Prophecy: Web of Deceit (Prophecy 3) Read online

  And so they stood, hands clasped, and Myrddion realised that he had aligned himself to this man for the rest of his life.

  The audience was over.

  Several hours had passed and the three companions had returned to their house. The women had worked hard, but the old villa was still hardly habitable, so the party set up beds in the scriptorium for warmth and fell asleep almost immediately. Myrddion had informed Rhedyn and Brangaine that more servants would be arriving at the High King’s expense on the morrow, and everyone would be set to work, including himself. With excited whispers, the women settled down with the children.

  Even when he heard Praxiteles’s soft snoring and a faint buzz coming from Cadoc’s open mouth, Myrddion discovered that sleep stubbornly eluded him. Like a rat in a cage, his mind chased itself as he dissected every word of his audience with Ambrosius. The High King was so different from his brother. His hands and feet were never quite still, indicating a highly strung nature and an active mind, but early lessons had taught him to disguise his feelings. That broad Roman face his almost every thought, except for telltale muscles along the jaw and the ridges of his eyebrows. Only a skilled observer would be able to discern Ambrosius’s secret thoughts, but Myrddion had learned to interpret many of the signs of inner conflict present in the minds of unpredictable rulers.

  After the audience, Myrddion had sent Praxiteles and Cadoc back to the house while he awaited the promised private meeting with Ambrosius. During this enforced observation of the court, he realised quickly that many in the assembly of notables and tribal leaders were currying favour and jostling for preferment. As he studied Ambrosius’s methods of dealing with requests for land, the disposition of inheritances and border disputes, Myrddion was reminded of the formalities and efficiencies of the Roman courts. Only one scribe laboured to take notes of the various decisions that were made here, so Myrddion hoped that Ambrosius had a retentive memory. The emperor of the east had been an elderly and dithering ruler, but the empress and the clerics who supported him were highly organised. As Ambrosius frowned over one petition demanding a solution to a particularly difficult question of succession, the young healer was appalled at the raised voices, the shouted insults and the lack of order that seemed normal in this particular hall of justice. Ambrosius’s decisions were crisp and intelligent, and on several occasions he demanded more proof before he arrived at his decision, but the High King was struggling with archaic, traditional systems that were based on the principle that all well-born Celts were free to express their views. Myrddion’s quick glance at Uther confirmed the younger brother’s reservations about the established rituals of the legal process.

  Uther would do away with all argument and act independently if he ever became High King, Myrddion decided. And I understand his impatience, although I deplore the very idea of autocratic decision-making. Because he is intrinsically fair, Ambrosius is hard pressed to retain control of his temper. His weakness is his decency and his balance. He avoids arriving at a decision until all the evidence is to hand. It will be the death of him if he doesn’t take care.

  After calling the youth with the wine cup to his side on several occasions, Ambrosius came to a decision that pleased few of the petitioners. He rose to his feet, pleaded weariness and sent the whole jostling pack away with a curt instruction to return the following day.

  Men who would be kings do not understand the tedious, banal duties of governance, Myrddion thought, as he bowed low and hovered on the fringes of the departing crowd. He was unsure whether he, too, was meant to leave the hall.

  ‘Not you, Myrddion! We have further matters to discuss.’

  Once the room was empty but for Uther, the guard and the sleepy youth with the wine cup, the High King stretched luxuriously and ran his hands through his cropped hair in a habit that was obviously a sign of his impatience.

  ‘Thanks be to all the gods that those yapping fools have gone,’ he murmured. ‘Myrddion, come to my private apartments. And as for you, Beric, it’s off to bed for you.’ The High King clapped the boy on his slim back with obvious affection as the youth bowed and relinquished the wine goblet to his master.

  ‘Uther, can you scare up some food and drink for us? I’m sorry to give you a servant’s task, but I’m too tired to explain what I like to some sleepy house servant – and I don’t want to be disturbed. Ulfin will protect me and taste my food, won’t you?’

  Ulfin appeared out of the ranks of the guard, bowed obediently and waited for his master’s instructions.

