by M. K. Hume
‘You,’ he commanded the boy gently. ‘Back to your sleep.’
The boy’s expression was the same as a startled rabbit caught in a circle of light. The whites of his eyes were completely visible.
‘You get back to sleep, Perce,’ Gallwyn said softly and pointed in the direction of the sleeping room. ‘You’re just having a dream so off with you, and I’ll watch the fire for you.’
Perce vanished behind the striped curtain, and Gallwyn turned back to her visitors.
‘I expect you to take care of Nimue or you’ll have me to answer to,’ she said in a valiant return to her usual acerbic manner.
‘We’ll be back before dawn, mistress.’
Targo grabbed Gallwyn’s ample buttock with one hand and gave her a resounding kiss on the lips.
Before Gallwyn could regain her voice, the warriors and little Nimue were gone. The night air, stirring through the swing of the leather curtain, caused the coals on the hearth to flare into sudden life.
Gruffydd and Gallwyn took turns to sit up through the long and chilly night. Honey in warm water sustained them and, at times, they talked quietly of family matters and the simple pleasures of life in their home villages. Gallwyn could see the man that lay behind the mask of the spy, and recognized his deep love for his family and his homeland. She empathized with the sacrifices he had made by leaving a world he loved so he could preserve it for the future.
In turn, Gruffydd discovered that Gallwyn ruled a small kingdom in much the same way that Artorex cared for a larger one. Her abrasive manner hid an exceptionally kind heart, one that often bled for her charges when they were afflicted by the small exigencies of life.
Two hours before dawn, Odin returned with a very fretful Nimue. She whimpered and refused to be comforted, even when Gallwyn’s soft finger rubbed honey against her baby gums.
Gallwyn stared fixedly at Odin and snorted reproachfully.
‘This child has been hurt,’ she said sharply.
‘Yes. The tattooing took many hours . . . care was taken . . . but she was hurt,’ he replied sadly.
Gallwyn swept back the cloth that covered the child. A superb tattoo of a serpent dragon encircled the tiny ankle, its wings spreading up the tiny calf of the babe. The flesh was angry and red, and had been smeared with a thick salve.
Odin mutely offered a wooden box with a tightly fitting lid that, presumably, held more of the remedy. One huge hand gently supported the child’s head.
‘She is a serpentling. A little magic woman.’ The descriptions were offered like a prayer, unlike Morgan’s malicious tones, although the words used were almost identical. Gruffydd felt a chill that had nothing to do with the giant Jute, or the small, fretful girl child.
‘She belongs to Artorex now - or perhaps he belongs to her,’ Gruffydd said. ‘I am not certain which is which.’
Both Gruffydd and Gallwyn examined the child’s tattoo.
A skilled hand had reshaped Morgan’s reptilian form. The mighty northern dragon was incongruous on the child’s body but Gruffydd could see that the dragon would grow in power as the child aged. With an eldritch life of its own, the black scales and the vivid red eyeball of the beast would glow against the white flesh of an adult woman.
‘I’ll wager that Odin, or whatever he calls himself, finished that tattoo himself. And I can easily believe that such detailed work has taken most of the night. Poor little Nimue! She must live into this mark. Damnation to Lady Morgan for starting this whole sorry process.’
Gruffydd felt a burning resentment against the witch, and wished heartily that his path had never strayed into her bower.
He spat on the hearth.
Gallwyn grinned impishly. A rather odd expression had appeared on her plain, broad features. ‘I can’t wait to see Lady Morgan’s reaction when she sees that tattoo, for it is finished beyond her power to change it. She’ll fair fly into a rage.’
‘I have no desire to be turned into an insect or poisoned - I wouldn’t put anything beyond that creature. You should heed my warnings, Gallwyn, and not tweak the witch’s tail. Nimue will have need of you, and I will be gone in two days.’
‘But you’ll be back?’
Gruffydd laughed. ‘Aye. Artorex has promised me the head of a truly evil man, so you can be certain of my return.’
