by M. K. Hume
Targo was more practical. ‘You’d not have liked anyone to bed her, Artor, but Gallia would have been glad of such a match for her Licia, and you should be happy as well. Llanwith has been your friend for many years, and marriage between his son and your Licia is an honour for both of you.’
‘Very well.’ Artor was exasperated and out-of-sorts. ‘The match is sensible, even if I hate the thought that she is now a full-grown woman. Very well. Let us drink to Licia, or Anna, or whatever name is chosen for her. May she bear many strong sons.’
The men drank sweet wine and tried to ignore Artor’s mood, which was still morose.
‘Will you attend the wedding, my lord? Ector would welcome your presence, for a dream came to him that foretold his death, and he wishes to say his final farewells to you.’
Artor stared at Gareth, who forced himself to endure the king’s fearsome eyes without flinching. Gareth had known Artor since he was a boy, and he had always seen that piercing grey intensity for what it was. Artor was thinking and calculating.
‘No, I won’t attend the wedding. To do so would be to draw gossip straight to Licia’s person. We shall let the world believe her to be my half-sister if they so wish. It is conceivable, if I use my imagination, that Uther could have got a child on some maidservant before his death, and that Master Ector would foster the child. But, should I attend the wedding, I give legitimacy to Licia and that would make her, and any son she bears, targets for unscrupulous villains. I’ll trust to Llanwith and his heirs to do their duty.’
Gareth nodded his understanding of Artor’s instructions, although his face reflected his dissatisfaction.
‘You think me uncaring, Gareth? I’m not, I promise you. I will leave Cadbury for the Villa Poppinidii in five days’ time, and will offer my felicitations to the family before Licia weds. As for Master Ector, I am disturbed that he should believe himself to be near death. He is my father in all but name, and now I understand why he has exercised his responsibility to select husbands for Livinia and Licia before his eyes close for the last time. I owe everything I hold dear to him, so of course I will come. Myrddion will let it be known that Master Ector is failing.’
‘Of course, Artor,’ Myrddion murmured.
‘My lord,’ Gareth broke in, his heart in his mouth. ‘I request that you allow me to hold you to your promise.’
Gareth saw Artor’s eyes shift sideways momentarily, as the king tried to remember what he desired of him. Then Artor’s brain thrust up the memory of their conversation which had taken place in Gallia’s garden over six months earlier.
‘Aye. Once Licia is wed, you may come to Cadbury Tor and join the guard. Odin will instruct you in battle craft until you have mastered the skills of a warrior. Mind you, Odin is not up to Targo’s standard, but the old man cannot bend and stretch the way he once could. No doubt he will help Odin from time to time - in his own inimitable fashion.’ Artor grinned like a young boy again. ‘He’ll have you leaping fences in no time at all. And he will also be making numerous, dire prophecies about your mortality.’
Targo laughed, exposing what few teeth he still possessed.
Myrddion glanced surreptitiously at Targo. In the deepest, most honest part of his heart, Myrddion fretted that Artor would eventually be cast adrift as those few persons he loved were lost, inevitably, to death. The old warrior was failing; Mori Saxonicus had been the last time he would exercise his battle craft. Soon, Targo would pass into the shades, and Artor would know another irreparable loss in the fabric of his life.
Gareth rose to his feet and bowed in homage to his lord. ‘I ask that you allow me to retire, King Artor, so I can contemplate the achievement of a dream. There are no words that can sufficiently express my thankfulness.’
Once Gareth had left Artor’s inner sanctum, the mood in the room became more relaxed and natural. Although Gareth was an old acquaintance, Artor was reserved with persons whom he didn’t wholly trust, especially in those matters that had been troubling him since the Battle of Mori Saxonicus.
‘Now that my last duties to Ector and Gallia are almost complete, the time is approaching when I must consider a suitable marriage for myself. ’ He turned his gaze to Myrddion. Artor’s expression was fey and reckless, causing Myrddion to undergo a brief moment of panic. ‘What say you, my friend? Which woman of your acquaintance would bring the strongest alliance for the crown of the Britons? Personally, I don’t care who shares my bed as long as they are fertile and compliant. You shall have to choose for me.’
