Clash of Kings (56 page)

Regretfully, Myrddion shook his head. ‘No. I wish I could intercede with Death and give you a message from her, but that skill was taken from me when my mother brained me with a rock.’

An uncomfortable pause followed.

‘Do you ever think of killing Vortigern, Myrddion? I’ve often wondered how you could bear to serve him, when Olwyn’s blood stains his hands.’

‘I wish him dead every day, but I can’t risk the lives of my servants to wash away my guilt. Whether I succeeded or not, Vortigern’s kin would slay everyone close to me to discourage other men from regicide.’ The conversation was beginning to worry Myrddion. What was Eddius struggling to say? ‘Why do you ask, Eddius? You don’t plan to raise your own sword against Vortigern, do you? It would be a foolish venture. He is very careful, so he has decreed that no one who is armed is permitted to come near him. You would surely perish in any attempt at murder, as would your boys, while your death could plunge the Deceangli tribe into an unwinnable war.’

Eddius smiled a little recklessly, and Myrddion felt sick with anxiety. ‘Don’t fret, Myrddion. I won’t attack anyone, so my sons and my kinsmen will remain safe.’

Myrddion wasn’t comforted, even when Eddius embraced him warmly. When he looked away for a moment, Eddius slid into the crowd and made a hurried departure.

In the days of mourning that followed, Myrddion thought about the sword, the mystery of its origin and the names that he might bestow on it. No wiser than before, he ate and drank as was required and, a week later, he watched Melvyn ap Melvig’s coronation with pleasure. He dawdled away the last warm days of summer, luxuriating in the unfamiliar embrace of family, although Eddius made an excuse to return to Segontium early and Myrddion sincerely missed the most important male in his upbringing.

Before Eddius departed from Canovium, he drew Myrddion into the colonnade where the hazel tree danced in a faint breeze and ruffled the waters in the basin. Eddius’s face was twisted with a strong emotion that Myrddion initially failed to recognise.

‘Can I trust you, Myrddion?’

‘Aye, Eddius, you can trust me with your life. Why do you ask?’

‘I have been considering my mortality, son of my heart, and I beg you to care for my children should the gods call me to the shadows before they have grown to manhood.’

Myrddion’s winged brows drew down with concern. ‘You are still young, Eddius. Why should the gods call you into the Valley of Death?’

Eddius shrugged, but his face was blank with unshared secrets. ‘Promise me, Myrddion. I cannot trust them to the mercies of Branwyn and her husband.’

‘I swear that I will carry out your wishes, Eddius, but you’ll make old bones. Olwyn would never forgive me if I allowed anything to trouble you.’

Eddius grinned in his old careful fashion, but under the flash of teeth and warm, brown eyes Myrddion sensed a great sadness and a flood of unshed tears. He stirred awkwardly.

‘Good!’ Eddius exclaimed gruffly, and they spoke no more.

He was gone by morning.

Finally, after several weeks, Myrddion knew that he could tarry at Canovium no longer. Vortigern would be vexed and might take it into his head to punish Myrddion’s servants for his tardiness. With a man as unpredictable as the High King, all things were possible. With regret, Myrddion took his leave of King Melvyn ap Melvig, of Auntie Rhyll with her fierce lust for life, of Fillagh and Cletus One Ear, all faithful, loving and devoted kinsmen and women who warmed the healer’s lonely heart.

All that Myrddion needed now was to breathe the salty air of Segontium and the villa by the sea. He would sit on Olwyn’s bier and tell her all the wondrous and terrible things he had seen and done since her death. As the gulls wheeled overhead and the sea crept up the sand like white lace, he would look over towards Mona and wonder about his father. Perhaps Olwyn would have an answer that Myrddion could clutch to his heart. He hungered for his grandmother, but her abrupt, untimely death had stilled that warm communication for ever. Still, in the villa by the sea, he could remember the past.

The young healer told himself that he needed to borrow supplies from Annwynn, which was a reason for tardiness that Vortigern would understand, but he recognised that the smiles of his family had been seductive during his sojourn in Canovium. Segontium would renew his faith in himself and would wash away the accumulation of human vices and agonies that he had seen. At the very least, he would see Tegwen again and prove her odd prophecy was wrong.

He had only to ride those few extra miles and, perhaps, his path to the future might become clear.