Gruffydd was closeted with Myrddion when Morgan sent her servant to collect Nimue, after the fasting of the night had been broken.
Gallwyn asked the servant to report to her mistress that Lord Artorex himself had already ordered the tattoo to be finished.
The servant girl paled in fear. ‘How am I to tell my mistress?’
‘I’d tell her very carefully.’ Gallwyn grinned with dry good humour.
Gallwyn was not surprised when the servant girl returned within minutes with a message that she should bring the child to Lady Morgan’s rooms.
The cook considered refusing the instruction, but Gruffydd’s warnings prevailed. After pausing to give swift orders to the kitchen staff, she picked up the sleeping child, furs and all, and followed Morgan’s servant to a hexagonal wooden structure built just beyond the smooth stone walls of the Venonae fortress.
Gallwyn was awed and a little frightened by the strange, exotic chamber into which she was ushered. Heavy fabrics covered the walls, and arcane symbols were painted on the floor. Jars filled with unspeakable things filled five shelves on one stone wall, and Gallwyn marvelled that the containers were made of precious glass. She was glad that she couldn’t see what lay within those repulsive phials.
Morgan sat at the very centre of the room, with a band of hide across her forehead. Gallwyn shuddered when she realized that the hide seemed too delicate for cow or sheep hide, and had a finely grained texture. It was fragile, just like human skin. Her blunt, woman’s sensibilities were revolted by the thought.
‘Show me the child, woman!’ Morgan ordered.
Gallwyn obeyed, her hands trembling uncontrollably.
Morgan examined the tattoo - and hissed.
‘Go!’ she commanded.
Crossing herself as the good Bishop of Venta Belgarum had taught her, Gallwyn went as fast as her chubby legs could carry her.
Morgan pulled the hide band over her closed eyes and commenced swaying to a muttered chant that she whispered under her breath. Faster and faster she swayed, until her black hair lashed her pale face.
Then, as abruptly as she had begun, Morgan froze and all movement was stilled. The only sound in that exotic, wooden room was the witch’s laboured breathing.
‘Artorex thought to bind me,’ she whispered. ‘But he has bound himself - for the little Nimue will be the cause of his greatest loss.’
She smiled, and her lips were as moist and as seductive as those of a young woman.
Then her eyes opened with a sudden realization.
‘But she also binds me to Artorex, for his dragon has now swallowed my serpent.’
Her pale face whitened until it resembled a fleshless skull of bone.
‘I’ll remain silent until my chance arrives. I waited on Uther these many years for his day of reckoning to come, so I can wait on his bastard son as well. Artorex is no greater than his father was before him.’
With this comforting thought, she reclined upon her furs and closed her tired eyes to drift into sleep.
But Morgan’s dreams were filled with scenes of blood and death - and a pale, white woman wearing a necklace of silver water and moonlight who laughed at her. Before the woman, shrouded figures appeared, bearing harps, crosses, hammers and chisels. As one, the figures turned their backs on Morgan to face the woman in white. She continued to laugh until her mirth stopped the witch’s heart.
Morgan screamed in her sleep.
CHAPTER XVIII
A CHILD’S RECKONING
Gruffydd was ordered to return to the Wash to move amongst the Saxons and Jutes, and to become a familiar face in one of the towns so that he could regularly come and go without causing suspicion.
Prudently, once Gruffydd had safely departed, Artorex called for Caius to join him that same evening.
‘Artorex!’ Caius greeted his brother jovially as he was welcomed at Artorex’s plain evening meal of meat and flat bread. ‘How may I help you? I haven’t seen you for over a month.’
‘Does Ector continue in good health?’ Artorex asked mildly.
‘I received word not two days ago. He has pains in the joints but, otherwise, seems set to outlive even Targo, who is older than time itself. Julanna has presented me with another daughter and Ector’s foster-child, Licia, is very well and growing like a colt. She is all arms and legs.’
Artorex winced a little at Caius’s mention of his daughter but returned briskly to the matter at hand.
