Clash of Kings (12 page)

As for Olwyn, she had accepted the youngest suitor presented to her by her father. Eddius was a younger son, and his family was notable for a Roman strain that made him less eligible than his fellow warriors. Melvig presumed, incorrectly, that Olwyn had chosen the younger man because she would hold the whip hand in status, wealth and experience.

But her father was wrong. Each suitor had been carefully assessed on one criterion alone – his response to Myrddion. Only Eddius had grinned at the toddler and swung him up into his strong arms. Only Eddius had tossed the boy high into the air until Myrddion had dissolved in a peal of giggles. Olwyn was won over without the need for a pretty word or an empty promise.

As for Myrddion, the whole world now knew the ancestry of this strange great-grandson. Melvig grinned appreciatively. Branwyn and Olwyn had been clever with their lies, for who would willingly antagonise a demon by killing its son? But who would follow the child of a demon, or raise a sword in his defence? Melvig had ensured that Myrddion would never trouble the legitimate kings of the Deceangli or the Ordovice, simply by averring that Myrddion’s mother had spoken the truth concerning his antecedents.

Branwyn was now pregnant again, as was her mother, and Melvig congratulated himself on his cleverness.

‘So that’s the end of this little drama,’ Melvig said aloud to the wind. ‘With luck, Olwyn and her brood won’t cause any more trouble while I remain alive.’

Slow years followed, season blending into season, and Myrddion was drawn to the shores near Segontium just as Branwyn had been. Storms covered the sands with sea wrack and a treasure trove of shells, fish, strange twisted wood and the detritus of broken ships. Like his mother before him, the boy dreamed large fantasies with himself as the hero as he sought solace from his aching loneliness. Olwen had given birth to a son, soon followed by another, and with two infants to care for she had little time to spare for her grandson, although she never ceased loving him.

Little escaped Myrddion’s clever, lambent gaze. His great intelligence formed barriers between him and the world, and these walls sometimes resisted even Olwyn’s huge capacity for love. The boy’s constant questions and his sharp insights dumbfounded her and Eddius, leaving them worried that the boy would wither without companionship to stimulate his growing intellect.

Nor could Myrddion join in the games and mock battles of the other children of Segontium. From the time when he was first able to reason, he was forced to understand that he was different and frightening. The village children would chant insults at him until he felt the blood surge up into his head.

‘Bastard! Demon seed! Bastard! Demon!’

When he looked into the pails of water left for the horses and saw his dark visage surrounded by a wild tangle of black hair, Myrddion was so distraught that he broke the reflection with his hand.

Ugly! Ugly and damned!

With her usual sensitivity, Olwyn noticed Myrddion’s uncharacteristic silence and black depression. With a sinking heart, she recognised the signs of a growing rage and she remembered Fillagh’s warning, and Olwyn’s subsequent oath.

‘Love alone can defeat him and make him human,’ Fillagh had exclaimed, her eyes pregnant with warning.

Olwyn had vowed that she would love Myrddion so much that Branwyn’s desertion wouldn’t matter. Now, it seemed, it did matter.

‘Myrddion, sweetheart, come to Olwyn.’

The sturdy little boy barely hesitated, but Olwyn’s instinctive antennae picked up that momentary doubt. Then she spread her arms wide as Myrddion ran into them and pressed his face against her warm breasts.

‘Why are you troubled, my darling? I know you are, by those frowning black brows of yours, my darling boy.’ She cuddled him and felt his body begin to relax.

‘I’m ugly!’ he wailed in a muffled voice, and Olwyn could feel his tears through her peplum. ‘The Mother and Grannie Ceridwen will reject me, and I will be lost for ever.’

He paused and lapsed into miserable intensity.

‘What’s a bastard, Olwyn? Why do the other children hate me?’

Olwyn sighed and kissed her grandson’s thick and lustrous hair. With an aching heart, she sought for words that would show this strange child how much he was really loved.

‘You’re not ugly, Myrddion. You’re beautiful. The village children envy you because you’re taller than they are, and so much stronger and more comely than they will ever be. How could the Mother reject you when she holds all of us to her heart because we belong to her? And Grannie Ceridwen loves you because you are her boy. The children think that they can hurt you, and that is why they shout these lies at you.’ She released him a little so she could see his doubtful, mutinous face. ‘A bastard is someone whose father is unknown, sweetheart. Your father is unknown, it’s true, Myrddion, but don’t be so foolish as to listen to silly gossip. Olwyn will always tell you the truth.’

