by M. K. Hume
‘Bollocks, Gruff, ’ Targo sputtered. ‘You and I know there’s no real age when a warrior is fit for training. Yes, it’s best when he’s young for there are no bad habits to beat out of him. But it’s what’s in the heart that counts. Even now, Odin trains Gareth, and Gareth is thirty. Artor will know if this Perce is suitable immediately he sets his eyes on the man, for all that he’s engrossed in thoughts of this stupid marriage with this Wenhaver creature.’
Targo sounded so peeved that Gruffydd was alarmed. The old man stalked around his chamber with something of his old vigour, although he favoured one leg and pressed a swollen-fingered hand to his hip.
‘It’s probably just an old man’s fancy, Gruff, but I remember that witch, Morgan. She told us many years ago that Artor’s second wife would destroy the kingdom, and I’m beginning to grow superstitious in my old age.’
Gruffydd snorted at the very idea that Targo would believe in anything he couldn’t see, touch, hear, smell or taste.
‘What did Morgan say that worries you so much?’
‘She told us that Artor should beware of a woman with yellow hair. At the time, no one at the Villa Poppinidii took the threat seriously because we didn’t know then how often Morgan’s predictions would prove to be correct. And how many golden-haired women appear naturally among the Celts?’ He paused. ‘Shite, Gruff, I worry about my boy. Morgan has always meant him harm and, by all reports, this Wenhaver has yellow hair.’
‘Artor’s no fool in the game of love, Targo. You know that better than anyone, and I’d not care to stand in her shoes if she ever upsets him.’
Targo slapped Gruffydd’s back in gratitude, and they resumed their original conversation.
‘I’d like you to bring the boy to me after Artor makes his decision. Perhaps there might be something that these old hands can do to help him with his ambitions. It would be an interest, mind, and I can’t promise any success. From what you say, the boy may be a clod.’
‘Your reservations are understood, Targo. I’m grateful for any help, because I like young Perce. He reminds me of how I felt when I was young.’
Targo chortled and then slumped back into his chair as another coughing fit shook him.
‘You? Young?’ he said when he could speak. ‘You were never young, you old reprobate. You and I were born old.’
Gruffydd looked closely at the mercenary, his eyes troubled. ‘Are you well, Targo? Because I must say you don’t look it. I’d be sorry if anything were to happen to you.’
‘I am well enough, old friend. Mori Saxonicus was a bit too much for me, but I’d not exchange a moment in that charnel house for an added decade of life. I’ve no plans to rust away through idleness, I’ll tell you that for nothing. Besides, my boy still needs me, so I’m good for a few years more. But I take your concerns in good heart, Sword Bearer. We’re neither of us too pretty now.’
‘You never were, Targo, I’m sorry to tell you,’ Gruffydd quipped, much heartened by Targo’s explanation.
The old warrior looked happy and content as Gruffydd eased his way out of the comfortable, over-warm room.
Gruffydd’s status gave him quick access to a rather distracted Artor, who was sampling and discarding various sumptuous tunics presented by a tailor from the town of Cadbury. Artor seemed grateful for the interruption, and swiftly ordered the tailor to take his leave and return later.
Gruffydd explained his early return once more, and confessed his quandary over Nimue and the kitchen boy, Perce.
‘May I call them into your presence, my lord? You’ll be able to decide what should be done. The boy is a particular problem as he is determined to become one of your warriors. I’ve tried to dissuade him, but he won’t be deflected. I’ve discussed his situation with Targo.’
‘Hmmnn!’ Artor grunted, and lifted his leonine head.
Gruffydd noted that the High King’s remarkable hair had recently been cut at the shoulders so that the curl was accentuated. Artor’s one vanity had been his remarkable hair, so Gruffydd wondered if the shearing of his plaits spoke of a radical change that was taking place in Artor’s thinking. Somehow, the idea wasn’t comforting. Also, the High King had grown a close-clipped beard that gave his face gravity but spoke of a mental severing from his Roman youth. The lines around his eyes and mouth were scarcely evident after his many years of struggle and his body was as fit and as healthy as ever.
‘I should also offer my felicitations on your coming nuptials, my lord,’ Gruffydd added. ‘I hope that you sire many sons.’
