by M. K. Hume
The last few words were whispered, for Nimue knew how formless and foolish her words sounded, even in her own ears. She wished then that she hadn’t troubled Myrddion for, spoken aloud, her suspicions seemed self-indulgent and vain.
‘As of this day you must carry Targo’s sword with you whenever you go out into the fields. I’ll ask Percivale to hone a sharp edge on both sides of the blade. The weapon is short enough to be easily carried in your basket.’
Nimue opened her mouth to speak, but Myrddion ignored her protests.
‘The man we seek is capable of insane obsession and will be motivated by some twisted logic of his own. You say you feel his eyes within the fortress? This narrows the field of potential culprits considerably. If you aren’t being fanciful, then I must accept that our murderer is one of Artor’s personal guard, or a provisioner from the town, or a trusted servant or a member of Artor’s court. It’s a wide group of potential murderers, but it’s narrower than the entire population of Cadbury.’
Myrddion’s concern was contagious and Nimue shivered in the over-warm room.
Every warrior, every smith, the servant who drew water and the aristocrats who bowed in the hall all had the potential to be a threat to her. The possibilities for danger opened like a yawning chasm before her unwilling feet.
‘Unfortunately, we are forced to wait until we can reduce the field of suspects further. Each murder will tell us something new about the killer. But you must be cautious in the extreme, Nimue, for I don’t know what I would do without you.’
Myrddion offered this admission reluctantly, but Nimue’s whole face was transfigured, and she glowed with pleasure.
‘I’ll speak to Odin and ask him to show you a few nasty tricks you could use with Targo’s sword,’ Myrddion added thoughtfully. ‘Don’t worry yourself to flinders, for we might well trap the creature. He takes risks and he exposes himself more and more with each kill he makes.’
Myrddion’s face was drawn with fine lines and, with a pang, Nimue saw that her master was finally beginning to show his age.
‘You shouldn’t have to worry overly about me, dear master.’ Nimue impulsively kissed Myrddion’s hand. ‘I will do whatever Odin asks of me.’
Hours, days, weeks followed, and the nerves of women from both within the forest and without were sorely stretched. Then, as winter sent out its first tendrils of heavy mist and the cold weather chained men and women to their hearths, a young boy went missing from within the citadel itself.
Artor was enraged.
The child was a minor son of a northern king, sent as a hostage against his tribe’s disaffection. Afflicted by a bad case of hero worship, the twelve-year-old boy had dogged Artor’s steps and he had become fond of the lad. The boy’s constant chatter of questions and his bright-eyed interest in the business of government had charmed the High King, despite his determination to remain aloof. The lad been a great favourite with the guards, and had whiled away his days poking his nose into the stables, the kitchens and the servants’ quarters.
He never ventured outside of the fortress, so his sudden disappearance sent a frisson of fear running through every inhabitant of the tor. No one could now deny that the murderer had access to everyone within its walls. Wenhaver had treated the previous deaths as inconveniences that caused a pall to settle over her amusements, but now she importuned Artor to do something whenever their paths crossed.
‘His victims have all been fair-haired,’ Wenhaver nagged. ‘And who possesses more golden hair than I do? You cannot know how frightened I am and, as usual, you are more concerned with your silly work than with the safety of the queen.’
‘Madam, you are not the only fair-haired woman in the fortress. In fact, Myrddion reported to me only an hour ago that Nimue suspects she’s been watched by a hidden man for several months.’
Irrationally, Wenhaver was incensed. She couldn’t bear to think that, even in unimaginable danger, Nimue eclipsed her. How dare a monster wish to kill Nimue before her?
‘That creature has an unseemly habit of seeking attention whenever she can,’ Wenhaver exclaimed in her temper.
Artor was tired, dispirited and gravely worried, so he spoke with unaccustomed violence.
‘When will you think of anything other than your own selfish hide, woman? When will you not demand full attention at all times? When will the Saxons cut your throat to shut you up?’
Wenhaver fled, and then wept real tears before her ladies-in-waiting, stirring up even more fear among them than had existed before.
When Artor wearily recounted this latest squabble, Myrddion became agitated.
‘I have been an idiot,’ he exclaimed. ‘Wenhaver has stumbled on what I, for all my learning, have missed.’
Artor raised his mobile brows.
