Clash of Kings (10 page)

Cletus handed the gem to Olwyn and she placed it on her index finger. It was so loose that a careless movement would have caused it to fall, but she saw the crude workmanship, and noted that the ruby had been cut with confidence so that a small fire burned in its heart.

‘It’s perfect!’ she murmured. ‘It is just what is needed for Myrddion’s bulla. I have a suitable thong, and when he is older a chain will keep it safe round his throat. I hope he’ll want to wear it one day.’

‘Branwyn wasn’t pleased,’ Cletus warned.

‘No. But my boy will be protected by his bulla. I’ll call for the priest tomorrow and Myrddion will be promised to the sun, and to Ceridwen, who is my ancestor. Perhaps, between both of the deities, we can keep him safe.’

Cletus loved dispensing hospitality, so Fillagh couldn’t convince her husband to curb his generous spirit. The next evening, several cronies and their wives came to the dun-coloured villa bearing birth gifts for the babe, eager to see the sun priest welcome the latest child into the life of the family.

Of necessity, the priest was paid lavishly to give the simple ceremony a cachet of legitimacy, because Branwyn refused to attend the rite. As Fillagh pointed out to her sister, the fiction of Olwyn as Myrddion’s mother was even more firmly imprinted on the lives of the residents of Moridunum. Olwyn, however, couldn’t be happy with the situation. Her daughter continued to insist that her son did not exist, when she wasn’t cursing the child with all manner of terrible fates. Cletus heaved a sigh of relief when the ring was finally tied around Myrddion’s neck on a narrow thong.

Even more frightening for Olwyn was her fear that Branwyn might ensure that the infant did, indeed, disappear into the shadows of death. Late one afternoon, as Olwyn stitched a tiny robe contentedly in the atrium, she was alerted by a sudden, affronted and lusty cry from her grandson, which was immediately muffled. Leaping to her feet and running pell-mell to the room she shared with Branwyn, Olwyn found her daughter bent over Myrddion’s wicker basket. A small lambswool pillow was clamped over the infant’s face and his plump legs and arms were pumping like water wheels in his distress.

‘What are you doing, Branwyn?’ Olwyn asked sharply, one hand wrestling for the pillow.

Branwyn raised her dreamy eyes to meet those of her mother. ‘Nothing. The child was crying, and I wanted him to stop.’

‘Will I be forced to constantly watch you, daughter? The child may cause you to remember a time of pain and torment, but he’s never done harm to you.’

Olwyn’s face was wide with shock and dawning horror as she considered the difficulties that would lie ahead if she needed to keep her grandson safe from the murderous instincts of her daughter. The late afternoon sun slanted through the room’s wooden shutters and barred Branwyn’s face with lines of light and shadow. Something secretive, sleepy and sly on that face almost stopped Olwyn’s tongue.

Myrddion cried fretfully, as if he understood that his world was dangerous and poisoned with hatred. Olwyn picked him up and cradled him close to her breast, while her darkened eyes tried to pierce her daughter’s dream-like calm.

‘You must stay away from the babe, Branwyn. You may even consider him as your brother if that fantasy eases your heart, but infanticide is a dreadful and unforgivable crime. You would be killed out of hand and I couldn’t save you. Please, daughter, stay away from the child!’

Branwyn smiled distantly and curled up on her pallet, pulled the woollen coverlet over her folded body and fell quickly into sleep.

Olwyn sought out her sister. She was obsessed with a sense of impending disaster.

‘What am I to do, Fillagh? How can I watch the babe every moment of the day? Nor can I cast Branwyn off, for she’s been raped and is a little mad. Perhaps Ceridwen protects her by clouding the truth in her brain, but whatever justification she has, I must protect my grandson from her hatred.’

Always tender-hearted, Cletus bustled off to organise some spiced wine for the women. Fillagh used her thumb to smooth away the tears that came so easily now to the eyes of her sister.

‘After the solstice, you must return to Segontium, Olwyn. You’ve been gone for nearly a year now, and Father will be at your door as soon as you return.’

Olwyn blanched and tightened her arms around Myrddion while the child twisted his body to examine her face with his lustrous black eyes.

‘What will I tell him? How will I keep my boy safe from his anger?’

‘Tell him the truth, silly! Father will sniff out lies like a starving dog. He’ll know if you try to fool him, so make him your ally. You know how he loves to be consulted for his wisdom.’

