Clash of Kings (31 page)

‘Ah, my little piglet,’ he murmured, and kissed the toddler’s rosy cheeks. His daughter was as brave as any son and Gorlois glowed in her adoration and her fierce, childish joy in his company. Putting the child before him on his horse and holding her securely, he drank in the sight of his wife, her arms full of flowers and her face wreathed in smiles that spoke her love more clearly than words.

He kneed his horse into movement. ‘Wife, the day is brighter for your laughter. The child goes well?’

‘Aye, husband, it moves and kicks lustily.’ She blushed to speak of such intimate matters in front of her tiny daughter, but embraced in his muscular arms, Morgan had no eyes or ears for anyone but her father.

‘Should you risk yourself out here in the open? Any brigand could take you unawares.’ Although Gorlois’s words were admonishing, his fondness shone through his dark eyes and made his plain face beautiful with his love.

‘I am well protected, my lord. See? The guard watches me, so I am very safe. I had a sudden desire to fill our room with flowers when I heard of your imminent return. Are they not beautiful, Gorlois, love of my heart?’

‘Aye, but not so beautiful as you.’

Morgan pulled on his strong, calloused fingers to gain his attention, and, as Gorlois could deny his two ladies nothing, he pulled his eyes away from the radiance of Ygerne’s face to look down into Morgan’s soft dark eyes that were so like his own.

‘Yes, little queen! How may I serve my small sweetheart?’

‘Mama wishes to visit Brigid’s Fountain to bring luck to the new baby. Can we go, Papa? I have heard of the waters. I really want to go with you to Tintagel. I’m old enough, because I’m four now.’

‘Brigid’s Fountain? The waterfall? Aye, it’s a sacred place for women, but dare I risk my dear ladies on such a journey? We’ll discuss this matter with your mother.’

‘But Papa . . .’ Morgan began, but Ygerne reached up to place two fingers gently over her daughter’s protesting mouth.

‘Hush, darling, we will speak of this matter later. Papa will decide.’

Gorlois laughed, knowing he could deny nothing to the two females who owned him so completely. So Gorlois, his wife, his daughter and a cavalcade of ladies-in-waiting made their joyous way back to his summer palace. Those they passed gloried in the happiness of their king, and thought themselves citizens of the finest land in Ambrosius Imperator’s whole kingdom.

The intervening three years had been kind to Myrddion. Although Eddius and King Melvig worried about the unsettling news from the south, little turmoil or death touched the far north of Cymru where Mona remained an eternal reminder of the winds of invasion. Isolated, lacking in wealth and far from the courts of hostile kings, Segontium, Canovium and Tomen-y-mur were sheltered by their distance from the courts of power.

Meanwhile, Myrddion healed. The scars on his head were hidden by new hair growth and, much to Annwynn’s relief, he bore no physical, outward reminders of the dangerous blows to the head that had almost killed him. Only Myrddion knew that he had suffered a real loss, the sudden decline of the gift of prophecy that had been gaining strength as he entered puberty and adulthood. While he still dreamed with puzzling but vivid imagery, no waking fits came to disturb his daily routines or to terrify the servants.

Did Myrddion regret the loss of his prophetic episodes? Not for a moment. He would gladly have relinquished the dreams as well, for his rational mind preferred a more scientific explanation for the world and its workings. Yet, because he valued the mechanisms of body and mind, he regretted that he neither understood the prophetic fits that had once come upon him, nor had any further opportunity to examine them.

But Myrddion had more pressing problems of the heart. The unnecessary death of Olwyn had been a blow that he couldn’t rise above, for it filled his thoughts with the desire for revenge. He had seen this poison at work on his own mother, so he understood all too well how bitterness soured the person infected with it more terribly than the object of that revenge. But, for all his logic, he couldn’t escape his burning desire to crush Vortigern’s skull with his bare hands if the opportunity ever presented itself. Even worse, he had learned enough about his conception to feel thoroughly lost, and no Olwyn remained with whom he could discuss those feelings of dislocation.

