We owe respect to the living; to the dead we owe nothing but truth.
—VOLTAIRE, LETTRES SUR OEDIPE
The oil lamps flickered in the darkening tent. Storm clouds were gathering, and a mist of rain obscured the sun. As he lay on his soft woolen pillows, Ambrosius’s face was so pale that he already looked like a corpse with his blued lips and haggard face, while the lamplight bleached the gold of his hair to the color of pale ash. The light cast upwards from the lamp closest to him was reflected in his bloodshot eyes, so that Myrddion could fancy that his master was a reincarnation of Charon, calling for the lost souls he would carry to the Underworld on his time-warped, split, and weathered ferry boat.
Uther’s face was obscured by shadow. As if seeking the solace of darkness, he had stepped backward when Myrddion had introduced Vengis, so that his body alone expressed the powerful emotions that caused his huge hands to clench and unclench as he sought for something he could rend and pound into the dust.
At the center of the lamplight, his chin streaked with blood, Vengis talked and talked. Having hidden behind an affable mask of innocence for long, wearisome months, the young man relished the opportunity to justify his crime, to glory in his vengeance, and to boast, like a common felon, about how clever he had been. Guilty and shocked, Myrddion had no choice but to listen.
“You’ll kill me, or your brother will, once you have taken your last vile breath,” Vengis stated proudly at Ambrosius’s recumbent form. “I have no illusions that my death will be either quick or painless. I could have eaten the pretty flowers in my cap if I had wished to escape the so-called justice of your court, but only a coward tries to escape the outcome that has been hungered for during year after lonely year of exile, as I wandered in the cold north with neither kinfolk nor friends to offer shelter. There is nothing you can do to me that could be as terrible as the years that have passed since the death of my mother at Dinas Emrys.”
“How did you poison me? I know about the salt, but I doubt that you’ve had any experience as a secret murderer, which probably explains why you botched your first attempt. My brother and my healer took every precaution possible during the journey to Glastonbury.”
Vengis glanced at Myrddion, who returned his gaze and nodded in understanding.
“You’ve figured it out, Demon Seed, haven’t you? My father used to call you the Black Raven of Cymru, and often said that you were the worthy son of a devil sire. But I never believed him because you tried hard to save my mother’s life. Still, I’ve cursed you often enough on this journey as you blocked my plans at every turn. Loki was laughing in Udgaad and did not see fit to smile upon me until two days ago, at a time when I was almost mad with despair. When I saw the cow in the meadow, the beast was cropping meadow saffron. I couldn’t believe my luck. Of course, I didn’t know whether the beast had been feeding on the plant for hours or days, so I took a few of the flower stems and placed them in my cap, just in case the cow’s milk wasn’t toxic. Uther had no idea what it was, even when he joked that I wore flowers in my cap like a girl. I almost laughed aloud at the dolt, and had to pretend that he had hurt my feelings. It’s easy to see that Prince Uther has never had to work at menial tasks like a beggar, just to prove his loyalty. My brother Katigern and I had to slave for the thane who took us in, for no amount of royal blood compensated for being born the sons of an animal like Vortigern. But the thane did me a favor, as it turned out, for I learned to keep his fine milking cows away from clumps of meadow saffron.”
Vengis paused for a moment as his tongue explored a loosened tooth.
“Even so, only infants die of the small amounts of poison that are ingested in the milk of a cow.” Uther’s voice grated like the sound of a whetstone dragged down a pitted blade. “At least, that’s what the healer says.”
“Myrddion is correct . . . as always. But you were all so busy protecting the food the woman killer ate that no one ever thought to check the cup. You poured the water yourself, Demon Seed. You gave me the means to kill your master and helped me to break the accord of the united kings.” Vengis giggled childishly, and Myrddion’s blood ran cold.
“You took some of the stems and the leaves and pulverized them in water,” Myrddion interrupted. “Then you steeped the meadow saffron for as long as you could. Am I correct?”
Vengis nodded.
“You used an old cup as a container and you’d have tossed it away later, when you eventually found the opportunity. You soaked the liquid up in a scrap of wool or very fine cloth and then put it in your jerkin. You took a great personal risk, Vengis.”
“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 rumor 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 realized 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 colored 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 labored 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 dishonor 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 tear-stained 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 forever, 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 realize 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 honor 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 honored?”
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 honored 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 honor 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.”
“I’m a plainspoken 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 honor 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 honor the accord on pain of oath breaking.”
Uther looked irritated for a moment, for he realized that the healer was maneuvering 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 counselor.
“I keep forgetting that you’re skilled in Latin, healer. You will word the message very clearly so that each of those nobodies realizes 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 recognized.
“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 counselor, 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 color 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 candor 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 color 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 coexist 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 fulfill 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 farther. 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 honors 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 armor. 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 labor.”
