by M. K. Hume
Artor was revered. When the High King had returned to Cadbury after the devastating carnage of Mori Saxonicus, men and women had knelt in the dust and abased themselves as he led his troops up the road leading to the tor. When he had tried to remonstrate with the citizens for their devotion, they had wept and thanked him for ensuring their safety. Later, he had spoken in the town forum and begged the people’s pardon for the loss of so many dead fathers, husbands and sons. Artor had expected quiet misery; instead, he was faced with a sad triumph, for the womenfolk held their loved ones fortunate to have died for their people in the greatest war of the age. Artor had never really understood the people’s homage, but Gruffydd recognized their devotion, having been the child of peasants before he had become a slave. He knew that Artor offered hope of a secure future during dangerous times. Even more importantly, he offered ordinary men and women a beloved leader who would never desert them.
After the battle of Mori Saxonicus, Artor was truly worshipped by the Celtic peasants. The united kings had smashed the western Saxons so totally that hardly a man in the north-west claimed Saxon blood. In the east, Saxon settlers were licking their wounds until they regained the strength to mount another Saxon summer but, for the present, peace had come to the land. It promised to be a time of plenty.
Myrddion Merlinus had ridden to Leodegran’s court with mixed emotions. Undeniably, a married and settled Artor with a compliant wife and intelligent sons was needed if the Britons were to continue to enjoy this period of peace and plenty that the High King had won for them.
On the other hand, Artor was beloved by many male friends who wouldn’t easily make way for a mere woman. Nor did Myrddion believe that any female could capture Artor’s padlocked heart. Jealousy and strife seemed the certain outcome of any marriage where love was involved. Only a marriage of convenience offered any chance of lasting felicity.
The town of Corinium did not appear particularly impressive. It had no wall, a mute tribute to Roman rule, and possessed many of the characteristics of a Latin city without the accompanying grandeur. However, once inside the walls of its great hall, Myrddion soon realized that a sybarite ruled the Dobunni people.
Wall hangings of imported fabrics covered the bare walls, adding an overlay of rich colour to the stern strength of roughly dressed stone. The wall paintings were almost obscene in their subject matter, and all the benches in the great hall were cushioned with fabric that was richly shot with threads of gold. On one bare wall, an old Roman fresco of pigmented gesso was prominently displayed. It depicted a golden-haired Apollo driving his gilded chariot across the sky to the admiring joy of his sister, Diana, dressed in silver garments and complete with her bow. The room was odd and mismatched, but it was amazingly opulent.
For three days, Myrddion had enjoyed the dubious pleasures of over-sauced food that gave him indigestion, and the doubtful company of an indolent buffoon. Still, Myrddion decided, Leodegran could be far worse. His wealth was legendary and, Midas-like, the Dobunni king turned everything he touched into gold. His indolence and shallow nature made him a compliant prospect as a father-in-law and Leodegran was unlikely to meddle in affairs of state.
Yet the opulence around him stifled Myrddion’s senses. Artor had given him carte blanche, an onerous and mildly frightening prospect but, compared with the weights of duty and loss of freedom that Myrddion had thrust upon Artor so many years ago, this small responsibility hardly mattered.
Did he set any store in Leodegran’s lavish promises? None at all! Did Myrddion care what type of queen Wenhaver would make? Probably, but Myrddion set little value on women as a sex. Perhaps Morgan had understood that this prejudice was the scholar’s greatest weakness.
A lengthy banquet stretched before Myrddion, and he would have made his apologies if he hadn’t been a creature of ingrained courtesy.
Resplendent in imported brick-red cloth edged with gold thread, Leodegran hurried to meet and welcome Artor’s most trusted adviser into his home. The entire Celtic nation knew that Myrddion Merlinus had only to whisper in the High King’s ear and Artor would listen. Leodegran’s swift words of fulsome praise and fawning respect repelled Myrddion.
Against his instincts, Myrddion had come to a decision that very afternoon, so now he must endure Leodegran’s feast and the Dobunni king’s flush of success and joy. Myrddion wished he was content with his decision, but the old scholar was a sufficient realist to understand that no one was good enough for Artor in his eyes. Leodegran was malleable and so his daughter was less important than the dowry and the strengthened alliances that she brought with her as bride price.
