Clash of Kings (13 page)

Myrddion laughed politely as, shakily, he took Eddius’s proffered hand and rose carefully to his feet.

‘You were very brave today, Myrddion,’ Eddius added softly. ‘I was proud of you.’

‘I lost my temper,’ Myrddion whispered. ‘I could have hurt one of the boys and that would have been wrong.’

‘You’re the one who’s still bleeding,’ Eddius retorted with a wide grin. ‘You were outnumbered, so fair’s fair.’

Eddius and Myrddion walked through the narrow, cobbled streets that led to the outskirts of the township. At the end of a dirt track, a single, conical hut was separated from other dwellings by a brackish pond surrounded by hazel trees and thick flowering gorse. A thin trail of smoke rose from a hole in the centre of the sod-covered roof, but no other signs of habitation were obvious to Myrddion. At the front of the cottage, which was sealed tightly with a heavy door, a series of large, wheel-thrown pots contained a range of plants and weeds, while many herbs, familiar and strange, grew in a neat garden off to one side of the unmortared slate walls. A drying rack held several hides that had stiffened and cured in the sun and Myrddion’s sensitive nostrils recognised the aroma of smoked fish coming from a small sod hut behind the cottage.

‘Look, Myrddion. The healer keeps beehives. The little people give her their honey in return for the stout homes in which they live.’

Eddius pointed to two conical hives made out of plaited and woven straw that were set on little tables above the ground to protect the hives from predators, both large and small. Myrddion’s curious eyes spotted more vegetable gardens, tubs of geraniums that loomed in small riots of scarlet, apple trees, several nut trees and a small enclosure where a cow and a newly born calf were cropping the grass before a lean-to that offered them protection. His twitching nose told the boy that somewhere pigs grunted and rolled in mud, while chickens squawked and searched for grass seed behind the cottage. Even the sound of ducks came from the pond, and Myrddion’s eyes grew even rounder with amazement as someone puttered out of a narrow path between the thick gorse and the brambles.

‘Well, Eddius, what brings you to my door, boy?’

The lilt of the voice alone indicated that the figure making its careful way towards them was female. The voice was melodic, sweet and light, rather like new honey, and Myrddion’s jaw dropped at the pleasure of its music. The healer’s hair was very long and was full of leaves, twigs and bits of straw so that the face under it was almost obscured. The wild tresses were iron-grey, like the clothing that was layered over the roly-poly form. The healer tottered forward on impossibly small feet and patted Eddius’s arm with equally tiny, plump fingers.

‘Come in! Come in! I can see the young sir has been in the wars, so to speak. We’ll soon put that right, won’t we, Boudicca?’

Myrddion shook his head in confusion. Who was Boudicca? As if in answer to his unspoken question, a large mongrel bitch galloped out of the brambles to stand, panting and grinning, next to her mistress.

‘Boudicca, this is Eddius, Master of the Strait of Mona,’ the healer stated with utter seriousness. ‘And this young man is, I believe, his wife’s grandson, Myrddion, who has come to us to be healed.’

The dog appeared to nod to her new acquaintances and tentatively licked at Myrddion’s free hand. Myrddion flushed and risked patting the large red hound on her broad, flat forehead. The dog wriggled ecstatically.

‘Boudicca likes you.’ The healer smiled happily, and began to jiggle a piece of string through a hole in the door until it opened to reveal the dark interior of the one-roomed cottage. ‘Come in! Come in!’

The healer began to shed layers of woollen garments while she stoked a central fire, stirred the contents of a large iron pot that hung from a tripod over the red-hot coals and pointed at a bench stool that was set before the fire. As each layer of clothing was removed, more of the healer’s face became visible, even though the hut was quite dark after the brilliant sunshine of a late spring noontime.

‘Now, young Myrddion! Let’s be seeing what you’ve done to yourself.’

Myrddion must have looked as startled as a young fawn caught in the light of the hunter’s fire.

‘But I’ve not introduced myself to you, have I? Faith, but I’d be losing my mind if it weren’t safely locked inside my skull. My name is Annwynn, which is a very noble name for such an ordinary woman. I’ve no treasure, nor a cauldron of plenty, and I’m no kin to the goddess, Ceridwen, although legend has it that you are, young sir. No, Annwynn’s just a healer – and happy to serve as I can. Now, strip down to your loincloth, lovey, and stand near the fire so I can easily see you.’

