Prophecy: Web of Deceit (Prophecy 3) Page 7

‘I’ll not leave you with that bastard, master,’ Finn protested. ‘He’s even worse than Flavius Aetius, because Uther enjoys killing his victims. The Roman dog was too orderly and too cold for such hot passions. I won’t leave you, Myrddion.’

  ‘You must,’ Myrddion insisted. ‘You’re a father now, so your responsibilities extend further than your own desires. You must tell your children what you’ve seen and heard. You are the Truth-teller, so you must survive and be free of any further stains on your honour. If Uther seeks me out, he’ll demand duties of me that I’d prefer not to contemplate. I don’t want to worry about you, your wife and your babe as well as my other companions. Serve me well, my friend, by leaving me to my destiny.’

  A thin, almost inaudible whimper caught his attention. ‘Hush, Finn. Listen! Something is alive in that pile of corpses to the left of the gate.’

  Two of Uther’s warriors picked up the flaccid body of a woman whose head lolled unnaturally and whose throat had obviously been cut, to judge from the veil of blood that had soaked her robe from neck to hem. Beneath her body, and partially protected by the curled chest of a youth, a small child began to cry thinly from its nest of ruined flesh.

  As quick as the flash of a merlin’s wings as it glides in for the kill, Myrddion swooped under the arms of the nearest warrior and plucked the infant from the blood-soaked earth. The child was wholly saturated with its mother’s blood, so the healer couldn’t tell easily if it had suffered any injuries. As he tried to remove its sticky swaddling bands, Brangaine appeared at his side as if by magic, and whisked the child from Myrddion’s hands.

  ‘I’ll see to the little one back at the inn, master,’ she said, and Myrddion knew better than to refuse her. She had already wrapped maternal arms around the whimpering child.

  Another mouth to feed, a cynical voice whispered in Myrddion’s brain, but he closed a mental door on that insidious thought with a sharp, dismissive slam.

  ‘Why are you here, Brangaine? It’s far too dangerous, and you’ve left Willa unattended.’

  ‘The prince has been seeking you, master, and Gron looks likely to give you up. He’s a snake, that man, with no decent feelings except to whine and complain about everything in his smug existence. I came to warn you.’

  Brangaine scowled at her master with a look that would have curdled milk, so Myrddion attempted to soothe her injured feelings by sending her back to the inn to cleanse the infant and discover if the child had suffered any hurt. Then, his duty done, he turned to continue the search for those who remained alive among the drifts of bodies.

  By coercing any able-bodied person who passed into helping him, Myrddion managed to free the pitifully few survivors who still breathed. In their pursuit of plunder, Uther’s warriors had moved on to pick over the corpses of Saxon invaders in the lower town, having no pecuniary interest in the half-dressed men and women who had been caught up in the merciless battle. The killing field at the wall revealed a total of one hundred and fifty-one dead. Only two slightly wounded children remained alive, and Myrddion was heartsick to contemplate the thoroughness displayed by the Saxon attackers. Unprotected flesh was helpless against swinging axes and iron swords.

  In the lower town, Myrddion and his assistants must perforce cope with cruel burns, grossly swollen flesh and bodies that were blistered, splitting and glistening with internal fire. As Annwynn had done so many years before after the destruction of the Blue Hag inn in Segontium, Myrddion plied his henbane and poppy liberally, for few patients survived the kiss of the flames.

  And so, some hours later, Myrddion was dispirited and on edge when a warrior from Uther’s personal guard found him treating the last of the survivors. The prince’s orders to the young man had been curt and to the point.

  ‘Instruct the healer whose name I cannot recall to attend on me at the house of Gotti, the trader, before nightfall. Warn him that he’ll feel my wrath if I am forced to search for him.’

  The attitude of the messenger was derisive in both tone and stance, for the slight young healer who stood before him seemed incapable of any threat to either himself or the prince. As the son of a minor Atrabate lord, the warrior was very full of his own importance, although he had not yet learned to be suspicious of superficial appearances. Myrddion recognised his immaturity immediately, although the young man affected a close-cropped, ruddy beard in the Roman style.

  ‘Before I ask you to present your message to me once again, young man, what is your name? I don’t like to receive instructions from persons I haven’t met.’

