by M. K. Hume
‘Much like the garden you have planted in my window and on any flat surface in my rooms. How can I be taken seriously as a manipulative and wicked demon when my rooms are full of daisies, and geraniums, and . . . whatever!’
Myrddion sounded a little peevish, so Nimue kissed his hand with a mixture of nonchalance and coquetry.
‘My lord?’ she asked, under demurely lowered eyelids.
‘You think to tie me up in knots, suck out my brain through my nose and then leave me to perish in lonely old age,’ Myrddion joked.
Nimue was immediately contrite and her remarkable eyes impaled him with her obvious sincerity.
‘You could never be old, my lord,’ she said without hesitation. ‘You are the cleverest man in the kingdom, by far. And the handsomest,’ she whispered softly, as she contrived to keep her face bland.
Two months had passed since Leodegran and his only daughter had arrived at Cadbury to pay tribute to Artor and to finalize the arrangements for the wedding. During their visit, they had feasted, hunted and surveyed the house of the High King. Then, with the advent of high summer, they had departed so that Wenhaver could see to her bridal clothes and her preparations for the wedding, leaving Leodegran to ponder on the contracts he had made to purchase a kingdom for his daughter.
As the last of the Dobunni retinue left the Cadbury pastures, there was a collective sigh of relief from all who had attended them. Throughout the brief visit, Wenhaver had acted with impeccable and distant courtesy in public, allowing the crowds of Cadbury to be captivated by her beauty and apparent refinement. But the denizens of the tor knew better. Away from the adoring crowds, and out of the cold view of the High King, Wenhaver sulked, threw tantrums and turned her apartments into a stew of valuable broken glass, torn dresses and spilled cosmetics. Cadbury was cold; Cadbury lacked refinement; servants didn’t bow low enough and, most irksome, a woman of extraordinary beauty was already ensconced within the fortress.
Inevitably, Wenhaver hated Nimue at first sight. She was fond of saying to all and sundry that Nimue was obviously a witch’s child foisted on the High King for nefarious reasons she could not name, but the lowliest servant knew how she raged at Nimue’s beauty, even though they never mixed socially.
‘She’s unnatural, Father, and I don’t want her here,’ she complained to Leodegran before they left Cadbury.
Leodegran sighed. ‘Perhaps she’ll be gone when we return for the wedding,’ he replied hopefully.
As fond as he was of his only daughter, Leodegran found Wenhaver’s tantrums tiresome. And, on occasions, he considered that her more ridiculous demands were frightening because she exposed a grasping miserliness in her nature that even he, in all his indulgence, found repugnant.
‘Fortunately, she’ll soon be Artor’s problem and not mine,’ he muttered to himself.
‘You need hardly ever see the girl, Wenhaver,’ he soothed. ‘She is the apprentice of Myrddion Merlinus, so she is kept very busy and would never attend Artor’s court.’
‘But the man has Artor’s ear. The High King should be guided by his wife, not by some devil’s spawn who is too old to be useful.’
Wenhaver was enjoying a massive sulk.
‘Let me give you a word of advice, daughter. Don’t try to insinuate yourself between your husband and his friends for, believe me, you will lose the battle and you will appear to be a very foolish young girl. Please, refrain from attempting to tell him what to do. Artor is the most powerful man in the west, and you are but sixteen years old. The court will laugh at you, and you will become an object of ridicule.’ He paused. ‘But if you can present him with a son and heir, he will be far easier to manage.’
‘Ugh!’ Wenhaver shuddered. ‘Artor may be handsome and very strong, but he is so unbearably old!’
‘He’s not too old, my girl. Rumour has it that there are a large number of warriors in his personal bodyguard who have the same hair and features as all the Pendragon clan.’
Gruffydd held serious doubts as to Artor’s wisdom in accepting the sly little baggage as his wife. He could see that she was spoiled beyond bearing, rude all to all persons she deemed to be her inferior and dismissive of the splendour of Cadbury Tor. Where were the warm woollen curtains to cut out the draughts? Where were the golden cups and the fine linens? Why did Artor not trade for glass vessels from Gaul for a civilized table? And every maid in Cadbury was clumsy and useless. She would bring her own servants with her when she came back for the marriage.
