by M. K. Hume
‘Please accept my felicitations on your wedding day, my liege. It is widely believed that you have married a woman of great beauty and prestige who will bring acclaim to your court.’
‘My thanks, Myrddion,’ Artor said shortly. ‘But do stop bowing and scraping, for you know it annoys me.’ He had been in Wenhaver’s company for ten minutes and could already feel his temper fraying.
‘You make Cadbury a place of beauty by your very presence, my queen,’ Myrddion continued, ignoring Artor entirely.
Wenhaver hovered between smug acceptance of the compliments and the feeling that she was being patronized.
‘You have an unusual apprentice,’ she sniped, her spite evident in the tone of her voice. ‘Whatever made you take on such a strange, barbarian creature, Lord Myrddion? Many people believe her to be a witch.’
‘I accepted her as my assistant because of her intellect and the logic of her thoughts, my queen. Few women have such incisive minds, and fewer still are gifted with the ability to overcome their personal feelings and see the truth in most situations. If others call her a witch, perhaps it’s because she manages to see into their secret hearts and thoughts. Besides, Lord Artor’s family has witches of real potency, unlike Nimue.’
Myrddion was a polished statesman and his courtesy was faultless, but Wenhaver recognized that she had been slighted, especially when she saw Artor’s amused smile. And there and then, she determined to do Nimue whatever harm she could to avenge this insult to her honour.
‘You are far too clever for me, Lord Myrddion,’ she simpered.
His eyes darkened with contempt.
‘Please excuse this old man, I need to rest before the pleasures of your wedding feast. May I extend my wishes that the gods bring harmony and fruitfulness to your marriage?’
‘You may,’ she replied. And to show her displeasure, she contrived to bow to Artor’s friend a little lower than custom required and with exaggerated flourishes that were insulting, and a parody of courtesy.
As Myrddion walked away, he considered how foolish he had been to ignore his initial reservations; he should not have offered her father a marriage contract that committed the High King to this unmanageable woman. She’ll see us all in the thrall of the Saxons for the sake of her stupid, pointless vanity, he thought, as his booted heels echoed on the flagstones. ‘And the mistake was mine. I was too eager to find the west an heir.’
Meanwhile, Nimue was enjoying herself hugely in Targo’s luxurious room. She drank ale with the old man, a shocking thing for a well-brought-up girl to do but, as Nimue told Targo artlessly, she had been raised in the kitchens where ale was safer than water.
Nimue nodded. ‘Gallwyn always told me that unless you can see for yourself that the water springs cleanly from the ground, it can be poison to drink it. Ale is always safer than water.’
‘Your Gallwyn was a woman of great good sense,’ Targo responded. ‘I’ve seen a whole army shitting out their guts because they drank unclean water.’ The old man eyed Nimue curiously to see if his language had offended her.
She merely laughed.
‘So, show me this tattoo of yours. I saw it when Odin put it on your leg when you were a babe, but you were barely two weeks old at the time.’
Nimue bared her fine-boned ankle and raised her skirt.
‘See here.’ Targo traced a part of the dragon’s head and body that was almost serpentine in nature. ‘That’s the work of Morgan, the witch. She called you her little serpent. She ordered Gallwyn to deliver you to her quarters. She wanted to use you as a weapon against her brother.’
‘The High King?’ Nimue was agog. Gallwyn had never told her of Morgan and the witch’s attempt to place a tattoo of her own design on her leg. ‘This Morgan must be very wicked. I think I must meet the woman.’
‘Don’t antagonize that hellcat.’ Targo was alarmed. ‘She’s a dangerous woman, Nimue.’
Nimue merely smiled. ‘But so am I, Targo. And it seems we have unfinished business, she and I. She will find that I am no one’s tool.’
The martial light of battle that had suddenly appeared in Nimue’s eyes made Targo nervous.
‘At any road’, he went on, ‘when Artor learned from Gruffydd of the abomination on your ankle, he arranged for Odin to change Morgan’s tattoo from a serpent into the design you now know.’
Nimue smiled and traced the dragon’s head, its wings, and the claws that mounted up the length of her calf.
