Clash of Kings (54 page)

Myrddion blushed scarlet at the admiration in the eyes of his kin. As a Demon Seed, he had spent much of his childhood alone and shunned, so this accolade both warmed and unnerved him.

‘And yet I serve her murderer.’

From the corner of his eye, Myrddion saw Branwyn nod before she turned her face and body away from him. He sighed with disappointment.

Then Eddius was with him, enfolding the healer in his still-strong arms, and Myrddion felt the older man’s tears as they ran down his cheek.

‘Look at you, boy! She would have been so happy. Do not be shamed that you serve the regicide. You do what you must, as will I.’

Myrddion felt his breath catch in his throat with Eddius’s final words, while a presentiment of danger made his skin crawl.

‘What do you mean, Eddius? What do you plan?’

‘Nothing, son. Nothing at all. Now, let me look at you properly.’

Eddius saw a changed Myrddion, something other than the boy apprentice who had been torn away from his family by King Vortigern, the cursed tyrant who slew his beloved Olwyn. Myrddion had grown tall, over six foot, a remarkable height for a Celt who had hill dwellers in his ancestry. The boy’s face was almost inhuman in its comeliness, yet Eddius could recognise traces of both Olwyn and Branwyn. Each had bequeathed fragments of her features to Myrddion in a new composition that was both manly and beautiful.

His mobile hands and feet were narrow and fine, and his body, although slender and elegant, was also strong, with clearly defined muscles in the arms, chest and abdomen that even a heavy healer’s robe could not disguise. Only Myrddion’s eyes marred the lyricism of body and face, for they were alien in their blackness and measuring in their expression. Even Fillagh was surprised by her great-nephew’s cool, rational appraisal and the control that masked his emotions.

He is a young man to be reckoned with, and will make a better friend than enemy during the years to come, Melvyn thought as he presented his kinsman with a goblet of fine wine. Father would have been impressed that one so young had grown so tall and so strong.

By contrast, Eddius had aged in the year since they had last met. Sorrow sat heavily on his muscular shoulders and bent his spine as if he was middle-aged already. Grey threads dulled his hair and care had scored deep lines on his handsome, tanned face. Even his wide, guileless eyes were now secretive and shuttered. Myrddion felt terrible regret that he had permitted Vortigern to live, something that continued to hurt Eddius, but the young man had had very little choice.

‘I’m so glad to see you, boy. So glad! When we leave Canovium, you must come to Segontium and see the boys. I swear that Erikk is the image of my dear Olwyn, and Melwy has waited for your return with impatience. Your servant Tegwen has told them so many stories about you that you’ve become quite a hero in their eyes.’

Myrddion laughed at the thought. ‘Aye, I’ll come to visit. So Tegwen has found a home with you and the boys at Segontium?’

‘She’s a wonder, Myrddion. I’m amazed that you could bear to lose her. She serves the boys and has been a wonderful influence on their characters. Not only does she help Annwynn with any outbreaks of disease, but she also treats any small injuries that any of us suffer at the villa. I am quite relieved that she has come, as her presence lifts a heavy load off my shoulders. I can see my way clearly at last.’

‘I’m glad, Eddius, truly. Tegwen is a good woman – and very intelligent albeit she has never been educated.’

Privately, Myrddion stared into Eddius’s closed face and worried. What did Eddius see so clearly? And where did his way lead?

During the long evening, Myrddion was welcomed into the heart of his extended family. Nothing was said of the final duty he would perform for Melvig ap Melwy, but Myrddion felt the weight of his promise behind every warm gesture and joyous reunion. He ate and drank, described the far places that he had seen and the famous and mighty personages who had utilised his talents. His kin were especially taken with the death of Horsa, while Hengist’s fearsome revenge, a tale told faithfully from the recollections of Finn Truthteller, elicited gasps from his audience. Melvyn, in particular, found the story intriguing.

‘You speak of these Saxon interlopers as if they are noble characters. How can this be? The Saxons are barbarians, and they threaten us from across Litus Saxonicum even as we speak.’

Myrddion considered his response carefully before he answered.

