King Arthur: Warrior of the West: Book Two

by M. K. Hume

  Myrddion’s sojourn in contentment couldn’t last.

  Artor was absent, called to Venonae by Pelles to reorganize its defences, so Cadbury was quieter than usual, and Wenhaver was listless and bored. Autumn had come knocking at the tor with heavy rain, grey days and damp walls that set the nerves of the courtiers on edge. Many of Wenhaver’s ladies nursed colds and the corridors echoed with sniffles, coughing and dismal conversations in corners. The queen spent most of her days in the tedium of sporadic bouts of sewing, spinning, weaving and gossip. Needless to say, her mood was irritable and dissatisfied.

  Perhaps Wenhaver never meant to cause such a disagreeable and vulgar display, but as Myrddion would later say, if wishes were horses then beggars would ride.

  Targo put his interpretation of her behaviour more bluntly.

  ‘You can’t turn a whore into a queen. She’ll always love the muck.’

  Wenhaver happened to see Myrddion leaving the fortress to walk to the township below, so she decided to amuse herself. She sent Myrnia to summon Nimue to her apartments.

  Nimue was busy grinding herbs with a mortar and pestle when Myrnia disturbed her and, surprised by the invitation, she brushed her hands clean, tidied her hair and sallied forth.

  ‘Be careful, mistress,’ Myrnia whispered, her eyes darting around the hallway for any listening ears. ‘The queen is in an odd mood today, and she’s no friend of yours.’

  Nimue grinned widely and pressed Myrnia’s cold little hand comfortingly.

  ‘Don’t worry on my account, Myrnia. Your mistress has no power over me. After all, she can’t order me to do anything I would dislike.’

  Nimue was sadly mistaken.

  In her over-warm morning room, Wenhaver reclined on a couch, surrounded by her ladies who were busy with various tasks of embroidery, mending and spinning. By comparison, Wenhaver’s hennaed hands were idle, although she toyed with a late, rather sad rose whose petals had grown unevenly in the unseasonable wind.

  ‘Please be seated, Mistress Nimue. I’m pleased that you answered my request so readily, for I fear I’ve been tardy in becoming acquainted with you.’

  Wenhaver toyed with her heavy red gown. Because the colour was scarlet, rather than crimson, its folds clashed with the queen’s pink blondeness. By comparison, Nimue’s plain grey garb was elegant and understated.

  ‘Would you enjoy some warmed honey wine? A sweetmeat? Water?’ Wenhaver asked with disarming courtesy. Her pretty hands stripped a leaf off the stalk of the rose.

  ‘I’ll have nothing, thank you, Your Majesty. But I appreciate your offer,’ Nimue added as an afterthought. She was puzzled, for the queen’s manner was confusing and out of character.

  ‘What shall we talk about, ladies? How might we come to know Mistress Nimue better? I know!’ Wenhaver raised one finger dramatically.

  The maidens smiled nervously and went on with their various tasks, avoiding Nimue’s eyes.

  ‘We all know that Mistress Nimue is the trusted apprentice of Myrddion Merlinus, whom the king swears is the wisest man alive. Only an extraordinary person could hope to study with such a mentor, so what special instruction did you receive in your youth to make you eligible to enjoy such an honour? Don’t be shy, Nimue. We’re agog to discover your secrets.’

  The queen continued to smile, rather like a cat playing with some small, terrified prey, so Nimue felt uneasy. Instinctively she knew she was out of her depth in the spiteful games played by aristocratic young women at Artor’s court.

  ‘None that I can recall, Your Majesty. My childhood was very ordinary.’

  Wenhaver cooed in mock surprise, and shredded another leaf from the stalk of her rose.

  ‘You’re far too modest, mistress. I heard that you were very close to the intrigues of Venonae. Servants know everything, don’t they?’

  ‘Not so, my queen. Someone has been prattling nonsense.’

  ‘Did you not have Gruffydd, the sword bearer, as your foster-father? ’

  ‘Aye, my queen, that’s true.’ Nimue’s brows drew together with suspicion.

  ‘Did he not visit you regularly? Now, where did you sleep? I was told . . . yes, I remember. In the kitchens, with the servants.’ Wenhaver laughed with a tinkling peal of genuine amusement, laced with rancour.

  ‘Yes, Your Majesty.’