  As he spoke, Myrddion’s eyes remained fixed on the burned leg of a young matron, barely fifteen years of age, whose face was blackened with soot, except where tears had cut long runnels down her cheeks before dripping onto her scorched robe.

  ‘It’s Ulfin. Now hear the words of Prince Pendragon, Master of the West and scourge of the Saxons,’ the young man snapped crossly, as he tried to regain the initiative.

  ‘I am aware of your master. What is your message?’ The healer spoke with such calm presence of mind that Ulfin became both flustered and angry. He was of a similar age to Myrddion, and trying desperately to disguise his nervousness and frustration, but something that flashed in the slanted black eyes as they glanced up at him made the warrior feel queasy for a moment. However, the smiling mouth soon restored his initial impression of guileless, harmless youth, and he repeated the message more slowly.

  ‘I will come when I have finished dressing this young woman’s burns. A few moments mean nothing to Prince Uther, but they are crucial to her chances of surviving her injuries.’ Without waiting for an answer, Myrddion returned to wrapping an unguent-smeared bandage around the painful blistering on the girl’s foot and leg.

  ‘My lord instructed me to bring you to him immediately!’ Ulfin exclaimed sullenly, his right foot stamping childishly on the roadway where Myrddion was working. ‘The prince will make us both suffer if you keep him waiting.’

  ‘I said I would come when I finish this dressing – and I’m almost done. I would point out to you that Uther Pendragon is your lord, not mine. He is also indebted to me, so I counsel you to be courteous.’

  The warrior would have protested, but Myrddion turned an unresponsive back towards him and continued to wrap the girl’s calf with careful deliberation. Ulfin began to pace as his fertile imagination sought an excuse for his tardiness. Uther would not be amused and Myrddion had won a new enemy.

  ‘There, it’s all done now,’ Myrddion whispered to his patient. ‘You’ve been a brave girl, and soon you will feel much, much better. Have no fears, for I will see you before I depart for the north.’

  With his usual attention to detail, Myrddion washed his hands thoroughly in a bowl of warm water, cleaned his blood-rimmed nails and plaited his hair, which had begun to escape its thong. Then he gave instructions to Finn and Crodoc to care for their patients, straightened his robes and turned back to face the young warrior.

  ‘Very well, Ulfin, I’m ready. I’m a stranger here, so show me to the house of Gotti.’

  Obviously, Ulfin thought, as he led the way back into the city. No man who knows him keeps the Son of the Dragon waiting.

  The Gotti house was a two-storeyed, clay-brick structure that owed more to the Roman subura than to fine villas. From the entrance, Myrddion could see a long corridor that opened into a familiar internal atrium, complete with statuary. As he was being searched for weapons, he noted that this open garden was long and thin, and that the Gotti household apparently adhered to the practice of growing edible foodstuffs in a city, if the glimpse of neat rows of herbs, potted lemon trees and some young cabbage heads were any indication. Once Uther’s guards had completed an efficient body search, Myrddion was conducted into the triclinium, where the shutters were wide open to catch any stray rays of sunshine.

  ‘You’ve taken your time, healer. Was my messenger not sufficiently persuasive? As for you, Ulfin, we’ll discuss time management at a later date.’

  Uther loun
ged on a couch, totally at ease for all he had lived free from Roman customs for many years. Myrddion examined the prince’s clean-shaven cheeks and the wildly spiralling curls that were still as vigorous as they were in his memory. But Uther was now into middle age, and his face showed every vice that had been imprinted over the elegant bones and sculpted features of his face. An invisible aura of power hung around his head and shoulders, and Myrddion could almost hear the crackle of lightning.

  The healer upbraided himself. Look into his eyes, fool! There’s more than power in there – there’s rage and a cold hatred as well. Apart from his brother, Uther hates almost everything.

  Warned, Myrddion bowed his head with exquisite courtesy, judging the depth of his obeisance to a nicety. Uther was no king, but nor was he merely noble. A wise man would always treat that unpredictable nature with care.

  ‘Your servant was admirably clear and brief, lord. It wasn’t his fault that I have kept you waiting. I was partway through bandaging a young woman’s burns, so the delay was my fault entirely. Has the scar from your old wound faded?’

