My task, if ordered, was to fetch Morgan and her helpers who waited in a pig-herder’s mud hovel at the foot of Caer Cadarn’s western slope. The Princess Norwenna might want Christ’s mother as her midwife, but Uther was ready with the older Gods if that newer one failed.
And the Christian God did fail. Norwenna’s screams became fewer, but her whimpering more desperate until at last Bishop Bedwin’s wife came from the hall and knelt shivering beside the High King’s chair. The baby, Ellin said, would not come and the mother, she feared, was dying. Uther waved that last comment aside. The mother was nothing, only the child mattered, and only then if it was a boy.
“High Lord…” Ellin began nervously, but Uther was no longer listening.
He tapped my head. “Go, boy,” he said, and I twisted out of his shadow, leaped down to the fort’s interior and raced across the moon-shadowed whiteness between the buildings. The guards on the western gate watched me run by, then I was sliding and falling on the ice-chute of the western road. I slithered through snow, tore my cloak on a tree stump and fell heavily into some ice-laden brambles, but I felt nothing, except the huge weight of a kingdom’s fate on my young shoulders. “Lady Morgan!” I shouted as I neared the hovel. “Lady Morgan!”
She must have been waiting, for the hovel door was immediately flung open and her gold-masked face shone in the moonlight. “Go!” she screeched at me, ‘go!” and I turned and started back up the hill while around me a pack of Merlin’s orphans scrambled through the snow. They were carrying kitchen pots which they clashed together as they ran, though when the slope grew too steep and treacherous they were forced to hurl the pots on ahead and scramble up behind. Morgan followed more slowly, attended by her slave Sebile who carried the necessary charms and herbs. “Set the fires, Derfel!” Morgan called up to me.
“Fire!” I shouted breathlessly as I scrambled through the gateway. “Fire on the ramparts! Fire!”
Bishop Bedwin protested at Morgan’s arrival, but the High King turned on his counsellor in a rage and the Bishop meekly surrendered to the older faith. His priests and monks were ordered out of their makeshift chapel and told to carry firebrands to all parts of the ramparts and there pile the burning brands with wood and wattle torn out of the huts that clustered inside the fort’s northern walls. The fires crackled, then blazed huge in the night and their smoke hung in the air to make a canopy that would confuse the evil spirits and so keep them from this place where a princess and her child were dying. We young ones raced around the ramparts banging pots to make the great noise that would further dizzy the evil ones. “Shout,” I ordered the children from Ynys Wydryn, and still more children came from the fortress hovels to add their noise to ours. The guards beat their spear-shafts against their shields, and the priests piled more wood on to a dozen flaming pyres while the rest of us screamed our noisy challenges against the evil wraiths that had slithered through the night to curse Norwenna’s labour.
Morgan, Sebile, Nimue and one girl child went into the hall. Norwenna screamed, though whether she cried aloud in protest at the coming of Merlin’s women or because the stubborn child was tearing her body in two, we could not tell. More screams sounded as Morgan expelled the Christian attendants. She threw the two crosses into the snow and tossed a handful of mug wort the woman’s herb, on to the fire. Nimue later told me that they put iron nuggets into the damp bed to scare away the evil spirits already lodged there and laid seven eagle stones around the writhing woman’s head to bring the good spirits down from the Gods.
Sebile, Morgan’s slave, put a birch branch over the hall door and waved another over the writhing body of the hurting Princess. Nimue crouched in the door and urinated on the threshold to keep the evil fairies away from the hall, then she cupped some of her urine and carried it to Norwenna’s bed where she sprinkled it on the straw as a further precaution against the child’s soul being stolen away at the moment of birth. Morgan, her gold mask bright in the flame light slapped Norwenna’s hands away so she could force a charm of rare amber between the Princess’s breasts. The small girl, one of Merlin’s foundlings, waited in terror at the foot of the bed.