‘The tattoo must have taken a very long time.’
‘It was all done in a single night, my child.’ The old man smiled apologetically. ‘Ah, but it hurt you, and Odin was fair weeping by the end of it, even though Myrddion gave you a drop of the juice of poppies to dull the pain. Poor Odin had to do the entire job quickly, you see, or Morgan would have changed the design once again.’
Perce brought Targo a cup of fragrant herbs, and assisted the old man to drink.
‘Well, I like my dragon. No one else has such a mark on them, and while you may say it is Artor’s dragon, that is not true. It is my dragon.’ Nimue softened her defiant words with a brilliant smile.
‘Ah, but you’re a grand lass, Nimue.’ Targo grinned at her through the stumps of his teeth. ‘My Artor would’ve done far better to be shackled to a girl like you rather than that whey-faced Wenhaver.’
‘You’re upsetting yourself, master,’ Perce said anxiously.
‘No, I’m not upsetting myself. I’m speaking the simple truth,’ a grumpy Targo replied.
Nimue reached over and patted his age-spotted hand. ‘The question is moot.’ She smiled at Perce. ‘There, I finally got to say that word. Do you hear, Perce, how intelligent I am beginning to sound?’ She turned back to the old man. ‘I wouldn’t marry Artor even if he wanted me.’
‘And why not?’ Targo was rather insulted.
‘I think he already loves someone else. I want to be the only one for my man when I choose to marry,’ Nimue replied simply.
Targo grinned at her. She was a quick one, and sensitive, that was certain. But could she survive the kind of court that Wenhaver would create? Did she have the strength and the guile to walk in a nest of vipers without being stung?
Targo told her his thoughts, and she laughed even more gaily than before.
‘I walk with Lord Myrddion. Ten men died for me, and I survived my mother’s murder and the cold of the river. Let the vipers beware, for I will crush their heads under my heel.’
Targo looked deeply into Nimue’s eyes, and saw there a capacity for rage and ruthlessness that Wenhaver lacked entirely. He felt a little afraid of this exquisite child.
‘For the sake of all of us, child, I ask that you don’t harm Artor in the process. He saved you, girl, so that you could grow up safely within Gallwyn’s love, and he punished the man who murdered your mother. The prophecy that Morgan le Fey placed on you said that you would steal away the mind of the kingdom. I would be disappointed if you were the one who ultimately destroyed what Artor has built.’
The thought of harm to his king was so unsettling that Targo began to tremble. Nimue knelt before him, and held both of his hands over her heart.
‘I’d never do that, Targo. I will never deliberately harm my king for I owe him my life. And I pay my debts. Look into my eyes, and see the truth of what I say.’
Targo was convinced. He could see nothing there that could disturb his dreams or trouble his thoughts.
‘Is Myrddion kind to you?’ he asked. He spoke a little gruffly to hide his embarrassment.
‘Kind? No, nor would I desire him to be merely kind. He trains my brain to see the world as it really is, to read Latin and to apply logic. He makes me practise for hours, just as you make Perce repeat sword positions for hours, and I love it. I wish each day were longer so I could learn more from the best scholar in all of the west.’
Her fierce loyalty made Targo smile.
‘The best, Nimue? That is high praise indeed.’
‘It’s deserved.
No one has worked more selflessly to secure Artor’s kingdom. Nobody! He has dedicated his entire life to the task.’
‘And now he is burned out, just like me,’ Targo teased in a mock-serious voice.
‘He is not!’ Nimue retorted with a flash of anger, and Perce would have intervened had Targo not waved him away. ‘He is handsome and strong. Myrddion is still fit, and he rides a horse far better than many warriors. He is quick-witted and he makes me laugh, especially when I hear the games he plays with the stupid and the self-important. My master is not old, for all that he sometimes thinks he is.’
Targo heard a tone of regret in Nimue’s voice that caused him to wonder if, perhaps, Myrddion had met his match at last.
‘It’s time we all rested, child. Banquets are endless, and this old man can only face such an ordeal with sleep beforehand. Now, give me a kiss to remind me of what it was like when I was once a handsome young soldier.’
