Prophecy: Web of Deceit (Prophecy 3) Read online

  For his part, Myrddion continued to smile casually, but his tall frame seemed to grow until it dominated the rough mud walls of the kitchen and his shadow, in the dawn firelight, hung over the room like a creature out of night terrors.

  ‘You will hear it whispered that I am the son of a demon. Do not believe such foolish stories, for I am far worse than the mere scion of a chaos monster as insubstantial as dreams. I can see into your secret hearts, for I am the grandchild of the High Priestess of Ceridwen in Cymru. She died to protect me, and told her people that the goddess had gifted me with an added eye to hunt out wickedness, sloth and dishonesty.’

  Cadoc stared at his master with nearly as much surprise as the men and women who watched him with varying degrees of horror. This Myrddion who was claiming to be ruthless and manipulative was new to him. Cadoc was confused, for his master had always been kind and generous towards his servants, treating them with the same courtesy as he extended to kings.

  ‘If you labour hard in my service to the best of your abilities, you will have a roof over your heads, food in your bellies and coin in your purses. But if you betray me, I will cast you adrift on the mercies of Venta Belgarum where all men will know that your hearts are as twisted as your bodies. Do you understand me?’

  Raggedly, the new servants nodded their agreement with varying degrees of awe, concern or scorn.

  ‘I will now speak to each of you privately and allocate tasks according to your skills and aptitude. But first, Praxiteles is my steward and he must be obeyed at all times. He is responsible for my household, and when he instructs you to carry out your duties he is speaking with my authority. Cadoc is a healer and, again, he speaks with my authority. Rhedyn and Brangaine are skilled workers with the sick and the injured, and will always be addressed respectfully. If they require a service from you, their requests must be accommodated to the best of your ability. Perhaps some of you will show an aptitude for your duties that will earn preferment for you. If so, the choice will ultimately be yours. As for now, a hot stew will chase away the last of the night for those of you who are hungry, while I will begin my interviews with you individually.’

  The odd assortment of men and women, young and old, was silent with apprehension. Myrddion pointed to the youngest of the men, who was cursed with a shrivelled arm and had been so unwise as to sneer openly when the healer first began to speak. The man flinched visibly, but he followed his new master into the house, along the corridor and into the scriptorium where Myrddion seated himself among the boxes and crates that held his possessions.

  ‘What is your name?’ Myrddion’s voice was curt.

  The man ducked his head and fixed his gaze on his dirty, bare feet. ‘I’m called Fingal, or the fair stranger. My mother made a joke when she named me, master. I was born with this arm, so she considered me to be worse than useless. As I am!’

  ‘Show me the limb, Fingal,’ Myrddion demanded, and Fingal exposed his left arm from the sleeve in which it was usually hidden. The forearm was grossly shortened and under-developed, and the muscles were wasted from lack of use over many years. The hand itself was small and the vestigial fingers were so short as to be almost entirely useless. But Myrddion noted that the man’s thumb was normal in both size and appearance. Although the whole arm was some three or four inches shorter than his hale arm, the crippled limb still retained considerable strength above the elbow, so Fingal obviously used the upper muscles to wedge objects against his body in order to manipulate them with his good right hand.

  ‘Despite a certain degree of incapacity, you are still fortunate, Fingal,’ Myrddion said. ‘You may have been told that you are useless, but you have good muscle in your upper arm and a thumb that will allow you to hold objects against the stumps of your fingers. If you can stop thinking of yourself as useless and start seeing yourself as a man, we might be able to teach you to have some respectable mobility in that arm. It will never be pretty, but I think it can become serviceable. I can design a wrist strap that will assist you to manipulate a spade or a fork and then you’ll be able to work like an able-bodied man.’

  Fingal said nothing, but his face spoke volumes of the doubt, the resentment and the frail hope that fuelled his inner rage.

  ‘Answer me fairly. Do you wish to be treated like a man rather than a cripple?’

  ‘Yes,’ Fingal snarled resentfully. ‘I want to be treated like a sodding man. Wouldn’t you?’

