by M. K. Hume
The queen was sulking in her great bed, dressed in a froth of clothing that seemed excessively complex for sleeping in, but no doubt pleased female notions of what a seductress might wear on her wedding night. Artor summed up the situation at a glance, while Wenhaver tossed her golden head and smiled, suddenly reassured by his presence.
Artor decided it was time to put the little bitch off balance.
‘Odin? I want you,’ Artor ordered.
Wenhaver was startled when Odin bent to enter through the doorway. For one terrible moment, she expected to be strangled by the hulking brute.
‘You will assist this poor girl to clean this unseemly mess and then take her to have her face treated. Myrddion will make sure she is not permanently scarred.’
Without saying a further word, Artor raised Myrnia’s face and ran his fingers gently over the bruises and nail marks that could be clearly seen on one side of her face.
He winced a little.
‘Please, Your Majesty, I’m really quite well,’ Myrnia babbled, tears spilling out of her soft brown eyes because of his gentle sympathy. ‘There’s no need to disturb Lord Myrddion.’
‘Do as I say, Odin,’ the king instructed his servant. ‘Then ensure that this pretty lass goes to her rest early. She has experienced a difficult day.’
Wenhaver’s mouth fell open and her brows drew together thunderously but a glacial look from Artor kept her silent. Myrnia would keep. After all, where could the servant go?
Odin proceeded to fold fabrics and place them in the chest opened by Myrnia, who snuffled wetly and tried not to sob too loudly. The two servants worked together and the room was soon tidy.
‘Take Myrnia away and do all that is needful,’ Artor ordered crisply. ‘I believe I can manage one silly girl.’
‘I will care for the little one,’ Odin responded gently, his eyes smiling at the thought of what was to come.
‘I am sure you will,’ Artor stated urbanely.
When Odin and Myrnia had bowed their way out of the bedchamber, Wenhaver seated herself at the very end of the bed.
‘Undress, woman,’ Artor commanded without preamble. ‘Although I am very angry with you, Myrddion has explained that I was remiss when I didn’t explain what I require of a wife before the wedding took place. I shall remedy that situation at once.’
Wenhaver would have argued but Artor raised a single forefinger in front of his mouth to silence her, and she gulped and resisted the urge to defend herself.
‘My wife will be a generous, courteous hostess at all times, and she will never, ever, contradict me or argue with me in public. I am the true son of Uther Pendragon and I am the High King of the Britons. Whether you like it or not, you are a mere woman. Do I make myself clear?’
‘Yes. But—’
‘There will be no buts in my household.’ He smiled lasciviously. ‘And you are still in that ridiculous clothing.’
Wenhaver tried to be seductive as she edged the frothing frills off her shoulders, but Artor took no notice.
‘I considered sending you home to your father, but Myrddion has prevailed upon me to give you a second, and last, chance. He believes that you may, perhaps, be worth all the trouble you have caused. If you don’t prove yourself suitable to be my queen, the marriage will be annulled. You are not the only presentable princess in these lands.’
Artor removed his shirt and the woollen undergarment that protected his body. His flesh was sculpted, golden and heavily muscled. Wenhaver gaped at his extraordinary skin.
‘Now, comb my hair. Your task is to see to my pleasure, and not the reverse. Don’t expect fine words from me until you learn to school your manners and your temper.’
Afraid for the first time at the raw masculinity of her husband, Wenhaver scurried to find her bone inlaid comb and a brush of stiff boar hair. Artor seated himself and unbound his plaits, allowing Wenhaver to ease the tangles and snarls from her husband’s hair. The curls slid through her fingers pleasurably, and she could see the knotted muscles in his shoulders begin to loosen a little.
Wenhaver was used to the adoration of youths and young men, but Artor was the first truly mature man that she had encountered for, in Wenhaver’s lexicon, her doting father and uncles scarcely counted.
When his hair was tamed, Artor stripped off his soft breeches and his leather boots, and stood naked before her. Wenhaver gasped, for she had never seen a man unclothed, nor had she any benchmark upon which to assess Artor’s male beauty. She had heard that the king took women as he chose, and the maids taken had never complained of either his courtesy or his lovemaking.
