by M. K. Hume
To Gruffydd, Myrddion was an engima. His master was rarely angry, for he always kept his emotions in check. It was Gruffydd’s opinion that Myrddion loved only three people. These were his friends, Llanwith, Luka and, above all, Lord Artorex. As Gruffydd often told his plump wife, Ganeth, men such as Myrddion came rarely to this world, and they were not bound by the lusts and dreams of smaller men.
Husband and wife agreed that Myrddion was more to be pitied than feared.
Now, under Myrddion’s cold gaze, and in a daze over the rapid changes occurring in the west, Gruffydd told of Caius’s attack on Durobrivae and what he had found there.
Nor did he spare Caius in the telling.
‘It was a slaughter, my lord, for the defenders were mostly farmers and the townsfolk were so confident in its unimportance that it was barely defended. It was simply an agricultural centre, and it was hardly worth our attention. The killing of women and children will not endear us to the Saxons either, although I believe that most of those settlers in Durobrivae were actually Jutes. It was bad, my lord, very bad.’
Gruffydd paused and looked directly into Myrddion’s eyes.
‘I don’t care for the way Caius likes to inflict pain. He seems to enjoy it too much for my liking.’
‘He always did,’ Myrddion murmured under his breath. ‘But his cruelty sometimes serves our purposes. You’d do well, Gruffydd, to give Caius a wide berth, for he has a streak of viciousness under his charm and I’d be hard put to save you if you openly offended him.’
The baby awoke, wriggled her limbs and began to cry lustily.
Myrddion’s eyebrows rose, but he said nothing as Gruffydd drew the child forth in its fleece-lined wrappings.
‘Ah! That accounts for the smell.’
Gruffydd looked offended at Myrddion’s words, so the older man hurried to explain himself.
‘The untanned fleece of a sheep has a distinct aroma about it.’
Gruffydd explained his protection of the child, the presence of the cow and the reason for the tardiness of his arrival at the gathering.
Myrddion’s mouth grimaced at the description of the mutilated woman, and he agreed that Caius should find, and punish, the offender. He knew that such brutalities weren’t the way of the Celts and wouldn’t be tolerated by the Dux Bellorum.
‘I’ll speak to Artorex myself,’ Myrddion promised. ‘But what do you plan to do with the child? Your use to me as an agent would hardly be effective with a baby in your arms.’
‘Someone will surely take pity on the little mite,’ Gruffydd said. ‘She’s a fighter, I can assure you. Any other infant would have died immediately from shock. Whoever she is, she deserves the chance to live.’
‘Very well. If she means so much to you, you can take her to my cook. She’s a good woman who will find a wet nurse for the babe.’
‘Thank you, my lord.’
‘Don’t thank me. My instinct tells me the child is going to be a nuisance.’
Gruffydd was soon lost in the stone fortress of Venonae that crowned the hilltop and was surrounded by the familiar sod and thatch huts of the common folk. Uncontrolled additions to the buildings had taken place over recent years, most usually in wood, so corridors seemed to go nowhere in particular and the arrow slits in the original garrison let in insufficient light in the dead of winter.
Asking directions of hurrying servants only served to confuse Gruffydd more thoroughly, until he stopped to speak to a dark-cloaked woman in the doorway of what appeared to be a solarium.
‘What is your business in the bower of women?’ she demanded imperiously.
Stuttering, Gruffydd explained Myrddion’s orders and the woman dropped her cowl so he could see her chilly, lovely face.
‘My Lady Morgan, I beg your pardon for intruding,’ Gruffydd apologized, his voice quaking slightly with fear. Morgan was a noted witch-woman, so few could meet her blue-black eyes directly.
‘A child,’ she said softly.
Her hand dropped on to the silky head and the babe’s eyes opened to stare deeply into Morgan’s face.
‘And she is a Jute, unless I miss my guess. Does she have a name?’
‘None, my lady. All I could think to call her was Willow, but that seemed ghoulish, since her mother was murdered under one such tree.’
Morgan stared deeply into the child’s clear, blue eyes. The baby should have been too young to focus properly, but Gruffydd knew, in the deepest recesses of his superstitious mind, that she saw and understood Morgan for what she was.
‘Ah, how strong she is. She is born for a great destiny, this little soul, for she will steal away the mind of the kingdom. Long will they sing tales of the beautiful Nimue!’