Olwyn nodded, but she stroked Myrddion as if he was under threat. ‘Branwyn must be married off. Father will insist on it, for the sake of his honour. Then Myrddion will be safe, for she will be forced to live with her husband. Perhaps it’s just what my poor daughter needs to leave the past behind her. Perhaps she’ll forget the ugliness of her ordeal when she holds another babe in her arms.’

Cletus returned, bearing with exaggerated care a tray on which goblets and a bowl of sweetmeats balanced precariously.

‘Thank you, husband.’ Fillagh smiled triumphantly, as if she had solved some dreadful problem with minimal effort. ‘You always reward me so well for my best ideas.’

‘But what of Myrddion?’ Olwyn whispered. ‘Father will kill him for sure!’

‘Just look at the babe, my dear,’ Cletus interrupted. ‘What man wouldn’t welcome such a strong youth into his family? Myrddion is a beautiful boy.’ He smiled fondly and Myrddion rewarded his uncle with a brilliant smile, while both women looked at the burly farmer with barely concealed incredulity. ‘What? Have I said something peculiar?’

‘You only met my father once, but surely you realised, perhaps as he was cutting off your ear, that he’s not overly sentimental. He won’t care what little Myrddion looks like.’ Fillagh gave her husband’s vestigial ear a little tweak.

‘Then tell him that the boy’s the child of a demon. I’m certain that Branwyn would swear to the truth of that if Melvig tortured her. Perhaps he’s superstitious.’

Both women sighed gustily. As a plan, it was as good as any other, but neither woman placed much trust in the mercy of their cantankerous sire.

One further incident marred the quiet weeks before Olwyn and Branwyn left the sanctuary of Caer Fyrddin. Olwyn owed much to the goddess, she felt, so she and Fillagh took the infant Myrddion to a Roman temple that had originally been dedicated to the earth goddess. Now it had become the temple of the goddess of knowledge and beyond her of Don whose name should not be spoken, the Mother of the Celts.

The building was small and much damaged by time. Several columns had collapsed and had been dragged away by provident farmers for use in other projects. The portico was ruined and had collapsed. The tiny, whitewashed building had no windows and only a single wooden door, before which were placed several bowls of rancid milk for the snakes that were permitted to inhabit the temple. As winter now held the land in its iron grip, the reptiles were safely in hibernation.

At first, Olwyn had been dismayed by the dingy little building, and had been convinced that Ceridwen and the Mother would reject such a mean place of worship. But then, during a regimen of earnest prayers, Olwyn had sworn she felt the touch of the Mother in her mind, so now she faced the mud-coloured walls and the silvery spider-webs lurking in its darkened corners with more faith. Still, as she laid Myrddion down on the sun-warmed stones at the entrance to play with a small ball of cloth, she longed to take a birch broom to clean and sweep fresh air into the sanctuary.

Olwyn and Fillagh had barely begun a long chant in Ceridwen’s honour when Myrddion began to giggle loudly. At first, the sisters continued with their worship, but the child’s laughter rose in happy chuckles that intruded into their prayers.

With a sigh of irritation, Olwyn rose to her feet and grinned apologetically at her sister. She moved quietly to the forecourt, and would have lifted the child into her arms had she not been warned by a sibilant hiss that caused the hair to rise on her arms. She halted, hardly daring to breathe.

‘What ails you, sister?’ Fillagh asked, her eyes saucer-shaped as she stared at Olwyn’s rigid, terrified body.

‘The serpents!’ Olwyn hissed herself. ‘The serpents have come into the sun!’

Hardly daring to breathe lest she should alarm the snakes, Olwyn shuffled round the doorway until she faced the laughing infant. Somewhere behind her, she sensed the presence of her sister and heard indrawn breath as Fillagh absorbed the scene before them.

Myrddion sat on the flagstones with the ball on his lap forgotten. Bright as bronze coins with the sunlight glittering on their scales, two serpents coiled about his arms and kissed his baby face with their flickering tongues. The child clapped his hands and Olwyn almost fainted with horror. Surely the serpents would strike at him, alarmed by the sudden movement.

‘Mother, bless us!’ Fillagh breathed, and Olwyn felt her feet swept away from under her. On her knees, she stared at the startling tableau with tears pouring down her cheeks.