‘Don’t you start on me, Gruff. I had to marry sometime, so this Wenhaver woman will do as well as any other girl. Leodegran will hold his part of the northern frontier the firmer because of the marriage agreement, so don’t delude yourself that I have fallen in love with her at my advanced age.’
‘I didn’t wish to suggest that your decisions were anything but your own concern, my lord.’
Artor laughed. ‘I will speak with your orphans. Some excellent warriors died to avenge the honour of Nimue’s mother, and I admit I’m curious to see how she has turned out. She was also responsible for your services to me, my friend, which was a princely gift from one so young.’
Gruffydd nodded his head in gratitude for the king’s kind words.
‘You can also call on Myrddion to attend me while you’re about it. He plans to be absent during the arrival of King Leodegran, and I won’t countenance his defection. He’s having second thoughts for some reason, and he’s feeling guilty as a result.’
‘Master,’ Gruffydd replied, and backed out of the king’s presence. As usual, he wished that Artor were less candid around him, as the king’s confidences were dangerous for the continued good health of an ordinary man.
In the corridor, Gruffydd found two servants and delegated their separate tasks to them. He then leaned against the wall and waited for Nimue and Perce to join him.
Odin found him first.
The giant Jute had become civilized during the years of Artor’s reign. He wore shoes, and had given up furs during all but the coldest weeks of winter. But he was still enormous and utterly committed to the personal welfare of Targo and Artor.
‘You’re back,’ Odin said with a wide smile. ‘That is good. Targo has missed you during your absence.’
‘And you didn’t?’ Gruffydd teased.
‘I have, I have,’ Odin replied with his usual seriousness and honesty. ‘Yes. I have missed you a little, my friend.’
‘I am honoured, Odin.’ Gruffydd laughed, and the warrior looked puzzled. ‘I missed you, too.’
Nimue and Perce entered the corridor at this point. They were squabbling as usual, and Gruffydd found himself feeling quite avuncular.
Nimue had cleaned the worst of the mud and dust from her person and was dressed in a gown of unbleached wool that should have been ugly and gauche. But she had released her hair from its plaits and combed the silver blondeness until it fell like a great, waving curtain over her shoulders and down her back. The bronze necklace she always wore disappeared into her neckline and her slashed fringe was held firmly in place by her mother’s barbaric bronze pin.
Even Odin drew in his breath at the sight of her, especially when she pirouetted and he caught a glimpse of the dragon tattoo above her worn leather sandals.
‘The babe!’ he said in wonder. ‘The wise woman and the sea-wife.’
‘Pardon?’ Gruffydd asked, but Odin pressed his lips together and stared at Nimue until her cheeks reddened.
‘Do I look nice, dear Gruff? I wish I had a better dress, but I’m sure the High King will understand.’
Her gaiety was infectious, and even Odin’s lips twitched, a considerable achievement since the whole world knew that the Jutlander had no sense of humour. Alongside her, a cleaned and shining Perce, dressed in simple homespun, only managed to appear more awkward than usual.
Gruffydd realized that Nimue had the power to eclipse any woman and he began to fear for her well-being, for he was all too
conscious of the jealousy and vanity that existed among the women at Artor’s court.
They knocked at the doors leading to the king’s apartments and Artor bellowed for them to enter. Nimue and Perce abased themselves before their king with that unmistakable awe and reverence that cannot be counterfeited. As she bowed, Nimue’s hair fell over her shoulders to the floor in a silken ripple of silver, and it was at this point that Myrddion Merlinus entered. He was close to sixty, and long past even the pretence of youth, but he still stood straight and slim in his black garb, his hair as silver-white as the mane of Nimue.
‘Rise, my children,’ Artor ordered. ‘And come closer so I can see you.’ He turned to Myrddion. ‘What do you think, Myrddion? Was she worth the lives of ten men?’
Nimue raised her eyes and her dark, feathered brows frowned a little at Artor’s tone. Her northern eyes sparked with the beginnings of temper. She stood up straight, a slim and beautiful Valkyrie in her commoner’s gown, but the biggest fool in Cadbury would know instinctively that she was far from ordinary.
Gruffydd felt a shiver run through his belly.
‘I’m sorry if I seem flippant, child, but I speak my mind,’ Artor stated, fully aware that Nimue was affronted.
