by M. K. Hume
Artor laughed without mirth. ‘That’s your weird Jutlander instinct speaking, I suppose.’ He sighed. ‘Death never stops and the goddess of war is only taking a moment’s rest. I suppose I shall die like Caesar did, killed by friends for the good of the realm.’
‘This island has a bad smell, my lord,’ Odin warned.
The High King paid attention, for Odin’s instincts, Jute or otherwise, were rarely wrong.
Artor hadn’t ridden to war for twenty years, but skirmishes occurred somewhere along his borders every year after the weather began to warm - when the ‘Saxon summers’ returned. It was inevitable when two civilizations rubbed against each other in such close proximity. Small sores were bound to form at points on the landscape where the two cultures were in direct conflict. Still, Artor pondered Odin’s promise of future battles. Out and out warfare was ugly and destructive, but then so was the toadying, deceitful game of words and jockeying that took place in politics.
At the small wooden dock, Lady Miryll waited with her servants, bearing trays of wine and sweetmeats. A house servant approached the king and his courtiers.
‘No one is permitted to carry arms on Salinae Minor, my lord,’ the slave said nervously.
Artor recognized the man’s status as a slave by the iron collar that was bolted round his throat, and the king was forced to smother a sharp exclamation of disgust. Artor had always detested slavery, partly for long-dead Frith’s sake, but mostly because it destroyed the soul of both master and servant. As if reading his master’s mind, Odin gently eased the servant out of Artor’s path.
‘The High King of the Britons and his guard always remain armed,’ Gareth replied gravely. ‘We are his bodyguard and we do not disarm for any person, friend or foe.’
‘And I do not relinquish the sword of the High King to any hand other than my sword bearer, Gruffydd, who remains at your village,’ Artor stated clearly so that the mistress could easily hear him. ‘I would consider any such demand an insult and a slur upon my honour.’
The servant scuttled back to the lady where he whispered Artor’s response.
Miryll’s face didn’t change, but remained as smooth and featureless as an egg. Then she smiled and Artor felt her glamour for the first time. His eyes became flat and wary.
He responded to Miryll’s deep obeisance with a courtly bow, and they exchanged words of welcome that were gracious, empty and elegant.
At Artor’s back, Odin’s expression was frozen.
As Miryll led the way to the villa through the terraced gardens, Artor drew pleasure from the Roman order that she had imposed on the British flora. Her gently swaying hips invited his attention, but the sense of geometry and peace that he found in the typical Roman garden brought him far greater satisfaction.
He said as much to Lady Miryll and she bowed her thanks.
As the villa came into view, Artor’s experienced eyes perceived subtle differences from Livinia Major’s style. The sculptures were sophisticated and depicted such violent, antique subjects as the rape of the Sabine women and imaginary scenes of Jupiter and his inamorata. Violent sexual activity was subtly celebrated, but overall there was a clutter of ostentation, too many fountains and too much colour in a display that wasn’t quite pleasing to the eye.
But Artor was inclined to be generous on this bright day, so he forgave Salinae Minor its slightly jarring imperfections and deter - mined to enjoy the good will and luxury that it offered.
The simple elegance of the villa’s atrium gave Artor great pleasure. The lady’s father must have enjoyed enormous wealth, for even the Villa Poppinidii with its vast resources had only a simple bronze fish to decorate its fountain. Miryll’s father had commissioned a large statue of an erotic half-fish, half-woman, with a tail and spiked fins along her spine. The figure was set amidst a profusion of fanciful shells that filled a large marble bowl.
‘Do you like our fountain, great lord?’ Miryll asked. ‘My father took pride in his Roman ancestry, so perhaps you’ll find our ways a little strange.’
Miryll was a practised flirt. Her full attention was aimed directly at the High King and her smile was as brilliant as the light reflecting from her enormous, doe-brown eyes. But Artor had been pursued by many of the most beautiful women in western Britain for decades, so he was more than equal to the arts of seduction. In fact, her shy glances and fluttering hands were a little too feminine and artless; Artor felt a need to count his fingers and toes to reassure himself they were still firmly attached to his body.
