Prophecy: Web of Deceit (Prophecy 3) Page 12

  ‘I suppose so.’ Ambrosius looked thoughtfully at his wine. ‘Let us drink a toast to my new spymaster. I’ve thought all day on this thorny problem, and only one person springs to mind whom I can trust to serve my interests. You, Myrddion Merlinus, are that man.’

  ‘Why me?’ Myrddion gasped. ‘I don’t know anybody, and I’ve only just returned after a long period in foreign lands.’

  ‘So? No one of note will believe that someone as young and as dedicated to the task of healing as you are would be employed in such a secret world. And you did serve Vortigern’s cause. I’m certain that you will find willing eyes and ears among those you have assisted back to health in the past. You are the perfect man for the task.’

  The king paused and looked directly into Myrddion’s eyes. The young man felt the full force of his charm and wavered under its spell. ‘Hear me, Myrddion, and believe what I say. I’m honest enough to admit that I can’t trust you entirely, but the fault isn’t yours. I have learned much about you, for a Demon Seed is remembered with both affection and fear. I have enquired into the details of your life and I will soon be in possession of everything I need to know.’

  ‘I don’t fear any exploration of my past, master, but who can know a man’s inner heart? Even if I agreed to serve you in this matter, I may misjudge the men I choose. I could do more harm than good.’

  Ambrosius grinned widely as if Myrddion had passed some kind of test. When he spoke again, it was as though Myrddion’s fears were of no moment. ‘I will require you to keep me fully informed of all the networks you create, but I won’t interfere or broadcast your role in my court. It’s in my best interests to keep you secret, and therefore safe. But you must forgive me if I sometimes doubt you. I have little reason to trust anyone, but I have discovered that we share a quality of otherness and loneliness, and so I believe I know you. Besides, if you make errors, how can I hold you to blame? I make mistakes myself.’

  ‘But building a spy network takes time and much expenditure of gold. I know you have the wealth, but how will I find the time to cross the land seeking men who’ll risk their lives to live in the shadow of the Saxons? How will I find men who’ll spy on our own tribal kings, which is probably the most important role of all? Methinks you ask too much, Lord Ambrosius.’

  ‘Do I? Well, my need is pressing, my young friend, so I have little time to pick and choose. A spymaster must be clever – as you are. A spymaster must be an accurate judge of men – as you are. Will you serve me, Myrddion?’

  ‘But you have only known me for two days. You say that you don’t trust easily, but by the Mother whose name must not be spoken, I’m amazed that you put such dependence on an itinerant healer. I feel the weight of your expectations, my lord.’

  ‘The choice will be yours, Myrddion, so answer me fairly,’ Ambrosius said easily, hiding any concern or eagerness he might feel.

  The young man sighed. He really didn’t want to commit himself to so many projects at once. He had never envisioned having to train healers to replace his own commitment to his trade, running a large household or setting up a practice in a major city. The quiet beaches of Segontium would have been sufficient to fill the void in his hollow heart.

  But a worm of ambition began to stir at the back of his brain as his fertile imagination set to work on the problem. ‘I could possibly set up a network in Cymru if I utilise my knowledge of my homeland,’ he responded cautiously. ‘But if I attempt to run before I can see the ground I walk upon, then rabbit holes will surely trip me up and your network will fail.’

  Ambrosius grinned, and Myrddion realised that he had never expected the healer to agree to his proposal. Now, well pleased with half a loaf when he had expected none, the High King was prepared to lavish gold upon the project. Outmanoeuvred by an expert conspirator, Myrddion glumly agreed.

  ‘Ah, my merlin! Like the bird after which you are named, you will fly very, very high in my service, and I pray I am here to see the wonders that you will build above us on the heights. I also know that men should beware, for you have the raptor’s eye and very sharp claws to catch at your prey. That makes you start, doesn’t it? I expect a spy network to operate in Cymru by next summer.’

  ‘You may expect, master, but there’s no guarantee that you’ll get,’ Myrddion replied caustically, disturbed by Ambrosius’s use of the metaphor that Myrddion had chosen for himself.

  ‘See? Who else would politely suggest that I should go to Hades for my presumption? Aye, Myrddion, you’ll build me a spy network that will endure long after I am dust.’

