Uther rubbed his freshly shaved jaw with a sword-calloused forefinger. ‘They breed too damned fast,’ he said as he moved his finger from his city to the fortress, attempting to judge the distance between them. ‘Anderida is close to my defensive lines, so I can only assume that the Saxons are trying to provoke me. They’ll not have my fortress – not now and not ever! But why are they sailing now? They’ve always been reluctant to venture out to sea in the winter.’
‘It’s true that they’d not sail from Gesoriacum at this time of year, my lord, for that journey would be madness in the storms of winter. But they can hug the east coast if they sail from Portus Lemanis, and then trust in the gods to make a decent landfall. They are learning to act unpredictably, damn them.’
Uther snickered softly but Myrddion read no humour in the grating sound.
‘So they think that they can outfox the dragon. Well, we’ll see. Perhaps I’ll keep them waiting in the cold until spring, and then we’ll discover how well they manage against my cohorts. Perhaps I’ll march earlier.’
‘Is it wise to wait so long, my lord?’ Myrddion asked as mildly as he could. Uther’s scorn for proffered advice, coupled with his refusal to accept opinions that ran
counter to his own strategic assessments, made him a very difficult master to counsel.
‘Not really, but I am considering an answer for them that will kill two birds with one stone. I’ll let you know my decision when my plans are ready for implementation.’
Myrddion was instantly alarmed. Uther’s countenance was almost coy and his eyes seemed to contemplate a secret that he was savouring, a tasty titbit to enjoy. From harsh experience, the healer knew that such obvious machinations by the High King usually spelt pain and danger for someone close to hand.
Gorlois? Of course! He’ll send Gorlois to stop the rot at Anderida.
At that moment, Ulfin returned with a wineskin and handed his master a fresh cup, which Uther drank abstractedly. Other than Ulfin’s laboured breathing, for the guard had run to obey his master, Myrddion’s crisp voice was the only sound in the tense room. One finger pointed at the map as Uther stared down, his attention focused on the healer’s information.
But try as he might, Myrddion couldn’t draw Uther out, so the High King’s plans remained concealed, a conundrum for Myrddion to puzzle over while the king was plotting. Just as the healer was preparing to put his suspicions into words, a knock interrupted them and Ulfin ushered in a woman who bore all the outward characteristics of a country housewife. The wise woman had come.
Myrddion’s knowledge of women was too subtle to expect that all soothsayers famed for their prescience should look like crones, but even so, this woman’s appearance surprised him. She was small and round with very red cheeks that gave her face the appearance of a ripe apple. A white scrap of rag covered all her hair and her plump face was almost youthful in its lack of wrinkles. Merry brown eyes surveyed the king sympathetically, before she lifted her skirts to honour her master with a low curtsey.
‘What is your name, woman, and where do you
dwell?’ Uther demanded, after Botha had ruthlessly searched her from head to toe.
‘My name is Muirne, the Sea Bright, and I was born in Hibernia. When I was a wee girl I married a man from Powys, but he died in Lord Ambrosius’s service. I was forced to settle in Venta Belgarum, far from my kin, for the sake of my little ones. I’ve kept hunger from the door with my ma’s cures for fever and the ague, and with a little fortune-telling, my king. My old ma always said that the seeing was a family curse, but it’s kept me and my little ones fed for many a cold winter’s night. They be grown now, so it’s sad I am to be so far from the green lands of my birth. But a woman cannot be complaining.’
‘No one here will care or listen,’ Uther said bluntly.
‘As you say, my lord, no one will listen. So . . . why do you come to me when the whole city knows that Mistress Morgan, who would choose to be a Druid like the wise ones who perished on Mona island so long ago, would gladly assist the High King with whatever ails him?’
‘I don’t trust the bitch,’ Uther replied curtly, but the fluid cadences of Muirne’s voice seemed to have soothed the worst of his anger. Myrddion could see no evil in her face, so he hoped she would not say anything to draw down Uther’s rage upon her hapless head.
‘Then tell me what you want, macushla, and I’ll try to help you.’
In a manner that was completely out of character, Uther sat and proceeded to recount his dream with neither shame nor argument. He ignored her use of the familiar diminutive,
macushla
, a word that Myrddion imagined had never before been addressed to Uther, and in contrast with his dealings with the tribal kings, his guard and Myrddion, he spoke with surprising candour.