‘Not strange at all, Lady Miryll. I was raised by a Roman family and have always been thankful for the advantages I gained from my childhood. My home was a rural Roman estate outside Aquae Sulis. In fact, I have longed for a Roman bath for some time and I hoped you’d have your own hypocaust.’
A momentary shadow passed fleetingly over Lady Miryll’s features. She hadn’t expected Artor to be more Roman than herself.
Artor had been watchful all his life, and he noticed the widening of the pupils that revealed her discomfort.
‘Of course, Your Majesty. The baths are at your disposal. But surely your visit is for some more pressing reason than the luxuries of my villa?’ Then she coloured and covered her mouth with one hand, her eyes wide with embarrassment. ‘I beg your pardon, my lord. It’s not for a mere woman to question the intentions of the High King. You reign over the west, so you’re entitled to come and go as you please.’
Methinks you are trying to be clever with me, Lady Miryll, or whoever you are, Artor thought, while his lips framed the graceful, empty words that brushed away her feigned, or accidental, discourtesy. You’re not truly Roman, for all your protestations. I make your nervous, because you think I might see through that lovely façade you present to your guests.
The baths were not extensive, but the sides and bottom were lined with fine marble and were beautifully appointed. Artor thoroughly enjoyed the use of perfumed oils and a strigil, the calidarium, the frigidarium, a tepidarium and the pleasure of a very close shave by his servant, Odin. Artor trusted no one else to place a naked blade against his throat.
Dressed in a spare tunic that was neither regal nor ostentatious, Artor’s quality still shone through his careless appearance. Apart from Taliesin and Odin, the king was far taller than any other man in his retinue and he dwarfed the lady’s servants, while his measured tread and calm, imposing face impressed. Even his faded hair retained a memory of its tawny beauty and the curls hadn’t thinned with age. The twins and Galahad seemed mere children in his presence and, by comparison, Gawayne became a cheeky, middle-aged libertine.
Lady Miryll’s eyes widened slightly as she stared at him from her dining couch. Artor knew that particular pretence of guilelessness and sexual attraction only too well, just as he recognized the raw invitation that lay under it. Inwardly, the king chuckled. Gawayne must have been like warm, malleable clay in Miryll’s hands.
Unlike his companions, Artor reclined on the Roman divan as naturally as if he had done so every day of his life. Percivale prepared to act as cup bearer and taster and, if Miryll was insulted by the king’s lack of trust, her smooth face hid her feelings. The rest of the company of lords managed to drape themselves awkwardly over the dining couches of the triclinium.
Taliesin waited unobtrusively against one of the walls, cradling his great harp in its woollen cocoon.
The meal of exotic delicacies began. Balan and Gawayne ate freely but Balyn and Galahad eyed the small stuffed birds with horror and waved the dishes away. For different reasons, each man was iconoclastic in his tastes, and Galahad chose to embrace simple meals in the belief that he followed in the footsteps of his carpenter lord, Jesus.
Balyn’s mercurial nature gave him a vivid imagination, and he could see the process of plucking thrushes, stuffing them with wild mushrooms and then inserting them into the breasts of pigeons with more minced offal, herbs and water chestnuts inside a larger peacock. He was repulsed by the whole process, but excited by it as
well.
Had Artor been capable of seeing the rapid images that coursed through Balyn’s mind, he would have been concerned. The young man was frequently tortured by graphic mind-pictures, and he acted precipitously in response. Simplicity drew him because simplicity offered quiet and peace.
Percivale tasted each complex dish and drank the clean water that Artor chose, while Balan declared that the wine was exceptionally good and asked the lady where she had found it.
Miryll laughed graciously. The mellow beauty of her voice was both a promise and a caress, but Artor was pleased to see that Balan was unmoved.
‘Our island is small and we are remote, Lord Balan, but we aren’t barbarians. Personally, I have never enjoyed the heavy red wines that my father loved, so my servants purchase the sweet white wines of southern Gaul. I am glad you enjoy my choices.’
