Clash of Kings (18 page)

‘Such is my intention, Master Democritus. I am apprenticed to Annwynn of Segontium and she has taught me herb lore and many of her skills, although I am not so arrogant as to believe that I have learned all that I need from her. She is a true healer, but she cannot read. Annwynn gave me this box, which once belonged to her master who died at Portus Lemanis many, many years ago. In return, I am to share my knowledge of what I read with her.’

Democritus rocked back on his heels and peered carefully into the boy’s open, shining face. He shook his head as if he doubted what he read in those transparent dark eyes and that eager expression. Then, sighing as if he had suddenly remembered his great age, he used his tall, twisted staff to drag himself to his feet. Shakily, he swept his grey hair out of his piercing eyes and combed his long, black-streaked beard with his free fingers.

‘Mistress Olwyn, your grandson has received a princely gift that is far too valuable for a boy of . . . what is he? Ten? This box should belong to someone more able to care for it.’

Myrddion’s eyes darkened and snapped with sudden understanding. His quick intelligence had already realised Democritus’s intentions.

‘Annwynn gave the box to
me
, Master Democritus. It is
mine
, because I am sworn to use the knowledge within it to hone her skills, as well as to learn myself. From what I have read, sir, the scrolls teach us how to cure illnesses, contagions, evil humours and the wounds of battlefields and farms. They aren’t meant to be studied by scholars, but were written to be put into practice so that healers could save the lives of the sick and the wounded. You must believe that I am sworn to do these things.’

‘Your boy is impertinent, Mistress Olwyn. You must confiscate the box and give it to someone more worthy of these venerable objects.’

‘You, for example,’ Olwyn said baldly. She had not forgotten his scathing remarks about Segontium.

‘In the absence of any other scholar in this place – yes,’ Democritus replied blandly, his face smug with expectation.

Olwyn recognised trouble when she saw it. Excusing herself, she instructed Democritus to remain with her grandson while she found Melvig and demanded that her father mediate in the dispute between Myrddion and the old scholar. The king would decide who should possess Annwynn’s box and scrolls. Olwyn felt her nerves twitch, for she was taking a calculated risk, trusting that her father would see that justice was done.

Unwillingly, Melvig accompanied his daughter back to Myrddion’s spartan room, for he could see no reason why he should comply with Olwyn’s demands. However, he soon baulked once he was bombarded by arguments from Democritus, demanding that Myrddion’s box should be confiscated. Normally, the king would have sided with any older person against the wishes of Olwyn and her hell-spawn, but on this occasion he chose to take umbrage at Democritus’s high-handedness.

‘Where did you get this box from, Myrddion?’ he demanded irritably. ‘Why would anyone want a box of scrolls?’

‘Lord,’ Myrddion said softly as he bowed low to the king. ‘My mistress, Annwynn, gave me these scrolls concerning the art of healing as a part of my apprenticeship. She cannot read, and she expects me to translate them for her.’

The answer seemed perfectly reasonable to Melvig, so his ire began to rise at this unseemly disturbance of his morning’s rest. His time was being wasted to satiate the greed of an elderly scholar, a creature of no account in Melvig’s prejudiced view of humankind.

‘This box clearly belonged to the healer, Democritus, and she should be permitted to do with it as she wishes. If she has given it to Myrddion, I cannot see why it shouldn’t remain in his possession. Why should you have it? I presume you want it, although you’ve avoided stating your intentions.’

‘Such precious knowledge from the ancients shouldn’t be in the hands of an illiterate healer and a boy apprentice,’ Democritus retorted pompously, making his first serious mistake. ‘Someone who appreciates the knowledge within the scrolls should possess them.’

For all his faults, the Deceangli king loathed intellectual arrogance. He grinned like an old grey staghound.

‘These wonderful scrolls could be damaged by blood on a battlefield, or heaven knows what else if a village disaster should occur. Think of it, lord! The words of the great thinkers marred by pus or dirt. It would be wrong to risk such a storehouse of wisdom for the sake of a few lives.’

Melvig drew himself up to his full height of five feet and nine inches. His moustaches bristled with indignation and his plaited hair would have stood on end if it were capable of movement.