Gruffydd wanted to cross himself, or grip his amulet in fear because, like all sensible Celts, he had one foot in the Christian church and one with the Druids. All he managed to do was to break out into a cold sweat.
‘Remember, Myrddion’s man, that Morgan has given her the name of Nimue, the Serpent Child,’ she told Gruffydd imperiously. She smiled mischievously at the terrified man. ‘And now I shall show you to your master’s kitchens.’
Gruffydd was certain his heart would stop with terror as he carried the baby in the wake of the black-clad witch. Princess she might be, but no man dared to lay a finger upon her marble-cold flesh and no man gazed upon her beauty with lust - only terror. Some women swore she was over forty, but her skin still retained the bloom and texture of youth that had been frozen by an unnatural frost many years before.
Now that he had seen her for himself, Gruffydd believed that even the most fanciful tales about Morgan were probably true.
At the doorway leading into the kitchens, Morgan turned to Gruffydd and stared deeply into his eyes.
‘As you love your master, I charge you to keep this baby safe. As you love Artorex, I charge you to give her affection. For this little snakeling could be dangerous if she feels unloved.’
‘I swear, my lady!’ Gruffydd replied earnestly.
He would have promised anything to avert the evil humour he saw in her eyes.
‘Hold to your word, Myrddion’s man, for I will be watching.’
And then she was gone.
Normally, Gruffydd loved kitchens. The large hearths with their black cauldrons of stew, haunches of meat on spits that sizzled fat into the fire, the smell of fresh bread and the bustle of women and boys as they busied themselves in the mysterious ways of food preparation always filled him with comfort.
His eyes searched through the bustle for the woman who controlled this well-organized confusion, a task quickly achieved when the person he sought tapped him hard on the chest with a wooden spoon.
‘What are you doing here, dolt?’
‘I am sorry to disturb your peace, Mother, but I bring orders from Master Myrddion.’
‘Oh, you do, do you?’ the plump, slab-faced peasant stated bluntly.
Gruffydd knew better than to answer.
‘Well, I’m busy. What does Master Myrddion want of me - besides his fine supper?’
Once again, Gruffydd drew the child out of his tunic and little Nimue kicked and cried as she was removed from the comfort of his beating heart.
The mistress cook, Gallwyn, stared at the child as if it had suddenly grown two heads.
‘A baby? Does Lord Myrddion wish it cooked on a bed of greens?’ The woman snickered, and her busy minions grinned at her joke.
‘The little thing was cut out of her mother’s dying body by one of our warriors and was tossed away like rubbish from your kitchens. I’ve brought a good milk cow to feed her, but my Lord Myrddion believes you have the power to find a wet nurse to care for her.’
Gallwyn examined the baby closely, while Nimue looked back at her with her strange clear eyes and gurgled contentedly. Gallwyn tutted when she noticed the yellow bruising around her tiny ankle and even Gruffydd could see that the child was already entwining herself around the heart of the plump cook.
‘Perce!�
� Gallwyn shouted, and a youth with a face flushed from the heat of the fire leapt to do his mistress’s bidding.
‘That fat cow, Eleanor, has birthed again,’ Gallwyn said. ‘Fetch her. She may be one of Lord Llanwith’s women but she’s a serving maid, for all that.’
Perce nipped out of the kitchen as if the Saxons were on his heels.
‘He wants to be a warrior,’ she explained portentously, her large breasts quivering under her robe and apron. ‘Fat chance, I say, but these be strange times. Does the babe have a name?’
‘I became lost finding your kitchens and the Lady Morgan showed me to your door. She told me that the child was to be called Nimue. She said that the babe was a little serpentling.’
Gallwyn crossed herself, while the kitchen maids stared at Nimue as if the babe was poisonous. Aware that he might have damned the baby out of hand, Gruffydd hurried to explain how he’d found her and described how the baby had stared down the basilisk eyes of Morgan herself.
‘Well, my darling. That makes a big difference to me.’ Gallwyn took her in her arms and held her up to the light. ‘Nimue has a pretty sound, and I’d prefer not to risk Morgan’s anger by choosing some other name.’ She turned back to Gruffydd. ‘You can leave her with me, young man. I’ll see her right.’
