‘I can journey into the Saxon lands, but whether I can live among them without vomiting is another matter altogether.’
‘I have complete faith in your ability to dissemble, Gruffydd, for you have fooled the Saxons for the best part of your life. What are a few more years, if your work undoes Saxon plotting to overrun our lands? Ultimately, Ambrosius will be paying in gold for your services, although your allegiance will be given to me, rather than directly to the High King. I will relay your discoveries to the appropriate authorities.’
‘Does the High King know he has a sorcerer for a healer?’ Gruffydd laughed coarsely.
Myrddion whitened, and Gruffydd realised he had gone too far.
‘I’m not a sorcerer. Some twist in my blood through my mother’s kin has cursed me with these waking fits. Far sight, the hill people call it, and they count those who suffer it blessed. But I’d not have it, if I were given any choice. Absolve me from the sin of sorcery at least, although I have suborned you to join my service at the Mother’s bidding. Hate me if you wish, but acquit me of that particular abomination.’
Gruffydd cursed the curiosity that had led him to speak so unwisely. He remembered the tale being whispered in the taproom, of the two magicians who had been sacrificed at Dinas Emrys in Myrddion’s stead when the healer was a child, so he understood the depths of the young man’s revulsion. Myrddion had been very young when two grown men
had died because of his sight. Gruffydd said nothing further, leaving Myrddion to his own turbulent thoughts.
For a whole week, Myrddion and Gruffydd spent the short, dim days together as Myrddion explained where the major Saxon enclaves could be found and showed Gruffydd his maps of the rich lands south of Londinium. Gruffydd had never imagined such wondrous things, and quickly memorised the network of roads that linked the settlements of the south. Despite his scepticism, the fledgling agent realised that the young healer had a gift for subterfuge and the skills to bring Ambrosius’s plan to fruition. He also had the wealth to ease Gruffydd’s path into the east.
‘You are the only Saxon-speaking spy I’ve found thus far, so you are a vital strand in my web of information. Your gift for being able to remain undetected and unnoticed in odd corners will be priceless, but first we must do something about those scars, or devise some way of explaining them away.’
‘They could cause difficulties, couldn’t they? A ragged scarf and a sturdy woollen undershirt, well stained to discourage the squeamish among the Saxons, and several layers of disreputable clothes should see me safe enough.’ Gruffydd grinned engagingly and revealed surprisingly good teeth.
‘Here’s enough coin to smooth your way, but it’s not gold, I’m afraid, because that would attract too much attention. But there should be enough silver and copper here to purchase everything you need, starting with a decent horse. I will arrange for you to be paid a regular stipend in gold that will be hidden at a secret place or left in the care of some person you can trust. You will be well paid for your endeavours. When you need more coin for expenses, you need only visit me at the house of healers under the guise of being in poor health. Similarly, approach me there if you must speak to me urgently.’
Gruffydd chortled. ‘I like
my horse. But I’ll grant she’s like to drop dead on me, so she’ll need replacing eventually. You think of everything, Myrddion; it’s a pleasure doing business with you.’
‘You will usually find me in Venta Belgarum, because Ambrosius has give me a list of tasks that I’m unlikely to finish for years. In the meantime, I plan to design a means of communication whereby our circle alone can divine the meaning of our words. But such a system will take time to devise, so you must have patience with me in the meantime.
Gruffydd found himself grinning rather foolishly. Suddenly, his life was being stretched purposefully out in front of him. He now had a future, which was an inconceivable thought a month earlier. He even felt the first stirrings of excitement; an emotion that he thought had disappeared with the deaths of his parents.
‘Just take care, Gruffydd. You’re precious to me, and not only because you’re my only Saxon-speaking spy. The Mother has told me of her plans for you, so I’ll pray to her to keep you safe. Besides, Cait will claw out my eyes if anyone should hurt you on my account.’
Gruffydd flushed blotchily above his straggling beard. ‘It’s like to be the other way round. I’ve been thinking that she’s smitten with you, rather than me.’ As his face turned scarlet he looked absurdly young, causing Myrddion to remind himself that they were roughly the same age.
