Clash of Kings (33 page)

Any journey by cart is slow, tedious and painful, for every muscle and bone seems to be jolted out of place by the slow-moving wooden wheels. The farm cart that Eddius lent to Myrddion was even more cumbersome than usual, for it lacked even a flat bed, having been built in a large V-shape to store grain or hay for transport. The two healers wrapped their fragile tools of trade in blankets of wool for protection, but nothing could shield their bodies from the jouncing, cruel ruts in the country tracks that led them towards Vortigern’s encampment.

Three days of painful travel brought them to a low rise overlooking the ordered chaos of an army in the field. It was an easily defended site with excellent water and fodder, protected from the worst of the weather by a low cup of hillocks.

‘Vortigern’s an excellent tactician,’ Annwynn murmured, as she gazed down at the defensive positions laid out in concentric circles like the layers of an onion, designed to protect the core which was the area occupied by Vortigern’s tents.

An unnatural stillness seemed to hang over the bivouac. There was scarcely any movement, and the most noticeable signs of life were the birds of prey that hovered over the camp in dense clouds. On the edge of the encampment, where the midden was situated, gulls fought and screamed over the scraps left by the men. Scavengers of a more ominous type flapped and stalked through ash and mounds of turned earth a little way removed from the main encampment, and Myrddion guessed at the grim purpose of this sheltered area. The long lines of privies were situated downwind from the lines of accommodation tents, well away from the sources of drinking water, and Myrddion accepted that Vortigern had set out his bivouac with intelligence and experience.

Nevertheless, ravens, rooks and crows waited in every tree, hungry for carrion. Myrddion shuddered and slapped the long reins against the horse’s withers. A miasma seemed to hang in the air and a faint, sweet scent came drifting into the healer’s nostrils as the cart moved slowly forward.

‘We’ll have our work cut out for us in this place,’ Annwynn murmured. ‘I hope that Aesculpius and the gods of healing stand with us today.’

But the birds knew better than to cease their long and patient wait. Death had come to the vale, and no puny healers had the power to put aside his dreadful sword.

CHAPTER XV

IN THE VALE OF PAIN

Far away, in a place of hazel trees and sweet running water, Gorlois held his wife’s arm firmly as they stepped carefully down a natural staircase of mossy rock towards the rushing stream below. One huge tree had fallen and blocked their path halfway down the long, spiral descent, and someone had carved a trough out of a piece of sandstone that collected a steady trickle from the springs in the hillside. Delightedly, Ygerne had drunk a little of the sweet water from her husband’s cupped hands. The air was full of the sounds of busy insects and the rustling of leaves in the light breeze.

‘How beautiful it is here,’ Ygerne murmured, gazing upward at the golden, dappled light. ‘We are so close to Tintagel, but the fierce winds don’t reach this gentle valley. Thank you for bringing me here, for I feel a weight has been lifted from my heart.’

Gorlois kissed her palm and Ygerne could feel all his love in this simple act of affection.

‘Ah! Here we are at the bottom of the stairs,’ he said softly, but his voice still seemed too loud in this holy place.

The stream ran quickly but shallowly over glistening pebbles. Ygerne sat on a mossy log near the water’s edge and removed her sandals. The texture of the wood beneath her thighs was rough, ancient and comforting, and she saw a narrow ray of sunlight pierce the trees to glimmer in the clean, living stream.

‘Where are the falls, husband? My heart aches to see them and feel the goddess touch my feet through the waters.’

‘Take my hand and I’ll lead you to them.’

Ygerne lifted her skirts, placed one hand in Gorlois’s warm, rough clasp and waded into the shallows. Around a bend in the stream, husband and wife hugged the bank until they reached a deeper pool that was fed by a low waterfall backed by huge hazel trees.

Ygerne gasped and even Gorlois, who had seen Brigid’s Fountain before, was struck anew by the presence of the goddess in this sacred, secret world. Over untold aeons, the water had eaten a circular hole through a great round boulder through which it gushed with a sweet, powerful sound. Below that stone was another, also pierced by the water, so the symbols of the fertility goddess were there for any eyes to see.

‘The air is charged with Brigid’s presence,’ Ygerne murmured. ‘This place belongs to women, and the touch of the goddess pierces my heart. My children will be great, for so she promises me.’

