‘I’m a plain-spoken man, Merlinus, and I lack the patience to pander
to the egos of those squabbling fools. If the tribal kings argue, I will teach them to be more respectful in future. My brother will be sent to the Otherworld with all the dignity and ceremony that can be arranged at short notice. That is
your
skill, Merlinus. You will do for Ambrosius’s cremation what you achieved for him at Deva, and I’ll not complain at the cost.’
Myrddion was in an invidious situation. If he refused to play his part in the plan Uther had proposed, the new king would be enraged. His love for and loyalty to the memory of Ambrosius was also a factor, for he was as determined as Uther to ensure that men who spoke of the funeral of Ambrosius in years to come would do so in voices hushed with awe.
‘Very well, I will honour my master with a ceremony that shall be remembered as long as Britons live in these isles. Should I write to the tribal kings and explain the murder of the High King, and order their presence at his cremation and the execution of his assassin? They should be invited to your coronation as well, my king, and there would be no harm in reminding them that nothing has changed as far as they are concerned. They will still be expected to honour the accord on pain of oath-breaking.’
Uther looked irritated for a moment, for he realised that the healer was manoeuvring him towards a tactful approach to the tribal kings when he longed to relieve his pent-up fury on any chieftain who dared to defy him. As he watched him, Myrddion could see awareness and chagrin written clearly on the saturnine face, but then Uther chuckled quietly to himself as he decided on the orders he would give his new counsellor.
‘I keep forgetting that you’re skilled in Latin, healer. You will word the message very clearly so that each of those nobodies realises that I’m holding him to account. Oh, you can dress it up as politely as you like – by all means. But make sure that there is an iron fist behind your fair and courteous words.’
Myrddion
breathed a sigh of relief, but the respite was short-lived. Uther straightened his brother’s chair and sat rigidly, his emotions under check and replaced by the coldness that Ambrosius had recognised.
‘It’s time for plain speaking between us, Myrddion Merlinus. Have you read the scroll, my brother’s last gift to me?’
‘No, my king, I have not. Such messages are private, but Lord Ambrosius made me vow to serve you and offered me the protection of his word if I should do so. I know nothing other than what he told me.’
Uther’s expression remained unchanged. ‘He asked me to keep you close at hand as my chief counsellor, because he thought that you were a man who could be trusted to keep your head in difficult situations. He insisted that your loyalties were completely with the Britons and that you’d never betray me. Was he correct?’
For a moment, Myrddion almost retorted that he’d hardly deny Ambrosius’s faith in him, even if that trust was misplaced. Fortunately, prudence intervened.
‘I am oath-bound to you, King Uther, for good or ill. Just like Botha, I take my vows seriously. Besides, I am committed to the saving of life, not the taking of it.’
‘Naturally you’d agree, whatever your private thoughts might be. Don’t colour up, healer. I know you’re loyal, even though I have no liking for you. You’re a storm crow if ever there was one, and if it were not for my promise to Ambrosius, I’d remove you. In truth, you’re too damned clever and too resourceful to be a safe servant, but I also am oath-bound, just like you.’
Myrddion thought quickly and moved to Uther’s seated figure, bowed deeply and then fell to his knees. ‘Your candour does you credit, King Uther. Though my vow is already given, I offer it again in the full knowledge of what I do. I swear by my hope of redemption and on everything that I hold dear to devote myself to your interests and
the interests of the Britons until death takes us.’
Then Myrddion abased himself for the first time in his life and placed Uther’s foot upon the back of his neck, like a slave of no worth. A voice seemed to whisper approval in the back of his skull and he was reassured that this act of self-sacrifice was what the Mother required of him.
‘Get up, healer. You’ve proved your point, and I’m convinced you are sincere. But should I suspect that you’ve broken faith with me, I’ll have you killed. Do we understand each other?’
Myrddion rose smoothly to his feet and two spots of colour marked his pale cheeks. ‘I too am the direct descendant of kings, my lord, and my oath is as strong as iron and as long as life.’
