‘There
was no risk to me. I only had to wait and act as I always did. I brought you the king’s cup and plate, as was my duty. How easy to wipe them clean and then squeeze the fluid, just a little, into the bottom of the goblet. Neither of you looked. For all your caution, Myrddion Merlinus, you never checked the cup, although you took it from me and filled it with water. The Gates of Hades were already opening for the High King, and you were still waiting for someone – me – to tamper with the food.’
‘Idiot!’ Uther hissed in Myrddion’s direction.
‘But I gave you the plate, Uther pen nobody. As always, you were ignorant of anything that didn’t involve brute force. A dragon? You? Where was your fabled ability to smell a Saxon, or half of one, anyway? I’d carefully wiped the plate over with my cloth, so it would have seemed very clean. You didn’t even notice what I was doing, and just ordered me away from Ambrosius while he ate off the poisoned plate. Too late! Too late!’
Vengis laughed again and the sound wasn’t quite sane. Myrddion wondered how long the poison of vengeance took to madden even the strongest of men . . . and Vengis was strong with his father’s venom.
‘So do what you wish with me, for I don’t care. If Ambrosius dies, any pain will be worth it. If he lives, my brother will hunt him down once he has risen to the position of thane.’
‘But I didn’t order the death of Rowena,’ Ambrosius whispered, his face genuinely pained. ‘Why did you believe I’d do such a thing?’
Vengis’s eyes opened very wide, as if such a possibility had never occurred to him. Since boyhood, he had nurtured a rumour in his heart, and now to be told it wasn’t true was more than he could accept.
‘You’re lying. My father swore that you had ordered her murder,’ he snarled, his face twisting like that of a child hovering on the point
of tears. ‘The servant woman exposed the plot, and she named the traitorous Silure nobleman who was in your pay.’
Myrddion felt sick. He remembered poor Willow, hanging in the executioner’s hands, her neck broken and her body streaked with blood. She would have said anything to satisfy her terrible master, Vortigern, and feed his prejudices to the end. She may even have believed it, for Vortigern had never doubted that Ambrosius was his enemy.
‘So you have decided that the violence will never end, Vengis, as more and more blood price will be demanded until men forget that we ever existed? Must we kill and bleed by turn until the end of time?’
‘Take him away and make very, very sure the bastard is kept safe and well,’ Uther ordered, and the young man was dragged away.
In the silence that followed, Ambrosius searched his brother’s face with a sad, defeated understanding. ‘Did you order the death of Queen Rowena, Uther?’ he asked quietly, one hand outstretched towards his brother, who fell to his knees at the sufferer’s bedside. Uther took the proffered palm and kissed it, while Myrddion felt a wave of shame that he should witness such a private moment.
‘Yes, brother, I did. And in doing so, I’ve caused your death. The Saxon bitch killed Vortimer, who was your ally and our half-brother. While he was a weak man, he was our creature and our blood, so the woman could not be permitted to go unpunished for her crime. I knew you would forbid me to order her assassination, so I didn’t tell you. Her death exposed and maddened Vortigern, as I hoped it would, but I never thought that her sons would live to avenge her. To be honest, I never considered them at all.’
‘What did you think her sons would do?’ Ambrosius whispered with exasperation. ‘Welcome their freedom from their parents? Stay at Dinas Emrys to be murdered by Vortigern’s enemies?’
From
the shadows, Myrddion realised that Uther could hardly speak for weeping. His shoulders heaved over his bowed head, which was buried in the pillows beside the High King’s. Ambrosius raised his hand with difficulty and stroked his brother’s wildly curling hair.
‘Don’t weep for what is done, Uther. Please, no guilt or shame should attach to you, for the goddess Fortuna has decided that the skein of my life must be shortened. Simply promise, in reparation, that you will obey my instructions in the scroll I have given to Botha. I will hold you to it from beyond the grave.’
Touched by Ambrosius’s greatness of heart and sickened by the cosmic joke that the gods had played on them all, Myrddion left the tent to await the return of Botha with a priest. He prayed that they would be quick.
A dark noon had given way to a stormy afternoon when two tired horses splashed their way into the camp in the teeth of driving rain. Scorning the violence of the elements, Botha wore his usual serviceable cloak, while his plaits streamed behind him in the wild, wind-torn air as he dragged his exhausted horse to a halt. By comparison, the cowled figure who sat astride a smaller horse was a compact figure muffled against the storm. As Myrddion raised a hand to assist the man to dismount, he was surprised to feel hard muscle through the coarse homespun of cloak and robe. A square, muscular hand with beautiful fingers gripped Myrddion’s forearm.