  This final question deflected a gathering storm on Uther’s handsome features. He bared his forearm and Myrddion bent to examine a long, white furrow in the golden skin where a boar’s tusk had ripped apart the flesh and muscle.

  ‘As you can see, healer, your skills served me well. Now, reacquaint me with your name, for I like to know the details of my servants’ lives so that I might judge their characters. Ah, I see you have yet to learn how to guard those black brows of yours. Yes, you’ll serve me, healer, or I’ll be forced to apply pressure. No true leader permits a useful tool to pass unused through his fingers.’

  ‘Alas, lord, I am waited for in Segontium, so I may not remain here.’ Myrddion’s voice was implacable, but still courteous. His eyes roved over Uther’s face, and a chillier part of the young man’s complex nature admired the prince’s icy calm.

  ‘You’ll serve me, healer, because I’ll find something that will persuade you. What is your name? I have no wish to call you by your trade, so answer me fairly.’

  ‘I am Myrddion Merlinus, previously called Emrys, Prince Uther. I have been healer to many kings, most recently to Flavius Aetius, the former magister militum of Rome.’

  ‘Impressive, but what do I care for failed generals who have met their fate? I’m more interested in your Roman name. Now I hear it again, I remember wondering at it before.’ As Uther’s mouth twisted with something that Myrddion decided to ignore, the healer determined to think carefully before he explained anything personal to this formidable man.

  ‘I’m the bastard son of a father who refuses to acknowledge me, so since his name is no longer material I have taken the name of his hunting hawk, a bird that declined to be tamed. And although you are scathing of my old master, I would remind you, my lord, that Aetius was always successful as a battle commander. He forced Attila, the Hungvari, to his knees at the Battle of the Catalaunian Plain, and was only assassinated at the hands of a fear-crazed emperor. Hubris is a dangerous sin, my lord, whether we are generals, princes or mere healers.’

  ‘Is that a warning, Myrddion?’ Uther chuckled, and the healer had no idea whether humour or sarcasm was the source of the prince’s amusement. ‘Like Aetius, Valentinian is dead, so why should I waste a moment’s thought on the strategies of other, failed minds? Still, you manage to pique my curiosity. You’re a man of many skills, Myrddion Merlinus, so I’ll not set you free to roam at will. You’ll accompany me to Venta Belgarum. My brother’s birth celebrations are due, so you’ll make an excellent gift for Ambrosius Imperator.’

  ‘You are gracious to say so, Prince Uther, but I must decline your invitation. I am promised to accompany my servant, Finn Trutheller, to his new mistress, Annwynn of Segontium. Once there, I intend to spend a little time with my family and my king, Melvyn ap Melvig of the Deceangli.’

  Uther frowned, lowering his huge, leonine head so that his blue eyes examined the healer from under his golden brows. His eyes were flat and expressionless, as featureless as shallow puddles of pale water.

  ‘I should be insulted by your refusal of my offer of preferment, but I accept that you are a prideful young man, Myrddion. But you must be made to listen to my demands so that pride doesn’t lead you into error.’

  In the small, ominous silence that followed, Myrddion read much into Uther’s words. For a short moment, he thought that the prince would permit him to leave Verulamium unscathed, but then the blue eyes slowly rose and Myrddion was forced to repress a shudder.

  ‘No, my fine hunting bird, you will learn to come to my glove, or you’ll be caged. I thought you would understand me, Myrddion Merlinus. Truthteller can go to the devil for all I care, but you will journey to Venta Belgarum with me, either on the back of your horse – or in chains.’

  ‘Of what use is an unwilling servant?’

  Uther considered Myrddion’s question seriously. ‘Depending on the servant, his usefulness will be gauged by me. I’m losing patience with you, Myrddion Merlinus, and I’ve nearly decided to drag you to Venta Belgarum in chains. Any patriotic tribesman would consider my proposal to be an honour. The reverse of patriotism is treason, a crime punishable by death, and at least you’d not be in a position to give succour to the Saxon cause.’

  Myrddion recalled Willa’s warning and realised that he had no recourse but to accept Uther’s decision, but his honour demanded that some concessions should be wrung from his opponent. His shoulders squared as he prepared to do battle against the wit of the prince.