Nimue complied willingly. ‘I think you’re a naughty old man who has had more than your share of lasses in your day,’ she retorted evenly, in a fashion definitely unbecoming of a well-bred young lady.
‘Without doubt, my dear, the numbers are beyond count. But for now this old body must be content with dreams of you.’
‘How nice,’ she replied, and danced out of Targo’s room.
‘Myrddion Merlinus doesn’t stand a chance,’ murmured Targo.
‘Pardon, master?’ Perce asked.
‘I was just thinking out loud, boy. We old men are reduced to such silliness.’
Perce helped the old man into his bed. Targo closed his knowing eyes and fell into a light, old man’s doze.
CHAPTER XIV
THE WORM HOLE IN THE APPLE
Paradise may have existed once. Christian and Hebrew teachings speak glowingly of Eden and its perfection, but human beings can neither recognize nor appreciate such a golden state. If asked, a man such as Targo would have called Eden rather boring, and perhaps that failing is why all the good in the world is constantly undermined for the sake of any pursuit that is exciting and hints at forbidden fruit.
Artor had created a small slice of paradise on Cadbury Tor, fortunately freed of tedium by the existence of implacable enemies. If he missed the pleasures of Roman baths, Artor still found that the streams, with their clean waters, were perfectly acceptable substitutes, even when he was forced to break the ice during winter. The fields were fertile and well-tended, the tor was a miracle of defence, and both the burgeoning city below and the palace above were planned and organized so that disease rarely troubled its citizenry. Roman habits of cleanliness still coloured most aspects of Artor’s thinking, to the benefit of Cadbury’s population.
But the sweetest and most juicy apples can hold perils that are unseen. From within the sweet pulp, the worm twists and turns, and devours the good flesh, causing the whole fruit to blacken and rot. Like the worm in the apple, Artor’s troubles were soon to come from within.
The wedding banquet was a reflection of the deterioration that was to follow. From the morning of her bridal day, Wenhaver had invaded Artor’s quarters with her servant women, gowns, piles of discarded clothing, unguents and fripperies. Sensing ructions ahead, Artor had ordered that his clothing be removed to a smaller set of apartments where he had the luxury of quiet thought and some solitude.
Wenhaver was not amused by the new arrangements, but she had enjoyed her wedding. Hers were the finest jewels, including those given to her by Artor, and these she couldn’t resist wearing immediately. Her hair was the purest gold, and compared favourably with the red-haired daughters of the northern kings and the brunette colouring of their equals in the south; and her gown eclipsed all others in luxury and worth.
Or so she had thought until she saw Myrddion’s apprentice leave the church and glide across the courtyard.
How dare she be here on this day? Why should the bitch look so attractive in grey, for everyone knew it was the colour of grand dames and women of advanced age. Why did the young warriors cluster around her? And as for that hair! The little cow was a barbarian to the core.
Wenhaver continued to fume and to think. Artor’s passion for surrounding himself with thoroughly disreputable persons was about to end, if she had any say in the matter. Only aristocrats should surround the king and the queen, not foreigners and strumpets with no breeding worth mentioning. As for Myrddion, he had shown insultingly patronizing reverence to his queen. He did not bow deeply enough to her, and then he had had the temerity to lecture her about Nimue’s qualities, while no mention was made of her patience and forbearance.
Several servant girls felt the full force of her tongue before Wenhaver managed to regain her self-control, and only thoughts of the magnificence of her wedding finery could placate the sense of insult to her person. She had chosen cloth of gold for her wedding feast, knowing it would suit her blonde beauty, and she was busy putting on the last of her jewels when Artor knocked tentatively at her door.
‘Enter,’ she called coquettishly, which immediately warned Artor to be wary.
When he saw her magnificence, Artor found himself unable to say a word.
‘What does your silence mean, husband?’ Wenhaver asked dangerously. ‘Does my dress offend you?’
‘You look magnificent, but I was raised in the Roman way. ’ Artor tried desperately to extricate himself. ‘I didn’t mean to cause offence.’
‘The Roman way? How do I offend the Roman way, husband?’
Wenhaver smiled sweetly, but Artor wasn’t deceived. He’d learned over many years just how dangerous women could be when their appearance was called into question. Unwisely, he chose to explain.