  ‘Also, brother, can you discover what those infernal idiots were talking about when they were going on about Reece pen Ryall’s death? I smell secrets in their lying words. Can you ferret them out for me?’

  ‘If they’re hiding anything, I’ll discover it, Ambrosius. I agree, those two young men are up to something.’

  ‘Good. Myrddion, Ulfin – come with me.’ Ambrosius turned on his heel and strode off into the shadows at the back of the hall. Almost running, Ulfin and Myrddion had to hurry to keep up.

  As they followed the king’s broad-shouldered figure down a number of narrow corridors and onwards to a set of wooden stairs, Myrddion had an opportunity to examine his new master from behind. As the High King lacked his brother’s long legs, Myrddion had considered him less powerful. Now, he saw the breadth of shoulder, the long torso and the powerful arms, so that Ambrosius’s well-muscled legs seemed truncated, given that he had a body meant for a much taller man. The High King’s sandalled feet came down on his heels, so that the leather soles made audible thuds with each step. So did the great ones walk as they demonstrated their superiority with the force of every stride.

  His tunic was simple and unadorned, but the wool was so fine and beautifully woven that his dress bore the unmistakable stamp of quality. A simple coronet of golden laurel leaves was on his head and the ribbons that bound it at the back swayed and bounced with the speed of his movements. At each stride, a small chime rang melodiously, and Myrddion, searching for its source, noticed a bangle of gold about the imperator’s wrist. The jewellery was adorned with small, perfectly formed bells that hung from it at regular intervals. This bangle was almost feminine in appearance and function. It puzzled Myrddion and he made a mental note to ask Ulfin or Botha about it when he had the opportunity. Other than this, Ambrosius wore no other ornaments except for a large gold and chalcedony ring on his thumb.

  Eventually, Ambrosius thrust open a wooden door.

  ‘Come in, Myrddion, and find somewhere comfortable to sit. Ulfin, make yourself useful and find a decent wine for my guest.’

  Myrddion stood in the doorway and surveyed the room before him with undisguised curiosity.

  The floor was wooden and much stained and discoloured by years of hard usage. A series of rag and wool rugs softened the greasy surface and provided splashes of colour to brighten the rather dour atmosphere. A number of chairs and divans provided comfortable seating and brilliantly dyed cushions were added for the easing of chilled flesh and aching muscles. A low table was lit by a large, intricate oil lamp in the Roman style, and Ulfin used a taper of compressed straw to light several wall sconces that caused the room to leap into sharp focus. A brazier filled with hot coals rested on a thin plate of iron and provided a blanket of warmth that invited Myrddion to enter the room.

  A doorless opening on one side revealed a small sleeping chamber furnished with a simple wooden bed with a base of woven leather straps to support the High King’s body in comfort. On a small table beside the bed, a water jug of beaten silver had been placed, accompanied by several fine pottery bowls filled with nuts and fruit and a large platter ready for food. Altogether, the room promised warmth, luxury and a comfortable beauty that depended on the quality of its furnishings rather than the quantity.

  Myrddion was invited to sit on a gleaming hand-rubbed stool that had sturdy back supports. Immediately, the young healer felt at home, as Ambrosius threw himself onto a long divan and crossed his ankles on the low tabl
e.

  ‘Well, Myrddion, what do you think of my hall of justice?’

  Fortunately for Myrddion, a servant entered at that moment with a woven rush tray on which stood a number of covered pottery bowls. ‘Ulfin!’ Ambrosius ordered, and the warrior took the pottery covers from each bowl so that Myrddion could see a number of stews, slivers of meat, joints of fowl and vegetables. Then, using a delicate eating knife, Ulfin proceeded to taste a small portion from every dish.

  ‘If you’re thinking that I don’t trust the food that comes from my own kitchens, Myrddion, you’re quite correct. The Saxons desire my death, but I have enemies in any number of places, including the Pict nations, in Cymru and even among the ambitious kinglets in the south.’

  ‘I understand, my lord. Poison has been the weapon of choice of usurpers for as long as men have coveted the possessions of others. Vortimer died of poison and his assassin, Queen Rowena, was in turn a victim of this silent killer. Some men whisper that you ordered her death, highness, if you will forgive my bluntness.’