For his entire life, Myrddion had been a bastard, an oddity and a Demon Seed, but at least he had had an identity, no matter how alien or fearsome that legacy might be. Now, he was the bastard son of a Roman rapist who had been washed up on the shore during a violent storm. Again and again, Myrddion wondered how the man had come to this pass. Had he been shipwrecked? Had he been cast overboard? The only facts he knew about his father were that he claimed to have murdered his own mother and that he was ruthless, cruel and violent. When Myrddion stared in his silver mirror, his own beauty was a blow, for his father had been fair in face and body – a hyacinth beauty, as his fit had told him. In his tangled, confused thoughts, Myrddion discovered that it was easier to be a Demon Seed than the by-blow of a brutal stranger from another land.

‘I am nothing and I come from nowhere,’ he often told Anwynn once he had returned to his apprenticeship. The wise woman read the misery in the lad’s voice and was afraid for him. Myrddion was unsettled and the centre of his identity had been so shaken that he couldn’t find a way out of the maze of lies and half-truths that bewildered him.

Three years followed in this fashion, and Myrddion left the villa by the sea where memories flayed him day and night, for the children had grown sufficiently to develop without his support. Every room of the villa was infused with Olwyn’s spirit, and although he clutched at his memories of her love as a drowning man holds on to any means of flotation to keep his head above water, so each day in Olwyn’s home was a sweet agony. He saw her shade stand by the great doors, arms folded and eyes thoughtful as she looked out over Mona. When he wandered through the bare atrium, there she was with her spindle, turning raw washed wool into yarn. When he went to his lonely bed, she came to him in the night to kiss his forehead and stroke the cheeks that were already growing soft with down. Myrddion had hoped to find peace through his mastery of the healer’s craft, but the acquisition of knowledge couldn’t quite fill the gap in his heart. With some little regret, he left the villa by the sea and moved into Annwynn’s humble cottage where he could seek comfort in its dearth of memories. The quiet patterns of life in the cottage, and the lean-to he built with his own hands as a sleeping chamber, gave him some balance, but unanswered questions remained to torture him, even in dreams.

As Myrddion struggled to master Greek and decipher his scrolls, he could not escape the twisted face of Democritus and what had occurred as a result of that elderly man’s viciousness. Melvig had taken vengeance on the old scribe, for the Greek was a convenient scapegoat for the death of Melvig’s daughter. The king could be as cruel as Vortigern, especially when one of his kin was the victim, and he had responded with speedy and predictable justice. The scribe had been found and dragged to Canovium to face Melvig’s righteous anger.

Democritus had pleaded, but Melvig was immoveable.

‘How could I know that Mistress Olwyn would die?’ Democritus had begged.

‘How much were you paid by the Saxons for your information?’ Melvig had countered, his face becoming red with choler. Had Myrddion been present, he would have warned the terrified scribe to deny everything.

‘A trifle! A pittance! I didn’t ask for payment – the Saxons pressed it on me, saying that I was ensuring the safety of Cymru.’

Melvig had grinned like a wily old goat that sees a tasty nettle within the reach of its sharp, yellow teeth.

‘I will let your punishment fit the crime. I’ll not kill you, because you never intended to harm my daughter. But you lusted to read the scrolls, to possess them, and your attempt to steal them caused the tragic events that led to my daughter’s death. Therefore, like your Homer, I will let you go sightless through the world and beg for your bread.’

Myrddion shuddered at the thought of Democritus, a scribe, blinded on the orders of Melvig ap Melwy, a king who dispensed justice with a careful, callous nicety. Were the scrolls worth such a penance? Myrddion couldn’t tell, for Olwyn had been worth more than the lives of ten men to him, although his grandmother would have been horrified at her father’s retribution. But deep in his heart, in the atavistic part of him that had no shame, he was glad that Democritus had suffered.

From Annwynn’s perspective, she had an apprentice who broadened her skills and provided her with knowledge that she could never have gained alone. Despite the trouble and strife caused by the scrolls, she should have been content, but her apprentice was taking such terrible risks as he attempted to master herb lore that her heart was troubled in case he courted suicide. Sometimes, when they found unfamiliar plants about which they had little knowledge, her apprentice carried out his own experiments using himself as the patient. In several cases, he became very ill, so that only significant intervention by Annwynn saved his life.

Late one afternoon, as the healers were eating a frugal meal of cold venison, flat bread and radishes, Annwynn broached her greatest fear.

‘I believe you are becoming reckless with your life, Myrddion. Whether or not you are consciously punishing yourself, you are taking risks that are too dangerous for one so young. If you continue with these experiments, you will die.’