‘A few lives, man? In battle, my warriors often die hideously, and I’d be the very first to swear that any tool that saves them from suffering should be used. Stained with blood, Democritus? So what, if men live when they might have died? No! Don’t say another word! You’d pore over these scrolls for the sake of knowledge alone, and keep all the wisdom for yourself. At least this boy proposes to share his knowledge with all our people. I have decided that the healer is free to give her possessions to anyone she wants.’

‘But she’s a woman!’ Democritus wailed, making his second mistake. ‘And she’s illiterate!’

‘And you’re a pompous ass whose only talent is writing my letters,’ Melvig retorted, his face flushed with anger. ‘So get out of my sight, old man, or you’ll find yourself begging for your bread.’

Olwyn and Myrddion were effusive in their thanks as Democritus backed out of the room, but Melvig waved away their protestations of eternal obedience.

‘Don’t bother to make promises that we both know you won’t keep,’ he told them, his humour much improved by their flattery. ‘Myrddion will be in and out of trouble all his life, long after my old bones are at rest. He’s a lodestone for disaster! And you, Olwyn, will always take his part so that I offend more old servants. Yes, you will, girl, although I’ll own you’re more obedient than most of your sex.’

As he left Myrddion’s quarters, little larger than an alcove, Melvig turned back to proffer one last piece of advice.

‘You should arrange to keep that box somewhere safe, boy, for Democritus is not above hiring ruffians to steal it. In his place, that’s exactly what I’d do, if all other methods failed, so I advise you to conceal it carefully. You should ask Eddius for advice. That lad has admirable commonsense.’

While Myrddion was poring over his scrolls, painstakingly working out the Greek alphabet that Democritus had spitefully refused to give him, Vortigern fumed impotently in faraway Forden. Everyone suffered under the stings of his temper and his mood swings, even the previously inviolate Rowena, who found that for once the lure of sex had no power to soften the king’s fury.

After two days of brooding, during which time he ordered a body servant to be beaten to death for dropping a rare glass beaker, Vortigern came to a decision. He must know the truth about his tower, even though Hecate, Ceridwen or the Gorgon might pursue him, and even if the Wild Hunt of his ancestors found him abroad when next they howled through the sky.

For a heartbeat, his heated flesh cooled as he imagined a huge, antlered man-form as it strode through the wind-torn clouds, bloody eyes glowing like fiery pools, gigantic hounds and dim riders following in its wake. Primal, atavistic superstition almost overwhelmed him, forcing him to square his shoulders and still his suddenly shaking hands.

‘Let come whatever chooses,’ Vortigern whispered, then turned to his manservant and bellowed, ‘I want Apollonius and Rhun. Bring those damned sorcerers to me. Now!’

The largest room in Forden’s principal Celtic-Romano structure was neither spacious nor impressive, being constructed of a coarse plaster daubed over unmortared stone, with willow and lath sub-walls. Their uneven surfaces created highlighted areas that danced and rippled in the uneven glow of aromatic oil lamps. Vortigern had discovered that the lamps were filled with fish oil when he had first arrived at Forden, and his anger at the stench had sent the citizens of the township into fits of panic. The wealthier shopkeepers of the town had soon found sufficient precious oil to sweeten both the air and Vortigern’s foul mood.

The floors of this modest hall were at least flagged, unlike all but the Roman-influenced public buildings, for many of Forden’s citizens lived on floors composed of packed sod, so iron hard that they could have been stone, except for a persistent patina of dust. Vortigern listened to the sound of his iron-tipped boots on the flags as he marched from one end of the long room to the other. Two wooden bench seats were set before a long, narrow table, laden with fresh fruit, nuts, bread, a whole wheel of cheese and jugs of ale and cider. Grunting, Vortigern threw himself onto one of the benches, poured a mug of ale and sliced off a hunk of heavy, yellow cheese.

A soft susurration of wool over stone caused the king to turn his head, the cheese halfway to his lips. Rowena smiled at her husband through full lips that were always soft and pillowy. Usually, her mouth captured her husband’s full attention when they were alone, but now he turned away from her and bit savagely into the hunk of cheese in his hand.

‘Sit, woman! I’ve ordered those charlatans that you’ve foisted on me to join us. My personal guard are ensuring that they are prompt in their attendance.’

