Clash of Kings (53 page)

‘Why didn’t you say so?’ Myrddion snapped, breaking into a run that left the shorter, heavier warrior far in his wake. When he reached the gaudy tent of the High King, he skidded to a halt, straightened his long black hair and slid through the flap.

Vortigern was seated with his wife and his two remaining sons, Vengis and Katigern. The boys were close in age to Myrddion and eyed the famed healer with nervous, admiring eyes. Both were strong, deep-chested lads, taking their features from their mother rather than the High King, but Myrddion perceived a streak of wilfulness and recklessness in the elder boy’s eyes. Vengis was passionate, clever and, in his manly way, quite beautiful.

‘You required my presence, my lord?’ Myrddion asked, carefully hiding his irritation.

‘A very odd message has come from Canovium, via your kin at Segontium. I’m sorry to inform you that Melvig ap Melwy has died, but he breathed his last in his sleep so his death was a gentle one. Your great-grandfather was very old, I believe – almost a Methuselah, as the Christian priests would say.’

‘He was nearly seventy years,’ Myrddion replied with a frisson of pride.

‘Venerable.’ Vortigern sighed with approval, as if reaching a great age was a sign of considerable virtue. Myrddion remembered his great-grandfather’s sharp, vindictive eyes and sardonic grin. He considered the old man’s prideful, arrogant ways and then concluded that virtue was one character flaw that Melvig would never have accused himself of. The old man was far too pragmatic for virtue and loved life far too passionately.

‘The message was sent to you by the old king when he realised that his health was failing. He reminds you of a promise you made to him that his head should part company with his shoulders under your blade. I have no idea what Melvig means by such a message, but some kin of yours . . . Eddius? . . . yes, Eddius . . . seems to think that you will understand.’

‘Aye, your majesty, I do. My great-grandfather followed the ancient customs of his people, so he commanded me to strike his head from his body after his death to allow his soul to be set free. He believed that I would carry out his instructions properly.’

‘How very strange!’ Queen Rowena murmured, her blue eyes blank and almost doll-like in the light of the perfumed oil lamps. Myrddion shivered when he glanced into those lambent eyes, which no longer possessed any trace of the proud queen of Dinas Emrys or Glevum. Something had changed in her, or had been forcibly removed.

‘A barbaric custom, my dear,’ Vortigern explained. ‘Long discarded by most of our people, especially by those cautious men who are nervous about being beheaded while they are still alive. Not all of us have a noted healer as a kinsman.’

‘I will need to leave at once, my king. Melvyn ap Melvig will be eager to lay his father to rest. He has ruled in all but name for several years.’

Vortigern examined Myrddion’s face for any sign of regret or sorrow and was surprised to discover that Myrddion seemed almost cheerful. Suspicious as always, he shot a narrow glance in the direction of his healer. Vortigern rarely allowed the smallest inconsistency to pass his notice.

‘I’m astonished that you don’t appear to mourn the passing of your liege lord and kinsman.’

‘I liked King Melvig, both as a man and as a kinsman. After all, he permitted me, a bastard, to live in his daughter’s house where I was loved and nurtured. Whatever I desired, he allowed me to have, so I will remember him with great fondness. But how could I mourn the passing of a man who has lived for the full span of his life and had only a slow decline into feebleness before him? I pray that if I should live so long I also might die gracefully and without regret, like my great-grandfather.’

Queen Rowena roused herself from the torpor that had seemed to consume her since the siege of Glevum had been lifted.

‘I understand, healer. We don’t weep for our heroes either. Nor for the elderly who have drunk their full measure from the cup of life. Any tears we shed are for ourselves.’

Vortigern coughed to cover the awkward little gap in the conversation caused by Rowena’s odd comment. Her elder son moved a little closer to her and placed one arm protectively round her shoulders.

‘Then you’d better be off, healer. But don’t think to leave my employ, not until after the summer campaign in the south. I fully expect Ambrosius to come knocking at my door in the next few months.’

Myrddion merely nodded. Even the promise of his father’s name was insufficient incentive to bring him back to King Vortigern’s side once he had broken free.

‘In case you choose to stay at home rather than re-join me at Dinas Emrys, I will be keeping your assistants, your servants and your scrolls with me as hostage. Never fear, for I’ll ensure that your possessions are safe. If the High King cannot guarantee the protection of your property, who can? I’ll be waiting for you at my fortress. I’m sure you remember the way.’