So the underclass of Cadbury Tor, the servants of the fortress, dreaded her return and cursed the sight of her when the long procession made its way through Cadbury’s forecourt two short months later.
Her quarters were bright with flowers and perfumed with luxurious oils, but Wenhaver dismissed these efforts to make her feel welcome. She complained that the bed was too soft, and the narrow windows needed shutters to keep out any night chills. It was useless to explain that painted screens would shield the most fastidious lady from errant breezes. The servants bowed, agreed with her every outrageous whim - and hated her. But around Artor and the lords of the court, Wenhaver was the perfect woman. Even though she was barely sixteen, she had been raised to understand the caprices of powerful men. Artor was flattered, deferred to, blushed over and, in short, treated like the master of the universe.
All in all, it was a pity that the High King didn’t recognize a masterful piece of acting. In fact, he barely noticed Wenhaver at all. She simply did not impinge on his thoughts. Men of Artor’s age require more of a woman than pretty pouts and a plump pair of breasts. The demands of the body, the itch to possess soft flesh, could be scratched anywhere. But as Artor had learned the hard way, legitimacy was everything. Yes, she would do, as long as she bore him a son to continue the Pendragon line of succession. But if the girl looked for romance, she would find only disappointment.
Her first meeting with Artor had been a revelation. Leodegran had warned his daughter that the High King was not a man to dance attendance on the emotional needs of a woman and was not likely to be particularly flattering in his manner. On that first visit, when a warrior had helped her to dismount, she had been in a bad mood. The journey had been long, her back ached fiercely, her clothing was too tight and she told herself that standing on the warrior’s foot had been accidental. She was tired!
Her doting father, with exaggerated flourishes, had introduced Artor to his daughter and she had fallen into a deep, graceful curtsy. Then she waited to be assisted to her feet. And waited. And waited still longer. She looked up and saw King Artor’s face, stiff, disapproving and all too aware. He had seen what she had done.
But Wenhaver was unused to being called to account for her actions. Besides, as far as she was concerned, the marriage bargain had been struck and she was betrothed to the High King of the Britons. Such political agreements are not easily broken, and certainly not for the injured toe of a mere servant. With a flush of embarrassment on her cheekbones, Wenhaver rose and extended her hand to Artor to be kissed.
‘My lord,’ she murmured, as he took her fingers by their very tips and lowered his full lips to kiss one of her rings, taking care that he did not touch her flesh.
‘My lady,’ he replied with exaggerated courtesy.
And so the betrothed couple met and measured each other, and were not impressed.
At rare moments, Artor very nearly disliked Wenhaver. The crowning incident occurred when he took her to meet Targo, his one true link with his beginnings.
‘Must I go, my lord?’ Wenhaver had complained. ‘I’m not comfortable with old people.’
Artor was forced to remind himself that she was the same age as Gallia when they had first wed. Wenhaver saw his lips twist with distaste, and she realized that she had made a mistake.
‘Yes, you must,’ he insisted. ‘Targo was my teacher, my friend and my bodyguard. He is entitled to respect from you.’
Artor’s tone left Wenhaver very little choice in the matter, so she determ
ined to give the High King no further cause for complaint - at least until they were safely married. Then that nasty old man could be pensioned off to some far-off spot where she would not have to endure his presence. Wenhaver already had a growing list of changes that would be introduced once the wedding had been consummated.
The meeting in Targo’s apartments did not go well. Wenhaver was distant and cold, and wrinkled her nose at the mingled smells of old man, liniment and ale that permeated the rooms. Artor was not pleased, and Wenhaver’s subsequent attempts to curry favour with Targo fell very flat.
The old Roman read her character accurately from the moment she arrived. He was too old and too irascible to dissemble, so he teased her unmercifully with some particularly crude comments, even for Targo, who had heard every vulgarity in the civilized world.