As Leodegran droned on an on about the great honour bestowed upon his house, Myrddion was already planning his explanation to Artor.
‘Look the girl over when the Dobunni come for their state visit to sign the nuptial arrangements. If she’s not to your taste, then reject her. You are the High King!’
Myrddion snorted, causing Leodegran to stop his fulsome praise in surprise. As manipulative as ever, Myrddion had provided his conscience with an excuse if his precipitate decisions went awry. Myrddion was, at bottom, an honest man.
May the gods help us, he thought to himself. Here is the very worst example of the Roman influence in Britain. Leodegran is Celt enough to be proud, and Roman enough to love hedonism and sophistication. But he can never be trusted, for self-aggrandizement is the only force that drives him. Hades only knows what his daughter is like.
Morgan had chosen to warn Wenhaver about Myrddion Merlinus before the seer rode away among her servants, bent on some mysterious errand known only to herself.
‘Myrddion is far too clever for you, Wenhaver. If in doubt, be silent and compliant, for if he speaks against you, Artor will never call you his wife.’
‘He’s quite old, isn’t he?’ Wenhaver replied. ‘Really old gentlemen always seem to like me. They call me poppet, and they beg for kisses from me.’
Morgan’s laugh had an ugly, grating sound. ‘Myrddion is old, but he’s not in his dotage, so don’t bother to try your tricks on him.’ She was undismayed by Wenhaver’s stupidity, for a foolish girl is far more easily led.
Wenhaver tossed her golden head and pouted, her bottom lip protruding unattractively.
Morgan frowned. ‘Don’t wear that pout when you are with Myrddion. It makes you look quite plain . . . almost unattractive.’
Clever, clever Morgan.
Wenhaver dressed with some care before she was ushered into the presence of Myrddion Merlinus. As befitted a maiden, she wore the softest pink, only a shade above white, but sufficient to highlight the blush on her cheeks, artificially applied with carmine, and the blue of her eyes was accentuated with just a touch of the hideously expensive lapis lazuli powder. Myrddion was wise to the use of female cosmetics, but he admitted to himself that Wenhaver gave all the surface appearance of being a quiet, obedient and sensitive young lady.
For her part, Wenhaver summed up Myrddion in a single glance. She would never be clever, but she was shrewd enough to recognize that the ageing man before her had once been more beautiful, in his own way, than she would ever be, and was quite immune to the allure of physical appearance. If she was to use him, she would be forced to find another ploy. Perhaps Artor can be induced to grow weary of him, she thought as she curtsied so low that her head almost touched the ground.
Myrddion’s graceful words of thanks, coupled with his lavish and eloquent praise of her dress and hair, were accepted as her due. She smiled innocently, and murmured artless words of appreciation. Myrddion also smiled, but unaccountably he felt the hair rise on his arms.
Leodegran had been uncharacteristically subdued during these introductory niceties. Myrddion had wasted little time in setting out the terms of Wenhaver’s marriage to the High King, and Leodegran was still absorbing the bride price he would have to pay. He wondered how he might find a route round the excessive demands that his daughter’s wedding would make on his purse.
‘Felicit
ations, my daughter,’ Leodegran finally said expansively. ‘King Artor has asked for your hand in marriage and I have agreed to his terms. Myrddion and I have settled on a date two months after we visit Cadbury Tor, so I suppose you will require new and lavish clothing for the ceremony. Fortunately, we shall have some time for fripperies in the interim.’
He took her by the chin and kissed her on her smooth forehead.
As became a gently-born female, Wenhaver said everything required of an innocent girl, proclaiming her lack of worth, and expressing her fears that she would disappoint a man of Artor’s superior tastes. Her expression was as guileless as she could manage, but the sharp-eyed Myrddion spied some glitter of self-satisfaction beneath her blue gaze.