Then Vortigern laughed in that patronising, sneering fashion that Myrddion hated with all his heart. The cruel humour caused Queen Rowena to flinch and the healer wondered what was amiss. What else could he do but bow his head and back away from the High King and his family? He seethed with disappointment and chagrin at Vortigern’s high-handedness, but there was nothing he could say to change the king’s mind. Better he should save his breath.

The next morning, on a swift bay horse he could barely control, Myrddion rode away from Caer Fyrddin without even the time to seek out his great-aunt or his other kin. As he gave the dancing horse its head with some misgiving, the beast heaved its way up the steep track leading from the river towards the old Roman fortress. Thick forest furred the hills before the road veered away towards the northwest, and Vortigern’s encampment became a small flutter of coloured banners and ant-like activity around smaller squares of tents. With one last backward glance, Myrddion turned his face towards the long, arduous journey home.

The young man reached Tomen-y-mur on a hot day when the sight of the sea in the distance made him hungry for home, so it was with regret that he bypassed Segontium and took the direct route through the mountains to Canovium, arriving via a poorly maintained track that wound through the close, flinty foothills. Myrddion’s horse had ceased to fight him for ascendancy once they reached the mountains, and the gelding now plodded along the ill-defined track with its head held low and every line of its body speaking of resignation and weariness. Tired, stiff in the flanks and sore in the backside from the beast’s spine, Myrddion almost fell off the bay when he reached the king’s hall.

Melvig ap Melwy had lived in some state in a wooden structure that served the multiple purpose of palace, judgement hall and warrior accommodation. In the town, the doors of the simple conical cottages were firmly shut, although night had not yet come, the lintels festooned with bunches of herbs, amulets and other charms to propitiate the powerful spirit of the dead king. No one in Canovium would feel completely safe until the old king’s spirit was sent to the Otherworld, no matter how great the respect and the love that had been accorded to Melvig during his lifetime.

Myrddion handed his reins to an ostler, giving instructions that the gelding should be stabled and cared for after its long labours. During the journey, Myrddion had developed an odd affection for the horse, which he had named Vulcan after the Roman god of the forge fires, a name that suited its temperament. Once the bay was led away to be watered and fed, Myrddion squared his shoulders and mounted the three stone steps leading to Melvig’s judgement hall at the top of the broad, flagged forecourt.

The hall had been decorated and beautified during Melvig ap Melwy’s long reign. The great slabs of wood that formed the door posts, and the massive lintel across them, had been heavily carved with serpentine interlace, and even Myrddion’s quick eyes couldn’t discern either the beginning or the end of the complex patterns. Melvig had loved brightly coloured displays, so the complex, incised designs were coloured with red ochre, yellow pigment and even the deep blue of woad. Some craftsman had touched up the paintwork when Melvig died, so the design stood forth from the weathered wood of the hall in a brave display of defiance. Even from the shadows of death, the old king continued to thumb his nose at time and fate.

Myrddion paused at the doors and traced the interlacing pattern. A serpent, a worm-like dragon, a ribbon of light – all the symbols swam together in the healer’s mind and each image reflected an aspect of Melvig’s personality. With one hand resting on the carving, Myrddion paused and remembered his great-grandfather. As complex as the decoration, Melvig had been fair, irascible, joyous, stern and prone to fits of rage. Yet Myrddion remembered the old man with affection and was proud that he shared bloodlines with such a redoubtable character. Sadness tugged at his chest and constricted his breathing, although he accepted Melvig’s easy death as a cause for rejoicing.

He struck the doors with the palms of both hands and the heavy wood swung silently inward. With one part of his mind, Myrddion noticed that the large bronze hinges had been freshly oiled, another mark of respect by nameless servants. Inside, darkness enfolded him, relieved only by strategic oil lamps that burned precious oils giving off no trace of the fishy smell that Melvig had detested. The few narrow windows had been covered with brightly coloured woollen hangings so that no natural light disturbed the rest of the king of the Deceangli.

The body had been placed on a cloth-draped table. The king’s remains had been dressed in his finest armour and a cloak of exceptional magnificence that had been woven by Olwyn during her youth. As Myrddion approached his kinsman, he remembered Olwyn’s loom and the brilliant reds and greens that she had used to dye spun wool. He felt tears form in his eyes and brushed them away impatiently.