‘Good. Then we’ll manage to co-exist for Ambrosius’s sake. But I am the High King, and though you may advise me I will make the decisions, not you. For now, I expect you to fulfil the duties you were carrying out at my brother’s command. The spy network has already proved its usefulness, and the training of healers is also critical. After my brother ascends to the gods, and I have been formally crowned in Venta Belgarum, you and I are going to war. The Saxons will learn that Uther Pendragon will brook no incursions into his lands, nor allow settlers to devour his soil, acre by acre. I plan to create a corridor of scoured and burned earth from Portus Lemanis to the outskirts of Londinium. The Saxons will be persuaded to stay in the lands they presently occupy and will be suffered to encroach no further. This I swear over the body of my brother. Now, leave me to mourn him. We will begin the journey to the Giant’s Carol on the morrow, so a fine wagon must be made sufficiently beautiful to bear his body. The common people will be encouraged to observe the passing of the High King.’
‘May I suggest that Lord Ambrosius’s body should lie in state to accentuate the great loss to the realm?’
‘Do
whatever honours the memory of Ambrosius, but be ready to depart from this cursed place tomorrow. And before I forget, Vengis will be chained to the wagon and he will walk behind the man he killed. He will go to his death with my brother. In the flames!’
Half a dozen cavalrymen were sent into the countryside to collect holly and mistletoe. Myrddion warned them to ensure that the latter was not permitted to touch the earth, for all herbalists knew that mistletoe lost its efficacy if it became earth-bound.
‘Why use mistletoe?’ Botha asked, as Myrddion relayed his orders.
‘It was sacred to the Druids as the symbol of rebirth. It will not have its berries yet, the little white globes that men say bear the semen of the reborn king. But the people will understand the message and its meaning.’
Botha’s heavy, clever face was illuminated with admiration. ‘Aye, I had forgotten the old stories from my childhood. I will find carpenters to erect a plinth on which to lay my lord’s body in a nest of mistletoe. The simple people will believe that Ambrosius Imperator will come again.’
‘Alas, he’ll not return, but your plans are good, Botha. A canopy must also be created to protect the corpse from this infernal rain. And then we’ll deck the whole wagon with holly, ivy, lacy foliage and whatever flowers may be found. The king’s body must be washed, his hair dressed and his flesh protected by his ceremonial armour. His sword must be placed in his hands, so that all men who see his corpse will remember the day the High King’s cortège passed them by.’
Botha nodded, and Myrddion was confident that every detail would be carried out to his exacting standards. ‘I will wash the king myself, healer. I have nothing else to give him but my labour.’
‘I
will also need sufficient riders to travel to the courts of the tribal kings with Uther’s command to attend Ambrosius’s funeral pyre at the Giant’s Carol. They must ride day and night, pausing only to change horses, for the messages must reach the kings within four days. They will ride in pairs, and each rider will lead a spare horse to guard against accident to either rider or horse. We will pause at Glastonbury, where the High King will lie in state before travelling to the Giant’s Carol. Then, in eight days, his body will be consigned to the flames. Be sure that the couriers have good memories, for every word must be exact.’
Once again, Botha nodded, and Myrddion was comforted by the warrior’s calm strength.
‘Do you require anything else, my lord?’
‘Aye, Botha, but don’t give me titles that are undeserved. I will need Ulfin and two other men to ride to the Carol and begin the building of a huge pyre in the centre of the stones. They will demand wood from the Dumnonii, the Belgae and the Durotriges, and they may cut down whole forests for all I care.’
Myrddion’s voice was harsher than usual, for he had so many tasks to complete that his head was spinning. He had scarcely slept for three days and the strain was beginning to fray his nerves.
‘I’ll go with Ulfin to keep his concentration where it belongs – on the building of the pyre,’ Llanwith rumbled from behind the healer.
‘Shite, Llanwith, you’re too quiet on your feet for such a big man. You startled me.’
Llanwith chuckled. ‘Ulfin responds well to orders, but the villagers who live around the Carol will take more notice of a prince of the Ordovice than of a mere warrior. Besides, it’s obvious to me that you need some assistance. Our new king is placing too much on your shoulders.’
Botha
strode away, obviously determined to hear nothing about his master that would force him to take offence. Myrddion watched his broad, retreating back with genuine respect. ‘Botha’s an extraordinary man,’ he said. ‘He conjures up whatever I need.’
‘He is a different prospect from his master, may the gods be praised,’ Llanwith added irreverently. ‘Uther overloads you in the hope that you’ll fail.’
