by M. K. Hume
‘Very well then, Master Myrddion, but how do I wear it? It has no clasp.’
‘Come here, my child. And lift up your hair.’
Obediently, Nimue lowered her head so that her hair fell over her face, baring her white neck. Myrddion simply dropped the chain over her head.
Nimue threw back her hair and they both untangled a few stray curls that had caught in the chain. As they did so, their fingers touched, and Myrddion pulled away as if he had been scorched by fire.
‘That looks lovely, Nimue. This necklace has been in my possession all of my life, but I have never known a woman whom I considered a suitable person to wear it. Your colouring is a perfect match for its beauty.’ Myrddion was babbling, and he knew it.
Now, at the feast, in her grey dress and with her extraordinary neck chain in plain view, more than a few powerful men gazed at her and wondered what the grey cloth hid beneath it. When Nimue threw back her head and laughed at a jest, she bared her white throat, and many wondered how it would feel to bite on that slim, white column of flesh.
One pair of eyes in particular lusted to watch her eyes widen in agony.
But Nimue was oblivious to any danger, and Myrddion was seated too far away to protect her from harm. Fortunately, Odin seemed to scent the reek of brutality in the room, and he felt the hairs stir on the back of his neck in prescience. As Artor’s laws demanded, no man came to the great hall armed, but Odin had to resist an urge to reach for a sword that wasn’t there. Unarmed or not, Odin vowed to protect the little wise woman until she was returned to her master.
In time, the wilder young men called for dancing and, from his high throne, Artor smiled down on them and gave permission. Nimue had never danced a step in her life, but a succession of young warriors were soon spinning her and gripping her fingers tightly while they executed rather untidy patterns in the palace hall and forecourt. Her hair flew like a flag of silver, her skirts swirled out around her delicate ankles, and the whole world, or all who cared to see, recognized the dragon motif on her ankle and calf.
Artor and Wenhaver had risen to watch the dancing. By that time, Wenhaver had drunk a little too much wine, and she spotted the electrum necklace first and seethed inwardly.
‘Myrddion’s apprentice is enjoying herself, ’ she cooed. ‘A little too much, perhaps, for good manners, so I will suggest to her that such boisterous behaviour is not quite the done thing.’
Artor looked at his wife. What was she about now?
‘She’s very young, wife, and has been raised far from the court. Allow her a night of pleasure, for tomorrow Myrddion will have her grinding herbs, collecting toads for their sweat or learning the Latin names for any number of remedies. My loyal chief councillor is a hard taskmaster.’
‘I can’t imagine any decently raised woman wanting to collect . . . sweat . . . off toads. How vile!’
Artor laughed as Nimue spun in a graceful circle so that her grey skirt turned into a bell and the torches caused hair and necklace to shimmer like water.
‘She is so natural, it would be almost impossible to chide the child.’ As soon as Artor spoke, he knew his words had been carelessly chosen, for Wenhaver’s eyes glittered with fury. The necklace that Nimue wore was superb in its simple elegance, its rareness and its beauty. As a young woman who worshipped adornment above all things, Wenhaver lusted after it, and her irritation rose proportionately.
And then she spied Nimue’s tattoo.
‘What is that thing on her leg, Artor?’ she asked in a slightly shrill voice.
‘Where?’ he replied blankly. He had quite forgotten Nimue’s tattoo Wenhaver rarely explained herself, and Artor was beginning to find her obtuse demands irritating. Like the grain of sand that causes a pearl to grow in an oyster shell, her selfishness and ego were rubbing away at Artor’s nerves, but refulgent gemstones weren’t likely to be the fruit of his annoyance.
‘That tattoo thing on the leg of Myrddion’s apprentice,’ Wenhaver snapped.
Artor disapproved of the queen’s tone, and was unimpressed by the suddenly ugly lines that pursed her mouth.
‘That is a mark of ownership, my dear, and it tells the world that she is under my protection,’ he replied with a cold, flat glance in his wife’s direction. ‘It is the Dragon of Britain.’
Let the silly bitch think what she wants, he thought flatly.