Artor ate sparingly, using a narrow blade. His fingers rarely touched his food and Galahad was surprised by the High King’s easy assumption of Roman manners throughout the meal. As he struggled with a joint of waterfowl that Artor had neatly spitted and divided for him, Galahad wondered if, perhaps, he had been too hasty in his snap judgement that Artor was just another version of his grandfather, King Lot.
As young men often do, Galahad had relegated all persons over forty to the scrapheap of old age. His grandfather was simply a fond, fat man who lived like most Celts, and was neither particularly clean nor learned. In truth, Galahad found it difficult to imagine that either King Lot or his queen had ever been powerful people. They were his grandparents, and so very old.
These same prejudices were transferred to Galahad’s view of his great-uncle. No doubt Artor had once been a mighty warrior and a clever king, but those years were long gone. In his youthful arrogance and Celtic scorn for all other races, Galahad had scarcely seen the real man below the grey curls. Because Artor permitted pagans to practise their faith, Galahad had further damned the High King as barbaric and amoral.
Now, he was forced to recognize that Artor was genuinely sophisticated and, what was more impressive, completely immune to the charms of Lady Miryll. As far as Galahad could see, Artor was neither pagan nor Christian, and expected a high moral code from all faiths. With a pang, Galahad began to face his own inadequacies. He was ignorant of other religions and civilizations, even the people of his lord, Jesus. So, carefully, he began to emulate Artor’s economical, graceful movements.
‘Who is the young servant in the corner, my lord?’ Lady Miryll asked, one white hand languidly indicating Taliesin and the other placed familiarly on Artor’s forearm. As she leaned towards him, Artor glimpsed her full, white breasts.
‘He’s no servant, Lady Miryll,’ Artor answered calmly, as Taliesin stepped forward into the light to be introduced to her. ‘This young man is the son of Myrddion Merlinus, who was the wisest seer in all of Britain. His mother is Nimue, the Lady of the Lake, who is a woman of extraordinary beauty and brilliance. As befits any child of Myrddion, Taliesin comes and goes as he pleases.’
‘I’ve heard of the great Myrddion.’ She smiled at Taliesin. ‘Was your father truly a shape-shifter, as men say he was?’
Taliesin frowned briefly and raised his head. His hair was neatly combed and was nearly as long as the unbound locks of his hostess. It was certainly thicker and darker than hers.
‘Lady, my father had no need to change his human form. However, he could foresee what might happen in the future. He read souls from the faces of their owners, he healed the sick and he helped to change the west. So why would he have any need for paltry tricks of magic?’
Taliesin’s expression was courteous and was designed to take the sting from his message, but his words exposed Miryll’s lack of genuine respect for her guests. Miryll blushed becomingly and lowered her long eyelashes, so the men in the room, with three notable exceptions, forgave her for everything.
Taliesin turned back to Artor, breaking the spell.
‘Would you have me sing for the lady’s pleasure, Lord Artor?’
Artor nodded, so Taliesin drew the harp out of its woollen nest with exaggerated ceremony. From the first stir of the strings, the diners were captivated.
The first song spoke of Nimue’s loom and the wonders she wrought on it. Without a trace of her earlier artifice, Miryll became lost in the music and Gawayne remembered her description of her ‘own window on the world’.
The harp seemed to mimic the thud of the shuttle and the hum of warp and weft as Taliesin coaxed the instrument to show the brilliance of his father’s vision as it emerged on the loom. Again and again, the harp thrummed and vibrated, until the rapt audience could almost see Nimue’s woollen hanging, pregnant with symbols and unknown images.
Then as this song finished, Taliesin made the harp weep and wail, like a woman who has lost her heart’s desire forever. He sang of his father’s blind, white eyes staring skyward on his high bier, of the storms that raged around the mountains when he perished and of Nimue’s demented wanderings and madness. So much love was poured into strings and vocal cords that the lady wept, in spite of her attempts at self-control. As he watched her out of the corner of his eye, Artor began to like her the better for her empathy.
Finally, Taliesin sang of the coming of the king in such picturesque language that Gawayne was forced to slap his thigh and laugh as he relived that mad ride of his youth when he had raced the young Artorex to Glastonbury. Once again, his futile attempts to reach the sword that had been buried in the stone of the tower were celebrated with laughter. In glorious pomp and ceremony, the song came to its conclusion, and all present felt the golden shadows of those long-gone times.