So Olwyn explained to the child how deeply Branwyn had been wounded – and why. In simple language, the rape on the shoreline was explained, while Myrddion questioned the reasons for his natural mother’s lack of love towards him.

‘You know how your chest feels, darling, when the village boys say cruel things to you? Imagine that feeling, only greater, as if it were pressed on your chest for every minute of every day. Then imagine you had been badly hurt, and someone asked you to love another person who looked like the evil person who had originally caused you so much pain. Your mother couldn’t bear to remain fearful for ever, so she doesn’t want to see you – and refuses to love you. Your poor mother has been driven a little mad by her memories of a very bad man, Myrddion. She can’t help what she feels.’

Olwyn wrapped her arms about her grandson once more and heard Myrddion’s tiny sigh of comfort and acceptance.

‘So you see, my darling, you are not to blame. An evil man made you, but so did I, and so did Branwyn, and Grandfather Melvig who is a king. And, at the very beginning, so did Grannie Ceridwen, who came with the Mother and her snakes, to show how much they both loved you. Look in the water and see what is really there, not what other people say they see. Never forget, my sweet boy, to look below the surface and not judge another person by what they say. What we do and what we are is what really counts.’

So Myrddion learned his first and greatest lesson, while Olwyn deflected the most dreadful consequences of the lie that lay at the heart of Myrddion’s birth.

But Myrddion was more than just a sufferer of fear and loneliness. He was also an angry child, especially when he was pushed into a corner. One day, after months of chanting and ridicule, the angry creature that co-existed with his rational self surged out of its dark hiding place like an attacking wolf. Eyes reddened with fury, Myrddion flung himself at the largest boy, both fists pumping to strike at whatever bare flesh was near at hand.

The smaller children screamed and ran away from the whirlwind that Myrddion had become. With feet, hands, even his teeth, the boy attacked the largest of his tormentors with an animal’s ferocity. Of course, the larger village boys landed more blows than they received, and Myrddion was soon covered in scrapes and blood. Even when one lout, four years older than his six-year-old assailant, deliberately broke the smaller boy’s thumb, the enraged Myrddion still struck him a stinging blow with his damaged hand. Although he was soon buried by a kicking mass of arms and legs, Myrddion showed no signs of submission until Eddius waded into the twisting melee of children and dragged the young boy up by his torn tunic.

‘For shame, lads! For shame! Five against one hardly seems fair odds, and him half your size,’ Eddius chastened the village boys, who scrambled to their feet and hung their heads in embarrassment at the intervention of an adult.

‘He started it!’ the largest boy muttered as he wiped a long streak of blood from his mouth. ‘He loosened my tooth!’

‘How old are you, Brynn? Ten years? Eleven? This young wildcat is only six. For shame, Brynn! Your father should keep you occupied at his forge if you can’t act like a good Celt. And you, Fyddach, your father is a warrior at Canovium. What would he think if he saw you beating a boy half your size?’

Most of the accused lads shuffled their feet and hung their heads in humiliation, but Fyddach was made of sterner stuff and lifted his chin pugnaciously.

‘He’s the son of a demon, lord, and everybody knows it. He’s got no business pushing in around his betters, so he should stay away from us. We don’t want him, and we don’t like him. We’ve told him to stay away from us, so he can’t complain if we call him names that are true. He is a bastard, and he is the son of a demon. Even the king says so.’

Eddius sighed with exasperation and tightened his grip on Myrddion’s tunic. The child’s eyes were narrowed and red with fury and hurt.

‘Listen, you young fools. Myrddion is better born than any of you, and shows twice your courage. How will he treat you when he is a man and has won his sword? Did you think of that, you sons of blacksmiths, fishermen and traders? No, of course not. And if his father was a demon, imagine what he could do to you once he learns how to master his powers. You certainly didn’t think of that! Now, run away, boys, and if I ever catch you harming my young ward again, I’ll tan your hides with the back of my sword.’

Gratefully, the boys ran, but words of derision still drifted back to Eddius and Myrddion on the morning breeze.

‘Now, lad, let me look at the damage. Ah, but your gran will clout me proper for the bruises you bear, you silly boy.’

