Clash of Kings (30 page)

‘I’m Myrddion, Mother! I’m no Roman!’

His eyes were wounded but alert, as if he had discovered something valuable by accident – as he had.

Branwyn continued to rave, to remember and to protest her need to destroy the lying black eyes that had terrified her for twelve years. Even Maelgwr, who had little love for his difficult, frigid wife, felt a moment’s pity, for Branwyn was crazed and would never be whole. She had survived her rape and the threat of murder because even as a child she was prepared to do anything to live. Poor Branwyn! She had been as wild and as feckless as a young hawk, heedless of any constraint, arrogant and imperious in her selfishness and, at bottom, an unlikeable, egocentric child. But no little girl deserved the ordeal she had suffered, its aftermath and the long unhappy years that followed. Her madness and her viciousness had grown out of her flaws of character, but her rapist had made that growth possible.

When he arrived at a decision, Melvig acted speedily.

‘Take your wife, Maelgwr, and return to your home,’ he instructed Branwyn’s husband. ‘I’ll not punish a woman who makes herself suffer both by day and by night. You should care for her as best you can, for her wits are damaged. Nor should you punish her. Be warned. If you should harm her for the sake of her dowry, I will exact punishment from you as if she were whole.’

Myrddion rose slowly from his stool, his face pinched with pain. As all eyes followed him, he walked across the room to Maelgwr and spoke softly, but loud enough for those watchers who were closest to hear him clearly.

‘I will demand justice for any harm done to my mother. Aye, and I’ll take it for myself,’ he said. ‘I will be watching you, stepfather. I don’t truly understand my mother, but I know she is not responsible for what she thinks and what she does. You are. And you should beware the temptations offered by a red-haired girl, for that way lies death and your own destruction – especially if you give poisoned milk to my mother. I’ll find you, stepfather, though Hades should stand between us.’

With narrowed, angry eyes, Maelgwr assisted Branwyn to her feet. She made no effort to resist him. Myrddion felt a sob begin to form in his throat when he saw her staring eyes and the long ribbon of spittle that trailed from her mouth. He had the strange, sad presentiment that he might never see her again.

‘She’s quite mad!’ he whispered softly, for he knew that this farcical trial had tipped her over into a world tilted crazily out of alignment. ‘I should have remained silent when the opportunity was there.’

Suddenly, Melvig decided to dismiss the witnesses, and instructed a strong warrior to assist Myrddion back to his bed. There, free from prying eyes, the boy began to weep quietly for the opportunities that had been lost in the choking sands of the past, going back to a time before he was even born.

Gradually, sadly, the villa by the sea returned to a semblance of normality and, for the sake of Eddius, whom they loved, there was no slacking or laziness in the servants’ eagerness to do their various tasks. As always, winter was a time for mending, sharpening and cleaning, so the villa smith was always busy working on tools and remaking what could not be repaired. The maidservants aired bedding, mended precious cloth, wove the wool that Olwyn had spun with her industrious hands and shed tears for the happy days that had been.

Eddius struggled to keep himself busy around the villa, but his passion for the fields and growing things had become blunted. His bed was cold, now that Olwyn’s warm, patient presence had fled, and no river of tears or promises to the gods would bring her back. Because he was a man, a master and, most important, a father, he couldn’t wallow in the sharp immediacy of his loss, but must comfort his children. Numbing grief made the smallest action very difficult, so Eddius was grateful to Myrddion, who had put aside his own crushing pain to take the young boys to visit their mother’s grave. Myrddion encouraged them to open their hearts to her, knowing that voicing their misery to their mother’s memorial stone helped to ease their loneliness.

‘Feel the sun on your faces, boys. It’s winter, and the snow will soon be here, but your mother has sent the lord of light to kiss you with his warmth because she can’t do it herself.’

The eldest boy, Erikk, had shaken his head with the cynicism of a nine-year-old.

‘Mama is dead, so she can’t do anything. She’s like our pet rabbit that died. She’s nothing!’

