King Arthur: Warrior of the West: Book Two

by M. K. Hume

  Morgan’s voice was beautiful and finely accented. More disconcertingly, Wenhaver felt as if the older woman had looked deeply into her brain and picked out her innermost, most shameful thoughts, ready to expose them to the light of day. Morgan’s lightless eyes trapped Wenhaver’s with her own, and the seer smiled in a particularly unpleasant fashion.

  Wenhaver shuddered.

  ‘I apologize again for my lateness, Lady Morgan, and if I was rude, I’m sorry for that, too,’ Wenhaver managed to say with some sincerity. ‘I am afraid I am flustered and am not myself. The whole world has heard of your great skills, and I would never have dreamed that one so lowly as I should be singled out by you to demonstrate your art.’ Wenhaver curtsied deeply as she spoke, and lowered her telltale eyes so that Morgan couldn’t see the false flattery in them.

  Morgan laughed, her mirth like the tinkling of silver bells, and Wenhaver was forced to watch her father being seduced by Morgan’s charm. She fumed inwardly as she reclined on her couch and picked up a tiny knife with a hilt shaped like a humming bird.

  This bitch knows exactly what I think.

  ‘Every word, child. I understand every word,’ a voice whispered in her head, and Wenhaver dropped her eating knife.

  It’s all in my imagination, Wenhaver thought desperately.

  And Morgan laughed again.

  The meal was opulent, and rich in sauces and fine meats. Morgan ate sparingly, refusing the Spanish wine and choosing water instead. She ignored Wenhaver entirely, and set about capturing Leodegran with anecdotes about Uther Pendragon, Artor, life at court and the oddities and peccadilloes of the great ones. Her wit was sharp and unkind, but humorous for all its bite, and Leodegran was not a kindly man anyway. In sharp contrast with her chilly responses before Wenhaver had joined them, Morgan was now the great lady, even coquettish as she pressed Leodegran’s puffy hand with her slender fingers.

  Irritated, ignored and thoroughly outclassed, Wenhaver noticed that Morgan dyed the tips of her long white nails with henna, and patterns of great intricacy had been painted on to the still-young skin of her elbows, disappearing erotically into her shift. Leodegran could not take his eyes off Morgan, and Wenhaver could almost read his lascivious thoughts.

  ‘If I want him, I will have him, child! I do as I please!’

  Wenhaver was just beginning to believe that the mocking inner voice came from her own jealousy, but then Morgan laughed once again and lifted her fathomless eyes to meet the angry blue irises of Wenhaver. She smiled at the girl with the same sweet falsity that Wenhaver had struggled to master.

  ‘Dear Leodegran, I do believe that Wenhaver grows impatient. We will talk later, alone if you wish, but I fear I must do my duty by your house and discover Wenhaver’s future.’

  Leodegran’s chest swelled, probably from thoughts of the erotic pleasures that were to come. Morgan was no doubt a woman who was well versed in the skills of the sleeping chamber, thought Wenhaver distastefully. She was beginning to wish that she could flee from the room.

  ‘Give me your hand, child. Let me read the lines.’

  Wenhaver complied, but she flinched rudely when she felt the cool, reptilian touch of the seer.

  ‘You will live for many years, child. And during your long life, you will experience only a gradual loss of your beauty. At the end, you will hide yourself in a convent, rather than permit the world to know how fate, and your own decisions, have contributed to your ultimate ugliness.’

  ‘I thought you were supposed to predict pleasant things,’ Wenhaver cried, almost in tears at the thought of such a future. ‘I don’t want to be old, and I don’t intend to become ugly.’

  ‘You may call on me when your beauty starts to fade. For I have a glamour that will trick any man. You have only to ask.’

  Mollified a little, Wenhaver asked whom she would marry.

  ‘Why do you think I am here, Wenhaver? Even now, Myrddion Merlinus rides to Corinium to broker the marriage between you and the great Artor. Yes, you will become High Queen of the Britons, if you are very, very careful.’

  Wenhaver pulled away from Morgan’s fingers, and clapped her hands with glee.

  ‘I will become the queen, and beloved, and all shall look upon me and marvel at my beauty.’

  Morgan fixed the girl with her extraordinary eyes. ‘Do you wish to know more? I can tell you more of your future if you are not content with what I see in your hands.’