‘In my dream, I stood in a wheat field where the healthy young plants came to my knees. While
I stood there, spears rose out of the stalks and grew upwards towards the sun. I was forced to retreat from the field or be impaled on the long, leaf-shaped blades of iron.’
The wise woman, Muirne, nodded her head and her eyes became duller and darker. Myrddion imagined that he felt her mind probing outwards towards the king, seeking a breach in the shield that he used to disguise his worst and deepest feelings.
‘At the edge of the field, two women barred my way and foiled my chance of escaping to safety. I reached for my sword, but it had vanished in the way of dreams. One of the women laughed and I knew from her voice that she was that Morgan bitch. She offered me a plate of apples and said: “Now you’ll live forever, Uther, if that is what you desire, Child-killer.”
‘I took an apple and bit into it. Oh, but it was the sweetest, juiciest apple I’ve ever tasted. But the woman simply laughed with triumph and spun in a circle until she was only a puff of rancid-smelling air. I looked down at the apple and the flesh went black and shrivelled in my hand.
‘The other woman smiled sadly under her cowl and lifted her arms to embrace me. I knew I’d be safe if I loved her and protected her, but I noticed her swollen belly and she told me that the child was mine. I was furious because she had no face and sought to trap me because I am the High King, so I wrenched a spear out of the wheat and stabbed her in the swelling of her pregnancy.’ Myrddion’s gorge rose at the murderous image. ‘The spear went right through her body, and I felt sure that she and her hell-spawn would die, but she lowered her hands and said: “So it shall be. The child will prevail.”’
Uther’s gaze settled on the face of the wise woman. ‘Then the sun seemed to split and I woke up.’
Muirne rocked on her heels and her face grew as pale as an old sun-bleached shell.
‘Lord, I beg you not to blame me for my reading
of your dream. Surely, the gods touched you in your sleep to warn you of troubles that lie ahead. In your heart, you know the messages that came to you in these dreams as well as I do, but I fear that you will order my death for speaking of the fate that might befall you.’
Uther looked thunderous and impatient by turns, and Myrddion held his breath. ‘I don’t know the meaning of my dreams, woman: you’ve been brought here to explain them to me. I’m a soldier, not a soothsayer. I don’t intend to have you killed, whatever you might say, but I warn you that I’ll know if you lie to me. I’ll surely punish you for
that
presumption.’
Uther’s voice was so controlled that Myrddion was immediately on his guard. The healer understood his master, and he knew that he couldn’t trust this stranger king one single inch. Poor Muirne! Uther will keep his oath, but he has only promised that she won’t die. There are worse things than death.
‘The wheat field is our land, which has suddenly become your enemy and begins to turn against you. That you could pluck a spear from it should be a good sign, master, but the presence of the women changes the meaning to a threat. You mustn’t use the war between our people and the barbarians in any way to further your ambitions. The spear, and your actions against the pregnant woman, will turn on you and you will fail in your purpose.’
‘Who is this woman who claims that an infant will defeat me?’ Uther’s voice remained calm, but his soft voice only deepened Myrddion’s nervousness.
‘Does it matter, my lord? Your dream merely acknowledges that you will try to kill the fruit of your loins. Morgan said as much when she called you a child-killer. Do not fall into this error, my lord, if you wish to secure your throne. Kill no children! The Morgan in your dream offers you immortality because of it, but you discover that the gift is poisoned and you will be remembered forever as a
monster
if
you fall into this trap. The gods are warning you clearly, my lord, for I take the cowled figure to be the Mother, and the other gods fear her fury as much as we mortals do.’
‘Your answers are plausible, woman, but what if I’ve already killed a child? Is my fate already decided and set in stone?’
Myrddion could see the cogs of Uther’s mind grinding out the unspoken name,
Carys
, and the healer hoped that the High King felt a twinge of regret, if not of shame, for the pregnant girl’s murder.
Muirne shook her head so vehemently that Myrddion feared it would fly clean off her shoulders. The ghastly image caused his heart to race and his hands to tremble. ‘No, lord. No. The subject of your dream has not happened. I can swear to you that the growing grain signifies things that are yet to come, so the gods wish you to take heed of their messages.’