But Wenhaver had no experience, and was unsure what was expected of her, or what to say, if anything.
‘Stand, woman!’
Wenhaver obeyed. She was quaking inwardly, although she tried to summon up a knowing smile. Artor was not deceived. He knew that Wenhaver was a child-woman who must be mastered. Then, perhaps, she would mature and give up her insufferable arrogance.
He reached out one firmly muscled hand, followed by the other, and Wenhaver made a slight movement of surprise when the sword callouses on his palms came into contact with her soft skin. Then, abruptly, he tore her sleeping confection from neck to waist.
The fragile fabric fell away from her shoulders and exposed her heavy, lush breasts.
She opened her mouth to speak, but Artor again raised his finger to his lips.
She shivered.
‘Take off that thing,’ Artor growled.
For all her feigned sophistication, Wenhaver had never seen a man aroused before, and she was afraid. Artor stroked her golden curls and let his fingers linger around her ears and her throat. With a quick twist, he pulled her round so that he could no longer see her face, and then pressed his body against her warm buttocks and smooth back. His hands cupped her breasts, and his fingers gently teased her nipples.
Surprised, Wenhaver felt her breasts harden, and she pushed them deeper into his hands. Smiling with amusement, Artor set about arousing and seducing his wife. She was not Gallia, but if he did not look at her, he could imagine she was. His lips teased the tender back of her neck and his hands explored the gentle swell of her buttocks. As she shivered, his flat grey eyes were alert and rather cruel, but Wenhaver could not see his expression.
As his hands and the sensitive pads of his fingers moved lower and lower, Wenhaver was suddenly aware that there were advantages to marriage that she could not have imagined.
‘Your body is mine, woman, to do with as I please. This possession you vowed was mine in front of the assembled nobles of the Britons this day, so do not flinch away from me. Besides, Wenhaver, you are beautiful and you’re a warm, sweet peach that I plan to devour.’
The tone of his voice remained unchanged, almost as if he was discussing a battle plan or a ride in the country; Wenhaver had no idea what to do, or if she should respond.
In the past, no one had ever dared to trespass on the privacy of Wenhaver’s body so she was surprised that Artor could do such magic in a manner so knowing and so distant. After a time of stroking and feather-light kisses, Wenhaver no longer cared if he ever used her name or professed his undying love for her. She had never thought she would find pleasure in the marriage bed so she was surprised when Artor eventually mounted her. Amazingly, she found that her body, after a short moment of pain, responded to his mastery with joy and abandon.
Artor smiled, his face indifferent to his body’s pleasure. But Wenhaver responded as eagerly as Gallia had, even more so, for she savoured her new sensations and demanded them again and again as Artor began to school her in the arts of love.
She was an avid, greedy pupil.
‘You’re an insatiable little bitch, aren’t you, my queen?’ he murmured as he pressed her deep into the down coverlet. ‘You may be a novice, but you’ll learn quickly.’
Her body was sleek with sweat, and she had wrapped both legs about his waist, moving instinctively in ways that gave him pleasure. For one brief,
betraying moment, it was Gallia’s face he saw under him and it was Gallia’s breasts and thighs he was teasing when he climaxed. He shouted his first wife’s name in his extremity and, even in the pleasure of bodily sensation, his heart felt bruised and yet alive, as it had not done for many years.
For a moment, Artor was grateful to his wife for forcing him to feel more than fleeting desire. In that brief period, the possibility of a long and happy marriage existed, but the young woman didn’t recognize the gratitude in his eyes; she was focused on her own feelings of self-worth.
She realized instinctively that, in matters of sex, she was a potential master. Exultation vied with pleasure in the synapses of her brain and, even as she panted with the satiation and exhaustion of successful sex and the languor that had turned her limbs into sweet honey, Wenhaver’s single-minded egotism returned with a vengeance.
‘Who is Gallia?’ she demanded, drawing deep breaths into her lungs.
Artor turned away from her in the soft bed. His mood had now shattered, and he couldn’t bear her to see his wounded, lonely face.