‘You have done very well in your operations against the barbarians, Caius. Excellent, in fact. Your family must be proud of the leader you have become - and I won’t forget your efforts in the years to come.’
Caius smiled complacently. But, having sweetened the cup, Artorex was now about to force his foster-brother to drink gall.
‘However, I have a matter to discuss with you that touches on the honour of our cause and your personal reputation. My council, from whom I take advice, is concerned about some instances of unnecessary brutality that have come to their attention. So vile are the claims made to the council that any continuation of these practices might defeat the very principles for which we are fighting. We are concerned that if we are more barbaric than the barbarians, then we will unite their tribes into one force that will be almost impossible to defeat. Burned villages and the death of simple villagers is, regrettably, a part of war, but I have heard tell of actions at Durobrivae that are unnacceptable.’
‘At Durobrivae? Little untoward happened in that flea hole. We expected a garrison - and found only a few warriors. Spit it out, brother, if the matter is so grave.’
Artorex formed a steeple with his fingers and stared directly into the black eyes of Caius, eyes that were so like the colour of those of Livinia, his mother. For her sake, and to honour his promise to the dying woman, Artorex chose his next words with exquisite care.
‘I have been made aware that a woman was raped beside the river at Durobrivae. It’s not a matter of great moment during the course of a campaign, I know, but this woman was about to give birth. One of your men cut the child out of the woman’s living belly, severed the cord, and then threw the baby into the river.’
Caius made a small expression of disgust.
‘I share your concern, Artorex. But there’s little that I can do about lamentable bad taste on the part of one of my warriors. These men are not particularly scrupulous in their personal habits.’
Artorex suppressed his distaste for his foster-brother’s lack of concern.
‘The child was saved and is under my care in the kitchens. She is now my vassal, Caius. Her rescuer has requested the head of the murderer, and I have agreed to his request. We are concerned that such behaviour could spread through the ranks until we become worse than the barbarians whom we would oppose. I’ve decided that an example will be made of this particular warrior who, as you say, has had the lamentable bad taste to be caught out.’
Artorex’s voice had a sharp edge, and Caius studied his foster-brother’s face in alarm.
‘The mother of that child was a Gallia to some person,’ Artorex added.
The statement caused Caius to drop his haughty eyes in embarrassment, and to silently curse the murderer, whoever he was. The fool had brought the anger of Artorex down on Caius’s head.
Caius was more than a little affronted, although Artorex had attached no personal blame to him. Caius understood that Artorex expected him to make an example of the culprit when he was eventually found, but he also understood his troop and he felt certain that the offender would never admit to the crime. Time would pass and other urgencies would send Artorex off in other directions. Caius had only to stall his investigation until circumstances deflected Artorex’s will. With luck, the rapist would never be punished for his actions.
‘Of course, my brother,’ Caius answered silkily. ‘You shall have my full cooperation. I’ll order the sergeants to make a diligent search for the offender.’
Artorex smiled, although it stopped well short of his eyes.
‘I expect a report from you within three days. Your men will remain on guard duty until that time.’
‘Of course, Artorex,’ Caius responded with equal blandness.
He smiled across at Artorex and changed the subject adroitly. ‘I have received a note for you from the Villa Poppinidii. Should you wish me to send a reply, you have only to ask.’
As Caius strode away after depositing a sealed piece of rough vellum on Artorex’s campaign desk, the Dux Bellorum reflected on how little he could trust the judgement and behaviour of his foster-brother. While Caius was a brave man in battle, and a clever commander, his occasional taste for violence could never quite be slaked, making him an enigma to most of the captains who served alongside him. Caius could pretend to be the noble Roman for years at a stretch, but once power was placed in his hands, he seemed to revert to his dark, sinister and secret nature. Unfortunately, he knew that Artorex had a living daughter, a secret that gave him a measure of protection.
One day, brother or not, Artorex knew he would have to remedy the problem of his foster-brother.