Once again, Gorlois kissed her palm and the blue veins of her wrist, fearing to break the music of flowing water with a masculine voice. He shivered slightly, ankle-deep in the waters that seemed to purify even his bloodied soul, and he prayed that Brigid would not find him wanting in piety.

Time slowed. Whether they stood below the falls for ten minutes, or half a day, neither husband nor wife could later decide, but when they turned to leave the sacred place its beauty had settled into their souls. The waters had given them the briefest glimpse of the huge, immutable passivity of nature that blesses the good and curses the wicked, with neither malice nor regret. For the goddess simply is – and no rational person will question the gifts of the gods when they stoop to bless us.

As the healer’s wagon lurched down from the hill, a cavalry officer and a dozen foot soldiers appeared out of nowhere, encircling the healers with drawn swords that threatened exposed throats. Calmly, and without obvious fear, Myrddion lifted his open hands to show that he was unarmed, while Annwynn untied the loose scarf that protected her plaited hair from the dusty roadways.

‘Who are you and what is your purpose in coming to this vale?’ the tall leader snapped, his eyes searching constantly for concealed weapons or any other signs of possible treachery.

‘I am Annwynn, healer of Segontium, and this young man is Myrddion, my apprentice. One of your cavalrymen, Ceolfrith of Deva, reached Segontium with a putrid wound. When we returned him to health, he begged our assistance for the injured and dying among Vortigern’s army. We came to assist your men, as our vows demand.’

Annwynn’s simple explanation had the ring of truth, but these dour, stark-eyed men trusted no one and nothing. The healers were ordered to unpack every item from the wagon, and the warriors would have pawed their way through the boxes and caused damage to their supplies had Myrddion not intervened.

‘Can you see any weapons? Have you the eyes to recognise aught but herbs, scrolls filled with medical knowledge, bandages and these surgical knives? Do you seriously believe that I could pit myself against your sword with this scalpel?’

The warrior examined the small, shining blade with interest. The haft of the scalpel was also made of iron, but the metal was scored to prevent the grip of the surgeon from slipping in bloodied hands. The burly warrior gave a small shudder, more than half convinced by Myrddion’s indignation.

‘Still, King Vortigern must decide. It is not so long since we were foully ambushed after a truce had been agreed, so you can surely understand our caution when strangers come into our bivouac.’

‘I understand, but are you so over-blessed with healers that you can afford to turn us away? We journeyed three days from Segontium to offer our skills to your suffering comrades.’

One of the foot soldiers, a man with a nasty burn extending from his cheekbone down into the collar of his bull-hide cuirass, squinted up at Myrddion and offered the obvious solution.

‘King Vortigern will know what to do,’ he said. ‘Let him decide. There are too many good lads dying to ignore help because of a fear of betrayal.’

Myrddion winced as the foot soldier grimaced painfully with the movement of his facial muscles as he spoke. ‘If Vortigern permits us to stay, come to see me immediately. Your burns need treatment, and quickly. What is your name?’

‘I am Cadoc, from the Forests of Dean. Aye, master. If the king permits you to go to the place of healing, I will come to you.’

The man’s face was saturnine where the flesh was not angry, split and swollen, but Myrddion had been attracted to a pair of warm brown eyes that sparked with intelligence. He was glad, now, that he had chosen to join Annwynn in their mission of mercy.

‘Don’t fear to leave your kit unprotected,’ Cadoc added with more cheerfulness than Myrddion could have summoned with such a burn. ‘I will stay and guard it, personal-like, having an interest in seeing it kept safe.’

‘Thanks, friend Cadoc,’ Annwynn answered, a warm smile enlivening her plain face. ‘I hope we will be brief.’

‘My lady,’ Cadoc responded and bowed, much to Annwynn’s blushing confusion.

The cavalry officer led the healers on foot through the bivouac, where they saw at first hand that few men were completely unmarked. Myrddion wondered aloud why soldiers such as Cadoc, and innumerable others who struggled to clean kit and man the cooking fires, should avoid the tents of the healers.

A strange calm hung over the encampment. Small groups of men shared simple tents of leather or waxed cloth, and these companions kept themselves occupied by cleaning their area, polishing and honing their kit and cooking what foodstuffs they collected or could scavenge. King Vortigern’s provisioner issued barley, oats and wheat each week, but the warriors found their own nettles, wild turnips or small beasts that were trapped or brought down in the hunt.