  Disturbed and more than a little angry with the High King and with himself, Myrddion strode briskly through the corridors in order to leave by a side door and escape from the quiet hall. As he pushed the heavy iron latch open, a hand snaked out from the shadows and gripped his wrist painfully. Uther Pendragon loomed out of the darkness, eyes reddened with weariness and cold fire.

  ‘Take care, healer, lest you slip off your perch and fall. It would be a tragedy if my brother lost such a promising servant through a thoughtless accident.’

  ‘Lord Uther! How may I help you?’

  Uther smiled without mirth, and Myrddion noticed that the prince’s canines were unnaturally long. ‘You’re becoming altogether too cosy with my brother for an itinerant healer who has only been in Venta Belgarum for two days. Perhaps I’ll believe that you’ve ensorcelled him, if your influence continues to grow.’

  ‘I obey my master – exactly as you instructed, Prince Uther. I do no more than that.’

  Uther punched Myrddion hard on the chest and, for a moment, the young healer’s sight darkened. Finally, he was able to draw a deep breath. ‘I have no influence over the High King, my prince. He manipulates me as much as he does everyone else who serves him. Personally, I would be grateful to return to Segontium and resume my travels. You have the power to send me away, and I’ll not argue with you if you should do so.’ He straightened painfully and tried to calm his ragged breathing. More than anything, he wanted to strike at the prince’s sneering face.

  ‘Just remember that I’ll be watching everything you do, Myrddion Merlinus. If I decide that you’re a danger to my brother, you’ll be a dead man.’

  Uther pushed Myrddion hard and the healer barely escaped striking his face against the stone outer wall. Slowly, Myrddion turned and bowed low to the prince before forcing himself to walk through the door at a steady, unhurried pace when every instinct told him to run.

  The man is green with jealousy, his inner voice told him, and he resents every moment I spend with his brother. Perhaps I’m best served if I go to the north on my master’s business for a time.

  A month was a long time in Venta Belgarum, but it was forever when the walls had ears and every shadow held a sly observer who was eager to inform Uther Pendragon of every action Myrddion took. Somehow, the healer ran his household, sorted out the many petty squabbles that arose, and terrified Fingal when the servant was caught pawing drunkenly at Berwyn while the girl screamed hysterically at his unwanted attentions. Fingal had worked hard in his position as chief gardener and had proved that he had the capacity to control a crew of workers, for the servants’ quarters were already repaired and watertight. Unfortunately, the young man had never held a position of responsibility before, and his lapse, when it came, was an unforgivable breach of trust.

  The next morning, after being locked in the empty baths to sober up, a shivering and very repentant Fingal found himself summoned to the scriptorium, which now glowed with beeswax, fresh whitewash and clean glass containers filled with mysterious objects. When Fingal lifted his aching head to face his master, his heart sank. Myrddion’s black eyes were as hard as rain-washed pebbles and his mouth was set in an uncompromising line.

  ‘What do you have to say for yourself, Fingal? You frightened a girl who was under your instruction, who believed you valued her hard work. Do you think that your role in my household gives you any right to force yourself upon her?’


  ‘I’m sorry, master. I was drunk.’

  ‘So you believe you are permitted to rape girls when you drink. Is that what you’re telling me?’

  Vainly, Fingal searched for an excuse, but he was finally forced to resort to the truth. ‘No, master, I took advantage because I thought I could get away with it. Berwyn’s ugly, so I thought she’d welcome the attentions of a man.’ His voice sank to a whisper. ‘Even half a man like me.’

  Myrddion looked exasperated, and Fingal felt a small glimmer of hope. Anything was better than that frozen, icy glare.

  ‘You’re not half a man, so stop feeling sorry for yourself. And who are you to pass judgement on an affliction that has dogged Berwyn’s life since birth? Of all men, you should understand her position. Ah, now you look contrite because your wits aren’t addled with cheap cider. So, what punishment should I give you? What would you do in my shoes?’

  Fingal was certain that his crime warranted expulsion from the house of the healers and his heart ached already for the loneliness that would follow such a punishment. Haltingly, he conveyed his thoughts to his master.