His voice had been shrill with the beginnings of hysteria, for the children had seen the torn and bloody corpse of their pet after the wild dogs had killed it. Myrddion had knelt down on the cold earth and dead grass. He had pulled the youngest, Melwy, to his side and placed his other hand on six-year-old Camwy’s shoulder.

‘Inside you, Erikk, where it can’t be seen, there is a little spark. It’s so tiny and so strong that it can’t be put out. That spark is your soul, and it’s what you really are. I’ve seen inside our bodies, just as you saw what hides under the pelt of a rabbit, a chicken or a deer. But I could hunt for ever for that tiny spark and not find it, for it comes from the lord of light and it cannot be trapped or killed.’

The three boys watched Myrddion’s eyes intently. They wanted to believe him so much that their small bodies leaned towards him as if they could fold themselves into his flesh.

‘That spark, our soul, lives for ever. We Celts believe that the soul goes on to live again in the body of a newly born baby, although the child will never remember the life that was lived before. All over this huge world, other races believe the same thing, because it is true – and we all know the truth when we hear it, don’t we?’

All three boys, including Erikk, nodded seriously. Their eyes were wide and hazel gold, as clear and as pure as Olwyn’s had been. The poignant memory made Myrddion’s voice tremble.

‘As long as the sun rises and sets, that spark cannot be killed and Olwyn, your darling mother, lives on. When you wish to talk to her, she is here and listening, but she is everywhere the sun shines, so she is with you always. Feel her warm touch – I can!’ Myrddion raised his face to the weak sunshine. ‘Feel it? Your mama is telling us that she loves us.’

‘But the sun isn’t always there, so Mama must go away too,’ Melwy whispered, and Myrddion could tell that the boy wanted to suck his thumb for comfort, despite trying desperately hard to be a man.

‘The sun only sleeps, just as you do when you’re very tired. Even when the clouds cover it, the lord of light is still there. Because we can’t see him doesn’t mean that he’s deserted us. It’s the same with your mama. She will never leave you as long as the spark that is her soul lives on, and when you are very old, and your body begins to wear out, she will come to take you up to the light.’

So, with stories and love, Myrddion gave Olwyn’s sons a reason to believe that they had not been abandoned. Melvig and Eddius watched his efforts and blessed him.

‘He’s a good lad, Lord Melvig. My wife loved him very much, and I finally understand why. He’s gentle inside, which is rare.’

Melvig snorted, for he had seen Myrddion’s eyes when the lad spoke of Vortigern, and had come to the decision that his great-grandson had a large heart, a clever mind and a sharp, unrelenting sense of justice.

‘I must return to Canovium, but I’d feel easier in my mind if I knew that the boy remained here and resumed his apprenticeship when he’s well enough. I have had news from the south that suggests we’ll soon be embroiled in Vortigern’s schemes, so I have some hard decisions to make.’

‘You needn’t fret on Myrddion’s account, my lord, for I’ll take good care of the boy.’

Melvig bit one gnarled thumb. ‘You must keep him out of politics, if you can. He hates Vortigern and we’ll all be required to make choices soon. Before Olwyn’s death, I received a messenger from Vortigern’s son Vortimer. It appears that the High King has upset Ambrosius Imperator, the king of the south, who has ambitions to take back the lands that Vortigern stole from him so long ago. I expect him to send men and siege machines to aid Vortimer to usurp Vortigern’s throne. No word of this must pass your lips to anyone else, Eddius, and I mean
anyone
. Vortigern would treat our involvement in these plots as treason, especially if any communication is intercepted. Personally, I don’t believe in writing messages, even if I could. I have no desire to have my head separated from my neck before I’m dead.’

Both men laughed, although Eddius’s eyes narrowed. Night and day, he dreamed hot murderous thoughts as he discarded one means of Vortigern’s death after another as being unworthy and painless compared with the loss of his Olwyn. Melvig must have caught some trace of his murderous thoughts, because he placed his age-spotted, arthritic hand on Eddius’s arm. That old hand still possessed surprising strength, although it shook a little with infirmity.