The silence, when it came, continued to vibrate with images of the past.
‘Your mother must have truly loved Myrddion Merlinus,’ Miryll said seriously, her rich voice still raw with emotion.
‘And she loves him still,’ Taliesin replied. ‘I believe that their love has transcended death.’
The lady leaned forward, her eyes unnaturally bright. ‘What do you mean?’
‘My mother swears that Myrddion comes to her at night, or when she calls him at times of need.’
‘But how can such a thing be? No one can thwart death.’
Taliesin smiled distantly. ‘I’m certain in my own mind that purity of heart and love transcends everything for those few who are hand-fasted forever. My parents overcame age, the expectations of the world and the power of mighty men to swear their wedding vows to each other. For them, death was simply one more obstacle to overcome through the strength of their love.’
‘I’ve never known such an intensity of love,’ the lady replied sadly. ‘And I suppose I never shall.’
The men around the table examined their hands, unsure how to act or what to say. They themselves did not fully understand Taliesin’s words.
‘I did, but once, and then fleetingly,’ Artor remembered slowly. ‘Once experienced, such a love is never forgotten.’
Miryll turned towards the High King, her eyes full of questions. Artor saw no artifice in them and wondered at how much her beauty grew when she was herself.
‘Has Lady Wenhaver always been your great love, my lord?’
Odin stirred angrily behind his king, and Artor felt the pressure of his huge knee in the small of his back.
‘Be careful,’ Odin seemed to be saying with that gentle pressure.
Artor was, as always, diplomatic.
‘No, mistress, Queen Wenhaver has never been my great love, for arranged marriages rarely induce that madness in the blood that is called passion,’ he replied softly, with regret in his voice. ‘However, I enjoyed a young man’s romance many years ago, and it was no less powerful or pure for all my relative youth. Young men often enjoy a brief, first love. As it happened, that beloved girl returned to the earth that formed her before she became a grown woman, but I never forgot her.’ He sighed. ‘Her memory still haunts my dreams, but I am grateful that I knew such an early passion, even though it was only
for the briefest time.’
‘Did you marry her, lord, and know the completeness of desire?’ Miryll asked. Several of Artor’s men looked shocked at the lady’s presumption and Gawayne was inclined to be insulted on his king’s behalf
Odin’s knee pressed harder into Artor’s back.
‘I was a landless man, and young men in my situation are rarely permitted to marry their beloved’, Artor replied, and few noticed the ambiguity in his answer.
The pressure from Odin’s knee relaxed.
Miryll sighed. ‘How sad to love so deeply but never know the felicity of marriage with that person.’
As her eyes dropped in contemplation, the dangerous moment almost passed. To break the mood of melancholy that was threatening to dampen the spirit of the dinner, and to divert any close examination of his words, Artor raised his wine cup.
‘Let us drink to love, whether we are old or young. Fortuna judges what we deserve by the measure of our hearts. I wish love to you all.’
The men, with the exceptions of Artor’s bodyguard and Taliesin, rose and lifted their cups to their lips.
Miryll also raised her silver goblet.
‘To love!’ they roared, and laughter soon replaced the mood of a feast that had been in danger of maudlin sentimentality. Wine flowed, and love soon became the chief topic of conversation for the men, while Miryll blushed, giggled and entranced the warriors with ease.
Shortly afterwards, she excused herself gracefully and left the men to their drinking.
Artor also left the dining chamber early, for there was much for his suspicious brain to mull over. The island’s mistress had provided much more than good food and drink to occupy his thoughts. He also knew that his bodyguards needed relief, so they could eat their own meals in the kitchens and take turns to rest from their duties.
Escaping from the revelry, Taliesin decided to stroll through the quiet gardens where the sound of Artor’s retinue, still drinking and gorging, could no longer be heard. The young Cymru poet looked up at the strange tower and was surprised to see an oil lamp sending out shafts of light through the open window slits. Periodically, the lamp was shuttered in the delivery of some kind of message. From his vantage point, Taliesin couldn’t see the mainland and any answer to the insistent light.