‘I knew them, both Hengist and Horsa, and I discovered that they were the scions of kings. We should beware of the word
Saxon
, for it is as deceiving as the description Frisian or Briton. Both Hengist and Horsa were noble, living exemplary lives of duty to their people as well as giving loyalty to their masters. They adopted honour as a personal code. To my mind, they represented the best that the northern races have to offer.’

‘You seem to admire them, Myrddion,’ King Melvyn said, his face drawn down in an expression of disapproval.

‘Admiration and liking are two different things, my king. The Saxons can be far crueller than we can imagine, for they have been shaped by violence and landlessness. But Hengist is not our problem. The other Saxons who follow him into our isles are the true threat. From what the brothers told me, the ports of the Frankish lands and the kingdoms to the north are full of landless northerners who will do anything to carve out a place for their families. They lack Hengist’s nobility and reason, so they are dangerous. These invaders look at our shores through envious and calculating eyes now that the Romans have gone. But there is no need to worry, my lord Melvyn. The Saxons will not venture so far into the northwest for centuries, by which time all that we now know will have been powdered into the dust and our people will have lost control of their lands. Even then, in the twilight of the Celts, your kingdom will remain unscathed, although your descendants will be forced to welcome refugees into this quiet land where the past will retain its potency through the old stories and songs. Fear not, my lord, for you will sleep with your ancestors for many, many years before those dark days come.’

Melvyn’s shoulders straightened and he smiled with relief. ‘Does your intelligence tell you what the fates will bring?’ he asked cautiously. ‘Or something else?’

Myrddion thought carefully again, and when he spoke his voice was quiet and sincere. ‘Both, my king. Both senses tell me what to say, but I cannot give guarantees of their accuracy.’

‘The bastard – the Demon Seed – speaks the lies that he is told from the darkness of the evil ones,’ Branwyn interrupted with such vindictiveness in her voice that her kinfolk drew away from her. ‘Beware the tainted words he speaks.’

‘Silence, Branwyn! You are tolerated in this hall for the sake of your holy mother, so don’t force me to send you away. I’ll not have Myrddion insulted when he has promised to fulfil my father’s wishes in a way that I could never do.’

Melvyn spoke with such contempt that Branwyn’s husband dragged her away from the family group to their quiet sleeping chamber where she was free from prying eyes.

‘My apologies, Myrddion, for your mother is demented and she grows worse and worse. Sooner or later I will be forced to intervene for the sake of her children, who are no longer safe in her presence. Her husband often bears the marks of her attacks on his person and I fear that tragedy will end this particular family nightmare. Avoid her while you remain in Canovium, for your safety and for hers.’

Myrddion waved away the apologies of his king, for he was accustomed to his mother’s murderous impulses when she was around him. There were times, however, when he wondered how Branwyn’s life would have progressed if she had never found her beautiful man on the shoreline of Segontium. But he reasoned that the seeds of madness had always waited inside the mind of the child, dormant but poised to emerge if she ever suffered a major blow to her vision of the world. Myrddion’s father had been the spark that lit the latent madness in her nature. He could see that fire as it blazed behind her eyes.

Without Branwyn’s awkward presence, the evening continued pleasantly. Melvyn explained the ceremonies associated with Melvig’s interment. The old autocrat had decided to be inhumed and had chosen a slab of mountain granite to mark his final resting place. Even now, the great slab was being polished and carved and would be finished within the week.

‘The last of the great druids are coming to Canovium from Mona, from the forests of Arden and Sherwood and from Melandra in the north. They are gathering to witness the freeing of my father’s soul and will be with us in two days when the ceremony will take place. Are you prepared to fulfil your promise, Myrddion?’

‘Aye, lord. I promised Melvig, and I keep my word.’

‘My father instructed me to give you his sword to sever his head, fearing that any other blade would lack the weight to cut cleanly through the neck. Are you prepared to obey his wishes?’

‘Aye, my lord. But I will need some practice to determine the weight and feel of the blade.’

‘Of course,’ Melvyn responded. ‘Melvig left his sword, which he called Blood Bringer, to you as payment for carrying out your promise. His ruby ring, your grandmother’s necklace and an armlet with cabochon gems are also left to you absolutely. My father believed that you were born for greatness, Myrddion.’

