Pascent’s hands were hard and muscular, and were far too strong to be the hands of the pampered prince the absent jewellery suggested. This young man was a seasoned warrior who had been trained from childhood to kill, for his calluses told the tale of his life and such signs couldn’t lie. Pascent was a great deal more than a Celt who had been fortunate enough to be captured rather than killed. But who was it he reminded Myrddion of?
‘Those vertical scars on his right thumb are familiar. For my life, I wish I could remember,’ Myrddion said aloud, causing a sentry to snap to attention behind him. But the healer was too occupied with his thoughts to notice. The morning was crisp and cleanly washed with spring showers, and Myrddion must begin the task of preparing his patients for the long trek to Venta Belgarum. Putting his suspicions behind him, he decided that Uther could be relied upon to watch the new claimant for his brother’s affections through those resentful, untrusting and jealous eyes.
Two months passed in the tedium of the void left after the brief and inconclusive battle. After a slow journey to Venta Belgarum, using
the longer but smoother route via Durocobrivae to spare the wounded, Myrddion at last returned to the house of the healers.
Late one night, Gruffydd appeared at his door. He looked as disreputable as ever; but Myrddion was heartened by the clarity and reason in his brown eyes.
With his dirty boots on Myrddion’s table in the scriptorium and a wine cup cradled carelessly on his chest, Gruffydd examined Myrddion closely.
‘Damn me, but you still look sixteen, Myrddion. I don’t know how you can sit so quietly, surrounded by gods know how many poisons and magical things. What’s in the glass jar?’
‘It’s a two-headed fish – a freak of nature,’ Myrddion said as he turned to follow Gruffydd’s pointing finger. ‘Such oddities interest me.’
‘Ugh!’ Gruffydd looked slightly queasy as he picked up the jar. ‘But if this sort of thing amuses you, who am I to criticise?’
‘I imagine you have a purpose that brings you to my house under cover of darkness,’ Myrddion said softly, ‘other than my choice of distractions to beguile my time.’
‘Aye, I do. I’ve just ridden from Londinium, travelling off the main roads to avoid attention.’ Gruffydd chuckled dourly. ‘Verulamium was retaken by the Saxons as soon as Ambrosius was out of sight, but I don’t suppose the High King will be surprised. The skirmish he fought for Verulamium was only to remind the Saxons that the he won’t easily be driven out.’
‘Did the tactic succeed?’ Myrddion sighed inwardly at the waste of life for such a transitory gesture. ‘Better to strike at the Saxon heartland and be done with it.’
‘Yes . . . and no. Ambrosius used a simple strategy. The Saxons are very superstitious, so they won’t sleep within the ruins of Verulamium for fear of Thorketil’s wight, which some fools say still haunts the place. Wild beasts roam the ruins and will continue to rule
there until the thanes forget Ambrosius’s lesson. But the Saxons have secured the roads, so Ambrosius will find no easy route into the north, not even along the goat track I heard you found. We mustn’t underestimate our enemies, Myrddion. The thanes aren’t fools, but they were surprised by the speed with which Ambrosius engaged their forces after travelling overland, so they intend to secure as many of the major roads as they can.’
‘What’s your advice then, Gruffydd?’
Gruffydd drained his cup and lifted his muddy boots from the table. He leaned forward, his face suddenly animated.
‘Ambrosius must fortify the towns that are the keys to the northern and western roads. He must use the existing fortresses, and strengthen those towns that control the passage of men and goods. It’s the only way to stop the Saxons from cutting us up piecemeal. Venonae, Ratae, Lactodorum and Lindum are vital. I’ve not travelled into the north yet, although when I leave here I’m off to Petuaria to check on the sons of Hengist and Horsa. Melandra, Lavatrae and Cataractonium are strong, but other former Roman fortresses are currently home to only wild dogs and wandering shepherds. Ambrosius must start to think of the lands beyond Calleva Atrebatum. At present, he is too distant from the tribal kings of the north and west, leaders who must be forced to play their part in the protection of the Celtic lands.’
Myrddion could imagine the fortresses, strung like stone pearls along the mountain spine that split their island into eastern and western halves. Those abandoned towers of yesteryear were the key to domination of the wide roads leading northward to Hadrian’s Wall. Gruffydd was right, and the spy had placed his blunt finger directly on the flaw that existed in Ambrosius’s strategic thinking. If the Celts didn’t take control of the fortresses, then the Saxons would.