Myrddion blanched, and the other men looked horrified. Only Targo chose to speak, having the licence of great age as protection.
‘Have you gone soft in the head, Artor? You may marry if you wish, of course. In fact, it’s your duty to beget an heir to follow in your footsteps. But Myrddion shouldn’t be forced to choose your wife. What if the match goes horribly wrong? Oh, I know you won’t care, but he will. He’ll blame himself if he brings trouble and pain to you.’
It was now Artor’s turn to colour. ‘Forgive me, Myrddion. It was wrong of me to make such a foolish suggestion, and I’m sorry for any insult I gave you. My only excuse is that the world is topsy-turvy today, and I’m feeling a little lost.’
He paused.
‘I agree. I should choose for myself, but I don’t believe that I can find love again, and never in the political hurly-burly where the position of queen would elevate one of the tribes to eminence. I am a commodity, to be fought over and flattered. I doubt the suitable women in the realm care a jot for me.’
Artor rarely admitted to human weakness or fears, so Myrddion readily accepted his apology. The few visible flaws in Artor’s character were why Myrddion loved his king so well.
‘I can only advise you, my lord. In fact, Leodegran’s daughter seems eligible enough, but I’ve never seen her, or had the opportunity to gauge her suitability. Unfortunately, it’s likely that even you will be denied that privilege until your wedding day for, as you are well aware, the nuptials of kings are matters of alliance, rather than love.’
Artor grinned his wry approval of Myrddion’s summation of the situation.
‘Then this Wenhaver could become my new bride. After all, how bad can the girl be? Organize it for me, will you, Myrddion? Check the girl personally and gauge her suitability. And then force Leodegran into offering a significant bride price if you’re satisfied with her. That bastard has always been tardy in provisioning my warriors and paying my taxes, when the whole world knows that his lands are rich in copper, tin, grain and even gold. If he wants Artor for a son-in-law, then he can pay through the nose for the privilege.
‘Oblige me by travelling to Corinium and looking the girl over before I’m saddled with a visit from that pair. If this Wenhaver is suitable, we can agree on a bride price and sign suitable treaties when Leodegran visits us in state. If not, perhaps they’ll stay away. Dancing attendance on a girl barely full grown is very tiring.’
Myrddion bowed his head in acquiescence and examined his master from under his lowered brows. Artor’s face reflected nothing but boredom. Myrddion sighed.
Despite himself, Myrddion grinned. Leodegran was a pompous ass, and Myrddion would enjoy the haggling, especially as he held all the strategic power in the palms of his narrow hands.
‘And Gruffydd is off to Venonae to see his brat, the babe Nimue. Cadbury Tor will be quite bare of company, unless you plan to go wandering off somewhere, Targo.’
‘I will go with you, Artor. I have a desire to see Ector and Licia before the Villa Poppinidii changes forever. Even though Caius may be steward to the High King, he’ll make changes at Aquae Sulis when Ector has gone that these old eyes won’t care to see.’
‘What’s your opinion of Gareth, Targo?’ Artor asked casually as the meeting of friends stirred to depart and leave their king to his rest.
‘Gareth does have the look, doesn’t he, Odin? Perhaps he’ll make a worthy warrior, even if he’s coming to the craft a bit late. At least he can ride
a horse, which makes him more competent than our last pupil.’
‘Will you never forget, old man?’ Artor laughed, and the room was suddenly warm in the balm of the High King’s pleasure.
With smug, uncritical approval, Wenhaver stared at her reflection in a silver mirror. The new veil was exactly the right shade of blue to suit her eyes. The Romans certainly knew the tricks of dying fabric, and her father had paid dearly for this piece of azure gossamer, especially purchased for her visit to Cadbury Tor. She sang as she pirouetted around her untidy room, clutching the length of delicate cloth to her breasts.
‘He will want me! He will fall in love with my beauty on sight, even if he is very old. And then I will be Queen of all the Britons.’
