into an infanticide and make me your creature forever. I’m not surprised that you’ve chosen me to carry out this dreadful task, because I have been weak and I have permitted you to commit such sins that my soul shivers at the judgment that will eventually come to us both from the gods.’
Uther nodded, confident that Myrddion would whine and complain, as he always did, and then, reluctantly, obey his king. ‘I’ll not kill you, Myrddion, for you are the only person who can run my spy network. Do this small thing for me, and you will be free of any more demands that might compromise you. To show my good intentions, your hostages will be returned. A newborn babe isn’t worth a moment of tears.’
‘True. Barely a moment. If I take the child, allow me one concession, Uther, one chance to provide you with my counsel without fear of reprisal. We are in the temple of your soldier god, and we are planning a murder. For once, I would like to have the last word – even if I’m just another weak-minded fool.’
‘What are words to me? You may say what you like as long as the child vanishes.’
‘I have lost the gift of prophecy, Uther, but the Mother has sent me dreams for years that warned me of my fate, so I’m not surprised. You won’t ask this murder of Botha, because you trust him and you know he’d be sickened and likely to kill himself, even if he obliges you. You’re clever, Uther, but not as intelligent as you think you are. I am the Demon Seed, and you cannot kill me because you need me far too much. Once I have done what you ask, I’ll stay out of your way and I’ll not cause you any humiliation – you’ll do that to yourself. But all your murders, your plots and your vicious executions will do you no good, for their repercussions will accumulate despite your best efforts to control them. You are doomed, Uther, and your death will be as terrible as any I have ever predicted. Inevitably, you’ll be supplanted by a man who is your master in every way, because he’ll have to be, and though you try to kill him you will only make him stronger. I saw this portent years ago, although I struggled against my fate. You saw it too, in the dreams that cautioned you to kill no child. Muirne should have known you’d never listen, no matter what she said, or how she died. The bloody babe will live, no matter what we do today, and I will serve him in time, when you are in the cold, cold earth. No one will send your body to the pyre, out of fear and loathing of your person. They’ll be afraid to touch your corpse.’
‘Once I’m dead, I won’t care.’ Uther shrugged, but his face was very pale as Myrddion’s verbal barb worked its way into his brain where it would lodge and fester for the rest of his long and painful life. ‘As long as you are the one who kills the child, Storm Crow, I cannot be harmed by anything you say. Let the dreams come. I’ll not listen to them, nor change my road because of them, so to hell with the gods!’
‘Then I’ll obey your command, highness. But ask nothing further of me, for I will refuse. I will give you nothing from this day forward other than what our people expect.’
Then Myrddion bowed to Mithras and kneeled to pray at the altar. Uther quickly grew tired of watching his healer’s piety and thought to give his fool a taste of the darkness.
‘Close the door when you’ve finished,’ Uther hissed as he turned to make his exit. ‘And don’t bother reporting to me about the minor details of the child’s death. To all intents and purposes, it died at birth.’
Uther took the torch to light his own way, but left the wall sconce burning. Once out of the chamber, Myrddion would have to retrace his steps in pitch darkness.
‘Aye, master,’ Myrddion whispered and then continued with his prayers. Out of the shades, Melvig came like the grizzled shadow of a wolfhound, his eyes bright and angry, and told his great-grandson what he must do. Olwyn, ever fearful for the common people she had always loved, whispered that he must trust to others in the ruse, because the High King was capable of killing every newborn infant in the land if he suspected Myrddion’s perfidy. And Branwyn, whom Myrddion thought was safely abed in Tomen-y-mur, came on a wave of perfume composed of salt sea air, dune flowers, sea weed and new death to whisper in his ear. He would have flinched away from her shadow in th
e darkness, but he felt the unfamiliar touch of his mother’s mind within his own and consented to listen to the warnings she brought from far away.
‘I never loved you in life, my son. How could I, given your conception? But learn well from your childhood, Myrddion. You can have no part in the babe’s upbringing, for you have been soiled by the will of the gods. This boy must travel to far-off places until Uther forgets that he ever existed. Even you, for the sake of your own soul, should not know his whereabouts until he is almost grown. I am newly dead, laid on my bier and waiting to be interred in the chilling earth, so I can never speak to you again, but remember our long enmity, and free the child of this torture – at least. Let him grow clean and strong, able to love and to be untroubled by his parentage and his dangerous future.’