The healer laughed deprecatingly. ‘No, Gruffydd, I can assure you that I’m only someone who has been kind to her. It’s you, for some reason that I can’t fathom, who’s captured her heart. And if ever a girl needed a good man to give her a decent life, it’s Cait. Fortunately, now that you are in the employ of the High King, you’ll earn sufficient coin to take a wife, but I’m certain that you’ll need to accept her mother and her sisters into your life as well.’
Myrddion’s thoughts turned increasingly
towards the last thing he must do before he could return to Venta Belgarum and kinder weather. He had not seen his mother for over six years, and although they had no love for each other the ties of birth remained important to the young man. What he could tell her about Flavius Ardabur Aspar, and his home across the Middle Sea, might also relieve her irrational terrors and, perhaps, ameliorate her madness.
One dark morning, with a heavy heart, Myrddion finally mounted his horse and set off for Maelgwr’s farm, where Branwyn and her brood dwelled with her second husband. Brychan had provided sketchy directions based on landmarks such as fallen trees and cairns of flint, so the young healer worried that he would miss one of the many signs and lose his way. On the other hand, guiltily, he knew he would welcome such an excuse to avoid the inevitable confrontation.
‘Why am I going to see her?’ Myrddion asked his horse as it trudged into a vicious, icy wind that blew straight from the sea. ‘The gods know she’ll not make me welcome. You’ll be lucky to receive even a nosebag of grain, whereas I’m more likely to wear her eating knife between my shoulder blades.’
The rutted track spoke mutely of isolation. Few wagons made the journey into this wild place, which had plentiful supplies of clean water but soil that was more shale and flint than good, brown loam. Presently, in a deep fold in the hills where the water was caught in a rough-cut limestone basin, Myrddion saw a ramshackle shepherd’s hut with smoke pouring out of a hole in the roof, and turned his horse towards it.
As he dismounted, a man who was completely swathed in sheepskins pushed open the rotting door to greet his visitor. A heavy, twisted crook of wood hung by its hook over one shoulder and a shaggy dog growled at Myrddion from between the shepherd’s wide-spread feet.
‘Who are you, and what are
you doing up here? I’ll tell you outright that I’ve nothing worth stealing.’
‘I’m seeking the villa of Maelgwr and his noble wife Branwyn. I am her son, Myrddion Merlinus Emrys.’
The shepherd ducked his head respectfully, but he made the sign to ward off evil when he thought Myrddion wouldn’t notice.
‘Come in then, young sir. I’ve got hard cheese, mead and some flat bread that’s not too old. I’ve also got a haunch of cold mutton. A wild dog killed the old ewe two nights ago and nothing goes to waste in these hills. You’re welcome to share what I have.’
Myrddion hobbled his horse where some dry grass thrust its way through a thin powdering of snow. Stamping his feet and stripping off his knitted gloves, he thanked the shepherd for his generosity and ducked through the low entry.
Inside, the unprepossessing hut was spartan but clean. A pallet of straw was laid out close to the central fire, and a tripod above the low blaze carried a heavy iron pot filled with hot water. Pointing to his pallet as a seat, the shepherd used a long hook to tilt the pot while he filled two coarse bowls with water to which he added viscous mead, releasing the smell of old honey that was both sweet and aromatic. A flat rock served as a platter for a heel of cheese, some rather mouldy bread and a slab of meat that had been carved from the unfortunate ewe’s leg.
Myrddion refused the food, explaining that he had eaten at the inn in Tomen-y-mur, but he accepted the hot mead with his usual grace. Warming his blue-tinged fingers before the fire, he lifted the mug, which was steaming pleasantly in the dim light. The liquid was very sweet, and too cloying for Myrddion’s tastes, but he soon felt the warmth loosen the cold knot in his belly.
‘I thank you, my friend. Your hospitality to strangers is laudable, and it makes a nonsense of Tomen-y-mur’s reputation for being churlish and backward.’
The shepherd scratched his greasy
hair and looked puzzled. ‘Begging your pardon, master, but I only understand the half of what you said. I’m an ignorant man, but I’m a Christian and I share what I have with others. The priest tells us that we should give if we hope to receive. My name is Goll. I’m told that it means one-eyed, so my mother must have been confused. I’ve worked for Maelgwr for long years, and his brother Maelgwn before him, God rest his soul, and it suits me well enough. I like sheep and there’s more to looking after them than you’d think. Sheep aren’t very knowing, not like my Tomos here, so I have to help them with the lambing, keep them out of the cold, find new grass for them and cut winter feed for them in the autumn. My days are full.’
