“How many allies do you have in Britannia?” Cathair asked eventually. Medraut quelled a surge of excitement. He had hooked his fish. Now he had to land it.
“None, as yet,” he answered frankly, “but the land seethes with discontent. Artorius made an enemy of the King of Gwynedd. Humiliated him in front of his men. I know the other kings chafe under his rule. They want the old days back. To fight each other as they please, pursue blood-feuds and rule their own kingdoms as they like. My father permits none of this. He governs as though Ambrosius was still alive and Britannia a Roman province.”
He drew himself up. “Those days are past. Artorius has outlived his time. I am the future.”
Cathair looked sceptical. “You should not cheapen Artorius, even if he does grow old. I heard of his war against Gwynedd. He smashed King Maelgwn’s army in a single battle, levied tribute on him, took hostages and forced him to behead his own allies. The likes of Maelgwn are not capable of defeating the High King.”
“They can if we all band together,” Medraut insisted. He paused a moment, wondering if he dared reveal the crux of his plan. Cathair was frowning. The king clearly wanted assurance, otherwise he might deliver on his threat and send Medraut back to his father as a captive after all. “Cerdic,” said Medraut. “I will make an ally of Cerdic. With his warriors at our side, we cannot fail. Artorius will be smothered under sheer weight of numbers.”
Cathair’s mouth dropped open.
“Gods save us,” he exclaimed, “Make a friend of the Bretwalda? You may as well try and slip a harness on a wolf!”
“Only Cerdic has the power to destroy my father,” Medraut replied firmly. “Artorius has many spies at the Saxon court in Londinium. I have spoken to those who return. Cerdic has spent many years building up his military forces. Trained his warriors to march and fight with proper discipline, hold their ground against cavalry. He can muster six thousand men, lord king. Imagine such a host!”
Cathair paled. Medraut knew the King of Laigin could bring no more than three hundred spears to a hosting. All the petty kings of Hibernia put together could scarcely muster half the number of warriors Cerdic might put in the field. The Saxons bred like vermin, and the Bretwalda had a genius for organisation.
“What of the Yellow Plague?” Cathair muttered. “It rages worst in Cerdic’s lands. His numbers will be decimated.”
Medraut nodded. “True, but it rages in my father’s realm as well. When the sickness passes, as it must, Cerdic will still hold the advantage. He loathes Artorius and burns to avenge the defeat of his kin at Mount Badon. The man lives for nothing else.”
Another silence. Cathair looked troubled in his mind, as though he could barely comprehend the enormity of Medraut’s plan. “An alliance of Hibernian kings, kings of Britannia and the Bretwalda,” he murmured at last. “I’ll say this for you, Prince Medraut. You have ambition.”
“It can be done,” Medraut said firmly. “Together we can bring down my father and put an end to his misrule.”
He spoke with supreme confidence. His own convictions, strengthened by the prophecy of Myrddin Wyllt, filled him with an unshakeable belief. Medraut’s offer also carried an implied threat.
You can be a part of my new order, lord king, or you can stand aside. When I am High King, I will remember those who helped me to the throne. And those who did not.
Cathair pondered his hands again. Silence reigned in the hall, broken only by the snap and crackle of the smoky fire in the hearth, the distant murmur of voices outside. Medraut waited for the gods – and the King of Laigin – to decide his fate. Would the prophecy hold, or had the old seer been a fraud after all?
The king looked up. “For the sake of argument,” he said cautiously, “tell me what you need from Laigin.”
8.
The Yellow Plague rolled across the land like a poisonous fume, infecting everyone it touched. Towns, cities and villages were stripped of life, either abandoned or strewn with the corpses of those who failed to run in time. The survivors took refuge in hills, forests and caves, waiting and praying for the pestilence to abate. Caerleon, the greatest city in the land, lay empty. Every citizen, down to the meanest beggar, had been ordered to leave by the High King. Those who refused to leave were rounded up by his soldiers and marched out of the gates. A boom made of a heavy iron chain was stretched across the entrance to the harbour. No ships could leave or enter. Companies of mounted soldiers patrolled the outskirts of the desolate city, ensuring none of the refugees could steal back to their homes.