Gruffydd was profuse in his thanks, for a huge weight had been lifted from his shoulders. He had almost reached the door, and a quick escape, when he remembered the bronze hairpin.
‘Her mother was wearing this pin in her hair when I found her body, and her murderer missed looting it.’ Gruffydd smiled apologetically. ‘Every child should have some keepsake to remind them of their mother, but this hair pin was all I could find.’
The bronze was shaped into two winged serpents, coiled around each other in a curious pattern. The tines of the pin could well have been needle-sharp claws.
Gallwyn shuddered a little as the pin lay in her hand. Like many women of the north, a streak of knowing ran through her, and she sensed there was power in the bronze adornment.
‘I’ll protect it for her, and I swear it will be hers when she has enough hair to wear it. You’re a good man, Gruffydd, so you may come to my kitchens at any time and in any place my Lord Myrddion sees fit to send us. I’ll find you some sweet bread and a little roast venison.’ She winked impishly. ‘This is just between us, do you see?’
‘Aye, Mother. I thank you, for I have grown fond of the little creature.’
And then, with a fresh swagger in his step, Gruffydd strode forth to find a decent shirt and leggings. If he knew Lord Artorex, he would soon be summoned into the presence of the Warrior of the West, so a bath might be a sensible course of action.
Gruffydd grinned reflectively. ‘A spy, an infant and a cow. I must have looked a sight when I returned. Ah, well. Venonae will have more pressing rumours to chew over now that Uther Pendragon is dead.’ Even as he stripped off his filthy clothing and luxuriated in the old Roman baths, Nimue was closing her baby fists on Perce’s fingers. As Gallwyn watched indulgently from the shadows, the child spun her charming smile into a web of affection. Gallwyn was captured.
CHAPTER XVII
BLOOD PRICE
The next two days passed slowly, while Gruffydd cooled his heels at Venonae. Ten years of riding the frontiers in the sweet aloneness of the landscape, laced with the frisson of imminent danger, had made him unfit for the life of a courtier. Gruffydd was uncomfortable living with those warriors who harassed the Saxons, lest he should find himself seated next to one of Caius’s curs. He knew that all conversation would be devoted to weaponry, the sacking of villages and the usual complaints by the soldiery. He was more at home in the stables or the kitchens, places where Nimue lay on a bed of furs and kicked her tiny legs and cooed at him when he lifted her into his arms.
Gruffydd noticed, with pleasure, that the babe was already a firm favourite in the bustle and din below the quiet corridors of power. Kitchen maids always found time to pick her up while they basted meat or stirred stew, while even the gruff old Gallwyn referred to the babe as ‘pretty one’. The old cook had even insisted that the ancient priest of Venonae bless her with the Christian holy water.
‘Just to be safe, mind!’
The child had already put on weight, as her wet nurse fed her without complaint.
The only cloud on Gruffydd’s horizon occurred on the third day, when he found Nimue missing from her fur bed in the corner of the kitchens.
‘That Morgan has taken the babe to her chambers,’ Gallwyn complained when he asked after the babe. ‘She swept in like she always does - and said she’d return the child shortly.’
Gallwyn wasn’t happy, and nor, for that matter, was Gruffydd. Where Morgan meddled, trouble followed.
‘Lord Artorex is too kind to that witch,’ Gallwyn whispered, crossing herself as she spoke. ‘He’d lock her in her father’s fortress at Tintagel and throw away the key if he had any sense.’
A maidservant returned the child while Gruffydd was eating an impromptu meal on the long kitchen table. The child was fretful and whimpering when she was handed to Gallwyn and all the kitchen staff eyed the blushing servant girl with dislike.
‘Well, it wasn’t my doing!’ the girl whined, and beat a hasty retreat. ‘I’ll be back for her tomorrow.’
Gallwyn inspected the child and gave a hiss of superstitious dread when she saw the beginnings of a black tattoo around the child’s bruised ankle.
‘Did you ever,’ she exclaimed to the rafters of the kitchen. ‘It’s a good thing I took her to the priest when I did.’
A drawing of a serpent’s head was beautifully and clearly defined on the child’s delicate skin. On her fair, baby flesh, the pattern was an abomination.
‘That Morgan!’ the cook snapped. ‘She does as she pleases and counts no cost.’