  ‘I am prepared to swear allegiance to Ambrosius Imperator and to the crown, Prince Uther, subject to several conditions. I am no traitor, but my journeys have convinced me that we must find some equilibrium and commonality with the Saxons who have invaded our lands. I agree that they must not be permitted to overrun our homeland, or everything we cherish will be eroded away. But I’ll not willingly swear allegiance to a man who would coerce me or threaten me, my lord. I am not a peasant and I find it insulting to be forced into labour by a stronger, more ruthless hand than my own.’

  Just when Myrddion expected Uther to become enraged, the prince grinned. ‘Bargaining, are we? I don’t give a tinker’s curse if you swear allegiance to me or not, as long as I am obeyed. I’m of a mind that you will be important in the coming wars, whether you choose it or not. Decide, Myrddion Merlinus! Do you come to Venta Belgarum? Or do you die?’

  Myrddion looked around the triclinium at the hard faces of Uther’s guard, especially at a tall young man who stood directly behind Uther’s couch. In the faces around him, all he could read was disinterest, harshness and unquestioning obedience to their master. The healer knew he was weakened by his affection for the friends and servants who had followed him to the far ends of the known world.

  ‘I will journey to Venta Belgarum with you, Prince Uther. My fellow healer Cadoc and the Greek Praxiteles will accompany me, but Finn Truthteller and my other servants will need a cart and a horse to journey to the north. And they’ll need provisions. I’ll not leave a young family to perish on the wild, distant roads leading to Segontium.’

  Uther laughed. His ruddy lips glistened with amusement and something darker that lurked close to the surface of his nature, but the prince was honestly amused by Myrddion’s attempt to bargain with him.

  ‘Find a horse and cart, Botha. I care not where they come from, just root them out and present them to Master Truthteller with my compliments. Ulfin, you can be of some use and terrify the Gotti into parting with sufficient food to feed the travellers. If you do well, perhaps I’ll forget how slow you’ve been to obey my instructions – perhaps!’

  The tall young guard nodded and would have left the triclinium with Ulfin hot on his heels, but Uther had not quite completed his instructions. ‘Make it fast, Botha! I am bored with Verulamium, now that it has yielded up its Saxon attackers. I’ll be on the road to Venta Belgarum by the morrow and I want my healer with me.’

  ‘I un
derstand, my lord – and I live to serve,’ Botha replied in a voice that was firm and deep. As the two warriors turned to leave, Ulfin tried not to run from Uther’s presence.

  As if Myrddion had ceased to exist, Uther returned to his beaker of wine and the healer realised that the audience was over.

  Finn Truthteller was inconsolable when Myrddion insisted on sharing everything he owned with his former assistant. Botha had arrived within a brief hour, driving a lumbering farm cart drawn by two huge horses that tossed their pale manes and stamped their gigantic, hair-fringed hooves. Cadoc eyed the beasts with approval and Finn would have exchanged them for the oxen had Myrddion not refused his offer outright.

  Cadoc was disappointed.

  Bridie wept, which set her infant to crying lustily, until the Flower Maiden echoed to the noise of wails and tears. When Myrddion produced a purse holding four golden coins, Bridie’s cries of grief became even louder as Truthteller attempted to refuse such largesse.

  ‘I’ll not take it, master. That purse is yours, and it was earned at enormous personal cost. I would have remained a madman wandering the mountains of Cymru were it not for you, so how can I take your hard-earned coin?’

  ‘Please, Finn. You’ve earned my gratitude over many weary miles of patient service. And so has Bridie. Her limp should remind you every day of how much she has relinquished by obeying my wishes. Regardless of your protestations, my friend, you leave with my blessing. And, if they are willing, I want you to take Rhedyn and Brangaine and the children with you for their continued safety.’

  Brangaine was torn between the choices suddenly open to her, for Willa’s huge green eyes haunted her, waking and sleeping, and the child’s safety consumed her thoughts. But almost as compelling was her fear of being an unattached female without any means of earning a living when she lacked a master to give her status. Now, faced with two unsatisfactory options, she was struck dumb with the weight of her responsibilities. Eventually, she opened her mouth to agree to head north to Segontium, but Willa pushed her way forward to face her master. The child’s face was very serious and earnest as she made her foster mother’s decision for her.