  ‘Yes, Fingal, I should cast you out as a lesson to the other servants that I’ll not be disobeyed. But you’ve been honest with me, so I’ll give you a choice. First, you must beg Berwyn’s pardon – and mean it! Then, if you can bear ten cuts of Cadoc’s leather belt across your back, you may remain in my employ.’

  Cadoc twitched from his position beside the door. He was unsure whether he was capable of whipping a man, especially as ten blows would break Fingal’s skin and cause blood to flow.

  On the other hand, Fingal was elated. ‘I’ll take your punishment, master, and more. I’m sorry for what I’ve done, and I’ll never drink again.’

  ‘That’s not what this punishment is for, Fingal. You may drink, by all means. I do myself. But attempted rape is another matter altogether.’

  With a firm step, Fingal led the way into the bare atrium where the rest of the servants were gathered, having divined Myrddion’s intentions in the mysterious rumour mill enjoyed by all good workers. They listened attentively as Myrddion explained Fingal’s choice of punishment and showed their approval of their master’s wisdom with serious nods and the odd smile. When Fingal begged Berwyn’s pardon on his knees and with his head bowed low, they rumbled their satisfaction. Poor Berwyn burst into tears.

  Then, like a man preparing for execution, Fingal stripped the coarse, stained tunic from his upper body. The two leather straps that were designed to help his grip when using hoes or picks remained attached to his wrist and forearm, for Fingal never removed Myrddion’s gift that freed him from his infirmity.

  Inwardly, Myrddion steeled himself for the ordeal ahead. ‘Your belt, Cadoc, if you please,’ he demanded calmly, his eyes fixed on Fingal’s upper body.

  The servants were amazed, for they divined that their master proposed to conduct the punishment himself.

  One by one, the blows fell. At first they didn’t feel so very bad to the sufferer, but the abused flesh bruised and swelled quickly, and even though Myrddion tried to avoid areas he had already struck the skin was splitting by the time the sixth blow was inflicted. Both Myrddion and Fingal suffered throughout the last four blows, but the servant managed to stay on his feet until the bitter end, although blood flowed from his bitten lip and he moaned deep in his throat.

  When the last blow was finally struck, Fingal fell to his knees and panted noisily through his open mouth. Crisply, Myrddion ordered that he should be carried to the servants’ quarters and laid, face down, on his simple pallet. Then Myrddion spread a healing unguent over bandages with his own hand, and carefully wrapped Fingal’s injuries. He mixed poppy juice with hot water and encouraged Fingal to drink. Finally, when the servant was drowsy, he rose to leave.

  Fingal gripped Myrddion’s robe with his good hand. ‘Swear, master, that you’ll not cast me out while I sleep.’

  ‘You have borne your punishment like a man, Fingal, so I’ll not cast you out.’ Myrddion’s voice was stern and gruff, as if he were on the verge of tears. ‘But you must never force me to do such injury to you again.’

  Content, Fingal slid into a painless sleep, secure in the belief that his master did not lie. Only Cadoc knew that Myrddion drank three glasses of wine that night in order to face the bad dreams that would descend on him while he slept. Even then, Cadoc sensed that his master wept during the night.

  Four days later, with a saddlebag containing a purse of gold, and without a single warrior for protection and company, Myrddion rode away into the north on the High King’s business. Venta Belgarum wouldn’t see the healer again until winter had come and gone.

  Venta Belgarum lounged in the heat of an unusually warm summer. The cobbled and flagged streets lay in a haze that shimmered like standing water. The citizens could barely move in the sweltering noontime, and children risked drowning as they frolicked in the silver shallows of the river with shrill cries of excitement and joy.

  A cloud of dust spoke of unexpected visitors long before the cavalcade came into view. The hard roadway had become a dust bowl in the unrelenting heat as the mud of spring was caught between the flagging and the gravel, baked hard by the sun, and then crushed to powder by the wheels of many wagons. Horsed warriors indicated that this was no trading caravan, fresh from the west. Cadoc was at the open market outside the city’s walls among the common peasantry, and he hastened to the gates with them to goggle at their betters.