‘All the victims have been fair-haired. The murderer must be obsessed with a certain appearance rather than a certain age or sex. The widow was in her thirties, the girl no more than nine and the lad twelve, so it’s beyond doubt that age is no indication of his preferences.’ ‘I follow your reasoning, Myrddion, but how does this help us?’
‘Apart from being of fair complexion, all the victims were vulnerable. The widow had no close family support. The girl was an only child with no known father, and your ward was five days’ ride from his friends and family comfort.’
Myrddion was certain that Nimue must be extremely careful.
To be fair to Nimue, she tried to obey her master, but circumstances were against her.
Winter passed without a single violent incident. The citizens and villagers of Cadbury and its environs were of the opinion that a madman had dwelt among them for a short time but had since moved on to find fresher, sweeter kills. But, Nimue still sometimes felt those hot eyes of her watcher, and as the spring thaw filled the rills with clean, icy water and new shoots leapt up from the earth, she continued to keep Targo’s sword within easy reach. After an evening’s earnest advice from Percivale, she always strapped a knife to her thigh when she left the fortress, just in case her sword should be wrested from her. In addition, Odin taught Nimue how to use a blade most effectively, and showed her that even with her stiffened fingers she could hurt an attacker. Odin’s instincts told him that the monster hadn’t disappeared but was simply watching and waiting, using anticipation to sharpen his desires.
‘You must practise with the knife, little wise woman. A man who has such lusts as this man possesses will desire what is cool and unapproachable, a woman such as yourself who shows so few weaknesses. Even while he watches you, he has killed other, weaker victims in your stead. He awaits an opportunity to catch you unawares and, if you should fall into his power, he will want to feast on your fear of pain. Don’t give him what he wants. You must never show him that he terrifies you.’
‘Ugh!’ Nimue shuddered. ‘Such creatures should not be permitted to live. Why can’t we see the wickedness written on his face, friend Odin?’
‘He knows what he is, so he is used to hiding his true self behind a friendly smile. You can trust nobody.’
Nimue grinned. ‘But I trust you, and Perce, and my dear master . . . and the High King, of course.’
Then she sobered, for Odin tapped her right hand with his calloused fingers.
‘You know what I am saying, little wise woman. Targo would bid you to be very, very careful and to obey your instincts. I will keep you under observation when my duties permit, but if this creature wants you, he will wait patiently until you come within his reach.’ He smiled suddenly. ‘Be careful, or—’
‘I’m dead. I know.’ She grinned up at the Jutlander. His clear, northern eyes were open windows to the concerns that he felt and his anxiety stiffened Nimue’s resolve. ‘I will carry Targo’s sword with me whenever I leave the fortress, and I will ponder what you have said,’ she assured the Jutlander. ‘I will practise dutifully for, in truth, I refuse to be murdered without striking back at my assailant.’
For all her precautions, Nimue still didn’t
feel safe.
The remains of the laughing, curious boy who had disappeared in the autumn were found during the spring thaw. The body had been reduced to gnawed bones and scattered fragments of fabric. Now, Artor’s eyes watched the denizens of his fortress with a new, icy suspicion, and Myrddion’s dreams were often disturbed by the horrors of a bleeding willow tree that his waking mind understood all too well. The past had come to torment the present.
Gawayne returned to Cadbury in the early spring, accompanied by a pale, brown-haired bride with kind, green eyes and a sweet, otherworld smile. Enid, for such was her name, was soon a favourite with the citizens of the citadel, for she was good-natured and shy. Gawayne took great pride in his young wife; she placed so few demands upon his time and his emotions, and she made his days comfortable and easy.
Like the termagant she would become, Wenhaver alternated between cloying civility and spiteful rudeness in her dealings with Enid. The mere sight of Gawayne’s wife devotedly kissing her husband’s hand before he embarked upon a day of hunting was quite sufficient to cause Wenhaver to find fault with her maids until they were bruised and battered. She directed the acid of her tongue at the well-born ladies of the fortress with almost equal venom. One of her so-called companions tearfully returned to her father’s household rather than face Wenhaver’s wrath.
Eventually, Artor was forced to intervene.
He entered Wenhaver’s luxurious apartments where she reclined, sulking and pretending to stitch a hem. His nose itched with the mingled aromas of scent, dying flowers, female flesh and rose water that roiled together into an unpleasant sweetness. With a dismissive wave of his hand, the High King sent maids and ladies running for the door until he was alone with the woman whom he had come to actively dislike.