‘My foster-mother, Livinia, would never wear all her jewels at once, for she believed that the quality of a few superb gems far outshone the grossness of many. But Livinia has been dead for many years and I’ve no idea what current fashions dictate.’
Every word Artor uttered merely made Wenhaver angrier.
‘If you will kindly wait outside, I will finish my toilette and will join you presently,’ the queen replied before closing the door firmly in Artor’s face.
Artor winced as he heard a piece of expensive Mediterranean furniture overturned. Then he heard a yelp from one of the servant girls, and found his fists tightening with anger.
‘How do you plan to get through your wedding night, you idiot?’ he mumbled softly, but was quick to plaster a smile on his face when Wenhaver opened the door and swept into the corridor.
He was pleased to note that she had shed half her jewels and looked the better for it.
‘Our guests await us, wife.’
‘Of course, husband. You have but to lead the way,’ Wenhaver replied with dangerous sweetness.
Not sodding likely! Artor thought with a soldier’s vulgarity. This bitch wants to put a ring through my nose and lead me around like a pet bull. I didn’t survive the dangers of Uther Pendragon to be her plaything.
At the banquet, Wenhaver found herself the object of Artor’s considerable charm. In the great hall, she sat at the head table like a true queen, while Artor fed her titbits on the point of his knife and filled her golden cup himself. Occasionally, he would whisper in her ear and she would blush and smile exultantly.
From a lower table, Myrddion winced, and Llanwith did not miss Myrddion’s expression of distaste. He glanced at the king and queen, and then back at Myrddion who was intently dismembering a chicken breast with his dagger.
‘You have me intrigued, Myrddion. What’s wrong?’
‘Look at Artor,’ Myrddion hissed in Llanwith’s ear. ‘Does that attentive lover resemble the man you know? She’s done something to upset him.’ He stabbed a piece of chicken with the point of his dagger and devoured it savagely.
Llanwith watched the loving couple, and his expression gradually changed to alarm. ‘When he’s angry, the boy has the same look as his father.’
Myrddion winced again. ‘Doesn’t he just! If Wenhaver were slightly less
vain and silly, I would warn her that it isn’t wise to trifle with a man such as Artor. But she’s convinced that she can manoeuvre the High King into doing things her way.’
‘There’s little chance of that.’
‘No, but the poor little cow will suffer for upsetting him. He has been thinking about Gallia and Licia all day, so he’s on edge.’
Llanwith blanched. ‘I wouldn’t even mention those names, Myrddion,’ he whispered. ‘We must be discreet.’
‘I’m worried, Llanwith. Seriously worried.’
In a far corner, where persons of lesser nobility were seated, Nimue was enjoying herself enormously. Targo, with Perce, Odin, Gruffydd, and several young warriors who looked suspiciously like the High King, were paying court to her. She was enjoying the whole game.
Nimue had not bothered to change her dress, mainly because she only owned three, and the other two were far from suitable. Besides, the queen would eclipse every woman in the banquet hall and who would bother to notice an apprentice?
When she had returned from her visit to Targo, Myrddion had tossed her a cloth-wrapped bundle. She caught it by reflex, noting that it was very heavy.
She unwrapped the rough cloth and a mesh of some silvery material was revealed. It was a necklace of forged links of silver that were secured at the front by a large disc of the same metal, inscribed with a fish. It lay in her hands like a chain of glittering scales. Nimue’s small, sweet mouth hung open in surprise.
‘What is this?’ she asked.
‘Are you lost for speech, my ever-garrulous Nimue? And, yes, I’ll explain the meaning of the word tomorrow. The necklace is very old, and I cannot tell you its history, but I am told it’s made of electrum and that it’s more ancient than the Celts themselves. It belonged to my mother.’
‘Master, you cannot allow me to wear these beautiful jewels.’ Nimue devoured the necklace with her eyes, but resolutely attempted to hand it back to her master.
‘Take it, Nimue. You need decoration if you are to attend this feast, and no apprentice of mine shall be considered dowdy. Consider that you do me honour by wearing it.’