A deathly hush settled over the mainland of Britannia. Overseas trade with Frankia and the rest of the Continent ceased. In a matter of weeks, the thriving kingdom Artorius had laboured for years to build had all but withered away, stifled by disease.
Artorius chose to spend his self-imposed exile in a partially ruined Roman villa, some miles north of Caerleon. It was one of the larger surviving villas, originally the estate of some wealthy merchant or farmer. The floors of the dining and reception chambers were paved with mosaic, bare in places, and faded images of Roman gods and heroic figures plastered the walls. A circular temple to Minerva, Roman goddess of wisdom, stood in the gardens. The tiled roof of the temple had fallen in, and the once immaculate gardens were now wild and overgrown with weeds. Minerva herself had vanished from her altar, snatched by some greedy hand.
Gwenhwyfar stood on the edge of the garden and watched the sun set behind the western hills. It was a warm April evening, and the sun was like a gold coin hanging just above the silhouetted hill, so close they could almost have touched. At this time of year, in good weather, the dying sunlight cast a radiant glow over the countryside. The colours of the sky flamed red and purple, or delicate shades of peach. Gwenhwyfar smiled in pure pleasure when the light rippled like fire along the tips of the trees and hedgerows. As ever, the moment passed all too quickly. The sun dipped behind the hills, and the fire was doused. Shadows lengthened across the land.
Gwenhwyfar shivered and drew her fur-lined cloak tighter about her.
Summer has not come. Not yet. Will I ever be warm again?
Her peace was broken by a discreet cough.
“My lady,” said Brochfael, one of her slaves, “a visitor wishes to see you.”
“He insists, my lady,” Brochfael added when his mistress failed to respond. Gwenhwyfar frowned and reluctantly tore herself away from the view to confront him.
“Insists?” she snapped. “Nobody save God and the High King may insist on my presence. Who is this fool who thinks he can snap his fingers at the Queen of Britannia?”
Brochfael, a leathery old man with round shoulders and a pronounced stoop, ducked his bald head in embarrassment.
“Your son, my lady. Amhar. He waits in the hall.”
The hall, as he called it, was the main dining chamber of the villa. Here the Romans of old had once lounged on couches, sipped wine and discussed the affairs of the Western Empire. The couches were gone now, along with their owners, though replacements had been fetched from Caerleon. Artorius preferred to live in Roman-style comfort and surroundings. Amhar stood in the middle of the floor, looking ungainly as ever in his undersized mail coat, helmet tucked underarm. His ugly features were set in their usual scowl, scarcely less unpleasant than some of the faded gargoyles painted on the walls. As so often, Gwenhwyfar wondered how she could have possibly birthed such a creature.
My child, she reminded herself. My only child.
Amhar was the child of rape. A constant reminder of her shame. Ever since his birth she had never been able to regard him with anything beyond revulsion, tinged with a little pity. Gwenhwyfar composed herself before stepping into the room.
“Amhar,” she said with cool politeness, “why have you come at such a late hour? Artorius is not here. He is out with Bedwyr and Llacheu, arranging shelter for some of the poorer citizens of Caerleon. You should be with them.”
Amhar did not bow. “Mother,” he grunted, his little eyes full of hostil
ity, “you greet me as warmly as ever. Perhaps I wished to see you for your own sake. A child visiting his parent. Perfectly natural, is it not?”
There is nothing natural about you, monster. Gwenhwyfar quelled the thought and gestured at Brochfael, who poured two cups of wine from a silver flask on a side table. She waited until the cup was in her hand before responding. Amhar raised his in reluctant salute and gulped down the contents in one swallow.
“Your duty is with your father,” said Gwenhwyfar. “He will not be pleased to learn you came here, unannounced. Especially when there is work to do.”
“Damn my father,” Amhar snarled. His careless tone shocked her, though she did her best not to show it. Gwenhwyfar glanced sidelong at Brochfael, who hurried out of the room. Mistress and slave had a good understanding, and she knew he would fetch a troop of guards.
