‘When I was a girl and I first journeyed to Tintagel, I was terrified by unbidden visions that came to me during the night. When I first saw my beloved Gorlois, I dreamed that he carried a terrible wound across his throat. I remember the terror I felt at the time, but the visions gradually disappeared and I have
been left in peace for many years – until I journeyed to Venta Belgarum. The dreams and images have now returned tenfold.’
‘Your highness, I . . .’ Myrddion began, but the queen cut him off with an impatient gesture of her hand.
‘You must say nothing of this conversation to Gorlois. He’d worry, and I’ll not have my lord disturbed by a woman’s foolishness. But I have seen his head with blood pouring from a severed neck, and I smell decay spreading like a sickening perfume in the folds of his cloak. I have dreams of a bloody child, Myrddion, and the night horrors will not release me. I am sure that my happiness is over for ever and the long road of my life leads me towards a dreadful threshold. What can I do?’
Her eyes were huge and a tear shivered on her long, dark lashes. Ygerne had no need for cosmetics and her pink lips trembled like rose petals torn by the wind. Myrddion wanted to ease her mind at any cost, so great was her power over him. Every beat of his heart strove to protect her, but he recognised the vision of the child with its echoes of Uther’s dream and his own, and his flesh cooled with presentiment.
‘If there is one thing in which I have total belief, your highness, it is our ability to choose our separate fates.
Nothing
is certain: no visions or dreams can confine our actions. We choose to listen to them, or to reject them, and so the future cannot be set. Even random chance cannot be purely accidental, for if we examine each incident carefully, we can tell that what
seems
to be the caprice of Fortuna is actually the outcome of many small, seemingly unrelated choices that have come together under the guise of chance. You must pray to your god, my lady, and remember that the sight can only be
insight
, and nothing more.’
Ygerne sighed deeply and closed her eyes, and her whole body relaxed. Then, as her extraordinarily changeable eyes opened, Myrddion glimpsed something in
their depths that disturbed him. He was conscious of Morgan’s presence hovering behind him like a grim carrion bird, and felt the hair rise at the back of his neck.
‘Your explanation has eased my spirit, master healer. Yes, intent is important. As you say, it is insight and not sight. I will pray and consider what you have said, Myrddion Merlinus, for you are wise beyond your years. Forgive me for causing you so much trouble over a woman’s formless fears.’
‘No, my lady. It is you who should forgive me. I have no definitive answers, so my words are simply my attempt to explain the gifts of Ceridwen. I could easily be wrong.’
‘I could forgive you anything, Myrddion. Your heart is pure, having no stain upon it.’
As Myrddion backed way, bowing low with true reverence, he considered his reaction to Queen Ygerne. Few women had touched him beyond the immediate desires of sexual fulfilment, and he had never met a female whose appeal was so intellectual, and yet so profoundly physical. Her goodness was so vulnerable that he feared for her safety as she moved like an unprotected innocent in the violent vortex of Venta Belgarum with its deceits, caprices and savagery.
That night, as he spent himself in Ruadh’s willing body, it was Ygerne’s face that he saw. Somehow, the Dumnonii queen had wormed her way into his soul.
No sooner had the king cast his eyes upon
her [Ygerne] among
the rest of the ladies, than he fell passionately in love with her, and little regarding the rest, made her the subject of all his thoughts.
Geoffrey of Monmouth,
The History of the Kings of Britain
Time passed and the three friends grew to enjoy each other’s company in the uneasy inactivity of Venta Belgarum. The snows had come, but the falls were light and served only to conceal the harsh rectangular lines of the city. Even the grey walls of the stone buildings seemed softened by the shimmering white dusting on each protruding rock, while in the streets rubbish was soon buried under a pristine snowy blanket. The winds had dropped, but the sun was invisible behind dove-grey cloud cover that was pregnant with snow flurries yet to fall.
On the day of the solstice feast, Myrddion awoke early and was fed and abroad before the light had driven back the black shadows of a still night. As he walked to the citadel, he noticed that almost every doorway was decorated by a trail of mistletoe, heavy with white berries, to signify the birth of the King of the New Year. As the old year died, the enfeebled king
of the earth would be transformed into a rosy boy, and so the solstice marked the great cycle of birth and death that was enacted in the depths of winter. So the High King and his queen should dance and rejoice at the Samhain fires, for they represented the fertility of the land.