‘She was the first girl I ever loved. She was only eighteen when she died, and I was little older. You need not be jealous of a ghost, and if you become half the woman that Gallia was, I will be well pleased with you.’
Wenhaver must have heard some thickening in his voice. Regardless of her body’s enjoyment of the sexual act and her husband’s obvious skills, she still burned in that distant pocket where fear cowered, fuelled in part by her abject terror of what Artor could do to her.
‘Was she fairer than I am?’ she asked guilelessly, although she guessed that the agony of his memories was one of Artor’s greatest weaknesses.
Wenhaver may have been foolish but she was intuitive, especially when self-preservation was her spur. She determined to lie smugly in the warm darkness and twist the knife.
‘She wasn’t half so beautiful in face and form as you are, Wenhaver,’ Artor sighed. ‘But people loved her because she laughed so often. And she hated cruelty above all things. Even ants and wasps were safe from her, but she could fight like a tiger and kill in defence of those folk who needed assistance. If you can learn qualities that match hers, then you will truly become a queen.’
‘If she was such a paragon, why didn’t she become the High Queen of the Britons?’ Wenhaver asked sharply. Scorn came, unbidden, to her lips, and jealousy of what she knew were qualities she lacked.
‘She was Roman,’ Artor replied with finality. ‘Now, let me sleep, woman.’
‘Roman?’ Wenhaver crowed in delight, although she had the presence of mind to whisper her triumph into her pillow. ‘I should think the Celtic kings would never accept a Roman queen over them.’ She had to stifle a giggle, with her face half-buried in the pillow.
But Artor heard.
He rose, his anger like gall in his throat. All feelings of gratitude and forbearance fled. No one, and nothing that breathed, laughed at his memory of Gallia.
Wenhaver flinched as he began to speak.
‘Beware, wife! Enjoyment of the marriage bed is not a coupling of minds and hearts. You have far to go to prove to me that you are anything but a foolish, spoiled brat who is no better than a kitchen maid, and much less willing and experienced. My brother is Roman, my foster-mother was Roman, and the glass in that window that gives you so much pleasure is Roman. But unlike the Romans, you aren’t sufficiently clean for my tastes.’
Wenhaver gasped aloud.
Like all well-raised Celtic girls, she washed her body in bowls of warm water when needed, and her face and hands were laved every day. No one had ever dared to tell her that she was unclean.
Artor picked up his clothing carelessly, for if a king chose to be naked in his own home, then naked he would be.
‘If I call for you at night, you will bathe all over and wash your hair with cleansing oils. I will not share a bed with any Celt who makes fun of Roman ways when she is less than perfect. Do you understand me?’
Wenhaver felt an anger that was so deep and so visceral that her heart almost stopped with fury and chagrin. All thought deserted her, but for her need to strike back at him and hurt him as badly as he had wounded her.
‘We have consummated our marriage, husband, and I can no longer be cast off. If you don’t like me as I am, then perhaps we should not meet.’
Artor knelt, dropped his head and spread his arms wide.
‘I am sorry, sweet wife, for I would so miss your fair flesh.’
Then he raised his face and she saw that he was laughing at her with eyes as cold as the rock of Cadbury Tor. Her hurt and rage gave her no words to respond.
Artor rose to his feet, every movement an insult.
‘Lady, I will survive your absence.’
There is no worse feeling of impotence than being unable to strike back at the person who completely rejects you. Human beings may populate the forgiving earth until the end of the universe, but they will for ever remain the frail, malicious and violent creatures they have always been, although they might have developed some endearing qualities along the path to wisdom.
However, no virtues were visible in Wenhaver’s face when she rose early on the morning that followed the disastrous wedding banquet.
Myrnia took a single, frightened glance at the frozen face of her mistress and prayed that she would be elsewhere when the inevitable storm broke over some hapless head, probably hers.
‘Myrnia, I require a large tub, big enough for me to immerse my whole body. And it must be watertight, unless you wish to lose the skin off your back before you clean up the mess.’ Wenhaver flashed her maid a brief, cruel smile. ‘And I would like my personal bath by noon today. You will ensure that your choice is attractive, for I intend to wash daily.’