“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 traveling 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 center 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 offense. 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 labor 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 honor 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 quiet 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 spiraled 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 labor 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 honor 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 recognize 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.
They strode past the chalk circles cut into the emerald green sod, shocking in their pristine white contrast. They moved through the small bluestone circle where the stones were the size of a small man and entered the last great circle. The grey sky spun dizzily as Myrddion turned to take in the whole magnificence of the Giant’s Carol.
The stone uprights were roughly chopped out of living rock, and were three times the height of a man. Atop these vast irregular monoliths rested precariously laid, flatter stones that, if they could be seen from above, formed a huge circle. Myrddion’s brain struggled to fathom how these gigantic blocks of rock could have been levered into position by human hands.
“How did they build this structure?” Uther asked, his voice hushed with awe. “How could these stones have been caused to fly into position?”
“Legend tells us that Myrddion, the Lord of Light for whom I am named, set these stones in place at the beginning of recorded time. I cannot say how the circle was built, Lord Uther, for only a god could lift their vast weight. The legends also tell us that they were moved here from a spot many leagues away in the mountains of Cymru.”
Within the circle, even larger groups of uprights capped with other cyclopean stones formed a rough horseshoe. Here lay a large, almost flat monolith that looked like an altar that had been cast down by a giant. Around the altar, the circle danced and spun.
Off center, a tower of wood rose high above the massive trilithons and dwarfed even their huge, grey mass. Using horses, ropes, levers, and the cracking muscles of warriors and peasants, whole logs were being raised towards the heavens. Llanwith balanced himself precariously and shouted instructions as another log cut roughly to size was hauled up, spinning crazily, by the use of a framework of timber and ropes. Other sturdy men stood with Llanwith as they waited to maneuver each log into position.
King and healer watched the process, which seemed simple from below yet was fraught with danger above. Once Llanwith was satisfied that the log was in place, he shouted at Ulfin to take his place and climbed gingerly down the tall pyre to bow deeply to the new king.
“Is the pyre almost finished, Llanwith?” Uther demanded, squinting as the sun burned into his eyes from just above the horizon.
“There’s one more log to place in a locking position. That will secure the whole construction, and the platform can be winched up to the very top of the pyre,” Llanwith replied, wiping his streaming forehead with his arm. “The work’s gone well for such a massive pyre, although five men have been killed and a score have been injured. We could have used your expertise if you had been here when the accidents happened, Myrddion, for we had no idea how to treat crush injuries.”
Myrddion would have hurried off to treat the poor souls who had been injured had Llanwith not detained him. “The wounded and the dead have been sent back to their families. No stain of blood or pain should be permitted to mar the pyre of King Ambrosius.”
For the next two days, while the tribal kings gathered, Myrddion concentrated on preparing for the rite of cremation, including shrouding the corpse in the finest cloth that Uther possessed. This task was unpleasant, for Ambrosius had been dead for many days, and although the weather was not warm the body was waxen, livid, and very unlike the living, breathing Ambrosius. Myrddion used precious oils which Uther had received as a funeral gift from Gorlois to sweeten the cadaver and drive away the worst of the distinctive reek of corrupted flesh.
The days had shortened with the approach of winter, and Uther decreed that the ceremony should be conducted just before nightfall. Those kings in attendance would be invited to attend Uther’s coronation as his guests, as he could offer no hospitality at the Giant’s Carol. Myrddion admired the decision, reinforcing as it did the perception that the new king was smoothly assuming his brother’s throne.
Most of the kings came, except for those beyond the wall who had sent couriers to express their shock and sympathy at the murder of Ambrosius Imperator and make excuses for their nonattendance.
“Words are cheap,” Uther said curtly. “Provide me with a list of those kings who are not present. I will be particularly diligent in ensuring that their tributes are paid on time.”
A fitful sun broke through the thick cloud cover as the kings, their retinues, and an unusually large number of common citizens and peasants gathered at the great monument. The stiff wind that had howled across the great plain all day had finally dropped, which the kings took as a sign of the gods’ approval. Ambrosius’s body had been placed atop the great tower of wood, which had been drenched with oil on the lower tiers to ensure that the wood would burn fiercely. The kings had tokens of their fealty such as precious oils, sheaves of grain, garlands of flowers, and boughs of fruit trees with the mature fruit still on them, and these were placed between the logs along with the villagers’ gifts.
The crowd was hushed, and Myrddion mounted the altar stone so all those present could see and hear him.
“Hail, lords of the west. My master, Prince Uther, who will be crowned before you at Venta Belgarum, wishes you to attest to his judgment of the murderer of Ambrosius Imperator. Hail, Uther, lord of the west.”
Recognizing their cue, Uther’s guard roared out, “Hail, Uther, Lord of the West!” a salutation which the kings were forced to follow.