  Myrddion waited, his heart almost stilled in his chest with apprehension, as Ambrosius digested his critical words. Then the High King chose to laugh, and handed his guest a horn mug of pale wine.

  ‘You’re right to speak your mind on this matter. It has long been rumoured that I ordered the Saxon queen to be murdered by stealth. I’m innocent of the charge, but I have no regrets that the deed was done. Someone close to me paid the Glywising aristocrat to oversee the killing. I could take a guess – but I won’t! I make no apologies for my eagerness to see Vortigern and his woman removed from Cymru but, strangely, no one ever came forward and claimed credit for the deed. I’d have happily paid a reward to her murderer.’

  ‘I was there when Rowena died, my lord. The serving woman who poisoned the queen’s cosmetics paid fearsomely for her part in the plot. Rowena forgave the girl at the end and I had a feeling that the queen was happy enough to die, if it ensured the safety of her sons. She was ravished and beaten by Vortimer, you know, when he held her as a hostage at Glevum. I saw the bruises, and any fool could gauge that her treatment at her stepson’s hands took a terrible toll on her will to live. She understood blood price, you see, for the northerners believe that each death must be paid for. If so, she paid the price in full.’

  Ambrosius gestured towards the food tray and handed Myrddion an eating knife. His brows were knitted together. ‘You look like a beardless boy, but you have seen an abundance of the cruel deeds that have been enacted in our lands.’

  He smiled softly as he recalled past wrongs. ‘My half-brother, Vortimer, was driven to madness by the ambition of avaricious men, and so much blood has been spilled in pursuit of this throne.’

  Ambrosius toyed with the bangle on his wrist and the bells tinkled softly.

  ‘My mother’s second husband, Vortigern, killed my brother Constans and caused us to be sent into exile. Her bangle reminds me now of the love she held for us and how she became a sacrifice to her husband’s ambitions. I have known terrible times, Myrddion Merlinus, but you have experienced things that even I will never know. I wish to harness that experience and use it to my advantage. Don’t frown so – I’ll always tell you my intentions to your face.’

  Myrddion nodded his head. In his frankness, Ambrosius was difficult to gainsay, for such candour was unusual in such a powerful man.

  ‘So, I return to my first question before we were interrupted. What did you think of my hall of justice?’

  Instinctively, Myrddion decided to answer the king’s question with the frankness that Ambrosius seemed to prefer. ‘You need more scribes to keep a record of the words uttered by the petitioners and your responses, all of them, so that you’re not forced to depend on your memory alone. This would ensure that you have a record of the conflicts that occur in your realm, and allow such knowledge to serve you well at some future time.’

  ‘Agreed, Myrddion. I understand your meaning. There’s always a dearth of good scribes, but I will set my warriors the task of finding as many as possible. Do you have any thoughts on the matter?’

  ‘The Christian church has learned men in abundance who can meet your needs, if you can make the appropriate arrangements with them. I’m not of that faith, but I advocate using every tool at your disposal. Such a liaison could provide a further advantage to you in that they could become future allies to your cause.’

  ‘Your words are clever, so I’ll take your advice. Uther was wise to divert you from your journey to Segontium, as you are proving valuable to me already. Have you any other suggestions or criticisms?’

  Myrddion stared at his thumbs, concentrating on the ruby ring he had been gifted at birth.

  ‘There are two other ways you can enforce your judgements during disputes between the nobles. First, you need a seneschal with the authority to intervene during unseemly and confusing displays of temper such as we saw tonight. In my view, such an individual should have the power to censure and punish, for your task is merely to judge and arrive at decisions, rather than to control the behaviour of petitioners.’

  ‘That’s also good advice. I shall think on it. What is your other suggestion?’ The High King’s eyes glowed in the light of the lamp and Myrddion wondered how he had ever thought those mild blue eyes were shallow.

  ‘You need a spy network, not only in the Saxon camps, but also in the halls of your allies. You should know in advance which lords have ambitions, and those who do not. In this fashion, you can protect your own position and secure the safety of the realm.’