  ‘Yes! Yes! You must tell me more,’ Wenhaver urged.

  Leodegran looked smug.

  Morgan drew out a fine strip of delicate leather and bound her eyes.

  ‘Artor will not love you, no matter what you do. His heart was given to another woman a long, long time ago, and he will measure you by her, and he will find you wanting. In time, he will come to love a plain woman who is lovely within.’

  ‘Was his first love so beautiful?’ Wenhaver snapped, her petulance rising dangerously.

  ‘She was fair enough, but she was good, and clean and loving. These are the qualities he admires in a woman, as you will discover, and he will search in vain for similarities between his first love and yourself. He will find another as his fires slowly die, but even then, happiness will elude him.’

  ‘I will make him love me,’ Wenhaver pouted. ‘I will!’

  ‘You will fail, child. But others will be drawn to you as moths to the flame, and the great and the noble will worship at your feet.’

  ‘Well, that’s not so very bad, is it, Father?’ Wenhaver responded.

  Leodegran beamed. He could already imagine the deference given to him by the tribal kings.

  ‘Of course, you will soon be eclipsed by the Maid of Wind and Water but, fortunately, she doesn’t care to compete with you,’ Morgan continued. ‘When that time comes to pass, you must beware that you do not show your hand too plainly, or Artor will cast you out.’

  ‘He would not dare,’ Leodegran rumbled pompously. Already, he could imagine the prestige of possessing such a powerful son-in-law and the bounty that would pour into his hands as a result. He repeated his challenge to bolster his courage. ‘Artor would not dare to consult the Dobunni. ’

  ‘Artor dares anything, for he is all-powerful. You must take care, Wenhaver, for you could burn at the stake for the edification of the people if you misjudge your situation.’

  Wenhaver blanched. The thought that such a fate was even possible was beyond her comprehension.

  ‘You will, however, hold the keys to the kingdom in the years to come. But nothing is certain. If you are imprudent, Artor might take decisive action to remove you from his life. If you successfully carry out your role as queen, you will be remembered down through the misty years of time, and a thousand years will not dim the memory of your fabled beauty. You will also be vilified over the ages, but you will not care for that. You will always love what you cannot have, and have what you cannot love. But immortality is worth a little sacrifice, is it not, girl?’

  Wenhaver bridled slightly at the scorn in Morgan’s eyes. ‘I will be queen, and I’ll be remembered forever. What else matters?’

  ‘Why, nothing, my child, and it’s certain that the Celts will never forget you.’ Morgan smiled at Wenhaver.

  Wenhaver never stopped to consider the ambiguity in Morgan’s words. She wasn’t particularly intelligent and had never experienced the clever manipulative skills and half-truths used by courtiers.

  ‘I must stop now, for I am tired and feel the need to rest,’ Morgan said softly, and then smiled seductively at Leodegran. ‘But only for an hour or two. Perhaps we will speak later, my lord.’

  ‘Of course,’ Leodegran answered in a voice suddenly thickened with lust and a frisson of delicious fear.

  Leodegran took beautiful young servant girls as, and when, he chose, but Morgan promised sexual delights that would drown his senses. He bowed to the seer as she rose from the table and walked away. The darkness was trapped in her fine woven shift and in her extraordinary hair.

&nbs
p; As she moved silently into the apartment that Leodegran had given her, Morgan permitted her polished, expressionless face to smile. The ambitious were so easy to manipulate and, by her reckoning, Leodegran and his daughter were likely candidates for elevation to the Throne of the West. But, if Myrddion saw through the silly little minx, their loss really didn’t matter. The Fey had visited the court of the Catuvellauni King, Cadmus, now resident at Bannaventa on the edges of Arden Forest. Driven out of Verulamium, Londinium and Durovigatum by the Saxon advances, Cadmus would sell his daughter, Rutha, to the highest bidder, despite his Christianity.

  Morgan considered two other kings with suitable daughters who were more than eager to take Leodegran’s place if the Dobunni king failed to convince Myrddion of Wenhaver’s suitability.

  Back in her apartment, Morgan cast the bones, and then flinched when she saw what the future truly revealed. But patterns of hatred become old friends if they are clutched to the bosom for decades.