The serpents sensed the vibration in the flagging as Olwyn fell to her knees, and turned their flat eyes towards her. Curling their bodies sensuously about the child’s arms, they dropped their heads towards his legs, their tongues testing the air as they moved. Then, with final kisses to Myrddion’s sensitive feet, they slithered away into apertures in the paving, leaving the child and the sisters alone on the temple forecourt. The weak sun disappeared behind a bank of cloud and the humans shivered in a sudden rush of cold.

Released from her terror, Olwyn staggered to her feet and snatched up her grandson. He squirmed in her tight embrace and began to wail thinly at the loss of his playmates.

‘The child is blessed – or cursed!’ Fillagh whispered. ‘What woman can understand such portents?’ Her eyes were wild with nervous tension and she stared at Myrddion as if he had suddenly grown two heads.

‘He’s only a baby, Fillagh, so how could he be cursed?’ Olwyn retorted with desperate urgency. ‘The sun has accepted him.’

‘But so have the serpents of the goddess. What man can dwell between the day of the warrior and the night of the Mother? How may such a thing be, unless Branwyn is correct and his father is truly a demon?’

‘No more, Fillagh! Say nothing further that will lie between us like a curse in the years to come. You should be thanking Ceridwen that she saved Myrddion from the snakes, not blaming him for being unscathed.’

Fillagh looked out over the wild valley where she could see the river rushing towards the sea and the fat sheep that grazed on the green flanks of the hills. The sun was a weak, white ghost in the winter haze, but its warmth eased the chill of the earth that rose through the flagstones and upwards into her chilled feet. She felt her sister’s hand rest on her plump shoulder, as gentle as the caress of a mother.

‘I love you, Fillagh, and I owe you so much for the shelter and protection that you have given to my family. I cannot remain angry with you, even for five minutes, so forgive me if I have insulted you. Perhaps you’re right . . . but little Myrddion is important for reasons that I do not understand, yet feel in my heart to be true. And I love him, Fillagh, more than I ever loved Branwyn.’

So, with much regret, and floods of tears from Fillagh, the small family left Moridunum as another spring came slowly to the river valley. Cletus One Ear was miserable and hugged Branwyn again and again, promising her a warm welcome if she returned.

When the oxen took the weight of the carts, strained a little and then began to move along the rutted road leading to the north, Olwyn and Branwyn waved until Cletus and Fillagh were small black specks in the distance. Even then, Fillagh’s boys ran alongside the wagons for several miles until, puffed and tired, they stopped, shouted final farewells and turned back towards the ugly villa and its endless wells of love.

Olwyn set her eyes upon the northern sky and ignored Branwyn’s sullen complaints. She played with Myrddion, who was already trying to speak, and practised the words she would use to placate her father on her return to her home.

CHAPTER V

A CHILD DENIED

Melvig stalked up and down Olwyn’s forecourt, his boots making clipped, staccato snaps as his leather heels struck the tiled floors. A picture of righteous rage, his face was drawn down into a sullen, infuriated mask, and Olwyn tried not to flinch when he raised his reddened eyes to look at her.

‘So! Daughter!’ Melvig snarled. ‘Explain to me where this infant came from. Is the boy yours? Have you betrayed your family name, Olwyn? I heard the rumours before you’d been back a week.’

Back and forth, back and forth, Olwyn watched the movements of her father’s pacing feet as he strode across the room. Even when he stopped and brought his angry, old man’s face only inches from hers, Olwyn stood her ground and said nothing.

‘As a widow, you may do as you choose. But don’t think to come to me for any assistance when the people of Segontium turn their faces away from a dirty whore.’

‘Father!’ Olwyn exclaimed, and clapped both hands to her flaming cheeks. ‘I am no whore! I am a priestess of Ceridwen and I serve the Mother, so I belong to no man. No man! Not even yourself! You have no right to accuse me out of hand.’

‘If I choose to call you a slut, who will gainsay me? Or is it Branwyn who has been making the two-backed beast with a lover?’ Melvig shouted, his temper fraying as she watched his face redden. ‘Don’t you
ever
contradict me, woman, for I am not one to countenance your insults.’

‘My insults? Mine? You call me a slut and accuse my daughter of behaving like an evil whore and
you
are insulted? You go too far, Father. I have never said a word against you, nor raised my hand towards you, but you shame us all by your outbursts.’

Melvig’s lips twisted and he swore with sudden crudity. One huge, age-spotted hand reached out, almost covering her face with his extended fingers, and he thrust her away from him so that she stumbled from the force of his anger. She struck her head against the wall as she fell.