  The healer recognised the small, compact horses and the distinctive plaits of the Brigante tribe as the warriors rode past, guarding four wagons that were piled high with spoils, boxes, iron trunks and supplies. The last wagon contained women, all in chains and most of them dark-haired, black-eyed and barbaric with body painting formed from blue tattoos.

  ‘Picts!’ Cadoc muttered under his breath with disgust, for no true Briton could countenance the fierce blue people who had been driven beyond the walls, yet still attacked the northern tribes during the spring in their eagerness for plunder and revenge. Men spoke quietly about the endless enmity of the Pictish people. A thousand years might fly by, but their hatred would endure forever.

  Conspicuous in the wagon was a woman whose brown hair was liberally streaked with reddish tinges and curled wildly in the way of the Celtic women of the north. She was slim and comely, but her arms were marred by ugly tattoos at the wrists and the upper arms so that she appeared to wear heavy manacles. As she passed, Cadoc saw that her eyes were a brilliant sea green and she possessed a smattering of freckles across her nose and on the swelling of her upper breasts. None among the observers doubted that this woman had Celtic origins.

  ‘Who is she?’ he asked a foot soldier who was slogging along the roadway in the rear of the captives’ wagon. The man grimaced as he tried to draw air into his straining lungs.

  ‘Who? The tribal bitch? She’s a hostage from beyond the Vallum Antonini, taken by the Picts when she was a child. We captured them all when a Pict army marched south into Brigante country.’

  ‘Shut your yap, idiot, and keep moving,’ a handsome man on a horse shouted, riding straight at Cadoc as if to crush him under the hooves of his horse. ‘You’re not here to amuse these clods. The High King awaits us.’

  Cadoc bowed his head just sufficiently to suggest courtesy, and the Brigante warrior spurred his horse back to the front of the column.

  ‘Who was that oaf?’ Cadoc asked no one in particular.

  ‘Be grateful you’ve still got your head, man,’ a grizzled trader muttered as he nudged Cadoc in the ribs and gave him a conspiratorial wink. ‘That’s Luka, the eldest son of the Brigante king. He fights, he whores and he drinks. He does all of them well – but he’s a killer in battle. And he’s a notorious hothead.’

  ‘I’ll surely remember Prince Luka,’ Cadoc muttered with a snarl. Like any proud warrior, he was affronted by Luka’s rudeness and his ready disposition to misjudge people.

  ‘Do that, friend! But I’d
still pray that he never sets eyes on you again.’

  As Cadoc made his way through the jostling throng towards the quieter streets that led to the house of the healers, he mulled over what he had seen. Experience told him that a great battle had been fought in the north and the Brigante had succeeded in defeating the Picts. No less than the king’s son was escorting the plunder of war south to Venta Belgarum, where a tribute of women as well as red gold would be presented to Ambrosius Imperator. More important, the High King was finally making an impression on the arrogant tribes of the north.

  Then Cadoc remembered the face of the Celtic woman and the sharp glitter of her snake-green eyes. Was she still as she had been born? Or was she now a Pict and committed to continuing the hatred against her father’s people forever?

  I wish my master were here. He could warn Ambrosius to take precautions with this woman. I don’t trust the slut at all, Cadoc thought grimly. Then the house enfolded him with the myriad small decisions that fell to him while his master was away. Yet he couldn’t quite forget the woman’s shining eyes and the single glance that followed him through the day and into the fabric of his dreams.

  MYRDDION’S CHART OF PRE-ARTHURIN WALES

  THE BATTLE BETWEEN THE PICTS AND THE BRIGANTE IN NORTHERN BRITAIN

  CHAPTER VI

  PLOTS, COUNTERPLOTS AND BLOODY THOUGHTS

  It is well known, that among the blind the one-eyed man is king.

  Erasmus, Adagia

  As the sun set bloodily in the west, Ambrosius accepted his tribute from his most northerly allies. The High King had dressed with unusual care, and wore the ancient torc that had graced the throats of his ancestors in its time, as well as the unclean flesh of Vortigern. The barbaric rope of gold, finished with uncut sapphires, struck a discordant note in the elegant attire of a Roman nobleman of a previous century. Unconscious of any irony in his dress, Ambrosius waited on his simple chair for Prince Luka of the Brigante to arrive at his hall of judgement.