  The seer saw a ship tossing on a wild sea, and she understood that she was about to embark on a journey into the west. Behind her, all the great Britons were dead and burning, even her sister, while Cadbury Tor was deserted, the buildings merely shells for the wind to play in. A yellow-haired woman, grown grey and old, prayed on her knees in a nunnery, and Saxon strength drove all the goodness from the rawness of the earth.

  Then, in the mists of the past, she recalled Artorex’s beautiful face and heard her own portent: ‘Beware of a woman with yellow hair, for she will lead you to ruin.’

  Then Morgan saw her own face in the bones. Her preternatural youth had finally submitted to time and she had become an aged crone, fit only for frightening children. To the north, in the forest shield, Artor’s children’s children grew tall and strong, while she left nothing behind her but the miasma of fear.

  ‘Is it worth all the suffering?’ she asked the bones, and for once they answered her.

  ‘Of course not. You will destroy Artor’s body, but unfortunately for your peace of mind, his spirit cannot be broken.’

  Later that night, she taught Leodegran new and erotic secrets of the bed until he would happily have offered her marriage if she had been willing. By the time the night was done, Leodegran promised her everything she desired and, while he had a sharp, convenient memory, Morgan would remind him of his duties as a father when needed. But for all the bodily pleasure she gave the king, and for all that she strove to feel something of meaning, Morgan knew that her own soul was dead.

  CHAPTER XII

  THE MAID AND THE MISTRESS

  Gruffydd’s heavy body pushed through the half-opened leather curtains and into the kitchens of Venonae, carrying a pile of gifts. The familiar comforting smells of hot water, burning wood, cooked meat and human sweat mingled pleasantly to greet his entrance.

  How quickly the years had passed, Gruffydd thought, since he had first brought the infant Nimue to be cared for by the chief cook of the Venonae garrison. Although she had never borne a child of her own, Gallwyn had proved to be an excellent mother and Perce, the kitchen boy, had grown to be Nimue’s staunchest companion and foster-brother. When Gruffydd came to visit, he always felt as if he was returning to a second family.

  ‘Where are you, Gallwyn?’ he called, a little alarmed at the quiet. ‘For shame, woman! Lazing about at this time of day when the venison is beginning to burn.’

  He laughed gently at this old joke, but a quick glance at the chaos in the usually ordered hearth stopped his mirth. For twelve years, Gruffydd had become well versed in the ordered frenzy of the kitchens, so a protracted silence and the fact that a large pot of stew was about to boil over on the hearth unnerved and alarmed him.

  Using a gloved hand to swing the cauldron out of the flames on its long, hooked arm of wrought iron, Gruffydd dumped his cloth-wrapped gifts on the scarred table top and began to explore.

  First, he found three kitchen girls huddled together by the woodpile. They were weeping, with their reddened, coarse hands clenched over their tear-stained faces.

  ‘It’s Mistress Gallwyn. She’s sick, and she’s near to dying,’ one of them moaned.

  Clearly, someone had to take charge in the kitchens, and twelve years at Artor’s back had prepared Gruffydd for almost any calamity.

  ‘You won’t help your mistress by burning the garrison’s food,’ Gruffydd shouted at the maids. ‘Get to work. The bread oven is cold, there’s no kindling, and the stew’s boiling over. Hop to it.’

  ‘Perce is cutting more wood now,’ one of the girls wailed.

  ‘Then we can thank the heavens that everyone hasn’t gone wandering off. ’ Gruffydd pointed to the oldest woman in the group. ‘What is your name?’ he asked brusquely.

  ‘Jena,’ the woman replied timidly, her voice trembling and uncertain. ‘Sir,’ she added as an afterthought, for the whole world knew that Gruffydd was sword bearer to the High King.

  ‘Jena, you are now in charge of the kitchens until you hear otherwise. And you will be held to blame if there’s no food for the tables upstairs.’

  The servants scuttled away to complete their chores.

  Gruffydd strode straight to Gallwyn’s sleeping compartment, a burrow too small to bear the grandiose title of a room. The curtains were drawn tightly shut.

  ‘Gallwyn? Gallwyn? What ails you, woman?’

  A tall, slim fury exploded through the curtains and drove him back with hard blows to his chest from delicate, clenched fists.

  ‘Nimue! What are you doing, child? What has upset you? You know me. It’s Gruffydd.’

  Gruffydd gripped Nimue’s wildly beating arms by the wrists and took in the wide-eyed, terrified expression on her face.