The room became still. Myrddion knew that he had been dreaming of his beloved dead, but he wept anyway, for the hours ahead would tax his ingenuity. His only solace was that he could finally wound Uther fatally, although the blow would not be felt for many years. For a few moments, he wondered why he presumed that the child would be a boy.
Then, his decision finally made, he left his ghosts in the warm darkness and retraced his steps, stronger and more determined than he had ever been. As he extinguished the wall sconce, he swore that the lips of Mithras smiled at him.
When Myrddion returned, Lucius stared at him as if he had never seen him before. A newly born man had entered the room and bowed to the seated king, who was already drunk from the heavy red wine and his heavier sins and triumphs. Myrddion’s face was as handsome and as aristocratic as ever, but the boy had been burned out of him, leaving a man whose face was as strong and cleanly defined as a good sword. On his forehead, the white stripe of prophesy seemed wider and more pronounced.
‘How goes the queen?’ Myrddion asked. ‘Has there been any change in her condition?’
Even his voice had changed, becoming firmer and less harried than in the past, Lucius thought in amazement. He has seen his way clear to some decision. After Uther came back with such a selfsatisfied smirk on his face, I expected the healer to return as a broken man. Instead, Myrddion has become the master rather than the fearful servant.
The bishop turned away from the grinning death’s head of Uther Pendragon and surreptitiously crossed himself for protection. Although he was a man of God, the Roman in his blood still cringed away from the creatures of darkness.
‘We’ve heard nothing, healer,’ Botha said softly, but his eyes were wary and unsettled. ‘Perhaps you should investigate.’
The captain sees the changes too, Lucius thought with relief. Good. I’m not being overly imaginative. ‘I’ll go with you, Myrddion. I promised I would pray with the queen if her condition worsened,’ he murmured. ‘Also, I must prepare for my departure from Venta Belgarum. Whatever happens, my duty to the queen is done and Glastonbury calls me home.’ He turned to Bishop Paulus. ‘Please excuse me, Paulus, if I leave you with our noble master. I’ll send word as soon as the child is born.’
Together, Myrddion and Lucius quit the room, leaving the king behind, befuddled with drink, but still very pleased with the agreement he had wrung from his healer.
Outside the queen’s apartments, the two men could hear Ygerne cry out and, for the first time, Myrddion considered the possibility that mother and child might both perish. Death in childbirth was common, and many more infants died within a few months of being born. Myrddion winced at the sound of Ygerne’s agony and wished that men were sufficiently enlightened to permit healers, regardless of their sex, to assist struggling mothers. Too often, filthy old hags earned their bread as midwives, killing as many women as they saved, through ignorance and dirty hands. At least Ygerne was spared the touch of a superstitious old woman. Ruadh would do everything possible to ensure the survival of both mother and child.
‘Uther wants me to expose the child in the forest as soon as it’s born, regardless of its sex,’ Myrddion confided baldly as Ygerne’s screams grew more insistent.
‘Why would he expect you to agree?’ Lucius asked, his forehead knitted in suspicion. Why would Myrddion bare his soul when the stakes were so high? ‘You’re a healer, and your oath precludes infanticide.’
Myrddion stared directly at the priest with eyes that said nothing. ‘I promised to obey. I lied, of course, but Uther has always found me truthful so he never doubted my oath. What’s a bare-faced lie after the sins I’ve committed for him? It’s just one more blot on my conscience. As you can imagine, Uther thinks he has my measure. He took me to an underground cellar that was sacred to Mithras, and then threatened me, in his delicate way, with entombment if I didn’t comply. The man’s a fool! I intend to give the child to you, priest, and beg you to spirit him away to an unknown place of safety. I don’t want to know where he is taken, for I don’t trust myself to stay mute if I know where he is. Uther is too clever by far – and too ruthless. Sooner or later, I’d be forced to give the child up to him.’
‘You presume the child will be male,’ Lucius retorted. ‘It could so easily be a girl.’