Showing rare common sense, Wenhaver avoided Targo’s traps and merely smiled with honeyed sweetness. Targo showed no signs of leaving Wenhaver be, so Artor shook his head ruefully at his mentor and took her away.
Targo grinned evilly. ‘Artor will regret his ties to that little harridan, young Percivale. You mark my words.’
Percivale was the name that Perce had chosen for use at court. He had discussed the matter with Targo, and they had agreed to wait for a suitable occasion to obtain the High King’s approval for its use. But, in the meantime, Targo’s use of the name gave him much pleasure.
‘Did I ever tell you about the only person who came really close to killing me?’ Targo sighed pleasurably. ‘She was the sweetest, softest woman I ever saw. She had a very long knife and the advantage of surprise. Almost got me, but I managed to kill her first. I cried for weeks when she died.’
Perce stared at Targo with frank disbelief. ‘You’d never cry over a woman, lord, no matter how much you loved her. Lord Artor, perhaps, if he should perish. But a woman! I may have been a kitchen boy, Lord Targo, but I’m not a child to be tricked with pretty stories.’
‘Are you accusing me of being a hard-hearted liar, boy?’ Targo growled.
‘Well, not exactly, lord,’ Perce began, his face reddening right down to his collarbone. ‘You’re not hard-hearted, but I just can’t imagine that you’d weep for someone who failed to destroy you. You’re exaggerating, Lord Targo.’
‘Humppff!’ Targo replied. But under the gruffness, he was pleased that his pupil didn’t lie, even to mollify him.
Perce was so happy in his labours with Targo that he felt his heart would burst with joy. Targo no longer had much skill with the sword because his joints were twisting from the bone disease, but he’d forgotten more about combat than most men ever learned. One look at Perce’s open, freckled face, and the way the young man moved when he held weapons in his hands was enough to remind the old man of the young Artor, before the exercise of power took over his life.
Now that Targo’s hands were slowly turning into twisted clubs, Perce shaved the old man each morning. His infirmity also required Perce to assist his master to bathe, followed by a morning meal where Perce would seek out the choicest titbits from the kitchen to assist the old man’s digestion. After this task, Perce’s duties were completed, so Targo could begin to teach the rudiments of swordcraft to the younger man. Even without an armed sparring partner, the lessons went well, for Targo’s legs still moved, albeit stiffly, and his skill was such that Perce rarely found an opening and touched the old mercenary. Perce’s drive to excel was so strong that he practised tirelessly, except for when his duties to Targo called him. In a surprisingly short time, Targo could no longer evade Perce’s wooden sword. As Targo had done for Artor so many years before, Perce took to sleeping on a simple pallet across the door of the old man’s room.
On several occasions, the High King tripped over the lad during late-night visits to see his old friend.
‘What’s he like, Targo?’ Artor asked the old man one night, while an exhausted Perce lay sound asleep outside the entrance to the room.
‘I wish you had a thousand of him. There are some who are born masters, and some who become masters. Perce is of the latter breed. He’s a good man, clean through, and I’d know. He mops up after me like a mother. Damn these hands! Who’d have thought in twelve months my knuckles would swell and my fingers would twist until I can’t hold a sword?’ Targo’s brow furrowed, and a single tear ran unheeded out of one eye. A little more than a month before, he could ride, but something had given way inside his head and his strength was diminishing daily.
Artor saw the single tear, and repressed an overwhelming feeling of sorrow for his friend of so many years.
‘I have to be shaved and bathed like a babe. Damn, but you’d never believe how often we use these sodding things.’ Targo waved his ruined hands at his master. ‘I hate the weakness of old age, for all that Perce never makes me feel like a burden. He says that it’s a privilege to serve a man of the legions. Perce doesn’t lie, so I know he feels it’s worth his while to clean up my puke and shit without complaint. In a few months, my body has become more finicky than that of a child. I can’t eat what I used to, and good red meat fair curdles my innards. I’m an old man, and I’ve lived way past my time, so I should be grateful to be still breathing. But I feel it, my boy, no matter how hard I try to pretend that I’m still useful. May Mithras bless Perce, for he helps me feel like a man again.’