‘But Uther has no wife and no desire for a son who, like Vortigern’s offspring, might lust after the crown of Maximus. What a travesty! Uther will oversee a sterile ceremony without a holy bride. Gods, help us in this time of need.’
When several workers who were clearing snow from a stable door with wooden shovels began to stare at him with rolling eyes, Myrddion realised that he was speaking aloud. He shook himself mentally. What was wrong with him?
When he arrived at the king’s hall, it was to find that the days of preparation and thankless labour were finally bearing fruit. Harassed servants were distractedly carrying baskets of fish to the kitchens, safe in swathes of fresh green grass. Rock oysters were being kept fresh in wooden bowls of salted water, while a huddle of servants were basting, carving, cutting and dicing vegetables, fruit, every kind of fowl and huge slabs of venison that were turning on spits. Pride of place was taken by Gorlois’s boar as it turned slowly on a great iron stake over a slow fire. It was far too large for the kitchens, so an exterior cover had been employed and two servants were turning the carcass with hands protected by stout leather gloves. Periodically, the boar’s skin was basted with a viscous liquid that Myrddion recognised as honey.
The smells of slow-cooking meat made Myrddion salivate while, driven half mad by the aroma, a collection of hopeful hounds sat just beyond range of stones thrown by a kitchen boy whose sole task was to keep them at bay. Myrddion’s heart lifted as he watched the scurry of busy men and women with faces wreathed in smiles as they prepared for the holy feast.
‘You’re sunk in thought, Myrddion?’
The healer turned slowly.
Botha was leaning negligently against
the wall of a half-timbered hut used to store dry wood. His cloak was very muddy around the hem and the healer wondered what his master had desired of the bodyguard so early in the day.
‘You’re out and about before cockcrow, Botha. Is anything amiss?’
‘No, healer, all is well. I’ve been seeing to the welfare of Bishop Lucius of Glastonbury, who appeared in response to a call from his master, Bishop Paulus of Venta Belgarum, whom you might know as Caomh the Gentle. His presence has put our master out of temper, for the Christian Church has decided that the solstice coincides with the birth of their Jesus, the undead god. Uther is not best pleased and now must celebrate the occasion in the stone church two days hence. He is an occasional Christian, but like most warriors he prefers to give his allegiance to Mithras rather than a god who preaches peace.’
‘A difficulty for you, I know, Botha. But Lucius gave Ambrosius peace as he was dying, so Uther must be grateful to him. Besides, the prelate appears to be an unusual man, one who understands what it is to fight and to kill. I trust him, although I’m no adherent of the Christian faith. He has a presence . . . a serenity, one that inspires confidence.’
‘Aye, healer. Still, our master causes upsets throughout the city when he is annoyed, so I’ve billeted Lucius with Paulus, and I’m hoping that both men will avoid attending the feast tonight. Tact should keep them within their own stout walls and away from a pagan celebration.’
‘Pagan?’ Myrddion’s eyebrow rose. ‘I consider the Old Faith is still the true faith, but I concede that I’m in the minority. What if Uther should insist on the presence of his bishop? That might cause embarrassment for Bishop
Paulus. I’d like to speak to Lucius, if the bishop will permit him to converse with a pagan. I confess that his erudition and strength of character intrigue me. Would my approach be welcome?’
‘I can’t see why not, healer. You are a power in this city, and you stand at the left hand of the High King. Lucius and Paulus are probably as curious about you as you are about them. They deal with non-believers all the time, although they insist that theirs is the one true faith.’
‘I think I’ll pay a visit to Lucius, then, while I have the leisure,’ Myrddion decided. Botha nodded impassively, and pointed the way to the Roman-style building that housed the senior prelates of the west.
Myrddion traversed the icy streets, trying to avoid the mud and slush that had so befouled Botha’s cloak. The stone-built house was a sombre, windowless building that looked as though it faced inward to a central atrium. The heavy double doors sported a huge brass knocker shaped to represent the head of a fanciful beast with an iron ring through its nose, polished to a glittering brightness.
Myrddion used the iron warning bell to pound on the door and listened as the echoes reverberated through the inner halls.