‘I have no desire to harm myself, Annwynn,’ Myrddion protested. ‘Honestly I don’t. I’m seeking knowledge in the only way I know.’

‘Your grandmother’s shade reproaches me for allowing you to place yourself in jeopardy. Besides, a war is coming, and your skills will be needed to help the wounded. An experimental treatment might be used on the dying as a last resort – not on yourself. The world has need of you, Myrddion. Besides, I love you like a son, and my heart would break if you harmed yourself unnecessarily.’

This final, rather sentimental plea was robbed of any trace of mawkishness by Annwynn’s obvious sincerity. Childless and husbandless, Annwynn had poured all her warm, passionate nature upon the boy-man who had enriched her craft and her life.

Shame-faced, Myrddion had nodded, and no more was said on the subject. But when his beard finally began to grow, he determined to shave and pluck the hairs away so that the face he saw daily was the same countenance that Olwyn had last seen. If his odd behaviour seemed bizarre in a world of bearded warriors, Annwynn accepted his eccentricity as the least of several evils.

Spring had come again, with all the promise of budding trees, wild flowers in brilliant drifts under the trees and in the fields, and births that reflected the fecund richness of the soil, the sea and the sky. Even Myrddion’s frozen heart melted a little when he took the time to notice the wild beauty of the land around Segontium.

The only sign of trouble was the arrival of a mounted warrior whose horse stumbled down the main road leading into the quiet town. The warrior was delirious and bore an infected spear wound on his thigh, so he was carried to Annwynn’s cottage. The leaders of the community of Segontium were desperate to learn the courier’s message, but the young man was raving with fever.

The two healers set to work. Annwynn prepared a concoction to fight the fever and promote cleansing sleep while Myrddion addressed the ugly, suppurating wound. Because of the fever and the probable pain to be inflicted during Myrddion’s treatment, the young man was given a little poppy juice in Annwynn’s draught and then tied down on the healer’s scrubbed table for good measure. Myrddion smelled the wound carefully and easily detected the faint, sweet odour of rot. The wound was swollen, dark and marbled, causing Myrddion’s face to turn grave.

‘I’ll need to cut away the dead and poisoned flesh,’ he explained to Annwynn as he cleansed a series of probes and knives in hot water and then held the blades over a flame to sterilize them. A translation of one of the papyrus pages had spoken of evil humours in the air and in the human touch that led to death after the flesh became corrupted, so Myrddion took pains to use water and fire to burn all taint away.

The two officials who had accompanied the warrior from Segontium winced when Myrddion cut into the wound. Green and black pus poured forth while he worked, and he cleaned up the mess with small tongs and strips of rag designed specifically for this treatment. The rags were thrown onto the fire to be burned to ash at the earliest opportunity.

Once he had opened the wound Myrddion could see the extent of the damage, and with a sinking heart he began to slice away the suppurating flesh until fresh blood came to the surface, indicating that healthy tissue had been reached. The wound grew larger and larger until an ugly pink furrow, two fingers wide, extended down the patient’s thigh. Myrddion sighed with some satisfaction.

‘Stay back!’ he ordered abruptly as one of the town fathers moved forward to examine the procedure. ‘I think I’ve removed most of the rotting flesh, but I have to be sure or this warrior will either lose his leg or die. If you come too close, any open cuts on your body could also become poisoned.’

‘But will he regain consciousness?’ the citizen asked, as he prudently backed away towards the door.

‘Aye, if the poison has been removed. As you can see, the wound is now oozing fresh, cleansing blood.’ He turned to Annwynn. ‘I think a seaweed poultice might promote healing. Do we have any already prepared?’

‘No, but I’ll make one in a trice,’ Annwynn replied briskly, and set to work at once to prepare a vile, green-black substance that still smelled of seawater in a clean, glazed bowl. Then she used a small paddle of carved wood to fill the gaping wound with the resulting paste.

In the meantime, Myrddion had stripped the warrior and washed his limbs efficiently and without embarrassment. All the clothing was set aside for boiling or burning, in case the patient became a source of infection. Myrddion spread pads with one of Annwynn’s drawing salves, placed them carefully over the wound and bound them firmly into place. During the operation, he blessed the ancient physicians of Egypt who had passed down so much knowledge of wounds, body poisons and infections, for much that he did was drawn directly from the papyrus scrolls.