So much had been lost in the inevitable passage of the years. Even these sharp, painful memories would pass.

A shadowy figure waited in the darkness at the back of the judgement hall, and Myrddion moved forward to pay his last respects to the man who had decided every major event in his young life.

Melvig had been dead for over a week, so the many flowers and scented oils were needed to mask the sweet, cloying smell of corruption. Inside the hall, darkened and cooled by the stone floors, and ventilated by the open windows behind the hangings, his grandfather’s body had not swelled into gross, rotting ugliness. Rather, the strong face had fallen in and the waxy skin shone tightly over the powerful bones at his forehead, his cheekbones and the beak of his nose. Melvig’s mouth had sunk and his strong jaw was thrust forward so that his face was a study in light and shade, as inhuman as the carvings on his doorway. The face spoke of strength, power and pride, and Myrddion marvelled once more how death smoothed away the lines of a long and autocratic life.

Moved, he bent and kissed Melvig’s hand, noting that the king’s great ruby ring had been taken from his finger. Then the healer lifted a fold of Olwyn’s cloak and kissed the fine weaving, trying to inhale some trace of his grandmother’s perfume from the material. But it was gone, lost in the lonely years since her death.

Unsettled and saddened, Myrddion backed away from the body and walked respectfully towards the shadowy figure at the rear of the room. A warrior dressed in full battle gear stepped out of the darkness and bowed his head very low, as if to a king.

‘The family awaits you in the dining chamber, Lord Myrddion. Please follow me.’

They passed through a door concealed by another hanging and Myrddion’s eyes were dazzled by light that flooded the colonnade leading to the king’s private apartments. A hazel tree had grown from seed beside a fountain that had not worked for fifty years, yet such was Melvig’s piety that every day its basin was filled with clear, pure water so that the tree shed its nuts directly into the standing pool. Strange shapes seemed to stir in the shallow depths as Myrddion paused to trail his fingers through the water, and then plunged his tired face into its coolness. Despite his scepticism, he felt the weariness of his journey drain away with the runnels of water that poured off his skin. Unconsciously, he chose not to drink a drop of the holy water, not yet.

Melvig’s eldest son, Melvyn, greeted Myrddion at the entrance to the dining hall. Melvyn was old, nearly as ancient as his father had been when Myrddion was born, but he was smaller than his sire and much darker, although his hair was almost white. Enfolded in his great-uncle’s arms, Myrddion felt the pull of kinship.

When he had made his obeisance to the new king, Myrddion looked round the massed crowd of kinfolk and mourners. Branwyn turned her face away from him, but even in profile her features were pinched, sallow and old, although she had lived for barely twenty-nine years. Her body had thickened with childbirth, and no trace of her lithe, childhood fecklessness remained. Myrddion felt old and sad at her obvious, unrelenting enmity.

Then, from out of the press of women, a small, plump form rushed at him and embraced him with pleasure and affection. All he could really see of her was her long braided hair, but he dimly remembered her smell, composed of newly baked bread, milk and sweet earth. A man with a balding head and one ragged ear stood proudly watching the small tableau of welcome, and Myrddion recognised him with a rush of affection.

‘Aunt Fillagh and Uncle Cletus! How wonderful to see you again. I still wear your amulet, Cletus, with pride and gratitude. I had hoped to meet you again when I was at Caer Fyrddin, but news of our king’s death called me north.’

‘Let me look at you, boy,’ Fillagh enthused. ‘So young and so fair! And so tall! How the young ladies will love you – if they don’t already. Hasn’t he grown tall, Cletus? Why, I swear he’ll be far more impressive than even Melvig, our lord, who was a man of exceptional height. And your beautiful hair! I am jealous, indeed I am!’

Cletus stepped forward, extricated Myrddion from his wife’s stranglehold and gripped his hand firmly.

‘We’ve heard of your learning and your position in the court of High King Vortigern. It is said that he depends on your skills as a healer and will not stir without you. We always knew that you were marked for greatness, when the sun god claimed you and the snakes of the Mother embraced you as well. We have been proud of your achievements, but dear Olwyn would have burst with love and admiration if she had lived to see your triumph.’