Leodegran had taken his daughter in hand one month previously after learning from a Cadbury courtier that the High King planned to marry. Leodegran had rubbed his hands together in pleasurable anticipation, and blessed the day that he had invested in several well-placed spies within Artor’s court. As he was a born horse-trader, Leodegran knew how foolish it would be to presume that Wenhaver would capture the High King’s heart. However, his greedy spirit also knew his value to the throne of the West. Even if his daughter had been plain, she had an excellent chance of succeeding in this particular political manouvre.
When he explained to his daughter the importance of their visit to Cadbury, Wenhaver had preened and sulked by turn until her doting father had promised her a slew of new robes, dresses, hair adornments and gems, all as fair bait to capture the eye of the High King.
And now, two legendary nobles were visiting Corinium to assess the appropriateness of Leodegran’s daughter.
‘I can convince these silly old people that I will be an excellent queen,’ Wenhaver decided with an uncritical glance in her silver mirror.
‘Mistress?’ her maid asked, and Wenhaver realized that she had spoken her thoughts aloud. Her cheeks coloured with chagrin and anger, and the servant flinched away from her mistress’s displeasure.
‘I will wear the yellow shift this evening, Myrnia. And take care that it’s uncrushed. Father has summoned a seer to read my fortune, and I’ll not look a fright in front of him.’
The servant bobbed her head in acknowledgement, and inwardly cursed that she should bear the responsibility of making the yellow shift presentable. Wenhaver was notoriously careless with her clothing, and left the finest fabrics in untidy piles wherever they happened to fall. Then any hapless girl who tried to remedy the damage had the skin stripped from her back.
Wenhaver was very young to be such a celebrated beauty, but Leodegran had been so vain of his small girl-child, that he had shown her off to his guests from the time she could first walk and talk. Gifted with unblemished golden skin, clear blue eyes and plentiful golden hair, she had been a perfect, delicate child.
The young woman had only grown in beauty over the years and had been so cosseted, spoiled and flattered that Wenhaver had come to believe that physical appearance was everything and that her wishes superceded the needs of everyone else in Leodegran’s house. She never counted the cost of an item, nor cared for the feelings of others, because she had been encouraged to believe that she was ideal in every way.
Nobody liked Wenhaver overmuch, except King Leodegran, but then she was his daughter.
In fact, Leodegran was mostly to blame for the excesses of his daughter. He had married a beautiful girl merely sixteen years ago. Leodegran furrowed his brow in concentration as he dredged up her name out of the four wives and countless concubines, mistresses and casual inamorata that had littered his path in life. Yes! She had been called Sybille, and she had huge, aquamarine eyes that were really the only part of her he had ever noticed. She had borne Wenhaver, her first and only living child, sighed quietly as if her work was over and then died without fuss.
Leodegran grinned. Sybille had been the perfect wife, all things considered. He loved fine food, good wine, elegant clothing and all the comforts of the senses. In short, Leodegran worshipped at the altar of physical appearance and sensation. Yes, Sybille had been perfect. She bore his lovely Wenhaver and then ‘went away’.
Nobody liked King Leodegran overmuch either.
When evening came, Wenhaver permitted herself to be dressed, and a band of beaten gold was positioned to restrain her golden curls. The yellow shift suited her colouring, and Wenhaver added a necklace, several bangles and two thumb rings of the same metal to accentuate the effect. Like a child with too many baubles, she tossed her box of jewels on to her table and rooted through the scatter of ornaments to thrust rings on to every finger.
Myrnia was secretly amused by Wenhaver’s ostentation. Her own mother had been serving woman to a Roman lady and, as a child, Myrnia had marvelled at how one, single, well-chosen gem could enhance the lady’s style and grace, qualities that Wenhaver wholly lacked.
Much pleased with herself, Wenhaver swept into Leodegran’s eating room with much swirling of fabric and tossing of her yellow curls.
Leodegran was wealthy and he enjoyed the luxuries of that wealth. He was large, portly and fair in hair and features. His face had once been masculine and handsome, but now he was fleshy, and his cheeks and nose were ruddy with broken veins. He, too, was dressed with much outward display, so he saw nothing amiss in his daughter’s attire.
