Clash of Kings (28 page)

Once Branwyn was locked in her room, spitting, scratching and biting like the coarsest camp follower or trull, Myrddion became the focus of the villa’s attention. A serving woman bathed his face and pressed a clean part of the lad’s ruined tunic against the two jagged wounds that cut through his long hair. Another woman warmed a brick and thrust it in a blanket that was pressed against his feet. He was wrapped in thick wool, for his flesh was very cold, but his eyes remained closed and unresponsive.

Melvig came roaring into the sickroom and took in the situation at a glance. ‘We’ve just survived one death in this family. What’s amiss this time?’

‘I found your granddaughter trying to murder Myrddion with a rock, but I managed to stop her.’

Eddius’s response would have been laughable in its laconic brevity but for his furrowed brow and the glint of disgust in his eyes.

‘Hmf! That evil witch has always been slightly mad, not to mention spiteful and self-centred, something that neither her mother nor anyone else in my family ever was.’

Eddius repressed an instinctive hoot of laughter, for Melvig had always been entirely self-centred and vain, characteristics that his granddaughter had inherited from him. But then Eddius considered Melvig’s intrinsic sense of justice and his benevolent, almost loving despotism, and felt ashamed of his initial reaction. As king, father and man, Melvig had no real streak of malice in him.

Then the chaos in the villa was stilled, for Annwynn arrived with her satchel, her needles, her herbs and her plump, warm common sense. No spite or viciousness had time to take root around Annwynn, for she tore it out with a look, a wave of her fingers and the turning of her sturdy, unresponsive back.

She muttered to herself as she examined her apprentice, and her face grew grave as she noted the deep gashes on his skull.

‘Let us pray that Myrddion has a hard head or he’ll die of brain fever. I can’t feel a breach of the skull, but these blows were very heavy and meant to kill. Who could hate Myrddion so much? The boy is sweet and good, as I have cause to know. I’ve been so worried for him, especially since I became aware that Lady Olwyn had been murdered. This boy loved his gran more than his own self.’

‘Can you cure him?’ Eddius interrupted. ‘We can deal with all else that is amiss, but the boy hasn’t wakened and I fear for his life.’

‘I swear that I’ll try. But I’ll not promise, for blows to the head can kill.’

Annwynn’s face was bleak and sad, but she called for hot water, a beaker, clean rags and a goodly supply of warm bricks to keep the boy warm. As she cleansed the wounds, she shook her head at the torn flesh, but she set to work at once, thoroughly cleaning each gash and shaving around them with a sharp knife. Carefully, she caught up the cut locks, wound them into a long curl and put them into her satchel.

‘For I’ll leave nothing in this house that can be used to harm or curse my boy, especially his hair,’ Annwynn said softly. As a healer, Annwynn knew that charms to kill could be spun out of the hair of the intended victim. Her thoughts were bleak as she threaded a fine needle with gut and prepared to mend what she could.

Eddius stayed throughout the stitching of Myrddion’s wounds and watched with interest as the healer smeared each gash with a vile green salve and covered them with clean rag pads that she bound firmly into place. A tisane of something dark was prepared with hot water and Myrddion was forced to swallow a little of the hot mixture. Then, once she had swaddled his slender body in warm wool, she settled down to watch and wait.

‘There is nothing else that a human being can do for Myrddion now, and there’s no panacea for a broken head other than time. Even if he wakes and heals, he may be wanting in his wits.’

Both Eddius and Melvig winced at such a prognosis, for Myrddion’s sharp intelligence had been the wonder of the villa. Neither man cared to consider the lad as a drooling idiot. When they had left Myrddion’s small room, they paused in what passed for an atrium, both frowning and disconcerted by the turn of events.

‘What will you do with Branwyn, my lord?’ Eddius asked quietly.

‘Nothing. At least till I know whether she’s guilty of murder or not!’ The old man’s red-rimmed eyes were very hard, as flinty as the mountains above Segontium. Eddius was grateful that he had never been the object of that cold, unflinching gaze.

‘I’ll see to my boys. They’re already deeply disturbed by the death of their mother, so these injuries to Myrddion will be more than they can bear. They love him, you see.’

‘Aye,’ Melvig agreed. ‘I wish I knew the lad better, for he seems to attract loyalty and affection, but the oaths his mother uttered about his birth forced me to keep my distance. Oh, I didn’t believe a word she said. Some man got her with child, and not a demon, but her lies touched on my honour. It was my fault that the boy was labelled for life, so now we can but wait.’