“Damn my father,” her son repeated. “Damn you too. Why should I help Artorius find beds for a mob of beggars and cripples? He has always despised me. Spurned me. As for you, dear mother, you don’t care if I live or die. That’s the truth, isn’t it?”
Gwenhwyfar flinched. Amhar did indeed speak the truth, every word, though he was ignorant of the reasons. For the sake of his wife’s dignity, and peace in the realm, Artorius had been obliged to pretend that Amhar was his son. The king could endure the deceit, but not the company of the bastard boy. As soon as he was old enough to wield a spear, Artorius had sent him away from court, to spend his days fighting Saxon raiders on the border of the Debated Lands.
She took a nervous swallow of wine. “You have chosen a bitter hour,” she said, dabbing her lips, “to come here and pick over old wounds. God knows you have always been a cruel and ungrateful creature. Your father has done his best for you. Did he not make you an officer in the Companions, though you did nothing to deserve such an honour? Did he not settle you with lands, find you a rich wife?
“I hear she is pregnant,” Gwenhwyfar added quickly. “You have my congratulations and good wishes. Let us hope the child is healthy.”
Amhar grimaced, creasing his apelike face into hideous lines, and stamped his foot like an angry child.
“An officer in the Companions,” he sneered. “I am his son, the son of the High King, not some minor aristocracy or jumped-up farm boy! I have royal blood in my veins. Yes, he made me a captain of horse and packed me off to the frontier, doubtless in the hope I would get my throat cut.”
He clenched his fist. “I want more. More power, more authority, a higher office. If father insists on putting his bastard son on the throne, then I should at least be given a kingdom of my own, not the petty estate he has granted me. I have a right to ask for all these things. Demand them. Especially since half the Companions have gone running off on this half-witted Quest. How can a bit of old wood cure the land of plague? What fools we are.”
“Treason and sacrilege fall from your lips, my son,” said Gwenhwyfar in her severest tone. “I suggest you guard your tongue, if you wish to keep it.”
The queen’s icy tone of voice, usually enough to make strong men quail, had no effect on Amhar. He tossed away his cup and moved towards her. A thrill of fear ran through Gwenhwyfar, yet she stood her ground.
Where in hells is Brochfael with those spearmen?
“I came here,” Amhar said in a sullen tone, “to ask you to speak on my behalf. Recommend me to Artorius. You both think I am stupid, ignorant, unfit for any great responsibility. Give me a chance to prove myself. That’s all I ask.”
The blood rose to his face when she didn’t answer. “Is even that too much?” he roared. “Very well – if I cannot have what I am owed, give me a ship and a company of good spearmen, and let me go my own way! Let me sail off to some distant land and carve out my own realm. I promise you will never clap eyes on me again!”
He was very close now. His hot breath, tainted with wine, gusted over her. Amhar had been drinking, probably to bolster his courage before confronting his mother. In his rage he seemed to swell, filling the room with a malevolent shadow.
Gwenhwyfar was afraid. There was no telling what this violent, embittered man might do in the grip of drink.
“There is no use me promising you things,” she said, meeting his furious glare, “since Artorius will not grant them. You seriously imagine he will let you go off to play pirate on the high seas? Think again. Think, Amhar. For once.”
He was very close now, looming over her, fists clenched, knotted blue veins pulsing on his brow. To her intense relief, Gwenhwyfar saw Brochfael enter the room, followed by four spearmen. At her order, they would kill Amhar on the spot.
“Why do you hate me so much?” he hissed. “Why? Tell me. I have only ever wanted your approval. Just a sign that you cared for me. A word, a touch. Anything.”
Gwenhwyfar’s fear dissolved into guilt. For a moment, she was tempted to tell him the truth of his parentage. Now, if ever, was the time. If nothing else, Amhar deserved the truth.
No. I cannot. Artorius would never forgive me. He has sacrificed too much on behalf of our secret.
“I can do nothing for you,” she answered. “You must go. Please.”