‘Leave it with me, Gruffydd. I agree with you, and I wish I had another
thirty of you to prowl around the Saxon fringes for me. But for now you’re going to be stretched very thin, so I’ll apologise in advance.’
He pressed a purse into Gruffydd’s unwilling hands. The erstwhile Saxon captive hated to accept coin for what he perceived to be his duty to his people, but Myrddion insisted. ‘You must live, you must eat, you must ride a decent horse and you must drink ale in all sorts of disreputable places. All of these activities require you to possess a supply of coin. Besides, you may be able to find me more Saxon speakers if you have gold to pay them – and then I will have ears in the east to help you. But please, Gruffydd, I must ask that you be careful of your life. The Mother will guard you – but she’ll need a little assistance in those flea-pits that you frequent.’
After Gruffydd slipped away, nothing remained of his presence except for a faint odour of horse and sweat, some tracks of mud on Myrddion’s table and the position of the double-headed fish, whose eyes were now turned towards the wall. It seemed as if the spy had never existed.
In that momentous year, Venta Belgarum was enjoying a warm summer that buoyed the spirits of citizens and warriors alike. The victory at Verulamium had heartened the west and galvanised a feeling of optimism. Whenever Ambrosius rode out to the hunt or to meet the southern tribal kings at Corinium, the people cheered him, threw their caps in the air and tossed field flowers at the feet of his horse. The applause of the citizens was more tepid for his saturnine brother, but such enthusiasm lightened even Uther’s bleak spirits. Only Myrddion seemed to worry that the young man, Pascent, spent too much time in the High King’s company.
Myrddion also met the Celtic woman, or the Pict bitch as Uther most frequently described her.
At the earliest opportunity, Myrddion had requested an urgent and private audience with the High King. The intimacy of their previous
nightly meetings had dissipated, for Ambrosius had become interested in new experiences and diversions, but Myrddion still held the king’s ear and his service at Verulamium was not forgotten. Radiating disapproval, Ulfin led Myrddion to the royal apartments after the evening judgements in the Great Hall.
Ambrosius sat at ease, and Myrddion was surprised to see that he was already eating delicacies from a massy silver platter. Ulfin had not been required to taste the food.
‘You’re welcome, my young friend. I see that you’ve brought your maps, so we shall have a cup of wine together before you tell me how I should run my kingdom.’
Ambrosius smiled to rob his words of any sting, but Myrddion flushed anyway, and wondered at the change in the king’s personality that had occurred while he was away.
A woman swayed forward out of the shadows and poured two cups of wine from the jug on the table. Myrddion registered the mane of curling red hair, the disarming freckles and the graceful form of a woman who seemed completely at home in the king’s private rooms.
Ah, so Cadoc was right! This must be Uther’s Pict bitch, he thought. He accepted the proffered wine cup and, as surreptitiously as possible, used his sharp sense of smell to gauge the quality and safety of the wine as he lifted the goblet to his lips.
‘Ignore my lady, Myrddion. You may speak freely in front of Andrewina Ruadh, for she’s unlikely to leave Venta Belgarum in the near future. I intend to keep her close to me.’
Madness! Where is Ambrosius’s reason hiding? She’s the enemy!
Myrddion bowed low to the Pict bitch and shook his head with a smile.
‘No, my lord, we shall have our discussion at a later time. I would speak freely if I was risking my own skin alone, but my news affects the
continued health of others, so I must request that we speak in private.’
Ambrosius’s brows drew together with unusual pique, but before he could order Myrddion to obey him Andrewina Ruadh bowed and begged permission to depart. ‘I am a mere woman, lord king, and have no understanding of politics,’ she said, and smiled so deprecatingly and prettily that Myrddion should have been charmed. But all the healer’s hackles rose as he stared into her vivid green eyes. There was no lack of understanding there.
‘Very well, Andrewina, you may leave. But you will return when my healer concludes his business.’ Ambrosius’s eyes followed the woman’s sweet shape all the way to the door and Myrddion’s heart sank as he observed the glaze in his master’s eyes.
The king is besotted with her, and she’s more Pict than any of us.