CHAPTER XXII

THE BURNING MAN

Dinas Emrys sulked over the river valley that lay within a shell of great mountains. To the north-west, snow was already gleaming whitely on the highest mountains and Myrddion felt claustrophobic under their beetling, overpowering shoulders. The brief sojourn at Segontium had been unsatisfactory, for Eddius had not returned from Canovium, although the children had remembered their young kinsman and had climbed all over him with enthusiasm and affection.

Nor was Tegwen present, having been sent to Tomen-y-mur to mind Branwyn’s children during her absence at the funerary celebrations.

Without the calming good humour of Eddius or Olwyn, the villa by the sea was empty and echoing. Myrddion imagined that the beloved old building was being buried by shifting sand as the winds constantly scoured away the cliffs and the sharp sea grasses. For relief from his sorrow and disappointment, he had gone to Annwynn’s cottage.

With ease, Myrddion slipped back into the familiar role of apprentice. Boudicca was long dead, but the starving mongrel he had rescued years earlier had a new litter of pups and Myrddion luxuriated in proof that the life force in all things was strong and vigorous. Annwynn had welcomed him as if he had only left Segontium the day before, and had set him to work at once, collecting herbs and preparing her ointments, tisanes and unguents. Myrddion was quietly happy through that golden morning, as if he could return to the first days of his apprenticeship when his world was joyous. Eventually, laden down with supplies, and kissed again and again by Annwynn in farewell, Myrddion began the return journey into his unholy captivity as the healer for Vortigern’s army.

They had parted with many tears. Annwynn kissed the rings on his adult fingers and tried to find words that were adequate to express her pride in him. Unlike her usual voluble self, she was almost mute with the fullness of her heart, but her inability to express her feelings didn’t matter to Myrddion. He had known what his old mistress felt. He could read her eyes with empathy that was newly sharpened by his experiences at Canovium. On their parting, she had wept.

‘You’ve become a man, Myrddion, so you are free of your apprenticeship. Be the greatest healer in the world, but remember Hippocrates’ rule always. The world will tempt you because you are so able, but you’ll never fail as long as you remain true to yourself.’ She smiled up at the young man she had raised so well. ‘Now, get you gone, my dear one. Ride safely and believe that I’ll be here when you next return.’

Myrddion had ridden away with packed panniers, a full heart and an uneasy feeling that Eddius was in serious trouble.

After riding Vulcan all over the north, Myrddion had become a competent horseman by default, so the journey to Dinas Emrys was relatively uneventful in spite of the ghosts from his past whom he met on the journey. Hengist and the dead, cheerful Horsa seemed to share the road with his younger self, and where the track plunged off into the underbrush he remembered the cart in which Olwyn’s body had been returned to the bosom of her family. Dark in mood and assailed by the flail of memory, Myrddion was already sunk in gloom before he reached the glowering fortress.

Dinas Emrys was as bleak and as grey as it had been when he first saw it. The ruined tower still stood like a weathered, broken fang while a new structure had been erected at the other end of the fortress. Evidence of further construction was clearly visible in flagging, new stables and the many facilities that were essential to a functioning community. A working blacksmith, a commissary, storerooms and separate stone kitchens to guard against fire had all been raised around the skirts of Dinas Emrys.

Myrddion was a familiar and welcome face in Vortigern’s service, so he was ushered to the healers’ tents at the rear of the fortress with many friendly greetings from the king’s guard. The tents were raised on a ragged plateau at the base of a small incline, so that Myrddion was forced to look upwards towards the brooding walls of Dinas Emrys. Still, he relished what space there was between his tents and the fortress, for after his previous exposure to those grim, ugly walls Myrddion hated and feared the brooding, ancient citadel. His other sense whispered that dead things had left their imprints on Dinas Emrys, like the deathless malice that had sealed the stones of its foundations. Perhaps his prophecy was true, spoken aloud when he was only a boy, and dragons really battled under the fortress. Perhaps he simply loathed the place that had borne the stain of Olwyn’s blood.

Once he had greeted Cadoc, Finn and the widows who were the nucleus of his nursing circle, Myrddion sluiced his whole body in clean water to wash off the dust of the road. He dressed his hair and donned a new tunic preparatory to renewing his acquaintance with Vortigern after his long absence. His ruby shone on his forefinger like a single drop of blood, while his sunstone caught the last rays of the lord of light with the sunset’s brilliance. Fortified by these tangible proofs of family and love, he decided to face the High King with an open face.