  ‘Ah, so now we have signs of anger. I’m glad to see you aren’t lacking in spirit. Well, Fingal, you shall fill the role of chief gardener. There’s a little land around this house – not a lot, mind you, but enough. I want the wall built higher and there is a need for trees to be planted. Fruit trees will add to our self-sufficiency, as will vegetable gardens. A herb plot is important to healers for growing our medications, and I would like to have a beautiful atrium where we can pipe our own water. I will provide the coin for everything you need. But first, the servants’ quarters at the rear of the property are in a dreadful condition. Your first task is to make them habitable.’

  Fingal was confused and overwhelmed by the range of his new responsibilities. Unused to being seen as a man with abilities, he stammered out a rather doubtful affirmative.

  ‘Good. Now choose four men or women who you think will have the muscle, the patience and the temperament to work with you and obey your orders. You will be in charge of the gardening so the choice must be yours, as you will also bear the responsibility for any errors made by your staff. Most of the new servants have been damaged in one way or another, so I expect you to treat them fairly and generously. Once you’ve made your choice of assistants, send them to me.’

  Fingal watched as Myrddion wrote his name on a clean scroll and added the letters that described his new position. Myrddion carefully explained what he had written and then warned Fingal that he had meant everything he said in the kitchen.

  ‘I am giving you a chance, Fingal. It’s up to you how you use it.’

  Convinced that his new master must surely be mad, Fingal returned to the kitchen, where his fellows were devouring a hot stew prepared by Brangaine. As she placed a bowl before him, Fingal thanked her absently, for he was already assessing the potential usefulness of the ten persons seated on the floor. He selected an older man who was whipcord thin but still retained most of his teeth and was tanned to the colour of old oak. After that, he chose a boy who was obviously wanting in his wits, a girl disfigured by a strawberry mark that covered half her face, and another greybeard. All were sent to Myrddion.

  So Ciabhan, Horn, Berwyn and Aeddan went down on Myrddion’s list as outside servants, and Fingal led them away to assess the renovations needed to refresh the old servants’ quarters.

  Myrddion discovered that one sullen woman of some thirty years was deaf, having suffered a bout of the spotting illness when she was a young girl. She could speak much more clearly than other poor souls who had been born without hearing, and had become adept at watching lips to discover what the speaker wished to communicate, but the tragedy of her life was that she had been sold into prostitution by her family in the mistaken belief that she was unsuitable for any other function. Four children had been born to her, and each had been sold as soon as it was weaned. Finally, when her looks had begun to fade and her anger had affected her value to her customers, they had thrown her onto the street.

  ‘What is your name, woman?’ Myrddion asked in a gentler tone than he had used with Fingal, taking pains to move his lips slowly and precisely.

  ‘I am Aude,’ she replied with the slight thickness of the tongue that was common to the deaf. Aude had marvellous hair that was both thick and curly. The colour was somewhere between honey and flame, and Myrddion was reminded of Tegwen, his first woman, who had served him with love and utter trustworthiness. This woman’s face was lined with privation, but although dirt was deeply ingrained into her skin the young healer was touched by the pride that had prompted her to wash her hands and face as clean as sh
e could make them.

  ‘You will be in charge of the children in the house, Aude,’ Myrddion decided. ‘Can you weave and spin yarn?’

  ‘Yes, master,’ she replied hesitantly. The speed with which she had divined his meaning convinced Myrddion that she was far more intelligent than her mulish expression and short responses suggested. ‘But I’ve not used wool or flax for many years.’

  ‘All that happened in the ugly past is finished now, and this house is your new life. As well as the children, you will be in charge of our bandages and look after the cleanliness of the house. You will have three women to help you, so select them carefully and send them to me.’

  So the names of Aude, an old ex-slave called Kady, and two widows, Dubh and Hasair, were added to Myrddion’s list.

  Dyfri, the man who had been crippled because of a badly set leg, was put in charge of Myrddion’s scriptorium where he was given the responsibility of caring for all the herbs and potions that Myrddion used in his trade. Cadoc would teach him the many menial but important labours that were the backbone of the healer’s art.

