by M. K. Hume
He was content to pass into the shadows, for he believed with his whole heart that his loved ones were awaiting him beyond the veil. He often spoke of how he would embrace Gallia and Frith in your name when he joined them. He took joy at the thought of death and rejoining his beloved Livinia, so we shouldn’t grieve for him.
I have sent word to my husband who has decided to be present when Ector goes to meet the gods. Ector has chosen inhumation, and wishes to lie in Gallia’s garden with the sarcophagus mounted under a granite bench so that visitors can sit in the sunshine and contemplate the beauty of the world in which his remains will lie. He believes that he will hear and feel them and their joy. I have found a stonemason who is already working on Ector’s memorial. I have decided that a simple line of Latin should be carved on one side, away from the weather:
ECTOR WAS A TRUE FATHER, HUSBAND, SON AND WARRIOR HE WAS A MAN
Have I been too sentimental? Will his spirit go into the shadows joyously under such an epitaph? I will be guided by your advice, for you knew him better than any other man.
I had hoped to send you his felicitations on your wedding day, for Ector was glad that you had decided to end your long period of mourning. Ector understood that love of the living takes precedence over any respect owed to the dead.
I wish you happy and will always remember the debts I owe to you. My friend Gallia would have been so very, very proud of you.
The Villa Poppinidii goes on, as it always will, so do not fear for us.
From Julanna, matriarch of Villa Poppinidii.
Scribed by Sisiphus, servant of Branicus,
Magistrate of Aquae Sulis.
Artor had wept a little, and then gave the news to Targo. On his last night unwed, the High King and his old arms master had recalled Ector’s many words and deeds over a fine flagon of red wine, so that the High King awoke the following morning with a pounding headache and an empty feeling somewhere below his ribs. He dressed with care, eyes downcast, and with a temper fraying with regrets and memories.
The day was inauspicious and he dreaded its end.
Targo insisted on attending the marriage ceremony, so Perce dressed the old man in his best finery, and then transformed himself into a fitting accessory to accompany a person of such distinction. He assisted his master to the church, then purloined pillows to ease Targo’s aching joints on the hard wooden stools that had been commandeered from the priests. Perce ensured that they arrived early, so that Targo could point out every person of importance to his servant before the ceremony began, when the young man must take his place with the other servants along the outer walls of the chapel.
All the lesser kings from throughout the land had come to Artor’s wedding bearing gifts of competitive ostentation and uselessness. Artor was amazed at the variety of objects presented by his peers and viewed the silver platters, golden buttons, ornamental sheaths, eating knives, jewelled gloves, precious nard and even a pair of golden-soled sandals with amusement.
Among the guests, Targo noted that Llanwith was almost wholly bald and was accompanied by his son and grandson who looked so much like the old king that Targo had no difficulty in pointing them out to Perce. Fortunately for Artor’s peace of mind, Comac and his new wife, Licia, had chosen to stay at home, for Licia remained in mourning for her grandfather. Artor listened to Llanwith’s descriptions of their match with obvious pleasure.
King Luka had arrived alone. He was now quite bandy-legged from a lifetime in the saddle, but Perce gazed at him with open-mouthed respect when Targo described his role in the weapons training received by Artor. The three travellers were fast assuming the gloss of legend.
‘Oh, the years have flown by, my boy. So fast. You must remember all that I tell you of the past, or else it may be lost forever.’
‘I will remember, master,’ Perce vowed, and as he did not write, he decided that he would ask Nimue to keep Targo’s memoirs for him.
‘Ah, now there is King Lot. He is known as Lot the Fat. And the woman with him is Queen Morgause, who is Artor’s half-sister. She’s a stupid, vicious woman who hated Artor for many years. But she made her peace with her brother after Artor avenged the death of her son, Gaheris, who was murdered by Glamdring Ironfist a little time past.’
He smiled in remembrance of the death of the Saxon thane.
‘And the crone in black is Morgan, sister of Morgause. She’s a witch, and is sometimes called Le Fey. She is clever and vicious, and she has hated Artor forever for what his father did to her family.’