‘But it’ll still be a pawn in Uther’s power game. The High King was correct in one detail when we spoke in that cold little cell under the earth. Any child of Uther Pendragon will suffer if it is raised in Venta Belgarum, or even if it’s fostered in some far-off place, if anyone should become aware of its sire and dam. I understand this truth, for I was the Demon Seed during my childhood and I suffered the taunts of children and stoning by peasants. How much worse would it be for the child of the Dragon King? What would Uther create out of such a child? And what power would it give to any of the tribal kings if they should hold it to ransom?’
‘I understand what you say, but why can’t you spirit the child away yourself? Do you fear Uther so much?’
‘Not at all, Lucius. I’m well past any personal fear of him, but if I knew where to find the child I’d be tempted to use it as a pawn at some future date. I know my nature, bishop, and I understand my weaknesses. I truly believe that a High King must control all the warring tribes of Britain and lead a concerted attack against the Saxons. I have spent my energy and my conscience towards this end and I would have no mercy on Uther’s child when the High King begins to grow old and weak – as he surely will.’
Lucius eyed the young man who stood so comfortably before him as he exposed his weaknesses for the bishop’s perusal. ‘Uther may expect you to betray him,’ he began slowly.
‘Probably. He trusts nobody and nothing, save Botha, and then only to a limited degree,’ Myrddion continued. ‘But our ruse will only fail if you are caught, and I am confident that any man who was once a commander in the legions would be a better tactician than that. It is my intention to take the child into the woods, and then wait for you at the crossroads leading towards the north. There, if you have the stomach for it, I’ll guide you to the child, or place it in the hands of any person in whom you have total trust. For your part, you must swear to me that you will never tell me where the infant is. I’ll seek it out anyway, eventually, so it’s best if you keep the infant hidden for as long as possible and as far away from Uther Pendragon as can be managed.’
Beyond the door, Ygerne screamed in a high, shrill voice as if her soul were being torn from her body. Then, while both men held their breath, they heard a strong and lusty wail from the lungs of an infant.
‘The child is born,’ Myrddion sighed. ‘Give me your answer quickly, Lucius of Glastonbury, for we have very little time in which to decide what to do. I’ll give you time to depart, but don’t dally if you choose to save the child. As you’ve said, Uther cannot be trusted.’
Myrddion gripped the prelate by the forearm and the priest was amazed by the strength in the healer’s fingers. Such hands were made for the sword, Lucius thought, but perhaps the scalpel has served his people better.
‘Aye. I’ll take the child, but Uther will also suspect me. I’m certain he’ll order Botha to have you followed, because there’s no way he’l
l trust you to keep your part in the bargain you’ve made. You can expect to be followed specifically to ensure the child is dead. I’ll need to have a considerable start if I’m to avoid any retribution.’
‘We’ll cross that particular bridge when we come to it. Square your shoulders, bishop, for now we must view the object of so much hatred. And the child is but a few moments old.’
Considering the long hours of pain and labour, the queen’s apartments seemed unnaturally tidy except for some blood-soaked cloth on the wooden floor. Exhausted, Ygerne was dozing in her great bed while Berwyn sponged her lower limbs free of blood. The queen was very pale and new creases marred the fine skin of her face from nose to jawline. The glamour and mystery that had surrounded her for all of her adult life had vanished during the terrible night of pain, leaving an ageing woman lying wanly on the heaped pillows with great purple bruises under her closed, blued eyelids.
‘The poor woman,’ Lucius whispered softly. ‘One way or another, her child will be stolen from her, so her solace will be stolen as well. She will lose everything.’
He knelt beside the bed and began to pray quietly, while Myrddion approached Ygerne and laid his hand on her brow, ignoring the infant for the moment.
In a delirium of weariness, the queen stirred before opening her wonderful eyes. Myrddion smiled gently at her, but he knew from the lack of soul in her empty irises that she was wandering in dreams that were far more pleasant than the reality of Venta Belgarum.
‘We have a son, Gorlois. At last, I have given you your heart’s desire,’ she whispered, and Myrddion discovered that a lump had formed in his throat while tears prickled at the back of his eyes. Impulsively, he kissed the careworn face and her dreaming lips smiled.
‘Thank you, beloved,’ Myrddion whispered. ‘You have been very brave and strong, but now is the time to rest.’
‘Yes, Gorlois, I’ll sleep now.’
Myrddion left Ygerne reluctantly. Her innocence in this tragedy made his betrayal more poignant, but at least he could ensure that her child would live. The pity was that he could not tell her so.