Soberly, Myrddion rode away from Corinium two days later, having been treated to interminable feasting, hunting and other, more exotic amusements that gave him no pleasure at all. Wenhaver seemed vapid, beautiful and profoundly stupid, and the occasional slips she made when the conversation did not revolve around her person and her needs betrayed an atavistic selfishness. On one occasion, a serving maid stumbled into Myrddion’s path as he returned to his sleeping chamber. He had helped the young girl to her feet and, although she had quickly turned her head away, he had been appalled to see five deep scores on her face from cheekbone to throat that had been caused by wickedly sharp nails. He knew instinctively that Wenhaver’s pretty little talons, tipped with henna, were responsible. Evidently, she had a penchant for inflicting pain.
In Wenhaver’s favour was her youth, her great beauty and flashes of charm that Myrddion observed when the girl wasn’t trying to entrance him. She was so achingly youthful, so like another woman that Myrddion had loved before he had grown into a cynical man, that the scholar found himself believing that she could be shaped into a more noble purpose than vanity or pride. Artor was a conscientious and fair man. He could mould the girl into the queen that she was capable of being, if the High King exerted patience and kindness.
Myrddion hoped that Artor would see the child beneath her sophisticated, brittle façade.
I’m being cowardly, Myrddion thought sadly, but the problems of tempestuous females were beyond his understanding or his patience.
He would have regretted the bargain that had been struck but he told himself Artor was a match for any spoiled beauty. All that was required of the maiden was fertility and loyalty and, if she failed in any way, Artor had the power to remove her. Wenhaver would soon learn that Artor was not a man who danced attendance, even on the fairest woman in the land.
The Villa Poppinidii was abuzz with frantic activity as the aged Ector, his excited servants and a mildly distracted Julanna prepared for two weddings that were to occur within a scant two weeks.
In Aquae Sulis, summer had come at last and wild flowers filled the fields, competing with spear-point shoots of barley, rye and wheat. Fruit trees were beginning to blossom and the chocolate-brown earth had the fecund, ripe smell of new and exuberant life.
Artor and his usual retinue arrived without fanfare but, in the mysterious all-knowing ways of simple folk, the villagers awaited him where a smaller road forked towards Sorviodunum. Newly green branches, flower buds and hazel nuts, carefully collected where they fell because of their holiness, were thrown before the feet of the High King’s new destrier, Coal having been retired to the villa after the battle of Mori Saxonicus.
The adoring faces of the villagers embarrassed Artor as they gazed up at him with whole-hearted worship and awe.
‘Artor!’ they cried. ‘Welcome to the High King.’
The king pulled his black horse to a halt and dismounted. Many familiar faces from the villages were here to greet him and celebrate the coming festivities. Even pensioned-off farm workers from the Villa Poppinidii, men who had known him when he was a boy called Lump, offered their tributes. To all well-wishers, he gave individual welcomes, asking the names of those he did not know, and remembering incidents of credit from the lives of men and women from his youth.
The peasants kissed Artor’s hands, his feet, and the hem of his cloak, and he didn’t have the heart to rebuff their simple declarations of patriotism and affection. Many years earlier, Lucius of Glastonbury had warned Artor that a man is never a hero in his own town, but here Artor enjoyed the adoration of ordinary people who had known him in his early life.
As always, Ector embraced Artor at the time-scarred doors of the villa. Ector’s face lit up at the sight of his foster-son, but his pleasure faded a little when he realized that Caius was not among the retinue. Ector’s embrace was as fervent as ever, but Artor could feel the old man’s bones beneath his withered flesh. Artor’s heart mourned already for the loss that would inevitably come.
‘My dear boy, you are quite unchanged. Welcome! Welcome! My steward will see to the comfort of your friends and servants. Meanwhile, come to the scriptorium and share a good, red wine with an old man. You, too, Targo, my friend, for I see that you are near as infirm as I am, and I long to speak of the old days that only we three can remember.’
Talking all the way, Ector led the two visitors to his favourite place, the wood-lined scriptorium where Artor had read surreptitiously in the darkest parts of the night and impressed his master with his grasp of Latin.