Perce looked blankly at Targo.
‘You’ll discover the discord that lies between Artor and Morgan at a later time, my boy. For now, you must simply be careful to avoid the woman. She’ll use you to hurt my Artor if she recognizes an opportunity to do so.’
Targo smiled as he recognized other guests, and they bowed to him in turn.
‘The fine-looking man is Gawayne, eldest son of King Lot and Queen Morgause, so he is King Artor’s nephew and a genuine prince. Technically, I suppose, he is Artor’s heir. He is also the best swordsman in Britain. I forget just who is who among his brothers, they all have similar-sounding names. Morgause is a silly creature, but she chose to remind the world of Gorlois, her dead father, when she named her sons. She is, at best, an obsessive and stupid cow.’
‘She can’t be that stupid if she manages to rub everyone’s nose in her birthright every time her sons are named,’ Perce whispered.
‘Good lad,’ Targo responded. ‘Most people don’t realize what she’s doing.’
‘And there’s Nimue,’ Perce added happily; the two friends were too busy with their respective masters to see each other often.
Myrddion entered the church and sat discreetly behind the kings. His black clothing, his silver hair and his scarcely lined skin, now pale from years in his library, made him an arresting and distinguished figure.
But Nimue, his apprentice, eclipsed all other women in the church. She wore her extraordinary hair loose as befitted her status as a maiden. She wore grey, in keeping with her position, but no colour could have suited her ethereal beauty half so well. Her skirts swept the ground and her arms, ears and white throat were bare of ornament.
She spotted Perce in the press of celebrants, and gave the boy a smile of such extraordinary brilliance that it set her face alight. More than one pair of male eyes followed her to her seat behind Myrddion, and more than one young man found that his jaw had dropped unattractively open.
‘How Queen Wenhaver will hate her.’ Targo grinned in amusement. ‘Myrddion is the nimblest mind in the kingdom, so he’ll keep her safe.’
‘What do you mean, master? I don’t understand. Why would anyone hate Nimue?’
Perce was so obviously innocent of lust that Targo found himself determined to have a long talk about sexual matters with the boy.
‘Nimue is exquisite. She’s also blind to how good she looks to any man with functioning balls. That artlessness just makes her more alluring and, for the ruthless men among us, she will always be a walking invitation to rape.’
Perce snorted.
‘What does that rude noise mean?’ Targo snapped at the young man.
‘She’d kill anyone who attempted to force themselves on her. I saw her once bury that hairpin of hers so deep in an archer’s thigh he couldn’t walk for a week.’
Now it was Targo’s turn to laugh. ‘She wasn’t aiming at his thigh, was she?’
‘He moved at the last moment. Otherwise he’d be—’
‘Castrato,’ Targo finished for him.
Perce nodded.
Targo glanced down the path as more guests arrived. ‘Here comes the Bishop of Venta Belgarum. I can see that he’s managed to grow quite plump.’ Targo smiled as he recalled the fine fare and excellent wines that were the accepted lot of the priesthood. Such suffering they were forced to endure in the service of their god!
‘Right, off with you, lad. I’ll see you after this sodding alliance is cast in stone.’
Perce was often confused by Targo’s mode of speech as, indeed, were most of the courtiers of the king’s favour. The old man could utter such vulgar crudities that Perce was glad that no ladies were within earshot. Yet when he chose, which was rarely, Targo spoke like a lord. His intelligent mind had collected elegant words and phrases over a lifetime. Now, when he cursed and swore, Targo seemed to be trying to recapture the young self who had joined the Roman legions. Perce understood Targo’s dilemma because he came from the same poverty, and had learned the same language at his mother’s knee. The difference between them was that Targo had spent his youth killing, and Perce had not. The younger man was very religious, which Targo was not. In short, Perce had the opportunity to learn all that Targo knew, without having to spend a lifetime hiring his services out to the highest bidder.
Perce pushed and shoved his way through the throng of servants to an advantageous position where he could observe the entire proceedings.