  Nimue now understood the tenor of her audience with the queen. It was intended to be a torture of ridicule posing as conversation, and it was meant to end with an inevitable argument, one that a mere apprentice couldn’t win with any honour. Nimue’s hands clenched inside the rough wool of her skirts until her knuckles were white.

  The aristocratic young maidens tittered, and Wenhaver tore another leaf from the rose.

  ‘How odd, my dear, that you learned so much amongst the roasts, the pots and pans and the ovens. It would seem to be a marvellous place to learn philosophy, science and healing. I can tell that your master chose you for your wonderful experience and dedication to your studies, so you must have found a way to achieve an education. Somehow.’

  Sarcasm dripped from Wenhaver’s lips like honeyed poison, but Nimue merely pressed her lips together so she wouldn’t shame Myrddion with the rage that bubbled up into her throat.

  Wenhaver saw the little fires in Nimue’s blue eyes and continued to strip the rose.

  ‘Who was your foster-mother?’ the queen continued her attack. ‘I heard she was the cook, but I can’t believe that such a superior education came from such a person. Or does porridge, gravy and cake-making now rank as good education? My father was very remiss, for I’m afraid that I can’t cook a thing.’

  ‘I’m sure Your Majesty was fortunate indeed in her learning,’ Nimue answered, attempting to divert the queen’s attack on Gallwyn.

  A rose petal fell to the flagging and Wenhaver raised herself into a sitting position so that one elegantly shod foot could grind its softness under her heel. Nimue watched this small carnage with blank, detached interest.

  ‘A sword bearer and a cook. Remarkable, isn’t it, ladies? Yet I suppose even such humble beginnings were preferable to being raised in a Saxon dung heap by barbarian savages. Yes, you’d have had dirty hair and fingernails, a foul tongue and a fouler smell if your real parents had raised you, so I suppose we should be grateful to the cook who taught you to be clean.’

  The maidens tittered on cue, but their eyes were nervous and didn’t stray from their sewing.

  ‘Even a slatternly peasant is better than a Saxon, I suppose. But tell me, Nimue, what attracted Lord Myrddion to you? Does he actually like common muck? Does he see something special in you other than your mind, or your tattoo? Gracious, surely he couldn’t . . . no, I’ll not believe an aristocrat, even a bastard lord such as Myrddion, would want to . . . well . . . you know, my dear.’ Pretending delicacy, Wenhaver bent to smell the remnants of her rose, pulled a face as if she had discovered something rancid and then tore off two more petals.

  ‘No, Your Majesty. I don’t know.’ Nimue’s voice could have cut glass.

  Wenhaver laughed and her eyes were cruel and cold.

  ‘Of course you do, Nimue, growing up in the kitchens as you did. Your education must have been quite . . . broad . . . by childhood’s end. No wonder Myrddion Merlinus couldn’t deny your charms.’

  Slowly and carefully, Nimue rose to her feet. Her cold eyes raked the queen from head to heels with a slow, insolent carefulness. Her face was very pale by the light of the sconces, and she stood up spear-straight and proud. Wenhaver was forced to stare up at her as Nimue took several steps forward until she was within Wenhaver’s reach.

  ‘You may say what you will about my birth, my childhood, my education and my morals, Your Majesty. I’ll not respond, for you do far worse harm to yourself than you do to me. You may be as vulgar as the worst of the camp followers that I heard around the fire pits of Venonae, but I’ll not answer nor insult you.’ Nimue drew in a deep, shuddering breath.

  ‘Dear Gruffydd was a peasant and he rose
to become one of the greatest men in the land through his own ability, rather than through an accident of birth. Yes, my sweet foster-mother, Gallwyn, was an ignorant peasant as well, but the king entrusted me to her care, and I remain under his protection. Nor will I fall into your trap by reacting to crude insults to fine persons who have won the respect of our entire world. I am no foolish girl interested only in superficial pleasures, so your insults cannot harm me.’

  The maidens quailed before Nimue’s blazing northern eyes, but Wenhaver thrust out her chin in a clear challenge. Blue eyes met and clashed, ice to ice, and Wenhaver rose to her feet.