Uther had dressed with care. Over his usual snowy tunic and purple-edged cloak, he had flung a wolf pelt that added a violent edge to his conservative dress. Unlike his brother, who had shunned decoration, Uther wore arm rings of gold, several rings on his fingers, a golden band across his forehead indicating his status, and a huge round pin to hold the wolf pelt in place. The heavy gems, the fur, his exuberant hair, and his great height suggested barbaric magnificence with a warning of menace.
“King of the Britons,” Uther Pendragon roared. “Behold the man who slew our high king—not face-to-face like a warrior, but like a thief in the night—with poison. His name is Vengis and he is the eldest son of the Regicide, Vortigern, and his Saxon woman. This creature has betrayed his birth and served the interests of our enemies. He confessed his vile crimes against us to Ambrosius himself, in our presence, before the High King died. The men who will now stand before you heard that confession. Stand forth!”
Myrddion, Llanwith, and the three warriors who had been guarding the assassin stepped forward and swore to the truth of Uther’s assertions. Then Myrddion told the assembly that he had recognized Vengis at the very last, and described the night of Vortigern’s death and his sons’ flight into the Saxon camps. The crowd growled sullenly.
“I demand death for this traitor who preyed upon the generosity of Ambrosius, and then struck at the heart of the man who loved him,” Uther howled. His repressed rage poured forth like hot ash, and the kings trembled at his passion. “I demand your permission to burn him with his victim.”
Vengis was dragged forward.
His face was bleeding, as were his feet from the cruel stones of the road, and his mouth leaked a trail of blood. Uther had ordered that the murderer’s tongue be cut out so that the reasons for his crime could not be spoken. The killer was making a valiant attempt to be brave, but no man can face the pain of burning with equanimity.
“Aye,” Gorlois of Cornwall shouted, remembering the wisdom and generosity displayed by Ambrosius.
“Aye,” shouted the kings, one by one, and the young man’s bladder voided in terror.
At a nod from Uther, Vengis was dragged halfway up the pyre and bound to the logs with his arms and legs spread wide. Myrddion followed and pretended to test the bonds while he held grimly to the log structure with one arm, trying not to think about the long fall to the hard earth if his grip should fail.
The young man’s eyes were wild with terror and pain as Myrddion thrust Vengis’s own scrap of rag into his mouth. From below, Uther watched with a grin of approval, as if this final humiliation was a just punishment.
“Swallow the fluid that is soaked into the cloth, Vengis,” Myrddion hissed into his ear. “It has the juice of the poppy in it, and you’ll not feel the flames if you do as I say. I am betraying my new master by offering you mercy, but the choice is ultimately yours. You may spit out the cloth if you wish, but I have assuaged my conscience by offering you an anodyne.”
Then Myrddion climbed down to stand behind the kings, who gradually became silent as the light faded.
In the stillness, Myrddion could hear his heartbeats, like hammer blows, as he watched Vengis. The lad had not spat out the drug-soaked rag. Myrddion prayed that he would not lose consciousness before Uther lit the fire, for then his traitorous mercy might be suspected.
Fortunately, Uther was impatient to taste his revenge. With due ceremony, he used a long torch to light the four corners of the pyre, and as the light finally fled the sky the wood on the lowest levels began to catch, fueled by the gifts from commoners and kings. With a great rush of heat, the tower began to burn fiercely as flame and smoke reached upward and obscured Vengis’s bound form. At the top, the white-shrouded figure of the High King seemed to twist in the shimmer of heat.
Ah, Ambrosius! You would have killed Vengis cleanly if you were here, for you would have understood his pain. I hope you are not offended by my intervention. Myrddion’s thoughts rose with the howling flames, and for a moment he saw Vengis’s face, head thrown back and bloody mouth gaping open. But the poppy had done its work and the blue eyes, so like those of his victim, were closed and blinded.
The pyre could be seen for many miles and men would later remember the pillar of flame that climbed into the night sky like a promise of the doom to come. Years later, they would remember Ambrosius’s death as the beginning of the west’s troubles, and curse Vengis and his line forever.
But such anger was in the future. That night, as ash and cinders swirled through the Giant’s Carol, the kings imagined that the stones came to life and danced once again. They went to their tents in superstitious awe, while the smell of burning flesh pursued them into sleep.
Only Myrddion and Uther, flanked by Botha and Ulfin, remained awake as the pyre collapsed inward with a great whoosh of ash and charred wood. As Uther exulted in the carnage, Myrddion wept and remembered the kindness of Ambrosius’s blue eyes.
Shortly afterwards, the cold rain came, stinging their exposed flesh and driving them back to their tents. The night was washed clean so that, in the cold morning, only ash and a burned section of sod remained to remind Myrddion that Ambrosius had ever lived at all.