The Dux Bellorum turned the sealed scroll over and over in his fine, well-shaped hands. Who had he become that he could contemplate the sanctions he was considering against Caius? Since Gallia’s death, he’d hardened his heart to all manner of atrocities and knew that his tiny, civilized wife would have been horrified that her husband could make such dreadful decisions with so little feeling.
But Gallia was dead, and he’d never see her again this side of Hades. The princelings and the common people had never heard her name and, in any event, would probably have disapproved of a pure Roman wife for their Dux Bellorum.
I doubt that you’d still love me if you were alive, my Gallia, he thought, with a pang of self-pity. In fact, I can’t even recall your face.
It’s odd, he thought. I can see her mouth as clearly as if she was still alive. If I put my mind to it, I can remember the texture of her skin and the shape of her face. I can even recall those almond-shaped eyes that could snap and glitter with excitement. I can remember all the individual parts of her face but, no matter how hard I try, I can’t seem to put them together.
Artorex felt a surge of sadness rather than grief - the kind of sadness that comes after the initial pain of loss has gone. Gallia was dead, cold ash. She had been dead for such a short time, and yet his mind had already begun to expunge her memory.
But Artorex could remember the flowers that were nurtured around the odd little villa that he had built with his own hands. He would probably remain prouder of that small achievement than the salvation of the kingdom, if that goal were ever to be reached. He recalled again the scorched roses and the cracked stones of his fallen house with a dim regret.
Artorex opened the scroll by breaking the waxen seal.
Well, boy, all is as ever at Villa Poppinidii, and the flowers and bulbs have been planted at Gallia’s grave as you requested, although a ruin seems an odd monument. Once the winter thaw comes, her resting place will be as pretty as ever.
Licia is now nearly three. How quickly time travels when you are as old as I am! She follows Gareth like a puppy and he dotes on her like a parent.
He can be depended upon to keep the girl safe. At any road, she takes no notice of what I say, rather like a lump of a boy that I remember all too well.
I am always grateful for the love and care Gareth has given to our family, and I am determined that one day he will make his own mark on the world.
We hear of your deeds, even in quiet Aquae Sulis, and I cannot help but think my dear Livinia would have been so proud, with both of her sons fighting for the land. If you come home in the summer, we will feast like
the old days. But I won’t ask you to wait at table.
Ector, Master of Villa Poppinidii, and your proud Father
Such letters always made Artorex yearn for the peace and permanency of the life he had enjoyed in his youth; he knew that his future was now inextricably entwined with the past acts of Uther Pendragon - and there was no help for it. Even now, he was avoiding decisions that had been made for him by birth and fate.
With a knife and a polishing stone, he removed every trace of the words on the vellum as he always did. Too many eyes and ears watched and listened for the Dux Bellorum’s weaknesses. He never wrote to Ector and the old man understood his reasons, but even as the old Artorex slipped away, the new Artorex wished fervently that his destiny had allowed him to remain a humble steward at the Villa Poppinidii.
Three days passed, and Caius reported to Artorex that no one purported to know anything of the woman under the willow. He hinted that, perhaps, she may have been a victim of Saxon barbarity.
Artorex held his peace and waited.
Gruffydd returned to Venonae the following day, at a time when the icy ground was turning to slush and the first shoots of spring appeared on the trees around the city walls.
He brought grave news.
‘Oakheart’s name is Katigern. He is the grandson of Vortigern, a king who won a foothold in the south-west some forty years ago,’ he reported to Myrddion.
‘I remember Vortigern well,’ Myrddion murmured. ‘He believed he could sacrifice me to stopper up a natural spring - of all things - when I was only a small boy. I revealed a demonic prophecy to him that he seemed to expect, and I was fortunate to escape the long reach of his arm. Uther Pendragon drove his sons out of our lands many years ago.’ He frowned deeply and toyed with a small fruit knife on his table. ‘We will have problems with this Oakheart. I judged Vortigern to be a kingly man and he was exceptionally clever - except for some stupid superstitions. What type of man is his grandson?’