Artor wrapped his arms round the frail old shoulders and held Targo close.
What could he say in comfort, when all Targo described was the truth? Instead, he rocked the old man as he would a mother, a father or a lover.
Perce had woken and watched from his pallet, glad that neither man knew he was awake.
‘You’re still of use to me, Targo. When the nights are cold and Gallia is a distant memory, and when I know I can never acknowledge Licia’s future children, then I feel the gorge of Uther rise in me like some waiting venom. At these times, I come to you to find the old Artorex in your eyes, and these thoughts make me happy for a little while.’
Targo broke their embrace. ‘I wish I had been your father, boy. Though you’d be a damn side shorter than you are now.’
Both men laughed briefly.
‘I would like to ask for Odin’s assistance for two hours a day to train my boy in the use of weapons when he is exercising with Gareth. I can work on Perce’s brain, but Odin can give him the skill and the battle sense. I can assure you that Perce will become a warrior, and I ask you to accept him as such for me. Consider him my very last gift to you.’
Artor bowed his leonine head, and then gripped Targo’s malformed old paw in his warm hands.
‘You may have whatever you desire, Targo. You may have Odin, Perce or the whole kingdom if you will it. As long as you are prepared to stay with me.’
‘Nothing is forever, Artor, you know that. But of one thing I am certain. I believe that Perce should take my place when I am gone to the gods.’
‘If he is that good, I will certainly consider it. But no one can take your place, my friend. No one! Who’ll remind me that I’m mortal, once you have gone to the shades?’
‘Shite, boy, they’ll line up to prove you’re mortal!’
After honest laughter, both men sat silently and stared into the fire for a long time.
‘Am I doing right by marrying this Wenhaver?’ Artor asked eventually. ‘I don’t much like her.’
‘I suppose you have to marry someone, and this one will do well enough if you treat her as if she was spun gold and pander to her vanity. But I’d never trust her, boy. She’s as shallow as a puddle on the roadway.’
‘I hear you, Targo,’ Artor answered with a boyish grin.
‘And she’ll be as muddy as a puddle on the roadway if she takes it into her silly head to get stirred up,’ the old man continued.
‘And she’s likely to trip me up if I don’t watch where I am walking,’ Artor added.
‘You’ve got it, lad. Aye. But you were ever a quick study, just like my Perce.’ Targo glanced with affection to where his serva
nt was still feigning sleep.
‘I’ll become resentful of Perce if you keep going on about his virtues. You know what my father was like.’
Artor was only half joking, and Targo knew it.
‘Ah, but you’ll always be the closest to my heart. And you must be the one who’ll light my funeral pyre.’
‘Cease such talk,’ Artor admonished Targo gently. ‘Your time hasn’t arrived yet.’
‘But it’s close, Artor. I can feel it coming.’
On the late spring morning when the High King of the Britons was to wed, Artor tried to conjure up some of the joy he had felt twenty years earlier when Gallia had come to him, all in crimson, with field flowers in her hair. But he simply felt forsaken, like a man who has outlived his time.
The previous day, a letter had come from Aquae Sulis - expected, but hard to endure nonetheless.
The courier who had brought the fine scroll bowed so low that his back bent like a good longbow. Artor gave him a handful of coins in thanks, took a deep breath and broke the wax seal that kept the scroll tightly wound.
The Latin script was very pure and inscribed in a beautiful hand.
To Artor Rex, High King, and brother by marriage.
Ector, your father, has died. He slipped quietly away in his sleep, so I thank the gods that he suffered no pain. My lord was happy and at peace, having completed his promise to you and having watched the marriages of his beloved granddaughters.
Do not reproach yourself, my lord, that you only saw him occasionally. He took such pride in you, and in the trust that you placed in him, and he was constantly warmed by his memories.