Artor knew better than to taunt his new wife but he was already sick of her behaviour. The boy, Artorex, would have acted with tact and consideration, but Artor remembered the meaty sound of Wenhaver’s open hand when she had struck her servant’s face. He pursed his lips and refused to provide a simple explanation that would deflect Wenhaver’s outrage.
Wenhaver leapt to a rather foolish conclusion.
‘Then she’s your woman! How dare you parade her before me?’
The babble of happy voices around them slowly stilled as the queen’s voice rose shrilly over the sound of the music. The musicians’ instruments trailed off into awkward silence, and the dancers came to a confused halt.
‘How dare you question your king, woman?’ Artor’s voice could freeze blood. ‘Your judgement and mind are indescribably poor if you choose to shout insults at your husband on his wedding day in the presence of his guests. You will soon begin to learn some manners.’
Had Wenhaver known that particular flat, grey stare, she too would have stepped backwards, as did every other person in the great hall. But Wenhaver was silly, spoilt and fast becoming vicious.
She rounded on her husband.
‘What do you mean when you say that she bears your mark? I am your wife, and I will not tolerate such a thing.’ Wenhaver stamped her small feet in frustration.
‘In that case, my dear, you may enjoy your wedding night alone.’ Artor simply walked out of the great hall and left her standing, impotent and humiliated. She was forced to acknowledge the hurried good wishes of all the departing guests, the greatest men and women in the land, who could not meet her stormy eyes. A wall of silence surrounded her as if she were invisible.
‘Oh, for pity’s sake!’ Myrddion groaned. ‘What’s she done now? You had best take Artor’s place,’ he said to Llanwith. ‘Perhaps you can speed the departing guests on their way, and say whatever you can to smooth matters over. We could explain to them that the queen is a little nervous about her wedding night. Yes! I know it’s crude, but they might believe the lie. Wenhaver is only just sixteen, she’s half Artor’s age.’ He turned to Luka.
‘Luka?’
‘Yes, I know. You want me to take the young lady to her rooms and soothe her hurt feelings,’ Luka said with resignation. ‘Why do I always get the dangerous tasks?’
‘Would you prefer convincing Artor to do his duty as a husband?’ Myrddion answered his friend seriously. ‘Perhaps he might listen to you.’
Luka paled a little. ‘No, no, my friend. You can depend on me to soothe and console the queen.’ He had a healthy respect for Artor’s rage.
Myrddion found his way to Artor’s new quarters. ‘That stupid little girl,’ he muttered to himself.
When Luka reached Wenhaver, Leodegran was already venting his anger at his daughter. His hair was a wild nimbus around his head and his finger was prodding her firmly on her slim, golden-clad shoulders.
‘A queen never acts like a spoiled child, and where will you be if Artor casts you off? He can do it quite easily, you know, as easily as that.’ Leodegran snapped his fingers. ‘You’re a silly young girl, Wenhaver. You’ve made yourself look foolish before the assembled notables of the realm. Who do you think you are dealing with? I’ll be extremely lucky if he’s not on my doorstep tomorrow with his army for what you have done and the insults you have thrown at him tonight.’
‘He won’t do anything!’ Wenhaver hissed. ‘I won’t let him!’
Leodegran laughed sardonically and then, in his fury, began to cough.
Luka insinuated himself between Leodegran, who was quite purple in the face, and his suddenly
contrite daughter.
‘My queen, you must allow me to conduct you to your chambers,’ he said smoothly. ‘Your father is upset, and we mustn’t say things we don’t really mean.’
‘No, I’m not going anywhere with you. Where is my husband?’
‘Artor could be forgiven for removing all trace of you from his fortress!’ Leodegran shouted. ‘You try to talk sense to her, Luka! No one else seems able to do it!’ Luka later swore the man was in real danger of bursting a blood vessel in his brain.
‘Come along, Your Majesty,’ Luka said brusquely. ‘It isn’t fitting that you and your father should be shouting at each other in public.’
King Leodegran appeared to realize the scene he was making in front of gape-mouthed servants and a few aristocratic stragglers. He bowed sketchily to Luka and his daughter, and flounced away.
‘How can he say such things to me?’ Wenhaver wailed, betraying her youth and her ignorance. ‘I am his daughter! And I am the queen!’