After a short interval, the heavy door was dragged open by an elderly priest who was tonsured in the Roman fashion and whose hands and lips were blue with cold. With a pang of sympathy, Myrddion realised that the ancient’s feet were bare on the cold paving.
‘I have come to speak to Bishop Lucius of Glastonbury. My name is Myrddion Merlinus of Segontium, sometimes called Caer Narfon.’
The old man examined Myrddion closely with red, rheumy eyes, but he chose not to speak. A single knotted finger was raised, and the priest pattered away on his cold feet into the colonnade, leaving Myrddion standing on the threshold.
Once again, the healer had to wait for some
little time before he heard approaching footsteps and saw Lucius striding towards the entry with the stooped, elderly priest hurrying in his wake. Although his robes were unbleached homespun tied at the waist with a frayed, plaited rope of coarse wool, Lucius carried himself like a warrior dressed in stylish armour and fine linen. His simple leather sandals left much of his feet bare and his head was uncovered, yet he gave no impression of being cold or uncomfortable.
‘Myrddion Merlinus, I remember you well.’ Lucius’s voice was a smooth and pleasant baritone and, once again, Myrddion was struck by the purity of the bishop’s Latin. ‘How may I assist you, my son?’
‘My apologies for disturbing you, but I wished to thank you for the compassion that you extended to my beloved master Ambrosius. I never had the opportunity to speak privately to you, for Uther moves like the wind when he decides to act. Perforce, I had to oversee my dead lord’s funeral pyre at the Giant’s Carol.’
‘I understand, good Myrddion,’ Lucius replied, his eyes fixed on the healer’s face. ‘But that’s not why you have come to me, is it?’
‘I’m not sure why I came, except that I felt impelled to speak to you again when Botha told me that you had arrived in Venta Belgarum.’
‘Then enter, my friend, and come into the atrium. Perhaps good Father Ednyfed here would be so kind as to find some hot milk for us to drink.’
Father Ednyfed looked up at Myrddion like an eager, twisted and elderly black bird. His weak eyes were bright with interest.
‘I would not wish to presume on Father Ednyfed’s kindness. The floor must be very cold on his bare feet.’
Father Ednyfed shook his head vigorously, causing Lucius to smile and nod to his priest. ‘Perhaps you would be so kind, Brother Ednyfed.’
The old priest pattered away with more sprightliness than his bent back and gnarled
limbs suggested. Myrddion’s sympathetic eyes followed the figure in its rusty brown robe. ‘Why does your priest forgo sandals and mittens? He is too old to bear the full force of a cold winter.’
Lucius smiled reflectively and a world of sympathy and understanding filled his eyes.
‘Your concern does you credit, but Ednyfed chooses to feel the cold and to remain mute. He expiates a sin that cannot be washed away with prayer alone – at least, in his understanding.’
‘Why would any god demand such suffering?’ Myrddion whispered.
‘My Lord demands nothing. Ednyfed offers his old bones and his silence willingly. I’ll not come between him and his belief in his salvation.’
Ednyfed reappeared at Lucius’s elbow, bearing a tray unsteadily in his old hands.
‘Thank you, my brother. The milk is very welcome.’
Ednyfed offered milk to Myrddion, then bent painfully and kissed Lucius’s ring. Myrddion looked away, embarrassed by this humble display of devotion.
As the ancient priest departed, Lucius cupped his hands around his bowl and his piercing eyes examined Myrddion carefully as the young man tried to find a comfortable position on a hard stone bench.
‘You’re troubled, healer. I can see that your shoulders are bowed under some weight that you weren’t carrying when last we met. How may I help you?’
Myrddion shook his head irritably. ‘I don’t know, Lucius. I suppose, if I were of your Christian flock, I would probably wish to make my confession to your God and free my soul from burdens of knowledge that have soured me and stained my honour. I have seen such things . . . and said nothing, for the sake of an oath that binds me to my dead master and his wishes.’
Lucius nodded in
understanding. ‘There is a terrible contradiction between the call of personal honour and the demands of the realm,’ he said carefully, balancing the needs of the young man who sat so quietly before him and the strictures of his faith. ‘You tread a dangerous road between twin evils, and with only a small slip your soul can be stained forever.’