‘The ruby ring should be on your finger rather than mine,’ Myrddion protested. ‘The ring always symbolised the king’s power, so I cannot imagine his hand without it. When all is said and done, I am the bastard child of the female family line, of little worth to either the Deceangli people or the Ordovice tribe. That ring should not grace my hand.’

Melvyn’s face softened and relaxed. Myrddion had passed the test of treasonous ambition.

When his father had ordered the disposition of his worldly goods, Melvyn had made the same arguments against the bequest of the ring. Now, Melvyn used Melvig’s arguments to convince the healer that he should comply with the old king’s wishes.

‘Melvig’s sword was his own to give as he chose. And so is this ring. I already possess the thumb ring and the great torc of the Deceangli tribe. The fish necklace was never mine, but belonged to Olwyn and the Mother. Why shouldn’t you accept these familiar daily gems that he wore on finger and wrist? He always saw something to be admired in you, and once he grew to know you better he desired to go with you on your long journeys, even if only in spirit.’

Myrddion assessed Melvyn’s true feelings about the bequests with a strange detachment. The young man hardly needed more enemies at his back. Finally, he came to a decision.

‘Melvig flatters me, but I will accept my great-grandfather’s gifts in the spirit in which they were given. While I live, I will wear your father’s ring with pride.’

‘So the week of ceremony and interment may now begin.’ Melvyn smiled his acceptance. ‘We shall pray for the soul of Melvig ap Melwy, king of the Deceangli, and for those of us who are the poorer for his loss.’

The next morning dawned with the same kind of oppressive, muggy heat that had welcomed Myrddion to Canovium. The healer snatched a fast meal of warmed stew and two apples from the kitchens, where servants were already hard at work preparing the feasts that would accompany the festivities surrounding both the funeral and the coronation of the new king. Eating one of his apples, he strolled out into the forecourt and looked down at Canovium and towards the sea beyond.

The river valley was fertile and the soil was deep, allowing the township to be encircled by farms right up to the foothills where the land began to rise steeply. Sheep grazed on the lower slopes while plots of vegetables, fruit and grains turned the rich soil into a patchwork quilt of colour. Canovium had possessed many names over the years and many different peoples had come to this narrow, fertile strip of land where the river soil provided food, water and links with the ocean and fishing.

Far away, in the mountains where the stream was fed by melted snow from great escarpments of granite, Vortigern might by now be looking down on the same river from his sanctuary at Dinas Emrys, Myrddion thought. This burgeoning land that fed Canovium relied on the High King’s fortress in the mountains for its security.

‘How predictable we are,’ he murmured. ‘We cluster where the land is good and only the wild people or the strange ones seek out the distant, harsh places where rivers don’t run.’

‘Your maternal ancestors were therefore wild or strange,’ a voice replied from behind him. Melvyn had approached in silence, and Myrddion had been unaware of the older man’s presence. ‘Your great-grandmother’s sister has been cared for on my father’s strict instructions for the past twenty years. She comes from the hill country, as did Olwyn’s mother, and she is very, very old. She should have passed into the shadows long ago, but her spirit is fierce and strong. She would like to see you.’

Myrddion’s brow furrowed.

The previous night, he had been surrounded by kinfolk, which had been a strange experience for a young man who had spent a large portion of his life alone. Why would an ancient hill woman wish to meet him, even if they were distant kin? However, he was far too courteous to ask impolite questions.

‘Of course, Uncle, I would be happy to meet the venerable lady. I will wait upon her at a time of your choosing.’

Melvyn laughed softly and clapped the healer on the back with relief. ‘There’s no time like the present. Aunt Rhyll will give me no peace until she sees you. I warn you, she’s a frightening woman for someone who barely reaches my shoulder if she stands upright which, unfortunately, she cannot do.’

Myrddion shrugged good-naturedly and crunched into his second apple. ‘The morning is bright, my lord. I have a day of leisure before me, except to pray for the soul of the king and to renew my acquaintance with Eddius, so I am at your disposal.’

‘Good, good.’

Melvyn turned on his heel and led Myrddion back into the rambling building, down narrow corridors, and through a rabbit warren of smaller and smaller rooms until he reached the back of the palace, if such a word could be used to describe such a patchwork of intertwined buildings.