Luka smiled, and then took one of her hands and patted it before drawing it through his arm to escort her to her rooms. He had learned decades earlier to take charge of teary women by speaking to them soothingly as if they were small children or horses. He knew that both responded well to his ministrations. The debris of the banquet behind them, the guttering lamps, the spilled wine and the great Saxon dogs scavenging on the table were mute testament to a feast that had gone terribly wrong.
Wenhaver still seemed unable to understand the seriousness of her position.
‘Where is Artor? I want to speak to my husband,’ she demanded, although her eyes were swollen with tears.
‘Majesty, if I might be so bold, you are so irritatingly young. Have you any idea what just happened? Do you not understand that your marriage can be annulled? With all respects, my lady, the High King is not a man to be commanded, or embarrassed, by any living person, even a close friend. I could never humiliate Artor in public, and I have known him since he was twelve years of age.’
Wenhaver tried, and failed, to appear unconcerned.
‘He started our argument. I was perfectly correct to object to the presence of my husband’s whore at this feast.’ Wenhaver’s mouth twisted, and Luka thought irrelevantly how very unattractive she could appear when she was racked by jealousy.
‘Of whom do you speak, my queen?’ Luka asked instead.
Two spots of colour flared on Wenhaver’s ivory cheeks. She halted, for they had reached her apartments.
‘I refer to the apprentice of Merlinus,’ she said haughtily. ‘That bitch, Nimue!’
‘Is your brain completely at sea?’ Luka asked belligerently, trapping the queen between his two arms against the wall. ‘You have caused the most ill-bred scene in Cadbury’s history, and you have risked losing your pretty head and the life of your father - all because you think Artor has taken Nimue as a mistress?’
‘Yes . . .’ Wenhaver wavered, then fought back. ‘I know he has. He said that ugly tattoo on her leg made her his property.’
‘My lady, you may hate me forever for speaking these words, but you have been extremely foolish.’
Efficiently, and without sparing the queen the gory details of Nimue’s birth or of Artor’s revenge on the killer of Nimue’s mother, Luka told her the reason for the Dracos tattoo.
‘He should have told me what it was all about, then this argument would never have occurred,’ Wenhaver wailed like a sulking child.
‘No, madam! Artor shouldn’t have to tell you anything, for he is the king. He’s killed more men personally than currently serve in your father’s entire palace, and he’s the only protection we have from Saxon invasion. He is tired from twelve years of hard warfare, and he has had to be persuaded to marry a silly little girl who immediately antagonizes him.’
Luka knew that Wenhaver still didn’t understand the scope of her offences. Once more, he tried to use the truth to bring her to her senses.
‘Forget the songs of love that you imagine exist within a marriage. Forget, too, the pretty lies you have been told over the years. Artor is a mature man, and he will never sit at your feet like a dog and adore you for your beauty. Never! He doesn’t love you, and I doubt that he’ll ever love you. I’ve no idea what liberties your father permitted you, but Artor is not Leodegran, or your father would be High King in Artor’s place. Artor will not be told what to do by anyone, except, perhaps, by Targo or Myrddion.’
‘That smelly old man and that . . . that . . . ?’
‘Yes?’ Luka said dangerously.
‘I was going to call Myrddion a bastard,’ Wenhaver retorted proudly.
Luka rolled his eyes, and tried again.
‘Artor’s father, Uther Pendragon, was a natural leader who was inhumanly strong, cruel to the bone and ruthless. It was Myrddion who managed to keep Uther focused on ruling well for the benefit of the British peoples. And it was Myrddion who found the young Artor, groomed him to become High King after the death of Uther, and has guided him ever since. He has no equal in wisdom and cleverness. And right at this minute, this same man, the man you profess to despise and wish to call a bastard, is trying to convince Artor that you’re too foolish to be put to death. If he does not succeed, you may be executed before the night is over.’
Wenhaver was finally silenced. It was slowly dawning on her that her person was not sacrosanct.
‘What set you against Nimue this time? Don’t pretend, Wenhaver. I’ve watched you. You’re so jealous of her beauty that you foam at the mouth. So what did she do to upset you tonight?’
‘She . . . she didn’t.’ Wenhaver began to cry, but Luka was relentless.