Eddius recalled the words he had overheard when he was approaching the cairn. He had seen Branwyn’s reaction to them, and stored that knowledge in his heart until he could use it wisely.

As in days gone by, happy days before she had discovered the truth about the world, Branwyn stared out of her narrow window towards Mona. The afternoon was grey and wintry, and the sun was dying in the ocean in bands of bloody cloud. Mona stood out blackly against the sanguine red of the sunset, menacing and unforgiving, and Branwyn felt the malice and hatred that seemed to ooze out from the rocks and sand of the island. She felt feverish and hot, as if the shades of the dead druids had pressed their skeletal hands against her, layer by bony, fleshless layer, until their weight had generated a cold heat that inflamed her blood.

‘Please, Ceridwen . . . Mother . . . whoever will aid me,’ Branwyn prayed, as the light slowly faded in a bloody sea. ‘Let the Demon Seed die so I can be whole again. Please, let him be gone so I can think without pain. Let me live free of the memory of what was done so long ago. Let Myrddion be dead, so I never have to see his eyes again.’

But the sea, the sky, and the air of the freshening night denied her any solace. Through her weary resentment, she wondered if her son was the incubus who had stolen away her soul.

‘Perhaps I never had one to be stolen,’ Branwyn whispered softly. ‘How did he know who his father was? How did he know?’

But not even the gulls cared to answer her as they slept on the breast of the sea.

CHAPTER XIII

THE RETRIBUTION OF TIME

Two long days passed while Myrddion continued to lie unmoving like one who was already dead. Annwynn slept fitfully on a pallet beside him and she was able to report to King Melvig that the lad’s brain was still working, for below his closed, bluish lids the eyes still moved rapidly.

‘His mind wanders,’ she told Eddius. ‘I worry that sorrow over the loss of his grandmother keeps him hiding in dreams. He chases the illusion of happiness.’

‘You guess, healer,’ Melvig growled irritably. ‘How can you know all this, simply by the movement of his eyes? He could be dying of brain fever.’ The old king was worried, for as each day passed Myrddion’s death seemed more likely.

Annwynn refused to take offence at Melvig’s irascibility and his slurs on her capabilities. She understood that his temper merely covered concern for his kinfolk and the decisions he might be forced to make in the future. If Myrddion died, Melvig would have to punish his granddaughter, who had committed her murderous attack on her son during the very public days of mourning. The people of Segontium, the servants of the villa and the Ordovice contingent all knew the circumstances of Branwyn’s crime, so Melvig would have to pass some kind of judgement.

‘I don’t know anything for certain, your highness, but I have seen other patients in the sleep that feigns death, and their eyes rolled and moved rapidly just as Myrddion’s are doing now. When they eventually awakened, they spoke of how they dreamed and believed that this sleep was life itself. Forgive me if I cannot reassure you further, King Melvig, but I can only offer you what hope I have.’

‘You’re being unkind, Father.’ Eddius added his reproof softly, for he could see the palsy in Melvig’s liver-spotted hands and he knew how the old man reproached himself for what had happened. ‘Annwynn is doing her best and I can think of nothing else that she could do.’

The old king dragged a low stool alongside Myrddion’s pallet so he could stroke the lad’s face. ‘I’m sorry, healer. I regret my harsh words, so put my discourtesy down to my worry. Would it help if I spoke to the boy? Can he hear me?’

‘I cannot say, my lord, but how can it hurt? If Myrddion is truly wandering in dreams, then perhaps he might hear you and return to consciousness.’

Over the next hour, Melvig ordered and then pleaded with his great-grandson to open his eyes, but Myrddion remained unresponsive. Much to Eddius’s surprise, the old king began to beg his great-grandson’s pardon for years of neglect. He spoke slowly and hesitantly, revealing more of himself in a few moments than Eddius had learned in a decade. As if he were disturbed, Myrddion turned his head restlessly, but his eyes stayed stubbornly closed.

Annwynn was excited by her apprentice’s response. ‘We must speak to him constantly; especially those people who hold his affection. Perhaps the children can help?’

‘What should we talk about?’ Eddius asked quietly. His sad eyes reflected the first glimmers of hope since Myrddion had returned with Olwyn’s body.