‘Thank you, my son. May the Lord protect us poor sinners during this sad time. Does the High King still live?’
‘Aye, lord. But he is failing, and I have neither the knowledge nor the potions to save him. I can only ease his pain.’
‘I am no lord, young man, only a humble priest of the high God.’ The priest’s hand, unadorned but for a worn thumb ring of orange gold, raised the cowl to reveal a face so Roman and so pure in its features
that Myrddion could almost smell the scent of oranges and taste the light patina of dust raised by thousands of hurrying feet in the subura. Once again, he remembered the sun that had warmed him to the bone when he had served the sick and dying among the Seven Hills of Rome.
A pair of warm brown eyes looked through Myrddion, and the healer fancied that the priest saw every weakness and sin that marked his soul. The man had shaved his head in the Aryan tonsure but his remaining hair, cut militarily short, was raven black and frosted with grey. Feeling unsettled and superstitious, a condition he found disconcerting, the healer led the way into the tent of the High King, where Uther still crouched on the floor beside his brother. Myrddion turned away so he would not shame the prince by seeing his soundless tears.
‘I have come, my lord, to give you the consolation of our Master who promises you rest after all your struggles.’
Uther looked up, having dragged one forearm over his streaming face so he could examine the priest with dry eyes. Carefully, the Roman removed his sopping cloak to reveal a satchel, much like Myrddion’s own, slung over one shoulder. From it the priest took out a narrow length of fine cloth decorated with gilt, which he kissed reverently before placing it around his damp shoulders. Then he retrieved a small vial of oil and a golden cross rich with coloured cabochon gems that danced in the lamplight.
For the first time, Myrddion saw and heard the ritual of Extreme Unction, as Ambrosius bared his soul in confession in a faltering, thready voice. He would have left the tent, but Ambrosius became so distressed that Uther ordered him to remain. Like a long, slow wave of music, the Latin ritual lifted the gloom that hovered over the bed and the dying man who lay so still upon it, transfiguring the leather tent into a place of light and hope. Myrddion was almost swept away by the beauty of the prayers for Ambrosius’s soul, spoken
in a Latin so pure that the healer wondered what gens had fathered such an extraordinary man.
‘You may sleep now, lord king, in the knowledge that my Master, Jesus of Nazareth, will take your hand and lead you into the presence of God. All your trials are over and you can, at last, rest in joy and peace.’
‘What is your name, priest?’ Uther asked with uncharacteristic humility.
‘I am Lucius, father of the flock of Glastonbury and a poor penitent.’
‘You are Roman,’ Ambrosius whispered, each word dragged out of him by the fierce will that forced his heart to beat.
‘I
was
Roman, but now I am nothing but the instrument of my God,’ Lucius replied, and stepped back from the king’s bed.
‘You must swear to obey my . . . wishes in the scrolls, Uther.’
‘I swear . . . but you don’t have to leave me. Fight to live! Don’t give up! We have always been together, brother, so what use is a crown to me if you are dead?’
‘Hush, Uther. All my hopes are in your hands now and you must do what has to be done.’ Ambrosius slowly turned his gaze towards his healer, narrowing his eyes in the failing light. ‘Myrddion Merlinus? I hold you to your oath . . . and beg that you care for Andrewina Ruadh. I ask also that you remember me when the kings meet at Deva . . . I swear, that day was . . .’
Then the king’s breath stopped. His chest laboured to expand and contract as his eyes rolled backward in his head and his body stiffened. Then, as Lucius moved forward and stroked the waxen forehead, the body of the High King slowly relaxed, took another breath . . . then another . . . and, suddenly, the tent was utterly silent.
Myrddion turned away so he would not dishonour his king by weeping. Lucius placed one comforting hand upon his slumped shoulder
and ushered him out of the quiet tent, now empty of the personality that had saved a kingdom.
In the icy, driving rain, the healer turned his face up to the black sky and wept unashamedly. No moon could pierce the heavy cloud cover, and Myrddion wondered if the sun would ever shine again. The sun king had ruled in the summer of their hopes, and as the cold winds had come after his great triumph at Deva his spirit had been stolen away.
‘What will we do without him?’ Myrddion spoke softly to the priest. ‘We are lost, and the isles of Britain will surely fall to the Saxons in time. Ambrosius was the best Roman I ever knew and he loved this land with his whole heart.’