  ‘Your leg is no impediment to carrying out the duties of a herbmaster, Dyfri. In case you make the mistake of believing that you can take the king’s coin and do very little, understand that you must work from dawn to dusk, and you must obey Cadoc in all things, while applying yourself to your tasks. However, a good herbmaster can earn a substantial living anywhere in these isles.’

  For the first time, Myrddion saw genuine gratitude in the man’s plain, rather cherubic face. ‘I know I can do what you ask, Master Myrddion. I’ll learn as fast as can be.’

  ‘Good. Cadoc will set you to work at once. And tell him that I want him to design a better crutch than that stick you are using. It doesn’t work well at all.’

  The final woman was a slatternly, loud-mouthed, middle-aged drab. There was nothing bewitching or intoxicating about the scarred, florid face that Maeve presented sullenly to the world. Because she had always been plain, she had hawked her body on the streets for as long as she could remember. Pimps and customers had left her face and body liberally scarred from their fists and their knives, so she was even more unprepossessing than in her youth. Few men now responded to her advances, so desperation had brought her to Myrddion’s door.

  ‘I want you to work in my kitchens, Maeve. And if you know of another woman who would help you with cooking and cleaning duties, then I could use her also. I don’t care where she comes from or what she’s done in the past, but you will soon know my requirements. Are you prepared to work from dawn to dusk for your coin, Maeve?’

  ‘Aye, master. And I do know of another woman who will help me. Her name is Mavourna, and she is my friend. We who’ve spread our legs in alleyways know where we stand in the world. We’re just conveniences for any man with an itch.’

  ‘Never refer to yourself in such a way again, Maeve. You may make a valuable servant yet.’

  ‘I’m sorry, master, if I spoke crudely. Perhaps I’m not even fit for your kitchens.’

  ‘We’ll see, Maeve.’

  All that remained was to find a duty for the man with the twisted spine. Caerwyn was an embittered man, with his hunched shoulders and the hump on his bent back, but his arms were corded with hard muscle, as were his powerful thighs, for he had found every possible way to counteract his deformity.

  ‘You are the strongest of my new servants, Caerwyn, so to you must fall the most menial and difficult work. Don’t take my decision amiss, for you could prove to be my most valuable worker. No villa will function without an able-bodied man, and I don’t jest when I describe you thus. Firewood must be chopped for the kitchen ovens, great cauldrons must be moved, scoured and filled, and I would be lying if I said you wouldn’t be called upon to move heavy objects that the women can’t manage. Can you accept such tasks without offence? It is honest and important work, although only I will understand the true value of what you do.’

  Caerwyn stared at Myrddion to ascertain whether he was being patronised. When he saw nothing but respect in the healer’s open face, he nodded awkwardly with a hint of moisture in eyes that were soft, long-lashed and as brown as the hide of a roe deer. Myrddion was heartened by the twisted man’s display of emotion.

  ‘Aye. I can do that and more, master. To work like a man without the insult of charity or pity is enough for me.’

  ‘Don’t make your final decision before you know how much I’ll expect of you,’ Myrddion joked, and then the audience was over.

  And so the house of Myrddion Merlinus began to buzz with activity as thirteen unlikely new servants began to work for a new and very peculiar master. Perhaps the number could have been unlucky, but Myrddion would send no one away, even to propitiate the gods or the superstitions of foolish men.

  In the early evening, just before the glowing sun disappeared into the west through the ruddy clouds, Myrddion returned to Ambrosius’s house, mindful of his promise to his new master. Within moments of joining the noisy throng pushing from the antechamber into the hall of justice, Myrddion became aware that Uther wasn’t the only brother capable of blinding speed, once Ambrosius had made up his mind. Three scribes sat at small folding tables, armed with scrolls and writing materials, ready for the fray. With amusement, Myrddion noticed that the youngest scribe wore the robes and tonsure of a Christian priest.

  Ambrosius learns fast, he thought. And he must be persuasive if the chief prelate of Venta Belgarum gives him the services of such a valuable young cleric.