But Myrddion too understood the games of kings, so he cordially bid the lady good night. He offered her a deep, respectful bow and watched with relief as Ambrosius’s brow slowly cleared.
‘I should be cross, healer, but I understand your sensitive nature. Tell me all, then, and don’t spare me in the telling. I’ve already had Uther nagging me like a fishwife over Andrewina, so I may as well hear all the bad news at the same time.’
Ignoring the trace of petulance that remained in Ambrosius’s voice, Myrddion gave a full report of Gruffydd’s findings. The High King grinned when he heard that the Saxon thanes believed the ruins of Verulamium were haunted, but his fair brows contracted with the news that the roads were impassable and the woods were thick with invaders.
‘By Mithras, must I scour these barbarians out of my lands, year after year?’
‘Yes, my lord, you must. They will not retreat, just as you will not permit them to take our lands. Where can any of us go? So this war is
in a state of impasse and, if we are lucky, it will last as long as we live. What is the alternative? Do we move further and further west until the Oceanus Hibernicus is at our backs? Or should we run to the north as the Picts were forced to do? Those dour people would relish a chance to take vengeance on us for the hundreds of years of what they believe to be tyranny and invasion. You must act, lord, now that our fledgling spy system shows us a way to confine the Saxons within a narrow strip of the lands in the east.’
Ambrosius bit at his thumb and Myrddion noticed that the nails on his master’s fingers were chewed to the quick. Sympathy softened his eyes for a moment, for no man could be envious of a High King whose decisions had such wide ramifications for the security of the realm. Then his expression hardened. In recent times, Ambrosius had been acting out of character with increasing frequency, as his passion for the Pict bitch indicated. He had welcomed Pascent into his household and now, in the teeth of his brother’s disapproval, he was becoming careless of his long-held, justifiable fears of treason. He must be forced to see sense.
‘My man suggests you fortify all the towns that dominate the roads leading into the north and the west. The result will add to our security and keep our lines of communication open. Now, at considerable risk to himself, he journeys to Petuaria where Hengist has taken a foothold. He urges you to resurrect the old Roman forts on the mountain spine, using the tribal kings to man them. The concept of fortifying Venta Belgarum in isolation is a strategy I can’t support, master, for you must see the land of the Britons as a whole and set the wheels in motion to secure it all, not just the part that you know and love. To succeed in your ambitions, you must convince the tribal kings of the north to support your cause.’
‘What would you have me do, Myrddion? My troops will be stretched to breaking point if I spread my armies to fortify those places you suggest. I can see the logic in your strategy, but I have
only so many warriors at my disposal. The tribal kings show no desire to come to my assistance.’
Myrddion had spent many hours devising a path through this particular conundrum. Ambrosius must be forced to think with vision, and the goal must be to unify the tribes into one cohesive nation.
‘Tribal kings such as my great-grandfather have provided men and gold to supreme rulers when the common need became obvious, master, and most agree with the concept of united tribes when a serious outside threat stiffens their spines. The difference here is that they must agree to unite in peace in order to avoid future wars. You must call the kings to a meeting, explain the Saxon strategy and offer your vassals a chance for glory and autonomy by making them responsible for certain fortifications. The cost for you will be minimal, you will bind the tribes to a common cause, and together you can pin the Saxons to those parts of the eastern coast where they currently prevail. Those tribes who have been displaced by the Saxons will welcome the opportunity to make our enemies pay for their stolen acres. How can such a plan hurt you, even if the tribes are recalcitrant? You will soon learn who your friends are.’
‘And I’ll also know who my enemies are. Yes, you may be correct. I might learn much about my alliances from such a meeting.’ Ambrosius’s face creased into a wide white smile and the healer detected traces of Uther’s lupine expression in the High King’s obvious pleasure. Even Ambrosius was capable of gloating amusement as he considered the machinations involved in dragging the tribal kings to heel. ‘I’ll call the kings to Venta Belgarum, although not all will come.’
‘But they must be
forced
to attend this meeting, my lord. I suggest you hold the meeting at a central city, one that will be acceptable to any tribal confederation. The kings must be brought to perceive themselves as allies, rather than as separate rulers responsible only for
their own boundaries. So the site of the meeting must be chosen carefully so that none of them will feel offended.’