‘So why? Let us see what silliness prompted this whole mess.’
‘I liked her necklace. Why should she own such a pretty thing?’ Wenhaver rubbed her tears away with her fist, and contrived to look about five years old. Even the hard-hearted Luka felt sorry for a girl too self-centred to understand the consequences of her jealousy.
‘You have risked the kingdom over a necklace?’ Luka repeated. ‘One that you couldn’t wear anyhow, because it wouldn’t suit your colouring?’
‘But it’s so pretty. Artor should have given it to me.’
‘Child, I have a notion that I would save everyone a great deal of time and trouble if I were to strangle you right now for the nonsense you continue to babble. The necklace is not Artor’s to give. It’s an ancient heirloom from Myrddion’s house, and he gave it to Nimue, not to Artor!’
‘But I wanted it,’ Wenhaver replied simply, like a woebegone child.
‘You cannot have it, my dear. Artor loves Myrddion and he cares for him far more than he will ever care for you. Myrddion is fond of Nimue, so he gave her the necklace, not you. You have treated him like a leper, so why should he give you anything? If Artor wants a woman, he takes her. His liaisons mean nothing, for Artor’s heart was won and lost long ago, and you aren’t clever enough to change the way things are in Artor’s world.’
He gripped her chin with his hand.
‘I am only going to say this once, Wenhaver. I suggest that you take the advice of an old man and stop riding roughshod over everybody on Cadbury Tor. The people of his kingdom love Artor, and if you anger him, they will soon come to hate you. But if you are clever, and manage to give Artor a legitimate son, then you could become the most powerful woman in the west. If you fail, you’ll become a distant and abandoned nobody. And you must leave Nimue alone, for Artor really did kill nine innocent men, and one guilty man, to find the warrior who murdered her mother.’
Luka stared into Wenhaver’s eyes to see if she had absorbed any of the advice he had thrust upon her. ‘Has anyone ever killed ten men for you?’
Luka was normally the most sensitive of men but on this occasion he said the one thing to Wenhaver that she could never forgive or forget: he questioned her worth. Luka really liked Nimue, and he loved Myrddion; his desire to puncture the bladder of Wenhaver’s self-importance made him careless.
Wenhaver’s mouth snapped closed, and her eyes cleared. A feeling she had never experienced coursed through her consciousness, a fear that she really wasn’t the most beautiful or the most valuable woman in the entire land. Like acid, the fear ate into her mind until it found a corner to hide and grow. Wenhaver was, in her own fashion, as brave as her husband, and as ruthless when she saw the need, but now her rock-solid faith in her own self-worth began to crack.
Wenhaver had never really hated anyone, or anything, for that matter. Why waste time on hate when no one else can attain the exalted pedestal on which you stand? But if Artor had the power to send her home to her father or have her killed with a negligent wave of his hand, then what was her real worth? Further, if a lowly apprentice could generate genuine admiration in the eyes of hard-bitten kings and courtiers, and if the High King had killed ten men for Nimue when she was still an infant, then Wenhaver could claim neither moral nor physical superiority over her.
‘I suggest you go to your bed,’ said Luka, ‘and pray that Artor joins you there. I would also pray that Myrddion ignores your insults to him, and to his apprentice, and that he convinces Artor to give you one last chance.’
Wenhaver followed Luka’s advice, but a single thought pulsed through her mind. What am I worth?
Begged, cajoled and, in the end, ordered by Myrddion to face the situation that had arisen, Artor found himself standing outside Wenhaver’s apartments. Odin, who knew everything and said nothing, smiled in his curiously barbaric fashion, while Artor leaned against the wooden wall and tried vainly to work up some enthusiasm for the seduction to come.
‘Well, do I knock on the door of my own room?’ Artor asked Odin testily. ‘You seem to be expert in most matters, my Odin. What would you suggest?’
‘She is a woman,’ Odin said economically. ‘And she is upsetting you, so why bother?’
‘Why, indeed?’ Artor whispered to himself, and kicked the door open forcefully.
He strode through into utter chaos.
Myrnia, the maidservant, was attempting to tidy the results of Wenhaver’s temper, while trying hard not to cry through her pain. She had been struck on the face, and the force had left cuts on her cheekbone.