Clucking his teeth and shaking his head, Eddius dragged Myrddion to the communal well, thrust him down onto a slate step and used a scrap of the boy’s tunic to clean his many cuts and bruises. ‘Idiot!’ he murmured smiling. It was hard to stay angry with Myrddion. Something charismatic and attractive in the boy’s face drew people to him.

‘You could have been badly hurt, Myrddion. As it is, I’ll need to take you to the healer to set that broken thumb. And one of those boys must have had a knife, because something has cut deep into your arm. Olwyn will worry.’

‘I’m sorry,’ Myrddion answered guiltily. ‘I lost my temper when they were shouting at me. What’s so wrong with being a bastard, Eddius? Gran explained that who my father is doesn’t make me either good or bad, for I am the only one who can choose what sort of person I’ll become. But how can I be sure that my father wasn’t a demon? Ouch!’

‘Yes, your thumb is broken. Come on, Myrddion! Hold this pad against your arm and try not to cry. Tears always make bullies even worse.’

Myrddion’s lips certainly quivered, but he bit down hard on his tongue and his tears disappeared behind the pain. He looked up at Eddius, who seemed so tall and strong that Myrddion wished the young man was his father.

‘You’re still not telling me the truth, sir. Why don’t people tell the truth?’

‘It’s easier to lie, lad. Sometimes, when you are caught doing something bad, and you know it’s bad, the temptation to make an excuse is really strong, so that no one remains angry with you.

Eddius was twenty-nine, two years younger than his extraordinary wife, and every day he thanked the gods for the lucky chance that made her his spouse. Her grandson was so likeable and mature that it was easy to treat him like a little adult. Eddius ran one sun-bronzed hand through his sandy hair and eyed Myrddion with affectionate exasperation. He knelt next to the boy beside the well, oblivious of the stares of a gaggle of women who were, ostensibly, drawing water, but were actually eavesdropping for all they were worth.

‘According to your mother, she was raped by a demon who had disguised himself as a beautiful young man. She eventually told your gran of her ordeal and revealed that the beast could barely speak our language. Remember what I said about excuses? All that Branwyn did wrong was to disobey her mother and go alone to the beach when she knew she shouldn’t. But to answer your question, you’ll never know for sure that your father isn’t a demon, because there are many, many wicked men in the world. To this day, your poor mother hates all men, even her husband, and refuses to take care of her two daughters – all because of one wicked man.’

Myrddion’s eyes were teary and very sad, so Eddius gave him a quick hug to show that he was loved.

‘Inside the gold shell you wear round your neck is your father’s ring. Your mother gave the ring to your grandmother, and said the demon had given it to her. Apparently, it had belonged to his mother whom he had murdered. Yes, I know – if your mother spoke the truth, then your father was a most unpleasant creature, although I can’t say if he was a demon or not. As well as the demon’s ring, there is another special, very ancient ring inside the shell. This ring was found in your great-uncle Cletus’s fields, and served as your bulla when you were dedicated to the lord of light. When you are a man, I hope you will wear that Roman ring with its sun-fire stone, for you were named for Myrddion of the sun. You may be a bastard, but your birth and your bloodlines mark you for greatness.’ Eddius draped his heavy arm over Myrddion’s shoulders. ‘And we love you, boy, as does everyone who knows you. What do village children matter?’

The day had almost reached noontide.

The sunlight fell on the boy’s dusty black hair, which retained a high gloss like a raven’s wing, and a hint of blue was revealed in the merciless light. The boy’s eyes especially caught at Eddius’s sympathetic nature. They were wounded by what he had been told, and now the child struggled to understand the cruelty of that long ago violence. Wise beyond his years, Eddius accepted that Myrddion understood the concept of rape and murder, so the boy must have felt increasingly soiled by his background.

‘As a child of the gods, nothing of this story should cause you to feel any guilt for the actions of your parents. Perhaps, one day, you will eventually find your father and discover your ancestry.’

Myrddion nodded with an adult’s gravity. ‘So the village boys didn’t lie. I am the seed of a demon.’

‘Do you believe yourself to be wicked? Could your dear gran love a cruel, evil creature of Chaos? No. You are Myrddion, and you are loved.’ He smiled down at his young ward. ‘But we must now go to the healer so Olwyn doesn’t beat me with her iron pan until my head rings.’