‘Do not consider it, Eddius. What would happen to your sons if you should try to kill Vortigern? What would happen to Myrddion? What retribution would be wreaked on the people of Segontium if you raised your hand against the High King? Think of Olwyn and her wishes, and hold your instincts at bay.’

‘That Vortigern lives while Olwyn sleeps in the cold earth is a travesty, Melvig, a hateful jest of the gods. He should pay for what he did.’

Eddius’s eyes burned hot, then cold, and Melvig was afraid, because such a depth of anger and grief was almost too great to be contained. Then, just when Melvig had decided that he would have to protect Eddius from himself, the younger man ran his hands through his hair and shook himself, as if to cast off the thoughts that threatened to consume him.

‘You’re right, Lord Melvig. Olwyn would demand that I protect all our boys, Myrddion included, rather than demand my revenge. I’ll not touch Vortigern while you live, nor while my boys are too young to protect themselves.’

‘Fair enough,’ Melvig replied slowly, his face still creased with worry. ‘Still, my old father lived by the adage that revenge is a dish that is best served cold. I’ll not hold you to this promise for life. If I were younger, and my kingdom were stronger, I’d raise my sword against Vortigern myself.’

Eddius tried to maintain a calm face, although he lusted to see Vortigern brought low, preferably at his own hands. ‘What will you do, my lord? Will you aid Vortimer?’

‘I will do nothing, Eddius. I meant it when I said that Vortigern will receive no tribute or troops from me. But a sensible man will sit on the wall and act only when the wind shows on which side the outcome will fall. No, I’ll send no help to either of them, for there’s bad blood in that family and Olwyn’s death lies heavily on my heart.’

‘May change come quickly,’ Eddius agreed, as the two men strode back to the scriptorium to sample the last of Olwyn’s special wine. Both knew that their safe, quiet world was at risk and their frail strength would be insufficient to save either the Deceangli clan or the quiet villa by the sea from the power struggles that would soon come to the north.

‘Who wants a quiet life anyway?’ Melvig demanded with a snaggle-toothed grin.

‘I do,’ Eddius replied with perfect truth, as he watched his boys returning from the sea cliff with Myrddion. The boys were cavorting like young lambs, as if a heavy load had been lifted from their childish shoulders, and Melvig prayed that war wouldn’t come to the villa to rob them of their childhood.

As they played, the weak sun disappeared behind banks of grey cloud and Eddius shivered in the sudden cold wind. ‘Snow’s coming,’ he murmured. ‘Time to put the shutters up on the villa and prepare for a long, bitter winter.’

‘And spring is likely to bring swords to our doors. Never fear, lad, Myrddion has a demon’s own luck, although now we know that he’s no demon’s seed. He’ll protect you and yours with his life.’

‘Aye!’ Eddius replied, and heard Olwyn whisper agreement in his ear. He hugged his arms to his body and remembered the sweet smell of his dead wife’s hair.

CHAPTER XIV

HEALER

Spring had come to Cornwall and the fields outside the city, already called Hengistdun, although King Gorlois flinched to hear a Saxon name given to his southern stronghold. Hengist had taken the town while carving a route through to the sea with his massive sword and the might of his Saxon followers. Gorlois had arrived too late to crush the interloper. Saxon feet had tainted this place, and the king’s rage knew no bounds when he was unable to call the invaders to account.

But Ygerne loved the place, the long sweeps of low hills crowned with oaks, beech trees and hazel, and would not willingly leave the pleasant fields in the winter and the spring.

Now, pregnant and dreamy, she wandered out into the morning, bored with the enforced captivity caused by her condition. Daisies, both white and yellow, bloomed in the long grasses, and spikes of bluebells and the shy buttercups of spring entranced her as she filled baskets with the wild flowers to sweeten her rooms. Her maids carried her bounty, and her flower face was wreathed in pleasure as the sun kissed her wonderful hair with streaks of gold.

When Gorlois rode out to find her, he felt his heart stop with love, just for a moment, in the perfect joy of a happy husband and father. Little Morgan saw him first and she cried out to her papa in her childish treble, throwing herself almost under the hooves of his destrier before Gorlois lifted her up into his strong brown arms.