‘Take your satchel with you, master,’ Cadoc warned. ‘Queen Rowena has become gravely ill during your absence and is like to die. We’ve given her purgative drugs, but nothing seems to work, so I’m convinced that she’s been poisoned. Be sure that Vortigern will expect you to return her to health, especially as you’ve been away and cannot be suspected of an attempt on her life.’

Myrddion felt as if a weight had suddenly settled on his widening shoulders, and his hopeful mood evaporated.

Vortigern must have been informed of Myrddion’s return, for a large warrior materialised outside the healer’s tent and summoned him to the presence of the king.

‘Don’t forget your satchel!’ Cadoc shouted, as he scooped up the leather bag and scrambled after his master. ‘Take care, for Vortigern is a madman, and he grows more irrational and bad-tempered every day.’

This last warning was whispered in his ear, and Myrddion nodded briefly in understanding, for he was fully aware of the streak of ruthless cruelty that dominated his master’s character. Who better to know Vortigern than a young man who had been offered in sacrifice to the High King’s power and hubris?

The king’s hall had barely changed, except for the addition of hangings and bench seating of the crudest kind. After the sun-drenched comfort of Canovium, the fortress was cheerless, cold and threatening, as if Dinas Emrys had taken on the spartan nature of its mountain location. No ornamentation softened the hard rock walls, while unprotected window openings let in the skirling autumn winds.

Surrounded by his guard, the king awaited him in the cold, grey space of the hall.

‘You’ve been over-long, healer, considering all you had to do was to remove a head. By the gods, I could have done it for you in a few seconds.’

Myrddion was vaguely alarmed by Vortigern’s nasty smile, which was obviously designed to threaten. He was certain that the High King had no intention of harming him personally, but would have no qualms about avenging himself on Cadoc or Finn. Myrddion smiled placably, and explained that the ceremonies associated with the death and coronation of the kings at Canovium had taken a considerable length of time.

‘Hmf! I have had need of you, healer. Queen Rowena is gravely ill and I fear for her life. You must use your powers to make her well again.’

‘I will give you my opinion as soon as I have examined her, my lord.’

Vortigern’s eyes were feral. They swivelled to impale the healer with a malignant glance of suspicion. ‘You cannot examine the queen. You are a man, so such an examination would destroy her honour.’

Myrddion showed his impatience in a frown of scorn that he quickly tried to hide. As reasonably and as calmly as he could, he tried to explain his needs.

‘I cannot treat her if I cannot examine her, my lord. You cannot have it both ways. Surely your wife can be chaperoned by her sons or her maidservants? How could I treat a warrior on the battlefield if I wasn’t permitted to see him or to touch him?’

Vortigern grumbled into his beard. The High King would have denied that any changes in his circumstances had affected his attitudes, but Myrddion sensed that some necessary vitality had been leached out of Vortigern’s spirit with the deaths of Vortimer and Catigern. Although he had been a vigorous man of fifty when Myrddion had first met him, something within the autocrat had weakened, if not broken. His decisiveness had fled, as had the zest that fuelled him during the campaign against Vortimer at Glevum.

This place is cursed, Myrddion thought, as Vortigern considered his options. It sucks the will from all those it touches.

‘You are the High King and what you decide is law,’ Myrddion added, pandering shamelessly to the High King’s arrogance. ‘But I cannot sit by if someone needs my assistance.’

The king shook his greying head and threw up both hands in unwilling submission. ‘Very well, healer, but I will show you the way.’

Given no real choice if he wished his wife to be treated, Vortigern rose to his feet and stalked off into the gloom of the hall with Myrddion trotting at his heels. The fortress was a simple structure, so the queen’s bedchamber was separated from the hall by only a few rooms and a narrow stairway. Its proportions were quite small, and when Myrddion followed Vortigern through the doorway the space seemed even more claustrophobic. A narrow bed with a large coffered clothes chest at its foot filled over half the room. The queen’s two sons sat on stools on her right side, the older boy stroking her forehead with a damp cloth. A maidservant with a clean bowl in her hands bustled around.