Beside him, Lucius of Glastonbury stood like a bulwark against the gusting wind. His robe was plastered against his body, revealing a physique that had been shaped by hard, unrelenting work. When he spoke, his voice rose over the persistent howling of the storm.
‘But Ambrosius was also a Briton. He was born here, and he dreamed throughout his long exile of his desire to return. What else matters? Your friend is at rest now, Myrddion Merlinus. If you choose to weep, then do so for yourself, for I fear the days ahead will be harsh for men of goodwill.’ He dropped his voice so that only the healer could hear him. ‘The king of winter has come.’
Uther was inconsolable. With a strong man’s pride, he refused to weep in public, but Myrddion had heard the muffled sound of heart-wrenching misery coming from the High King’s tent. The young healer had no difficulty imagining Uther pressing his tearstained face into his brother chest’s as the corpse, draped in a pure linen shroud by Botha’s blunt, clever fingers, was laid out on the king’s camp bed.
What could Myrddion do? In the back of his mind, Ambrosius’s voice seemed to whisper, ‘Help him. He is desolate, and who can know
what he will do to ease the agony of guilt that devours his heart?’
Had the prince read the scroll penned by Ambrosius’s own hand? Dare he intrude on the mourning of such an unpredictable man?
‘Who lives for ever, anyway?’ Myrddion whispered aloud, and thrust his way into the tent where the corpse of Ambrosius lay, waiting for the fire that would devour his mortal remains.
‘Please accept my condolences for your loss, my lord. Ambrosius Imperator was the best of men, my heart’s master and a ruler who was both just and kind. My craft betrayed me, for I couldn’t find any way to save his life. I beg your forgiveness, my lord.’
Uther was sitting on a low stool with his back to the tent flap. His body offered no clue to his responsiveness to Myrddion’s words. Then, just as the healer turned to go, the new king rose to his full, impressive height, and rounded on the younger man.
Uther’s face was hollow with grief and as expressionless as a marble effigy. Except for his narrowed lips and puffy eyes, few men would realise that this prince of the realm was ravaged by his only selfless emotion, his devotion to his brother.
‘Ambrosius has forced me to accept you as my chief adviser, so give me the benefit of your wisdom, healer.’ Every word dripped with sarcasm and Myrddion knew that he stood on a tightrope above a bottomless chasm. One wrong step and Uther’s reddened eyes promised a bloody explosion of ungovernable rage, oath or no oath.
‘Ambrosius, my dear master, must go to the fire in a place fitting for a ruler who was both wise and devoted to his people. The kings must be called to an appointed place where his funeral pyre will be remembered throughout the ages.’
Safe ground!
Uther turned his bloody thoughts away from retribution and impotent
pain to the task of giving honour to his beloved brother. ‘Where do you suggest? I’m loath to desecrate my brother’s peace by transporting his mortal remains to Venta Belgarum, although I will have to be crowned in its church, as custom dictates. Where else can my brother be honoured?’
Myrddion thought furiously. Glastonbury was too Christian to be chosen. According to Llanwith, the church was tiny and very dilapidated, not a fitting monument to Ambrosius’s glory, at least in Uther’s eyes. Besides, the kings who followed the old religion and those chieftains from the Roman settlements would be offended by any preference given to the Christian God.
‘The Giant’s Carol, my king. That ancient, mighty circle of stones is an appropriate place to send the spirit of Ambrosius soaring into the sun. The purpose of the Dance has been lost in the mists of time, but the land is flat, so the pyre will be visible for many, many leagues. I have been there and have felt the power of its great age. My master will be honoured in a fitting manner, and the tribal kings will never forget Ambrosius Imperator.’
‘The Dance? You would build his funeral pyre at the Dance?’ Myrddion began to fear that Uther was offended, for the new king began to pace distractedly back and forth across the floor of the tent. ‘There’s very little wood on the plain and my brother must have a pyre of unsurpassed size and magnificence.’
‘You are the heir, Lord Uther. I propose that the warriors, the peasants and the tribal kings who share the boundaries of their kingdoms with the Giant’s Carol should gather the wood needed to honour their martyred king. You have the power to ask this boon of them but, lord, I would suggest that you don’t demand it of them. Leave the kings with no choice other than to show their sorrow in a practical fashion. If you are subtle, your request can be used as a test of loyalty to the throne.’