  ‘But when you impugn the honour of my master’, Nimue continued implacably, ‘a man of unimpeachable dignity, decency and goodness, then you have gone a step too far, and the king should hear of your perfidy. I must ask myself how any well-raised maiden could possibly know what indecencies take place in the servants’ quarters unless she listens at doorways. How could any woman of breeding discuss such matters of sexual licence so freely, unless she was well-versed in such matters? Before words are said here that cannot be forgotten, I beg leave to remove myself from your presence.’

  As Wenhaver untangled the insults that were buried in Nimue’s graceful attack, two red spots appeared high on her cheekbones. Then she struck Nimue across the face with the leafless stalk of the rose.

  ‘How dare you! Are you suggesting that my conversation is vulgar and inappropriate? Anything the queen chooses to discuss with an ignorant savage like you cannot be inappropriate. I am the High Queen of the Britons, and I decide when you may leave my presence.’ She raised the rose stem to slash at Nimue’s face once again, but this time Nimue held up her arm to take the blow instead of her face. Blood was already trickling from the thorn cuts across Nimue’s cheekbones and nose.

  ‘Your Majesty has forgotten her manners once again, so I must remind you that I am not a servant who will accept a cowardly whipping without complaint. Good day to you!’

  And, while Wenhaver fumed with impotent rage, Nimue turned on her heel and left the queen’s chamber with her dignity intact. It was only when she was cleaning the wounds on her face and arm caused by the slashing rose thorns that she began to tremble like an aspen in the winter wind.

  And so Myrddion found her, crying with frustration and reaction.

  Over a warm bowl of chamomile that had been sweetened with honey, Myrddion winkled the whole tale out of his apprentice. Experienced in political intrigue as he was, Myrddion still found it difficult to believe that Wenhaver could play such filthy games.

  ‘I am sorry, master. She insulted Gallwyn, and I let that pass . . . but when she suggested that you chose to take me as your apprentice so you could seduce me . . . I told her such a suggestion was vulgar and inappropriate. I became angry, and I lost my temper.’

  No man can listen to a beautiful woman apologize for defending his honour without some small stirrings of pride, and Myrddion was no exception. But he was restless and uneasy, for Wenhaver had ventured out into the open, and both master and apprentice should now be aware of her intentions.

  ‘You must promise me, Nimue, that you will never enter the queen’s presence without a friendly supporter behind you. Wenhaver’s viciousness has no boundaries and she’s a harridan in the making. Avoid her at all cost, for both our sakes. I know you weren’t to blame, but you’re my responsibility and I must keep you safe.’ He frowned down at his young charge. ‘Listen carefully, Nimue. You must tell no one of your disagreement with the queen. Not even Targo. Artor would not tolerate such behaviour from his wife and, after the High King had punished her, she would search for a way to destroy you.’

  But Targo and Odin were soon made aware of the confrontation, for too many had witnessed it and rumour recognized no barriers.

  But the incident of the rose, as Nimue thought of it, was never mentioned in public. The queen raised her chin in challenge to Myrddion when next they met but when the scholar said nothing, either to her or to the High King, she allowed matters to rest. In truth, Wenhaver lost some of her dignity through her display of bad manners, and several young princesses returned to their tribes earlier than would normally have been expected because of what they had witnessed. Servants gossiped as well, and the queen suffered in their recitation of the disagreeable incident. Nimue continued with her accustomed duties in the fortress, but now Myrddion, Odin and Targo watched her surreptitiously, in the full knowledge that she had made a dangerous and ruthless enemy.

  Day after day, Myrddion honed Nimue’s young intellect, far beyond what he had originally intended. Over many hours of talk, they analysed numerous problems, and Nimue devoured the memoirs of Caesar, and then went on to dissect Myrddion’s own written recollections of the reign of Uther Pendragon. Inevitably, his apprentice wanted to discuss what she found within the dusty scrolls.

  ‘I find the differences between Lord Artor and his father far less interesting than the similarities,’ Nimue informed Myrddion, causing her master to lift his head from his reading.

  Although Myrddion felt a little peculiar as he discussed matters of state with a young girl, something about Nimue’s frank curiosity robbed the topic of its more inappropriate qualities.

  ‘Uther was withered at the core,’ she stated unequivocally. ‘From your memoirs, I believe he came into this world with an emotional lack, and the emptiness in his soul was ultimately filled with fury and vindictiveness.’