Another young man, who bore an uncanny likeness to Gareth, brought wine, cups and tiny plates of dried fruit, stuffed delicacies and nuts into the warm old room and assisted both his master and Targo to sit on comfortable stools, well padded with woollen fleece for softness and warmth.
Once the young man had bowed low and closed the door, Artor raised one quizzical eyebrow at Master Ector.
‘That young man is Garan, Gareth’s youngest brother. He’s been training to become steward for a good two years, for you surely know that Gareth’s heart is set upon joining you at Cadbury Tor. Gods, I’d join you there myself, but time has imprisoned me in this lovely place, and my lady would miss me if I left for even a day.’
Artor was glad when Targo, who had been toasting his feet on the warm tiles, interruped the small moment of gloom with his usual cheerful bluntness.
‘I understand just how you feel, old friend. My days of easy travelling by horse are done. The mind is eager and young, but the flesh refuses to obey, so I’m thinking that I am looking on the Villa Poppinidii for the last time. Oh, to be young again!’
‘I try never to look backward,’ Ector replied with a smile. ‘All of my happiness is here, and I’m glad my two girls will be well settled before I join my lady.’
His face changed, and shadows crossed his faded blue eyes like dark clouds passing across the sun.
‘I see that Caius is not with you.’
‘He is my steward, and acts in my place at Cadbury,’ Artor explained. ‘But he will be here for Livinia’s day of triumph. He sends his love and congratulations on an excellent match.’
Ector smiled regretfully. ‘Caius said no such thing. The villa is merely a convenient country house in my son’s life, to be visited only when he is tired of his duties with you at Cadbury. No, don’t colour up, Artor, and don’t look so guilty. Caius has never cared for the villa since my sweet lady died. Every corridor reminds him of his sins, and the boy prefers to run away rather than face the truth in his secret heart. I’m an old man, and I have grown weary of making excuses for our only son. We cosseted him, Livina and I, and we blinded ourselves to the flaws in his character. I know what my son is, and I thank you for your long years of guardianship over him.’
‘Ector, there is no need—’
‘We may be honest now, Artor.’ Ector placed one gnarled and swollen-jointed finger over the king’s lips. ‘Unfortunately, I can leave you nothing of the villa, but I have these scrolls that I have always intended should be yours at the appropriate time. That day has come, so I will order them packed away to return with you to Cadbury. What Caius doesn’t see, he won’t miss, and I’ll sleep well knowing that Lady Livinia’s ancestors didn’t collect these scrolls in vain
. The land that you and poor Gallia were given is still your own, and the title is in the name of little Licia. You may be sure that Garan will care for it with as much devotion as Gareth has done in the past.’
‘What can I say, master? I will miss you when you go to your ancestors, for this villa is my only true home, and you have been a loving father to me, the only one I ever had.’
‘I wasn’t always the best of fathers to you, Artor, and I regret my lack of warmth when you were a boy. Yet I have learned to love you, and I hope you have forgiven me for my indifference.’
Artor flushed with embarrassment. ‘You ensured that I had a full belly, useful labour and play, a woman to love me, and an education. What more could a kinless foster-child expect? And I ran wild, as I recall, yet I was never badly beaten or mistreated.’
‘It’s very kind of you to make an old man feel better, very kind indeed,’ Ector muttered, and brushed away a couple of old man’s tears. ‘Your loveless childhood has often preyed on my mind.’
‘You have been my father for all my life, Ector, and I would have been proud if you had sired me.’
‘Shite, Artor, you’ll have me in tears in a moment,’ Targo broke in with his usual irreverence and gap-toothed grin. ‘What would your enemies think if they discovered you were as sentimental as the next man?’
Targo saw that Artor’s usually veiled eyes were clear and unguarded here in the villa’s scriptorium, as he drank in Ector’s essence in the full knowledge that he might never see the old man again.
‘You don’t need to mourn for me when I go to the shadows, for my lady Livinia is waiting impatiently for our reunion. When Caius eventually dies, Livinia Minor and her husband will own the Villa Poppinidii, for I have made my wishes clear to the magistrate, and to Drusus, his son. Our simple way of our life will continue, and I will die happy.’