Myrnia blanched. She had no idea where to start on her quest. Nodding, and curtsying, she fled from the room, trying desperately not to sob with frustration and fear. As she bolted down the corridor, she heard her mistress screaming for her other maids.
‘What shall I do?’ Myrnia muttered, and wrung her work-roughened hands like an old woman. ‘What shall I do?’
Blinded by a sting of tears, she ran full tilt into Myrddion and Nimue who were arguing amicably with each other. She groaned, bowed low, and would have reeled away had Myrddion not gripped her forearm.
‘Slow down, girl! What causes your haste that you are a danger to all around you?’
Myrnia swallowed and darted quick, agonized looks at Myrddion and his servant. Then, to Nimue’s horror, the girl burst into a flood of hot tears.
‘My apologies, Lord Myrddion, but the queen has told me that I must obtain a bath for her. She wants one in her apartment by noon, and I don’t know where to look. You’ve been very good to me, and my face hardly hurts at all, but I cannot stay and explain to you . . . even if I knew what I was explaining. I don’t even know what a bath is!’
The last words of this explanation became a wail of distress.
‘She’ll have me whipped again if I fail, my lord,’ she cried piteously, the bruises on her cheek now a livid mixture of purple and green.
Myrddion and Nimue shared exasperated glances.
‘How fortunate for you that we crossed your path, pretty lady.’ Myrddion smiled. ‘I am sure that my apprentice will know exactly where to look.’
Nimue shot Myrddion a glare over the top of Myrnia’s bowed head. ‘Of course,’ Nimue soothed the flustered maid. ‘But why a bath? What is wrong with using the stream?’
‘I suppose a stream or a pond would be cold and lacking in privacy,’ Myrddion replied urbanely. ‘I am far more interested in why the queen has suddenly decided to develop a Roman attitude to cleanliness.’
Myrnia simply looked blank, as if Myrddion spoke gibberish.
‘Perhaps we could make one of wood,’ Nimue thought aloud. ‘No. That would leak, unless it was lined with pitch - and that would be unsuitable for bathing.’
She continued to muse over the problem.
‘A bathing container cannot be bought at any marketplace.’
‘Ah.’ Myrddion had seemed lost in thought. ‘I wonder.’
‘Wonder what, master?’
‘Come with me.’
The two women pattered along behind him, sharing puzzled glances.
The trio made their way out of the palace, across the paved forecourt and down the long, winding road that led to the town below. Myrddion presented a sunny grin to the warriors lazing against the walls, while Nimue thought seriously about boxing his smug and self-satisfied ears. Plainly, Myrnia was terrified, but Nimue was bursting with curiosity.
‘Where are we going master?’ she asked, a little puffed from the haste of their journey.
‘To see Glaucus, the sarcophagus maker.’
‘The what?’ Nimue stopped abruptly, as did Myrnia, who was nearly in tears with ignorance and fear.
‘A sarcophagus is just a fancy name for a stone coffin,’ Myrddion explained, as if he was delivering a lecture. ‘Some Romans prefer to lie above the earth inside a coffin after they pass into the shades, while others choose to have their remains buried underground. Still other Romans, and many Celts, prefer to be burned - or cremated.’
‘How could anyone wish to lie in the earth?’
‘Glaucus doesn’t have much business, so he also builds kitchen implements and furnishings. Like all good Roman men of business, he always has an eye to the main chance.’
Through the town they twisted and turned, past the marketplace where farmers had spread their produce on the grass. Apples, pears, nuts in wicker baskets, eggs wrapped in straw, live chickens, rabbits and ducks in willow-wand hutches, as well as every conceivable type of bread and cake filled the square with noise, smells and the excitement of commerce. One gnarled old man sold live pigeons, squabs and quails while an old woman had been out of bed long before dawn collecting mushrooms, lichen, fungus and a range of dried herbs that hung upside down from a wooden pole. Nimue’s curiosity was such that she would have paused, but Myrddion ushered the girls on like two chicks. The women’s skirts soon became fouled and bedraggled at the hems from the mud that lay along the walkways, although they managed to avoid manure from penned piglets, young calves and even a couple of foals.