Nimue was not cowed, but it was to Myrddion she turned.
‘Please, my lord, what is flippant? If I know, I may answer my king properly.’
Myrddion was immediately captured by the direct honesty of her eyes. He shook himself mentally, and carefully explained the meaning of the word.
‘I thank you, my lord.’ Nimue nodded in understanding. ‘I will not forget.’
She turned back to Artor.
‘Sire, your question was not flippant, for taking the lives of men is a serious matter. And yes, I am worth ten innocent men. The logic is inescapable. You ordered their deaths in order to punish my enemy, and you are the king. Your orders are always just, so my worth is as you decided. As to whether you have received any benefit worthy of the lives of those men, I do not know, for Gallwyn didn’t tell me.’
Artor looked at Myrddion, who was staring at Nimue with both speculation and something else that Artor couldn’t quite recognize.
‘The girl appears to have an exceptional grasp of logical reasoning,’ Myrddion said conversationally to Artor. ‘Especially when you consider the manner of her raising.’
‘Lord?’ Nimue interrupted, her brows now drawn together in anger. ‘I beg your pardon, but I won’t hear a bad word said about my dear Gallwyn. And you’ve wronged her. She taught me my letters and numbers, and she taught me not to lie or to steal. She was good, so my raising, as you call it, was good too.’
Artor was obviously amused. He bowed to Nimue, who blushed right down to her slender throat. Many girls lose their beauty for a moment when they colour up but, on Nimue, the rosy flesh enhanced and embellished her fine skin.
‘I apologize if I have hurt your feelings, Nimue, but I am a simple, rough soldier and I have missed the company of women for many, many years. In fact, your character reminds me of my foster-mother, Livinia, although she was far more tactful than you are, my child.’
Gruffydd observed that Nimue’s agile brain was filing away a number of questions, especially the nature of tact.
‘Oh, gods!’ Artor suddenly remembered. ‘Do you still wear your tattoo?’
Nimue gave Artor a lopsided smile and, with a hint of patronage in her sweetly curved mouth, she slowly nodded her head. After all, she could hardly have removed a tattoo of such size without leaving considerable scarring.
She lifted the hem of her dress and showed the dragon, its wings stretching almost to her knees.
‘Well, you wear my mark, so it’s fitting that I find something at court for you to do. Would you wish to serve the queen when she arrives at Cadbury Tor?’ Artor assessed Nimue’s extraordinary beauty and immediately reconsidered his offer. He realized that no woman, especially a beauty such as Wenhaver, would welcome Nimue as a servant for she would be a constant challenge to the queen’s status in his court.
Myrddion cleared his throat. ‘My lord, if I might make a suggestion. For some years I have felt the need to train an apprentice to carry on my work when I am no longer capable of serving you. This young woman is sharp, as you said yourself, and she already has the rudiments of learning. She could be of great use to you after my time has come.’
‘That’ll be long in the future, my friend, for I am convinced you hold the secret to eternal life,’ Artor joked. ‘But the idea is good, regardless of your reasoning, so you may keep her if you wish. But Nimue must agree, for Cadbury will gossip, and she will bear the brunt of any curiosity or resentment. No one will dare to question our decisions, but she’ll be an easy target for the court’s interest. Besides which, Myrddion, not many young people would choose to putter around with your potions, your poisons and the bloody business of healing. Nimue might not agree . . . and as she has reminded me, she is worth ten good warriors.’
Nimue’s eyes gleamed dangerously but, wisely, she chose to be silent.
Both men looked at Nimue, who nodded her acceptance with an enigmatic expression.
‘Now, boy, what shall we do with you?’ Artor examined Perce closely by walking round the young man as if he was a horse being inspected for sale.
Perce stood quietly and deferentially under the king’s scrutiny, his honest face shining in happiness simply to have found himself in the presence of the High King.
‘I intend to become a great warrior, my lord,’ he stated. ‘One day, I will be the finest of all those warriors who serve you.’
‘You aim high, kitchen boy,’ Artor stated blandly. ‘Do you have any skills?’
‘No, my lord. But I will learn fast, and I’ll work hard. With your permission, I intend to ask Lord Targo to assist me in achieving my destiny, just as he did for you. I only ask for a chance to begin my training.’