‘Enough!’ Uther whispered. Then the room grew very still as he rested his hand on his chin and thought out her warnings. ‘Give this woman a piece of gold and take her to an apartment in the palace.’ He half turned and spoke softly to Botha. ‘She stays with me until her usefulness is over.’ He turned back to Muirne. ‘Do not weep, Sea Bright. If your words are true, then you will be able to warn me of the danger when the time comes. You are a wise woman, aren’t you? I’m loath to allow you to speak unwisely to those who might be curious about my affairs, so you must dwell with me until I decide otherwise.’
As Muirne turned to go, Myrddion smiled slightly in relief. He gripped her forearm in farewell, and was horrified to feel her death in her bones. He almost recoiled from the knowledge, but an inner voice told him to offer her his own words of comfort. She would have need of his wisdom.
‘Do not try to take advantage of your position, Muirne, for your words put you in conflict with the Mother. You should drink only milk and water, and you must pray to the Mother’s snakes to guide your eyes – and your tongue.’ Then Ulfin hustled the little
woman away, and Uther rounded on his healer.
‘Why did you try to warn her, Myrddion Merlinus?’ His voice had returned to its usual harsh tones and his face had resumed the familiar expression that Myrddion knew and dreaded. ‘Was it professional jealousy because I ignored your advice and consulted a soothsayer? Perhaps I wanted an unbiased opinion from her.’
‘She is doomed to die in your service, master, so I had to warn her that she is playing with fire – the fire of the goddess, at that.’
‘We’ll see. And don’t speak about what you’ve heard, will you? Of course you won’t, for you’ve too many servants you care about to wish
me
any ill-will. So what does this Muirne creature matter? At the very least, she’ll be useful for a time.’
But will you listen to her advice, Uther? Never, Myrddion thought desperately as he escaped out into the clean fresh air. You’ll go your own way as you always do.
‘I’m getting up now, damn you, Cadoc. I don’t care what Myrddion says, because I’ve lain abed so long that I want to scream with boredom.’
Luka swung his legs over the side of the divan on which he lay, a simple wooden structure that was strung with leather straps to keep his wool-stuffed pallet off the stone floor. His toes gripped the uneven surface, and Cadoc winced as the warrior exerted all his reduced strength to surge to his feet. Once upright, he teetered dangerously as he struggled to gain his balance, while Cadoc and Brangaine fussed around him like mother hens. They would have supported his elbows if he had permitted them to do so, but he waved them off with a crude oath.
With one painful step after another, Luka made his awkward, staggering way to the door frame, his sleeping robe flapping ludicrously around his brown legs. Finally, he stood trembling at the entrance to the colonnade,
his face transformed with pride and joy.
‘See? I made it!’ he crowed to Cadoc and Brangaine with a boy’s delight.
‘That won’t mean much if you sicken again because you’re overtired,’ Cadoc responded tetchily. However, he found it difficult to dredge up any real disapproval for Luka’s efforts. Any healer worth his salt is heartened by patients who passionately desire to be returned to health.
Footsteps on the scuffed marble of the colonnade warned the trio that the master was in the house. While Luka was keen to demonstrate his new strength, both Cadoc and Brangaine prepared for objections from Myrddion. To the healer, Luka was already something of a medical miracle after surviving his head injury, for few men lived long after such a blow as he had received.
‘You’re out of bed, Prince Luka,’ Myrddion said mildly. ‘How do you feel?’
‘Tired – but upright! And you can forget the title. Any man who cleans my shit and piss for months knows me as well as my mother and should address me in the same fashion.’
‘Very well, Luka.’ Myrddion smiled. ‘Now, tell me, how is your balance and your vision?’
Luka grinned in response and Myrddion realised that few men, and even fewer women, would be able to resist Luka’s charm when he was in the mood to exert it.
After receiving satisfactory answers to a series of pertinent questions, Myrddion decided that Luka was well enough to spend most of his days out of bed, provided he didn’t undertake any strenuous exercise. With luck, he might also be able to attend the solstice banquet, as long as he promised to forgo heavy food or drink. And, if his condition continued to improve, he should be sufficiently recovered to attend the meeting of kings that was to be held three days after the solstice, a promise
that Luka accepted with rueful good humour.