  ‘She’s not to have any noise! And she has to be kept quiet, so you’ll not disturb her!’

  Irrelevantly, Gruffydd noticed that Nimue’s growth had come upon her, and now they stood eye to eye.

  ‘You must allow me to see her, my dear,’ Gruffydd ordered softly. ‘I’ll not upset her, I swear. If she is ill, we must make her better. Now tell me what has happened.’

  ‘I don’t know!’ Nimue wailed. ‘She was laughing with me as we peeled the carrots, and then she seemed to choke . . . and just dropped to the floor.’ Tears flowed unbidden from the young girl’s eyes. ‘Her lips are all blue.’

  ‘You’d best ask one of the kitchen hands to make some herb tea for her. And sweeten it with some of that honey that Gallwyn loves so much. But first, send a messenger to bring the herbalist to this room as fast as he can get here. He will know what to do to help her.’

  Gruffydd had seen his own grandfather die in just such a fashion when he was little more than a lad, and he was suddenly afraid.

  He steeled himself to pull back the curtain to Gallwyn’s narrow alcove. What was he to do if Gallwyn should die? What would become of sweet Nimue?

  The child was fourteen and her terrible birth, cut from her mother’s body under a willow tree, had done her no lasting harm. But Gruffydd remembered Morgan’s prophecy when Nimue was only a week old: she would become a fearsome creature if she wasn’t loved and, in time, Nimue would steal away the mind of the kingdom. Thanks to Gallwyn’s love and earthy common sense, neither dire prediction had come to pass.

  Gruffydd took a deep breath, forced a broad smile to his lips and swept back the curtain.

  Gallwyn was resting on her pallet inside the tiny room. She was sitting almost upright on a pile of cushions that had been placed behind her to ease her breathing, but her appearance was that of one who was already dead. Nimue had accurately described the blue tinge around Gallwyn’s lips, and Gruffydd knew that something vital had failed inside the body of his old friend.

  ‘Gallwyn?’ he whispered softly. ‘Can you hear me?’

  ‘Of course I can, you daft bugger,’ the old woman wheezed painfully. She opened her faded hazel eyes. ‘I’m glad you came, Gruff. Even if you are too late.’

  Every word seemed forced out of her heaving chest with an effort.
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  ‘Nimue is fetching the herbalist to see if he can help you,’ Gruffydd whispered and smiled, although he felt a lump begin to grow in his throat. ‘She is also bringing some herb tea with your favourite honey, so I expect you will soon be feeling like your old self again.’

  ‘No tea will help me, Gruff. I know I’m dying, and I don’t think it is far away.’

  ‘Then don’t talk, sweet Gallwyn. Rest now, until you are stronger.’ Gruffydd could have wept, for he could see the film of death even now as it began to cloud Gallwyn’s sharp old eyes.

  ‘I’ll be resting soon enough. But now is the time for some straight talk. I’m dying, aren’t I?’

  ‘Probably, Gallwyn.’ Gruffydd offered no false hope. ‘But some people survive this illness.’

  ‘Not me.’

  She rested for a minute and closed her heavy eyes.

  At that moment, Nimue returned with a wooden bowl of some fragrant liquid rendered almost viscous with honey. Coaxed to take a sip, Gallwyn obeyed meekly, and a little colour came back into her pallid face, but the work-roughened hand that Gruffydd held was slack and cold.

  ‘Nimue, my lovely, you are to listen to the words I say to old Gruff here. And you are to obey him in all things. Promise?’

  Nimue would have promised anything, and did.

  ‘Gruff, we’ve been friends since you put my girl into my arms, is that not so?’

  ‘I’d never argue with you, Gallwyn, for I know I’d lose.’

  A trace of her old humour returned when her other hand attempted to smack his face. The pretended blow was as light as a caress.

  ‘Someone’s got to take care of my little girl if anything happens to me. Someone’s got to see her safe.’

  Gruffydd could see that Gallwyn’s eyes were leaking tears. He was shocked, for the ruler of the High King’s kitchens had never been seen to show weakness.

  ‘No!’ Nimue wailed, and began to sob in earnest. ‘You cannot die, for I won’t let you.’

  ‘Bring me some more tea, child,’ Gallwyn ordered gently, and Gruffydd knew she had forced herself to drink every drop in the cup. ‘Make me some more, for I feel better than ever.’