‘Anything at all. My lord king touched Myrddion and interrupted his dreaming by the natural honesty of the words he spoke. We may be able to lead our boy out of the darkness simply by the sounds of our voices.’

Melvig was embarrassed and angry by turns. He had exposed his hidden sentimentality and now he was beginning to feel foolish. ‘If you gabble about what you’ve heard me say, healer, you’ll be sorry,’ he warned.

Annwynn pressed his old hand in response. Her smile was warm and understanding, which only made King Melvig feel more awkward. ‘There is no sin or foolishness in honest words, your highness.’

So Eddius spoke to Myrddion for several hours, followed by Annwynn, Plautenes, Crusus and each of Eddius’s sons, one by one. With each speaker, Myrddion seemed to respond more clearly. His hands moved, or he turned his head away, and on one occasion he moaned Olwyn’s name. After another day, Annwynn finally began to feel real hope and stubbornly refused to submit to Myrddion’s illness. With great difficulty, she forced her patient to drink water and warm soup regularly, lest his body should fail through lack of sustenance.

Eventually, fear gave her voice an edge. Myrddion had been lost in dreams for five days, and soon his body would begin to weaken. If he was ever to waken and feel the sunshine on his face again, then she must shake him out of his lethargy and grief.

‘For the sake of all the gods, apprentice, I need you. No one knows where you hid the sandalwood box, and who will teach me the contents of the scrolls if you persist with this nonsense? Wake up, damn you! I’m tired and I’m fed up with keeping your body alive while you hide your mind away from us. The children suffer, Eddius suffers; even King Melvig suffers. Only your mother Branwyn is happy, for she prays for your death. Wake up, my Myrddion!’

This last command was shouted out and brought Eddius running to Myrddion’s room, so he was present when the lad suddenly sat bolt upright. His eyes snapped open, but Annwynn could tell that he was disoriented and dazed. She knelt beside him as quickly as her bulk would allow.

‘Under the winter hay in the stables,’ Myrddion gasped with a voice that was rusty from disuse. ‘It’s under the hay to the right as you enter the door.’

‘Yes, sweetling! Now lie back on the pillows and rest, my darling. Eddius is going to organise a bowl of chicken broth that Crusus has made just for you. All you have to do is open your mouth and let old Annwynn do all the work. Now, let me raise you just a trifle so you can drink this water. Crusus has fresh milk from the ice house, so it will be lovely and cool.’

While Annwynn coaxed her patient to sip a little water, Eddius disappeared quietly out of the room then raced across the atrium to the kitchens, which were separated from the main building in case of fire.

‘The young master is awake and the healer wants chicken broth and cooled milk . . . immediately!’ Eddius ordered, and, as Crusus set the kitchen maids running to heat the one and cool the other, word spread through the villa like Greek fire.

Melvig hobbled into the sickroom and attempted to appear stern. ‘Well, young man, you’ve frightened us all a great deal by lying abed these many days like a sluggard. I never took you for a lazy lad, so I expect you to become well very quickly, now that you’ve decided to re-join us.’

‘I dreamed I heard your voice calling to me, your highness,’ Myrddion whispered, and the old man shuffled his feet with embarrassment. ‘You called my name from a great distance, and you begged my pardon for your neglect. Did I hear you truly, my lord?’

‘Aye, boy. Since you’ve been injured, I’ve regretted my coldness towards you. Many people hold you in high regard, and if you had died I’d never have learned what special qualities you have that I’ve ignored in the past. Besides, who else will agree to cut off my head when I’m dead?’

Eddius and Annwynn stared at the king with dropped jaws, for this was the first time they had heard of Melvig’s plan to undergo the beheading rites after his death. On the other hand, Myrddion’s disused vocal cords caused him to cackle like an old man at the expressions of revulsion on their faces.

‘I live to serve you, Grandfather.’

‘Aye, you’d better,’ Melvig retorted grumpily, but affection lurked under his growl. ‘Now, how were you injured?’

Myrddion tried to maintain his silence, and Eddius understood that betrayal of his mother would be a shameful act for the boy, regardless of her lifelong treatment of him. Eddius attempted to reason with Myrddion, reminding him that Olwyn had saved him from suffocation when he was still a babe. He invoked Olwyn’s own wishes in an attempt to sway the young man’s stubbornness, but finally he resorted to the argument that justice demanded that the truth should be told, no matter how brutal the repercussions might be to the persons involved.