Shortly afterwards, King Leodegran entered the church with his daughter, who was dressed in gold and deep red with her golden hair unbound and curling. Every finger bore a ring, and so many bangles and bracelets adorned her wrists that the gold chimed oddly as she moved. Her face looked extraordinarily smug, an expression that detracted from its natural beauty.
The bride and her father walked slowly down the aisle. Caius, in his role as Steward of the High King’s Household, called on the great men of the west to stand in the presence of the High King and the Bishop of Venta Belgarum. King Leodegran and Wenhaver took up their positions before the altar, and Artor entered the church from behind the altar. He wore white, unleavened by any colour at all, in mourning for Gallia and the felicity of a marriage that he had known so briefly. He was heavily adorned with gold, in his crown, his torc, his armbands, and a shirt of ringed mail dipped in the precious metal so that the sun turned him into a nimbus of light. Behind him, Gruffydd bore the huge sword, Caliburn, by the hilt.
Artor’s eyes skimmed over Caius with some disdain, for they had argued briefly that morning when his foster-brother had postponed his journey to Aquae Sulis until after the wedding feast.
‘Your absence will force Ector’s ceremony to wait for your arrival,’ the High King had muttered. ‘I wish I could marry by proxy, and attend his last rites out of respect for our father. This feast is not important to me.’
Caius bowed in feigned agreement, but his eyes were distant.
‘Brother, my father would expect me to ensure that your wedding was perfect in every way. When all my tasks are done, then I will be gone. By all reports, Julanna is managing well with the help of Livinia and Branicus.’
And you resent it, don’t you? Artor thought acidly.
But now wasn’t the time for argument and, perhaps, Julanna would welcome more time without her husband.
Artor could feel the huge, comforting presence of Odin, who stood behind him and Caius, in his size an exclamation mark of power.
It won’t be too long before Perce will stand alongside Odin, Targo thought to himself. I can surely last that long before I go to meet the gods.
He glanced over at the rigid back of Morgan where she stood almost directly in front of him. Under the blackness of her robe, every muscle was stiff and angry.
‘That poor woman will never forgive Artor,’ Targo murmured aloud, ignoring the odd disconcerted stares of the other guests near him. ‘I doubt she will ever find peace till the day she dies.’
The wedding itself took very little time, and was conducted in the businesslike tone of a treaty, as in reality it was. The Mass that followed was longer, although many of the guests did not embrace the Christian god and so did not take part in the ceremony. Targo was surprised to see that Perce unobtrusively made his way to the end of the queue and accepted the host from the bishop’s own hands.
Then, anti-climactically, the ceremony was over. Perce supported Targo as the old man slowly shuffled away, for Targo wished to attend the feast and needed to rest beforehand. As they left the church, Targo caught at Myrddion’s arm in passing.
‘My lord,’ Targo said, with his usual disreputable grin, ‘I have a hankering to meet your apprentice. You have kept her so busy, she has had no time to visit even Perce. My lad and Nimue have been friends their whole lives. May she attend on me before the feast?’
‘You old lecher,’ Myrddion grinned, in a manner wholly unlike himself. ‘As it happens, I would prefer her out of Wenhaver’s view for a time, so your invitation solves an urgent problem for me. I must wait on our High King and his bride, and the queen has taken an unreasoning dislike to my little Nimue.’
Your little Nimue? Targo thought, astounded. But he had not reached his advanced years by rushing headlong into unconsidered speech.
‘My thanks, Lord Myrddion,’ he said simply.
Myrddion separated Nimue from an admiring gaggle of young warriors and pointed Perce and Targo out to the young girl.
‘Targo is the King’s oldest friend. He is Perce’s mentor, and he wants to meet you. You can flirt with these young warriors at any time.’
‘Thank you for rescuing me, Master Myrddion, for I find them excessively stupid.’
‘They frequently are, my dear,’ Myrddion stated drily. ‘Be quick, or you will miss them.’
As Nimue glided away with her skirts whispering over the stone of the church forecourt, a woman slid beside Myrddion, and lowered her veil.
‘The dragonlet is very fair, is she not, Lord Myrddion?’