Myrddion looked at Eddius for confirmation, and the warrior nodded with a slight smile. As the boy undressed, Annwynn bustled about the small room collecting pottery and wooden jars, a small pearwood box, soft rags and a beaker of something that smelled wonderful, especially when she added hot water from an odd, spouted container that hung from a hook attached to the tripod over the fire.

‘Sweet, hot mead,’ she explained economically, handing the mug to Eddius, who sipped it suspiciously. The broad smile that leapt to his lips as he savoured the taste caused Annwynn to laugh delightedly. ‘Some folk say old Annwynn has magic in her fingers. Others call her a witch. But she makes good mead, doesn’t she, brave sir?’

‘It’s very good,’ Eddius replied, stretching his long legs before the fire.

‘And now for you, young Myrddion. You’re a fair lad, I see, but you’ve hurt yourself. It’s a good thing that I’ve a good eye for my stitchery.’

Although Myrddion was young, he wasn’t foolish. He raised his eyes to look at Annwynn’s face at the thought of his arm being stitched together like the seam of his tunic, and all his doubts fell away.

Annwynn looked down at him, and Myrddion imagined that she smelled like a ripe apple. Her face was almost completely round under the mop of hair that she was now tying back from her face with a colourful strip of cloth. Her cheeks were rosy and rounded under low cheekbones, and even her eyes seemed too blue and protuberant to be quite real. Her brows were thick semicircles of black hair that gave her expression a permanent cast of surprise. The ingenuous kindness of those wide-open eyes was immediately disarming.

Annwynn’s nose was short and snub and ended with a distinct ball of flesh that caused anyone who looked at her to hide a smile. Below that clownish nose was a delicate, full mouth that was naturally moist and red. Even her small, regular teeth were unthreatening, as a gap between the front two added to the overall effect of harmless humour and gentleness. A dimple in the centre of her rounded chin and others at each corner of her mouth finished off the attractiveness of her face. She made people smile, even when their hearts were heavy with pain and loss.

Annwynn was in her middle life, somewhere over forty years, which was a very respectable age for a woman, but no citizens of Segontium could tell the curious anything about her past. She had appeared in the town some twelve years earlier, and had quickly become invaluable for her herb lore, her jollity and her skill as a midwife.

She took a needle out of an oiled piece of leather, put it into a small bowl of hot water and hunted for another mysterious packet in her pearwood box. With a little cry of triumph, she lugged out a ball of very fine thread that was made from animal gut. Myrddion’s eyes grew wider as she revealed a narrow rod of iron, not even as wide as a feather quill, from her packet and thrust it into the fire.

‘Are you brave, young Myrddion? Must I give you the juice of the poppy? Or can you stand firm while I cauterise this cut? I don’t know how clean the blade was that caused your wound, but if a village child held it, then it is very dirty. Wounds rot if they aren’t perfectly clean, so I’m washing yours now with clean water. She smiled down at Myrddion. ‘Good boy, for you didn’t flinch! Yes, it has bled freely, but I must be sure. Otherwise you’ll be a very sorry young man.’

‘I can be brave,’ Myrddion whispered. ‘As long as I understand what you’re doing.’

Annwynn laughed until her belly shook.

‘Why, he’s old beyond his years, Master Eddius! He speaks like a little magistrate and not like a boy at all. Oh, it’s wonderful!’

And she laughed until all her flesh jounced and bounced and Myrddion watched her body, mesmerised by the sight. He didn’t realise she had removed the iron rod from the fire until he felt a sudden, agonising burn on the wound. He would have flinched away, but Annwynn had gripped him with her other arm so that his body was immobilised against her rolls of fat. The cauterising was quick, but Myrddion felt it all, and watched it all, his eyes drawn to the cherry-red iron rod as it probed the wound.

‘Why do you caut . . . cautersize?’ Myrddion struggled to find the right word.

As she lifted away the iron rod, Annwynn freed the boy’s arms. ‘The word is cauterise. Do you know your letters, child?’

Myrddion nodded.

‘It’s used to burn out any evil humours that can cause the flesh to rot. Many healers don’t believe in these humours, but I do, and my patients almost always live. My teacher was an old Jew who said he was born in Damascus, wherever that is. He could read his letters as well, but I can’t read them because girls were never taught where I come from.’