  ‘Ah!’ Ambrosius sighed deeply, and lines of worry etched his handsome face. ‘I’m aware that this throne hangs by a thread, for if I should die I have no son to follow me. Only my brother stands between the people and a civil war for the throne. Between these four walls, I confess I’ve thought long and hard about a spy network, but Uther lacks the subtlety to organise such a structure, so I would be forced to employ an outlander to assume that role. Yet Uther is the only man in these wide lands whom I fully trust. I’m sure you’ll forgive me if I state the obvious, but I speak truthfully. My brother Constans trusted Vortigern, our stepfather, and perished because of his faith in that friendship. I’ll not make the same error.’

  ‘I understand, lord.’

  ‘But your suggestions do have merit, Myrddion Merlinus, so I will consider your advice carefully.’ Then the king grinned and poured another cup of wine. ‘Now, tell me of Constantinople, the Jewel of the East. How I loved that city when I was a boy.’

  As wary friends, the two men spoke of far-off cities and strange customs until their meal was finished. Even then, Ambrosius would have continued the conversation, but he saw that Myrddion’s eyes were heavy and the healer was stifling yawns of weariness.

  ‘But I keep you from your bed, healer, in my eagerness to speak of the past. I’ve been discourteous and I beg your pardon for it. Go to your rest, and I will look forward to sunset tomorrow when you can tell me of the death of Flavius Aetius. It seems crazed to me. What sensible ruler robs himself of his most able defender?’

  After murmuring all the courtesies of a guest, Myrddion excused himself and Ulfin guided him out of the High King’s hall, instructing a dour warrior to ensure that the healer was escorted safely to his house. Now, as he chased sleep, Myrddion permitted himself to wonder at the nature of Ambrosius Imperator, a man who seemed so open and reasonable, and yet had survived even the unscrupulous manipulations of a man such as Vortigern.

  ‘There must be more to him than the face he exposes to the world,’ Myrddion whispered into his pillow as sleep finally dragged him down into the peaceful darkness.

  THE HOUSE OF THE HEALERS IN VENTA BELGARUM

  CHAPTER V

  A CELTIC WOMAN

  ’Twas I plucked the apple down

  From the bough above and ate;

  Folly, while they stay alive,

  Woman never will forsake.

  Anonymous Celtic poem

  The morrow dawned
with all the promise and rich aroma of spring. The air was crisp with a hint of chill, but the clouds scudding through the bright blue sky were more fluffy than threatening, and the sturdy farmers of Venta Belgarum were fully employed in weeding around the new shoots thrusting through the furrows and tending to the birthing of the new season’s lambs and calves. When Praxiteles sallied forth before dawn in search of servants, he was forced to accept men and women whom he would normally have rejected as ludicrously unsuitable.

  A ragtag group of raddled whores, old men, cripples and layabouts eventually assembled in the large, unkempt kitchen for Myrddion’s inspection. The group was an unprepossessing bunch and many carried old injuries that had doomed them to grinding poverty in the past. Myrddion noted one man with a twisted leg that had obviously been broken and set incorrectly long ago. Another had been born with a twisted spine. Although Myrddion realised that the man must be very strong to have survived for so long, he deplored the circumstances that doomed the sufferer to a life of hardship because of an accident of birth.

  Depressed by the group before him, the young healer sighed audibly, and then addressed his new staff. ‘I am a healer, a man who has dedicated his life to the alleviation of illness and pain, so I understand how difficult survival must have been for all of you. Therefore, I have decided that you will have a safe haven in this house of healers where the generosity of the High King will pay your wages. You can be assured that I’ll turn no one away because of age or infirmity. I am searching for effort, devotion and an earnest desire to better your lot in life.’

  The prospective servants should have been grateful. Instead, they stared, gape-mouthed, at Myrddion as if he were a lunatic. What sensible person hires the old and the twisted? Most of them had only come with Praxiteles in the hope of a free meal. Several of the men, especially those few not yet grown to middle age, began to sneer behind their hands at such transparent foolishness.