‘Morgan! Why must you creep around like the monster in a children’s story? Yes, Nimue is very fair, and she has many of the qualities of a young dragon.’ Myrddion watched as the girl’s slim grey figure disappeared into the wooden palace in the wake of Targo and Perce. Then he turned to face his old enemy. ‘Time has not been kind to you, my lady. I always warned you that revenge and hatred would eat away at your soul.’
Despite the sting in his words, Morgan’s eyes were regretful. She acknowledged the truth of his words by nodding briefly towards him.
Morgan’s face had become a travesty of her once striking beauty. Her raven-black hair was now heavily streaked with white. Her skin was still soft, but in the harsh light of day, her features were creased in lines that narrowed her nose, pinched her nostrils, and turned her red lips into an inverted crescent of disappointment. Her unhealthy pallor was accentuated by a new tattoo that outlined her lips in blue and barred her forehead.
‘There is a word for old enemies who know each other so well that they are almost friends,’ Morgan said softly. ‘I don’t recall the word, but I feel that way about you, Myrddion.’
As she spoke, Myrddion noticed that she had sharpened her teeth into points.
‘They are called fools,’ he answered curtly.
‘Then we are both fools, Lord Myrddion, for we are already part of the legend of Artor. I know that you will finally achieve your heart’s desire, for I see it in your face and in the darkness behind my eyes. What will I receive? I wonder. The goddess does not grant the seer the power to discern her own fate.’
Myrddion took Morgan’s yellowing claws in hands that were still strong from years of riding and unmeasured hours of writing.
‘I’ll let you into a secret, Morgan. It’s one I have never told any other person before you. I sometimes see beyond the veil, or I think I do. I have seen a vision that tells me that you will die in exile, and you will bless the moment when you draw your last breath.’
With a sudden feeling of guilt, he dropped Morgan’s hands.
‘I’m sorry, Morgan, for I had no right to tell you of my dream. I don’t even believe in such rubbish. If I have caused you pain, then I regret it, and I offer you my apologies.’
‘Remember what I said about old enemies?’ Morgan smiled, a grisly reminder of the beauty that lay in the bones below her haggard face. ‘None but you, Myrddion Merlinus, would dare to touch even the hem of my robe, least of all my body. Be wary that you do not become a fool like me, for I have co
me to believe that a kingdom is not everything. I have made myself into a creature that frightens children and adults both. And it’s certain that only habit continues to fuel my hatred. Gorlois died so very long ago, but ancient vices are sometimes all we have left, so I find myself warning you of your fate.’
Myrddion had never underestimated Morgan’s power, regardless of whether it was born of observation or intellect or magic.
‘Then tell me the worst,’ he said.
‘Two women will destroy Artor. And both are here in Cadbury,’ Morgan stated absently and without malice. ‘I cannot maintain my rage as I once did, for the kingship was a worse punishment on Artor than any petty cruelty I could have devised.’
‘You were always wise, Morgan.’ Myrddion felt unaccountably comfortable with the witch woman, and was oblivious to the stares and superstitious dread with which the departing guests viewed them both.
‘You must know that your Artor will be the greatest of men, so you have not given your youth away for nothing,’ she added. ‘When the stars fall, and all we know is forgotten, Artor will be remembered. We, too, will become creatures of myth, as insubstantial as ghosts, because we were a part of his life here on earth. Some men were born for burdens, and one of those men is Artor. Some men were born for tears, and Artor is also one of those men.’
Myrddion stared deeply into Morgan’s eyes, now almost green with foresight.
‘And what was I born for?’ he asked casually, although his heart tightened with tension.
‘That would be telling, old enemy, wouldn’t it?’ Morgan smiled, and slipped away to be swallowed by the departing throng.
Myrddion watched as she left, feeling relieved and a little disappointed. All men wish to know their future, especially if it is pleasant and filled with happiness. But Myrddion would have been the first to admit that no one wants to learn the day and manner of his death. In that regard, he was no different from any other man.
He made his way to Artor’s side. He bowed deeply to the High King and inclined his head to Queen Wenhaver. She tapped her feet with annoyance.