‘You’re being rash, husband,’ the queen murmured. ‘Apollonius can read the entrails of a suitable sheep for you and we will see what evil dwells below your tower. Should Apollonius fail, then my countryman will read the runes and he will know. Have no fear. Would I welcome frauds and cheaters into our court? Would I imperil the strength and security of my husband’s throne?’

Vortigern stabbed an apple with a narrow, delicate knife, whose silver handle was expertly moulded in the likeness of a fish, scales and all. With elaborate precision, he began to peel the fruit in a long, continuous spiral, keeping his attention wholly upon his busy hands.

‘Enough, Rowena! Oblige me by remaining silent. I don’t welcome advice that weakens my position with the servants, so remember your place.’

Flushing with embarrassment and anger, Rowena sat down stiffly, with a flounce of her long, ornately plaited hair. However, although her generous mouth was narrowed into a thin line of humiliation, she remained wisely silent. The king dissected his peeled apple into thin slices and chewed them into pulp before he swallowed.

Suddenly, with a great clatter of bronze armour plates, hard-shod heels and the unmistakable noise of spear shafts striking the stone, Vortigern’s guard entered the makeshift hall. Although there were only twenty of them, their size and discipline suggested a larger force. Young, ardent and fierce, they dropped to their knees before their king.

‘The sorcerers are here, lord,’ their captain stated, his ice-blue eyes and red-blond hair proclaiming his Saxon heritage.

‘Where is Vortimer?’ Vortigern asked as he waved a hand impatiently to bring the guard to their feet. ‘Where is my son?’

‘He’s in the south with his brother, lord,’ the captain replied neutrally.

A crafty smile flitted across the king’s face, almost too quickly to be interpreted by an onlooker. ‘Keep me informed of Vortimer’s movements, Hengist. I want to know at once if he attempts to leave Gwent for the southern lands held by Ambrosius.’

The king swivelled his body to stare down at Apollonius and Rhun, who had entered silently and abased themselves until they were merely coloured puddles on the dusty floor.

‘Rise. I give you fair warning that I’m not happy with either of you. You come to me with talk of murder in the night and nameless treasons committed by my own blood. Then you promise that my fate can be averted if I rebuild Dinas Emrys. So, I rebuild Dinas Emrys – and then the damned tower falls down around my ears and almost kills me. Why didn’t you predict that the tower could have caused my death? Or are you paid to organise my assassination?’

Apollonius was a portly Greek, ostentatiously dressed in robes of many colours that were decorated with arcane symbols. He lifted his face, and Vortigern could see that the man’s brow was beaded with sweat. His double chins jounced nervously. Vortigern grinned sardonically in response. Let the fat fool beware, for he was sick of half-truths, innuendo and being led around like a straw king on a stick.

‘Lord of all Cymru, I swear the signs were clear. How could we know that a more powerful master of the dark arts was waiting for you to visit Dinas Emrys? He blinded our senses to his presence and his foul spells caused the earth to cast down your tower.’

‘Plausible, Apollonius! But your words cannot be proved, so I wonder at your response.’

He turned to the second servant. ‘What do you say, Rhun?’ The slanting black brows drew together in irony, or craftiness. ‘Do you ascribe to the theory of a master sorcerer who is out to murder me?’

Rhun was unable to read the king’s face, so he shrugged impassively. ‘I cannot tell, lord. How could I, if I have been ensorcelled? But, if you choose, I can cast the runes and give you a solution. No necromancer can control the runes.’

A dangerous man! Vortigern examined every inch of the northerner who stood so calmly in his presence. Rhun was tall and very thin, almost as if he starved himself. Consequently, his cheekbones jutted out as sharp as knife blades and his nose was avian in its beak-like prominence. By comparison, his eyes were sunken deeply into his skeletal face and his mouth was a humourless slit seamed by wrinkles, as if a cruel torturer had stitched his lips together.

‘I so choose!’ Vortigern said tersely, although he felt a cold finger trace its imaginary nail over the back of his neck.

‘Then I will cast for you immediately.’

The runes were small tablets of whalebone or walrus ivory that had been marked with a hot iron, the marks then accentuated and blackened by charcoal to form symbols that Vortigern didn’t understand. Rhun threw them onto the flagged floor where they scattered, bounced, clicked like finger bones and fell into patterns that were incomprehensible to the king.

Rhun stared at the shapes they made with a kind of sick horror. He sighed and began to mumble under his breath. Vortigern grew impatient.