The woman who sat quietly at the table at his left hand was a study in contrasts. She wore black, broken only by panels of charcoal in her under-shift, so that darkness moved about her as she walked. Her hair was unbound, signifying her single status, and was streaked liberally with silver that, oddly, made her black hair even darker and more lustrous. Her face was pale and narrow, her eyes were downcast and the few lines on her smooth countenance were the only visible betrayals of her age which must have been closer to fifty than forty years. Although she was already very old for a woman, her hands were unblemished and ringless. In fact, her only ornamentation was a band of filigree gold of great price across her unlined forehead and a necklace at her breast that was shaped like an open eye. The prism of the pendant was a single large topaz that winked in the torchlight as if it was alive.
The woman made Leodegran uncomfortable as her eyes bored into his, while her monosyllabic answers to his attempts at gallantry made him feel gauche and unsophisticated. Unnerved, Leodegran was inclined to find fault, and Wenhaver was his first victim.
‘You’re late, daughter. We have long awaited your arrival.’
Wenhaver pouted, and her eyes swept over the strange woman who sat at her father’s hand with such ease.
A dowdy creature, she thought. But the filigree brow band caused her a twinge of envy.
‘We only wait on a seer, father. Of what account is such a person that I should come to you carelessly dressed?’
Wenhaver had been encouraged from birth to speak her thoughts, unfettered by reason, kindness or common sense, and Leodegran’s brows drew into his aquiline nose with displeasure and embarrassment.
‘The seer, as you refer to her, is here. We are privileged this day to eat with the Lady Morgan, half-sister of the great Artor, and daughter of Ygerne, the fairest flower of the Britons. She has come specifically to meet you, so mind your manners.’
Now, under her false smile of shy greeting, Wenhaver was truly sulking. She was a practised actress, so her pretty apologies gave every indication of honesty but, under the artless expression, she was furious.
She noted that the woman, Morgan, was ancient, and as for the seer’s mother and her fabled beauty, little of it showed in the daughter.
In her formative years, at the cruel bidding of Uther Pendragon, Morgan had learned patience as well as cruelty, and the old monster had also taught Morgan the value of good intelligence. Like Leodegran, her brother, Artor, and even her sister, Morgause, she used a spy in every court in the west. And Cadbury’s secret watcher had sent word to Morgan that the High King was likely to wed at last.
Remembering a very old prophesy she had made in th
e villa outside of Aquae Sulis when she and her brother were still young, Morgan wondered if this scion of a corrupted and idle tribe was Artor’s bane. Did the child Wenhaver have the capriciousness under her beauty that would weaken everything that Artor built up? Would she prove to be his feet of clay?
Morgan had hurried south, had ridden day and night, sparing neither her personal guard nor the horses, when she received word that Myrddion Merlinus planned to visit Corinium on the orders of the High King.
Now, seated across from a girl-woman whose beauty was heart stopping and whose eyes were mercenary, Morgan pondered how best to warn the child that Myrddion’s instincts were the sharpest in the west. Wenhaver must dissemble, and the spoiled little bitch didn’t know how.
As for her father, Leodegran was plump, vacuous and well meaning under his dyed hair and salivating interest in food and women. He must be persuaded to protect his daughter from her worst excesses if she became queen, and this epicure had no power to protect a cat from an ageing mouse. Artor would behead Wenhaver and find another wife, if the silly little slut over-reached herself.
By and large, simpering into Leodegran’s faded blue eyes with feigned admiration, Morgan decided that the Dobunni king was the most pressing of her worries.
But he was just a man, after all, and an old goat at that. He could be induced to dance to Morgan’s music, just in case he was needed in her complicated game of meddling and malice.
Satisfied, Morgan swivelled her attention to the spoiled beauty who raised one eyebrow at her in disdain. No one could teach Wenhaver subtlety but, perhaps, self-interest would teach her how to lie.
‘No, my dear, I do not share my mother’s beauty, do I?’ Morgan stated without preamble. ‘Not like Artor, my half-brother. But I am not old either, whatever my hair might say. I was born with the white streak of prophecy at my brow, and it simply deepens with time.’