While Annwynn spoke, her hands were busy, and Myrddion realised that she had pulled a needle threaded with gut through his flesh, drawing the edges of the wound together by tying a small knot. Although she hurt him, Myrddion was fascinated.

‘Where do you come from, Annwynn?’ he asked without raising his eyes from her busy fingers.

‘Me? Why, I come from far to the south, from Portus Lemanis where the trade ships come from Gaul. It’s a place where the whole world comes and goes by sea. Gracious, child, but you get me talking like no other. There! That’s all done now. Just three little stitches, neat as can be. I fear you’ll have a tiny scar, but you’ll not care for that.’

Annwynn found a wooden jar that held a thick, brown substance with a strange smell. Using a small wooden paddle, she smeared the cream liberally over the wound and then, still without touching the flesh any more than necessary, she bound the arm with a clean length of old rag.

Myrddion eyed the makeshift bandage suspiciously.

‘Don’t be thinking that the ill humours will find entrance to your wound from a dirty cloth. You can be assured that I boil these rags for half a day over the fire, and I dry them in clean sunshine. Does that explanation make you happy, young sir?’

Myrddion blushed.

For half an hour, Annwynn spread her brown cream on assorted grazes and growing bruises, covered cuts where necessary and then splinted Myrddion’s broken thumb. She hurt her young patient quite a bit, but he was fascinated by everything she did and bit his lip if her ministrations caused him discomfort.

‘You’ll have a very uncomfortable night, so I am giving Eddius just a little poppy juice in mead that will help you to sleep.’ She patted his cheek, and helped him to dress because of the awkwardness of his splinted thumb. ‘You must come back in two days, just to check that your wound is still clean and healing.’

Boudicca accompanied them to the doorway and Myrddion winced as his abused muscles complained when he bent to scratch her ears. Meanwhile, Annwynn searched madly through the contents of a chest in the corner. With a cry of elation, she snatched up a small object, bustled to the doorway and pressed it into Myrddion’s hand.

‘This is for bravery, sweet chick! It is the owl of the goddess, and represents the hunter and wisdom. That is you, young master.’

Myrddion looked down at the stone that filled the palm of his hand. Someone had taken time to chip out two semicircles in the object that met to form the suggestion of a beak. Within the two semicircles, smaller circles were chipped out to mimic rudimentary eyes. White pigment outlined the inscribed pattern to accentuate the likeness of an owl.

‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘I’ll keep it for ever.’

‘No, you won’t. But the owl will protect you and will never leave you,’ Annwynn answered enigmatically, then called her dog and closed the cottage door behind her.

As Myrddion followed Eddius along the path leading to the villa, the boy struggled to order his thoughts. He was weary and hurting, and the sharp, long grasses that grew above the beach caught his sandals and tripped him, causing him to fall. Eddius saw that the boy was suffering as he tried to regain his feet, so he swept him up in his strong arms. Against his will, Myrddion felt his head begin to droop. Long before the villa came into sight, Myrddion was sound asleep on Eddius’s shoulder.

Olwyn’s husband smiled as he strode along, bearing Myrddion’s slender form without any difficulty. He had two sons of his own and he loved them with a kind of madness, so deeply and viscerally did his passions run. But Myrddion connected strangely with Eddius’s brain and the warrior admitted to himself on that sandy track overlooking the beach that the boy was likely to eclipse even his great-grandfather, the king of the Deceangli. There was some quality in the boy that promised greatness.

Eddius sighed.

The bay was a wide sweep of sand, lacy waves and the deep, dark waters out of which the island of Mona rose, wreathed in rain clouds and its own bloody history. Would Myrddion make his way here, in the shadow of tragedy, or would he travel further than Eddius had ever imagined?

Eddius shrugged and shook the boy awake as his sandals slapped against the flagstones of the villa’s forecourt.

‘We’re home, Myrddion. It’s time to explain ourselves to Olwyn.’

Far away, Ygerne screamed in the final agonies of childbirth. In a rush of blood and mucus, a baby girl with a caul over her face was expelled into a cruel, uncaring world. When the child was washed and swaddled, Ygerne raised her arms to claim her firstborn daughter with tears of purest joy.

‘Morgan! I shall call her Morgan, for she is all my happiness and my hope,’ Ygerne wept, her tears mingling with the sweat of her labours. ‘Now, take her to her father, to King Gorlois, and tell him he has a fine daughter who will bring distinction to his house.’