  ‘If nothing else, Nimue, your vocabulary is improving,’ Myrddion muttered softly. ‘I’m surprised that you’ve managed to find echoes of the old king in Artor’s nature. I can’t see any similarities myself. ’

  ‘You’re not trying, master. Artor came into the world totally whole and strong, and without any emptiness. I can feel it. But he lacked birth parents who loved him.’

  ‘I’m pleased that you recognize his motherless state.’ Myrddion felt a strange shiver of pride run from the crown of his head to his long, narrow toes. Nimue’s mind was quick, logical and transparent.

  At Myrddion’s bidding, Nimue carefully considered the concept of aloneness.

  ‘Neither Artor nor I fitted into the worlds of our childhood,’ Nimue continued aloud. ‘We were oddities and outcasts, I suppose, and Artor, like me, was without noble birth to smooth his way in the world.’

  Nimue thought deeply, one foot tapping as her mind raced.

  ‘But Uther must have understood the qualities he lacked, even when he was young. The boy in him must have been very lonely. Artor certainly was, and so was I.’

  ‘I am an old man, but I can hardly be expected to remember the experiences of Uther Pendragon when he was a lad,’ Myrddion countered astringently.

  ‘You’re not that old, master,’ Nimue replied automatically, her mind still focused on her argument. ‘No. It was Gallwyn who made the difference in my development - dear, sweet, ordinary Gallwyn. Really, all she could do was organize the kitchens well, and care enough to bribe the steward so I had some learning. A piece of good simmel cake goes a long way,’ Nimue joked.

  ‘And Artor had Frith, a slave woman, to help him adjust to his world,’ Myrddion said. ‘Frith adored him, and she gave him all the good advice and balance that a young boy needs. Livinia Major also saw to his training, especially when it became necessary for him to learn the peccadilloes of females. Both of those women loved him.’

  ‘Livinia was a Roman matron, a paragon of virtue, but she wasn’t given to displays of affection. You described her well, master, and you also explained why Artor protects the loathsome Caius for the sake of his mother - because the king would never break his word to a woman like Livinia.’

  ‘True, Nimue. Artor loved Livinia, but more in the way you would admire a great teacher. It was a slave, one who was below Gallwyn in the eyes of the world, who was Artor’s mother in all but birth, the mother of his heart.’

  Nimue leapt impulsively to her feet, her homespun gown rustling as she paced impatiently around the room.

&
nbsp; ‘I’ve learned from my talks with Targo that Frith, the slave, was far from ordinary. She seems to have been a strong woman.’

  ‘That’s also true, although I don’t understand your point. She trained Artor in ways that Targo couldn’t, for she taught him the value of absolute trust.’ Myrddion sighed deeply. ‘And here your argument about their similarities collapses completely, for Uther trusted nobody.’

  ‘At some time during his youth, I’m sure that Artor learned the dangers of trust. Today, the High King’s every action and every word seems to be measured and calculated. He uses Livinia’s justice and Frith’s loyalty as his yardsticks, but sadness has taught the king that the world has a black and uncaring heart. Uther always believed in the vindictiveness of fate, and our king has learned to be like his father in this regard. In their desire to retain control, they are alike.’ Nimue turned to face Myrddion, and her face was very grave. ‘Should the High King lose those friends whom he loves, especially those men and women who humanize him, then the legacy of Uther will rise in him like a waiting pike, all teeth and viciousness. He is as many men have made him, but Uther Pendragon remains his father. I have seen something cruel in him. I hope it springs from necessity, and not from a need to inflict pain.’

  Nimue’s words sent cold chills through Myrddion’s body. Waking and sleeping, in the hours that followed, her assessment tortured him with its warnings of the inexorable march of time. When Targo hobbled into his room on the arm of his servant, Perce, Myrddion was jaundiced and upset.

  ‘A fair afternoon to you, Lord Myrddion! What’s wrong with you? You look as sick as an old grey cat! I’m not good for much these days, but I can listen, so out with it, old friend.’

  ‘I’m perfectly well, Targo,’ Myrddion retorted. ‘Your wits are wandering.’

  ‘Now I’m certain that you have a problem!’ Targo settled himself into a deep, cushioned chair. ‘You’re never discourteous, and you’ve just been rude to me. So tell Targo everything.’

  As he looked into Targo’s face, Myrddion registered that the old man’s features formed a lively nest of wrinkles, rather like those of an ancient monkey that he had once seen in his youth while at the court of Ambrosius.