The shepherd talked on, but eventually he ran out of words and Myrddion was able to ask some questions. ‘Is Maelgwr a good master? Does he treat you well?’
‘Aye, he’s a good enough master, I suppose, although he’s not like his brother. Now, there was a fine man. He was fair with his workers – too fair at times, if you take my meaning. But when he died . . .’ Goll crossed himself in the Christian fashion. ‘Well, we take the rough with the smooth at Tomen-y-mur.’ He paused. ‘You know how it is, sir. Masters come and masters go, but the sheep still need crutching and shearing.’
‘I understand, Goll. No master would care to live out here, but it’s quiet and peaceful. Do you ever see the mistress?’
Goll snorted, but then he remembered that Myrddion was her son. ‘She’s very unhappy, sir, I don’t doubt. Never a body to speak to, and women set store by friends, don’t they? I never married because no woman would be willing to share this life. It’s said that your mother wasn’t willing to come to Tomen-y-mur in the first place, so her fits and starts are only natural, I suppose.’
Even Goll looked doubtful at his excuses, so Myrddion hurried on with his questions. ‘I’ve heard that Maelgwr isn’t happy in his marriage and
looks to . . . more pleasant pastures for his amusements,’ he hinted delicately. By suggesting he knew more than he did, he hoped to break down the shepherd’s natural reserve.
Goll shuffled his feet and gulped down his warm mead. The healer realised his host was acutely uncomfortable and was unwilling to gossip over the foibles of his betters. ‘I’ll confess my reasons for asking these questions, Goll. I’ve heard that Maelgwr would like to be rid of my mother, but until her grandfather died he didn’t dare to defy the king of the Deceangli. Now I’m afraid he may send her to the shades before her time.’
Goll looked honestly shocked, and Myrddion could tell that he had never considered that his master might resort to murder to resolve his marital problems. But mixed with the shock was fear, as though the shepherd wanted his sharp-eyed visitor gone before he found himself in a situation where he could lose his head.
‘Never mind, Goll. It was wrong of me to ask you to inform on your master. I won’t breathe a word of what you’ve said today – I’d be in near as much trouble as you if they suspected me of meddling in my mother’s marriage.’
The shepherd bit on nail until it bled and worry etched sharp creases between his gentle eyes. After a pause he began, ‘A red-haired slut works as a house servant, and there are many who say that my master visits her room late at night. The girl sleeps alone, which is rare enough to be a matter of gossip, but I’ve never seen anything myself. I can’t say what goes on in that house because I stay out here, away from it, where no man can blame me for what might happen.’
Myrddion rose to his feet and offered Goll his hand. ‘I thank you for your mead and for your honesty. Now, how do I find Maelgwr’s house?’
With Goll’s directions echoing in his head, Myrddion forced his horse into an unwilling trot, and after an hour he reached a long, low building at the brow
of a hill a few miles from the sea. On the flat land below the house, neat fields edged with stone walls indicated some decent earth, and under a light sprinkling of snow Myrddion could see neatly ploughed furrows ready for the new growth of spring.
The house on the hill was dun-coloured, sprawling and far less well kept than the fields below. As a weak sun tried to burst through black clouds that were pregnant with snow, a woman bustled out of the main doors carrying two buckets, which she began to fill from a well set into the muddy forecourt of the flint-and-mudsheathed house. Smoke drifted into the air from kitchens at the rear of the building, and snug barns appeared to house horses and milking cows. In the weak noontime sun, chickens picked desultorily at grain scattered on the bare earth or scrounged for long-dead seedpods around the farm buildings. Myrddion noticed that all the care and efficiency in the place seemed to be lavished on the outbuildings rather than the main villa, and he sighed at this evidence of his mother’s condition.
The servant moved back towards the house carrying the two full buckets, which slopped water with every step. She appeared to be completely oblivious of the presence of a stranger, so Myrddion swung down from his horse and stood directly in front of her.
‘I am Myrddion Merlinus Emrys and I wish to speak to my mother, the lady Branwyn.’
‘I don’t know about that,’ the woman drawled, looking at him with vacuous eyes. ‘The master doesn’t welcome visitors, so you’d best be on your way.’ She attempted to brush past him, splashing water on his boots and trews.