Gruffydd winced. Perce was presuming a great deal, and the High King could tear down his dreams in an instant if he cared to take offence at the words of a mere kitchen boy. While Artor approved of measures that gave the old man an interest, he would resent any task that could affect Targo’s health.
As the boy waited for the king’s decision, a trumpet call sounded in the far distance and Artor moved over to a window and pushed open the wooden shutters.
‘Damn!’ he swore. ‘Leodegran is early.’
‘Lord, perhaps Perce might become Targo’s servant?’ Gruffydd broke in. ‘I have spoken to my old friend and he’s indicated to me that he likes to feel useful. At the same time, this boy would happily care for the needs of his master. You are aware that Targo weakens daily . . .’
Distractedly, Artor waved a hand in agreement, although his forehead was furrowed at the mention of Targo’s ailments. ‘That arrangement will suffice, at least for the present. For now, I must change and prepare to meet my guests, as Leodegran’s party is already at the first gate. Damn!’
Yet Artor understood the fears of an ambitious young man, so he smiled encouragingly at Perce and charmed the kitchen boy forever.
‘One more thing before you leave my presence,’ Artor added. ‘Your name reeks of the kitchens. You must change it if you wish to serve me as a warrior.’
Perce nodded seriously.
‘You will see to quarters for Nimue, Myrddion, for she’s now your apprentice. I place her under your personal protection. Gruffydd, Perce is your responsibility, so you will make sure that he chooses a more appropriate name.’ No trace of sarcasm tainted Artor’s words. ‘Make the necessary arrangements with Targo for his training if this young man believes he can become my finest warrior and a hero of the Britons.’
Nimue and Perce hurried away, but Gruffydd couldn’t resist pausing at a long arrow slit to look at the procession snaking its way up the circular road leading to the top of the tor.
At the head of the procession, Leodegran rode on a showy, dappled grey horse and wore a king’s ransom in gold and gems over robes
of awe-inspiring luxuriousness. Behind him, in the midst of brightly clad maids and ladies, Wenhaver was demure on a steed of purest white. The horse’s mane had never been cut and the glossy hair had been plaited so that now it fell in waves across the powerful, arched neck of the beast. Cleverly, Wenhaver had chosen to wear ivory while her maidens were clad in flower colours, ensuring that she stood out within their vividness like a pale, elegant lily in a field of wild blooms. Like a small golden-blonde doll in fine and costly raiment, Wenhaver sat easily upon her dainty mare.
A long baggage train accompanied the visitors, laden down with many wooden chests in which Leodegran and his daughter had packed enough clothing to dress all of Artor’s court. Armed warriors with drawn swords protected one wagon whose wheels bore evidence of a very heavy load. Inside the wagon, Artor’s dowry lay snugly within chests filled with straw.
The retinue was large, even by Leodegran’s standards. It finally halted in the forecourt of Artor’s hall, which was cheerfully decorated with colourful banners and filled with liveried servants and warriors who gleamed in gold, vivid shades of blue and garlands of flowers.
Gruffydd could see that Wenhaver was very pretty, slightly plump and somewhat disgruntled. As she was helped to dismount, Gruffydd watched her stand on the foot of the warrior who offered her assistance, and his heart sank. Although she apologized with a heart-stopping smile, Gruffydd wasn’t deceived. That’s all we need, he thought, a sulky little bitch who likes to hurt things when she’s in a bad mood.
Wenhaver swept away, lifting her heavy skirts from the dirt of the flagstones. She looked up and caught Gruffydd’s eyes for a moment, and he was shocked to see that her face was sullen with resentment and dislike. Clearly, Cadbury held no charms for its new mistress.
‘All the world must smile, for the High King is about to wed,’ Myrddion murmured as he set Nimue to practising her Latin with chalk on a smoothed piece of slate.
‘Isn’t it exciting, lord. I’ve never seen a really important wedding, so I shall consider it an essential part of my education. What shall I wear?’ Nimue grinned unselfconsciously, and Myrddion suddenly felt very old. ‘The day is so beautiful,’ Nimue went on. ‘I saw servants out early collecting baskets of flowers, and it seems a pity that such lovely things will just wither and die once they are cut. When I marry, all the flowers will be growing in pots.’