  As a pushy aristocrat from the Reece pen Ryall inheritance dispute of the previous evening began to thrust himself forward to the front of the audience, an old man advanced to the centre of the hall armed with a long staff tipped with gold. Briskly, he pounded the flagging three times and ordered the warring family members to present themselves.

  ‘Who is the old gentleman with the staff?’ Myrddion hissed at a warrior who stood beside him. The man eyed the healer doubtfully.

  ‘The old man is Madoc pen Madag, the king of the Cantii who were. My master gave shelter to the people of the tribe when they left the southeast, and King Madoc has been appointed as Ambrosius’s seneschal this very day. We have been told that all petitioners will have to get past old Madoc before they trouble the king.’

  In almost the same instant, the petitioner glared at the seneschal. ‘Who are you to give orders to noblemen?’ he snapped rudely.

  Madoc pen Madag fixed his portly, crude inquisitor with a hard, agate stare. ‘From this day onward, I have been appointed as the seneschal to the High King of the Britons. You know very well who I am, sir. I will forgive your rudeness for the moment, but Lord Ambrosius’s guard will remove you from this session if it continues. Am I understood?’

  A low hum of whispers filled the long room, while the stout petitioner reddened unattractively. Fortunately, one of his companions nudged him with an elbow in his ample belly when he opened his mouth to protest.

  ‘The court of Ambrosius, High King of the Britons, is now in session,’ the seneschal’s commanding voice roared out, easily the most powerful part of his ageing body. ‘The heirs to the house of Reece pen Ryall will step forth and be recognised. As seneschal, I tell you that all men will speak through me if they wish to be heard in this court. Unseemly shouting or argument will result in your summary removal and your claims will not be heard.’ The family of Reece pen Ryall settled instantly when Ulfin and Botha stepped forward to flank the old man and, rather to everyone’s surprise, the audience began smoothly.

  Ambrosius was rarely called upon to speak, and he swiftly made his decision and gave his judgement. Skilled in the handling of petitioners, old Madoc knew exactly what queries he needed to put to the warring parties, so the truth came to light far more swiftly than any of those present would have believed possible during the previous night’s entertainment. Rather to everyone’s surprise, the business of the evening was quickly concluded.

  When Myrddion joined Ambrosius in his apartments, th
e king immediately demanded the healer’s opinion of his changes. Myrddion noted the High King’s glowing face and excited pacing and gave an honest, enthusiastic response.

  ‘You’ve done wonders in one day, master. And the choice of Madoc was inspired. With one blow, you give the Cantii tribe due honour, and win yourself an experienced negotiator who will simplify your own life. I offer you my congratulations, master.’

  Ambrosius blushed to the roots of his fair hair at the generous words, and Myrddion wondered how much direct praise the High King had received throughout his life. Very little, I suppose, he thought sadly. Beggared kinsmen seeking shelter are rarely regarded with approval. Ambrosius and Uther must be strong to have survived such an unpromising start in life.

  Then Ambrosius insisted on a full accounting of Myrddion’s day, including his selection of servants, the roles ascribed to them and the reasons for his choices. Somewhat puzzled by the king’s interest. Myrddion answered as best he could, while Ambrosius insisted on full descriptions of all his new charges.

  ‘It seems to me that you’ve taken on the old, the halt and the lame, Myrddion. Now that I think on it, Cadoc, Praxiteles and your women aren’t completely whole either. Do you seek to aid those whom you can’t heal?’

  ‘I have never considered my actions from that perspective, lord. Situations arise and I respond, but I’ve rarely been let down by those who work with me. The most damaged person will still have his usefulness. For example, Fingal has been handicapped since birth, but he has learned many ways to use that malformed hand, and I was surprised how competent he was at his work once I’d designed a leather arm support for him. He was the man most likely to rebel against my rules, so I put him in a position of responsibility straight away. It’s been less than a day, but I believe he’s whipping his crew into shape already and seems to be working harder than I’d have believed possible. And anyway, master, you’ve done the same thing when you took an ancient king and made him your seneschal.’