‘Quiet, old mother! The walls have ears and Morgan is a fearsome enemy. Don’t you remember what happened to Uther?’
Gallwyn bit down on her lip. Every person in Venonae had heard tales of the illness of Uther Pendragon, High King of the Britons, and how he would have died raving and alone in Venta Belgarum if not for the expert ministrations of his stepdaughter.
‘When will Lord Artorex become High King, Gruffydd? Have you heard ought from Lord Myrddion’s table?’
‘Hush, woman! Are you mad? I may work for the great ones but there are a dozen men queuing to claim the seat of Uther’s power. I’ve no wish to die for another man’s ambition.’
Gallwyn looked around the kitchen with an eye that was skilled at finding the smallest fault. No servant dared to eavesdrop on her conversations but Gruffydd had a natural distrust of all persons other than Myrddion. And sometimes, in the darkest parts of the night, he even wondered about the motives of his secretive master.
‘I’ve heard rumours that Uther’s sword has vanished,’ Gruffydd said softly. ‘And until it’s found by a rightful claimant, there’ll be no High King to rule the west. As Dux Bellorum, our master is safe because he holds the mountains against the barbarians and harries their villages and garrisons. Artorex gives them no peace and no chance to set down deep roots, so even the most envious and vicious kinglet knows that his safety relies on the iron fist of Artorex. But Artorex himself must soon make up his mind what he is to do.’
‘But nothing is forever, Gruffydd. Sooner or later, a king will rise and try to wrest power using Uther’s sword.’
‘If they can find it,’ Gruffydd replied.
Gallwyn’s voice dropped to a whisper. ‘I heard in the markets that King Lot of the Otadini looks higher than his mountain retreat. He is married to Lady Morgause, Uther’s stepdaughter, when all is said and done.’
‘Lot is a fat fool!’ Gruffydd snapped. ‘Someone will cut his bulbous nose off for him if he dares to poke it into the south.’
‘Morgan has stated that she will support Artorex’s claim,’ Gallwyn responded. ‘She professes to hate him, so why does she keep herself so close, if not to aid King Lot an
d her sister, Morgause?’
Gruffydd was bored with rumours of plots, weary of Venonae and cynical of the conundrums of power. In this city where the Dux Bellorum’s eyes forever wandered to the four points of the compass, even cooks became enmeshed in the plots of the great ones.
When he finally spoke, it was an honest warning.
‘You should concentrate on your ovens and your cauldrons, Gallwyn. If you want the advice of a simple man who must hear secrets beyond his liking, then you should mind what you say and what you ask. There are few true friends in Venonae, and even fewer honest men. You may ignore me if you wish, but I’ve a liking for you, gibble-gabble that you are, and I’ve no heart to watch you roasted in your own ovens.’
Gallwyn covered her mouth with her hands and her eyes fairly leapt from her head. But, for all his good advice, she continued to listen to gossip in the marketplace and, when Gruffydd asked for information, she repeated the rumours, even though she occasionally imagined that the flames were already licking at her skin.
On the third day, after the noon meal, Gruffydd was summoned to Lord Myrddion’s library. He barely had time to plait his wild, carrot-red hair before the messenger was hurrying him to the appointed meeting place.
Out of habit, Gruffydd slipped through the door on soundless feet. The library was lined with stone and lacked even a single window, so that jars of oil must burn both day and night and the air within the confines of the room was sultry and stuffy with smoke. Without a hearth, it was cold, and Gruffydd could not imagine why a man of Lord Myrddion’s distinction and sophistication would spend so much time in a chilly, dimly lit dungeon of a room.
Of course, Myrddion knew that no one could hear what words were spoken within these four impenetrable walls.
On recognizing the dignity of the three men who were seated at a heavy table, Gruffydd dropped to one knee and bowed his head low. He had met the three travellers on regular occasions, so he knew of the prestige that each held in his own right. King Llanwith of the Ordovice had shrunk a little with middle age but power still radiated from his bearded face and hawk-like eyes. The smaller, neater King Luka of the Brigante retained the volatility of his youth, but now his rashness and turbulence of nature had been tempered by the cares and discipline of kingship. Both kings seemed ill at ease. Only Lord Myrddion appeared calm and good-humoured as he lounged in his hard-backed chair.