Normally, an army is a hive of activity, but Vortigern’s men were unnaturally quiet and a number were lying in their tents under the care of their compatriots. Despair and pain were almost tangible figures, sitting at campfires or stalking in the wake of the healers.

‘It doesn’t bode well, lad. It doesn’t bode well at all. The quiet and the stink tell me that the situation here is far worse than Ceolfrith suggested,’ Annwynn hissed quietly through her teeth. ‘You must hold your temper when you confront Vortigern, for both our sakes. He will be very angry and frustrated after his experiences with Vortimer so he’s likely to want to separate our heads from our necks. Keep your mouth shut, if possible, and remember our purpose here is to heal the wounded, not argue with the king.’

Unwillingly, Myrddion acknowledged the wisdom of Annwynn’s warning, but he still doubted his ability to look Vortigern in the eye without showing his hatred. He prayed to the Mother to give him the compassion to treat Vortigern as a man who was suffering from the betrayal of his sons.

Vortigern’s tent was large and gaudily painted, and sited at the very centre of the bivouac. Huge timber poles, gilded and decorated to add to the beauty of the structure, held up the hides, which were decorated with mythical beasts and strange mystical shapes that Myrddion recognised as runes from his experiences at Dinas Emrys. Inside the tent, woollen mats had been placed over the sod to provide a softer, dryer surface for the king’s feet, while the furnishings included a raised pallet with fine fabrics that served as Vortigern’s sleeping arrangements, folding tables and simple stools, which all pointed to a practical but luxurious environment. In the very centre of the tent, Vortigern sat with his feet resting on a stool, brooding over a fine leather map.

The king raised his head like a striking snake. How odd, Myrddion thought. The old man’s smallest, most innocent actions always seem to be infused with a deadly intent.

‘Who are these odd people?’ he muttered. ‘Why do you interrupt me to bring them here?’

Vortigern’s temper was uneven, so the cavalryman took an involuntary step backward. Annwynn moved forward with as much grace as she possessed, and bowed low to the erstwhile High King.

‘Your highness, we are healers from Segontium, and we have come to your bivouac to offer our skills and to assist your physicians. We were told by a patient, a cavalryman called Ceolfrith, that your healers were stretched to breaking point and needed assistance to treat the wounded who survived an ambush inflicted on your army.’

Vortigern absorbed Annwynn’s words, but his attention was focused on Myrddion’s down-turned face. ‘I know you. Who are you and where have you come from?’

Anger bubbled up into the young man’s throat. He closed his eyes as he tried to compose himself, but he found the discipline very difficult. Then he raised his head, and Vortigern gripped the beaker in his hand so hard that his knuckles gleamed white in the dim light. Irrelevantly, Annwynn feared that the precious horn beaker would smash under the strain.

‘I know those eyes! Who are you?’

‘I am Myrddion, my lord. I am the Demon Seed!’

‘Shite!’ The crudity hung coarsely on the still air and the king’s guard suppressed automatic shock at their master’s response. ‘I thought you were dead, but I suppose it’s difficult to kill the son of a demon. You’ve grown taller.’

‘Aye, lord.’ Myrddion’s response was brief. The less he said, the more likely he was to keep his temper and avoid alienating Vortigern. ‘I have studied hard to master the healer’s craft since we last met. Annwynn is my teacher, and she is a famed and a highly skilled practitioner of herbal lore. I have been her apprentice since I was nine years of age.’

Smiling, Annwynn interrupted her young charge.

‘Lord, my apprentice is too modest. He reads Latin and Greek and has studied the skills of the battle surgeons who served in the Roman legions. I have taught him everything I know, but his abilities surpass all my skills. Our most earnest desire is to save the lives of our countrymen. We can sense their suffering in the corruptive stink that fills the air, and have seen the birds that wait to feed on the flesh of dead and dying men.’

‘Very well. I’d be a poor commander if I turned away those who might save the lives of my men – but I will be watching you, Myrddion. Your eyes tell me that you still wish me harm. You have heard, no doubt, that my son has stolen my beloved wife Rowena, and hopes to use my love for her to force me to capitulate. I am grateful that her sons were safely at Caer Fyrddin when she was taken, since Vortimer and Catigern undoubtedly see them as a threat. The boys have since been moved for their own protection, but I remain constantly on my guard against treachery.’