Her guards spread out and cautiously approached Amhar, spears levelled at his massive back. He didn’t seem to be aware of them.
His anger subsided. “So be it, then,” he said with a bitter smile. “If you won’t give me what is rightfully mine, I shall take it. Goodbye, mother. May God forgive you.”
The giant figure swung around and marched to the doorway. Gwenhwyfar gestured at the spearmen to let him pass. They gratefully stood out of his way. When Amhar was gone, and the echo of his heavy tread had faded down the corridor, Brochfael approached his mistress.
“If I might offer some advice, my lady,” he ventured, “that is a dangerous man. I suggest you send some men after him. Hold him captive here until the High King returns. Or…”
He gave her a look full of meaning.
“No,” Gwenhwyfar replied hurriedly, “he is my son. I could not live with his blood on my conscience.”
The old slave shrugged. “Someone will, my lady. Depend upon it.”
9.
Peredur woke to the scent of honeyed mead. A cup was pressed to his lips. At first, he tried to push it away, then relented when the sweet liquid trickled into his mouth.
“Drink,” whispered a female voice, “drink it down. Let your hurts drain away.”
The mead was drugged. Seconds after he had taken his first swallow, the aches and pains in Peredur’s exhausted body dissolved. He felt light-headed, almost weightless, and moaned softly when the cup was removed.
“Enough,” said the voice. “Any more, and you will sleep for a week.”
His eyes flickered open. He saw only mist, thick wreaths of yellow smoke hanging in the air before him. He cried out in terror.
“The plague...” he whimpered. “Christ save me...Christ have pity...”
Now the voice was soothing.
“There is no plague here, friend. No Christ either. Only us. Take comfort. No harm will come to you.”
Peredur’s vision slowly cleared. The mist faded away, replaced by the warm glow of a campfire, crackling low amid a heap of charred kindling. He sat close to the fire, his back propped against the bole of a tree. Instinctively he tried to move, only to find his wrists and ankles were tightly bound with leather thongs.
Nine human figures crouched on their haunches around the hearth. Nine owlish faces watched him in silence. Nine women in rough homespun clothing. They ranged in age from sixteen to sixty, and even the youngest looked worn out from a life of hunger and privation. It was deepest night, with no moon. The only light came from the fire.
Beggars, was Peredur’s first thought. Or a band of female robbers, forced to live in the wild after the slaughter of their menfolk. Such things were not unknown, even in these days of peace. Then he remembered Swyno’s tale of the Nine Witches of Glevum. Peredur went cold with fear. They had bound him up tight and taken away h
is sword. He was helpless. Disarmed and overcome by a pack of madwomen in the woods. The shame of it was too much to bear. He bowed his head and tried not to weep.
Beside him knelt the slender girl with the iron band in her hair. She placed a hand under his chin and tilted his head up.
“No tears,” she said with a gentle smile, “you are a warrior. A Companion in the service of the High King of Britannia. Such men do not show weakness, especially in front of strangers.”
Peredur mastered himself.
“Who are you?” he gulped. “How do you know who I am?”
She laughed. “You know very well. We are the nine hags of Glevum. Pagan witches and false prophets, enemies of Christ. Hellcats and demon-spawn, who must be burnt to purify our souls. That is what the priests say. The peasants know different. To them we are keepers of the old religion, healers and prophets. They bring us food and clothes and other gifts, even though the priests forbid it and punish those who are caught.”
Perhaps it was the drug at work, but Peredur’s mind suddenly cleared. He felt resolute and confident again, as though he had just set out from Caerleon on a spring day, spear in hand.
“So much for priests and peasants,” he replied scornfully, “how do you see yourselves? Nothing else matters.”
The girl laughed again, as did a few of her sisters. “Correct,” she grinned. “You have a strong mind, Peredur son of Evrawc. We have some talent for scrying, and seeing into the future and the past. We saw you ride out of the west. The death of your companion. Your fight with the Black Oppressor. That was well done. No more shall he haunt these woods and slay innocent travellers. We are in your debt.
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