Myrddion sighed. Llanwith was almost certainly correct, and the healer could imagine years of labour stretching out before him as he juggled the twin tasks of obeying his king and fulfilling his oath of fealty.
‘May the gods help me, but Lucius was right. The years ahead will be difficult.’
Eight days later, when those kings whose lands were close enough to enable them to attend the cremation had ridden the doleful miles to the Giant’s Carol, Ambrosius Imperator was given to the cleansing flames. The weather had worsened in the intervening week and autumn was gripping the land with unseasonal chills, driving rain and grey skies. The farmers could not harvest their crops easily, for the mud was choking the furrows and the fruit seemed likely to rot on the trees. The peasants crossed themselves or gripped their amulets, and prayed that the spirit of the dead king would be sent on his way with honour so that the land would not be blighted by his restless spirit.
On the road to the Carol, men and women, cherry-cheeked in the chill wind, brought offerings of grain, fruit and vegetables to Uther in order to quieten the soul of his murdered brother. Kneeling on the muddy road and oblivious of the staining of their homespun, the villagers offered up prayers and songs in sorrowing wails, so that the journey from Glastonbury became a long tapestry of weeping faces and frightened eyes. Myrddion huddled in his black
cloak and absorbed the sorrow and the superstition of the people of the south.
Lucius had led the prayers at Glastonbury, and although Uther was initially contemptuous of the old timber church that seemed to lean inward with the passage of untold years, Lucius explained that it was believed to have been built by Joseph of Arimathea, or the Trader, who had known the blessed son of God. Mollified, Uther permitted his brother’s body to be laid on the altar, while tenor and baritone voices intoned hymns of praise and consolation that spiralled upward towards the menacing tor and the old tower that pointed like God’s finger towards the faded sun.
Myrddion had climbed the tor and viewed the seven encircling lines of earthworks that traced its flanks. ‘The Virgin’s Teat,’ he whispered, and felt the fingers of the Mother stir the hairs at the base of his skull. ‘It’s old . . . so old that the tower is relatively new. Men and women have worshipped here as long as they have walked the earth.’
Feeling the poetry and power of stone and tree, water and earth, Myrddion was filled with a strange, inexplicable peace. From the tor, he could see another, lower hill that had been crowned by a single tree that had been twisted by the wind so that it resembled a gnarled hand. Turning to his right, he was confronted by a low, green valley in which the church, the farms of the abbey, the blacksmith’s forge and the farmers’ pastures nestled within a network of waterways. To the north of the tor, he could see the entry to the valley through which pilgrims made their way to this sacred place, while to the east the Roman road carved a clean, straight line through the landscape. Off in the distance, and many miles away, he could just make out a glimpse of a tumulus or another tor.
Something caught in his throat like an echo of passion or a memory of pain. Swiftly, he dragged his eyes away from the blue-grey
distance, intoned a prayer to the Mother, and departed.
And now, stern of face and stiff in the saddle, or marching with the pride of fighting men, Ambrosius’s cortège and his warriors came at last to the great plain that dwarfed the massive stones in its windswept vastness.
Some vestigial, tribal memory caused Uther to order that camp should be made outside the huge circular mound that surrounded the circles of standing stones and trilithons. Careless of the labour that his warriors must undertake at the end of a long, cold day, he strode through the gap in the mound, calling for Myrddion to accompany him.
‘I perceive your purpose in choosing this place,’ he said approvingly as they strode past a single stone buried in the earth at a slant, pointing towards the circles and the growing tower of wood at their very heart. ‘The flames will be seen to the seas in one direction and to the mountains in the other. If Ambrosius and Lucius are right, then my brother himself will see his funeral pyre from Paradise. Your choice pleases me.’
‘Thank you, my lord. I wished to honour my master with as much ceremony as I could.’
Uther turned back and grinned wolfishly at his healer. ‘Let’s hope that Ulfin and the Ordovice prince are building a pyre that is worthy of the monument.’
Myrddion’s brows contracted for a moment at Uther’s casual insult to Llanwith by naming Ulfin, a simple warrior, before the prince. Unfortunately, Uther would never recognise his insults for what they were. The new king would always be careless of the feelings of others and now, as his thirty-eighth year approached, he would never change.