‘You’ve gone too far this time, madam.’ Artor snapped at his queen. ‘Myrddion has had to treat the injuries of another maid after one of your temper tantrums and this poor creature had done nothing but try to serve you. Don’t bother to speak of laziness or greed. You find it difficult to remember that you are a queen and, as such, you are supposed to be representative of the best of Celtic womanhood, not the worst!’
Wenhaver put aside her sewing, and daintily selected an almond encased in a sweet paste. She popped it between her red lips, sucked on the morsel noisily before crunching the nut between her perfect teeth, and then raised her limpid eyes to her husband’s irate face.
‘I will do precisely as I please, husband. I don’t see what you can do about it.’
Then she picked up another morsel and smiled.
Artor crossed the room to her bed with two quick strides. His eyes were unreadable, but his muscles clenched like coiled springs along his still-firm jaw line.
‘You risk much when you wager your pretty skin on that belief, wife! You are barren, and are of less use to me than your lowliest servant. You are queen only because I value the alliance with your father and, unfortunately, my wedding vows.’
Feeling safe within her scented, rose-damask room, Wenhaver made the mistake of laughing, and Artor’s large hand reached out with serpentine swiftness and gripped her chin and cheeks so tightly that her tender flesh was bruised.
‘You’re hurting me,’ she whispered, her eyes wild and frightened.
‘I’ll do worse if you cross me, or shame me, or continue to flout my authority,’ Artor hissed.
He flung her away from him with such force that she was thrown off her stool and slid across the flagstoned floor. Her mouth sagged open in amazement, and tears started to leak from her eyes.
‘You can save your tricks for one who does not know them for what they are. Gawayne’s wife is worth ten of you, and yet you take joy in her tears. You are idle, useless, stupid, boring and sterile. You are my hair shirt, as the monks would say.’
Artor’s expression was flat, cold and merciless. Suddenly, her blood ran like ice through her veins. Did he suspect that she spent her nights in the stables with Gawayne? Had that sorcerer devil, Myrddion, discovered her amusements? What would Artor really do if he found out?
‘You have never loved me, Artor, so why should you care what I do?’
‘You are my queen, woman. I warn you now that I will burn you at the stake for impugning my honour if you stray from your vows and I am forced to wear the horns of a cuckold. Don’t test my resolve. Your father would himself light the fire that burns the soul of a whore.’
Artor turned on his heels and marched out of the apartments, leaving his wife bruised, shaken and yet, regardless of her terrors, still burning for revenge. I will let Gawayne keep his plain little wife, she thought resentfully. I can wait. He will tire of her quickly enough, and Artor will be off soon on his summer campaign. I can wait for years if I must.
And then, because nothing could ever really be her fault, she blamed her husband’s age for her barren state, and swore that she would foist a bastard upon him at the first opportunity.
‘Then we’ll see who is stupid,’ she shouted aloud, and hugged herself with secret glee.
Most of the citizens who made up the population of the citadel saw the fingerprint bruises on Wenhaver’s painted face, and smirked behind their hands. Wenhaver was despised and feared within the fortress, so any discomfort that came her way was viewed as being her just desserts.
‘She must have really asked for it this time,’ Gruffydd said conversationally to his fellows once he was free to eat his evening meal and drink a jug of cider with Artor’s bodyguard. ‘That slut is a fair trial. I’d put nothing past her!’
‘Gawayne doesn’t let any parts of her pass him by either,’ one wag retorted, to a roar of ribald laughter.
Gruffydd paled and rose to his feet, his cup spilling on the rough table top.
‘You’re foolish to make jokes about infidelity and the queen in the same breath. If he ever considered the queen to be dishonourable, Lord Artor would be forced to execute her. Our whole world would fragment, and the Saxons would quickly come calling. Neither Leodegran nor Lot would accept the execution of their children for adultery or treason, and that would be the result if Artor believed that Gawayne was bedding the queen.’
‘Aye, you’re correct in what you say, Gruff,’ the joker replied, his face suddenly sombre. ‘Why couldn’t our murderer have killed the queen before he left Cadbury far behind? We’d all be better off. ’
Odin shook his huge head. ‘The beast has not gone from Cadbury, and nor will the queen change her wicked ways,’ Odin said softly to Percivale and Gareth when they were alone. ‘Artor’s kingdom unravels already as his luck deserts him and runs away like water. But I will always be Artor’s man and, when the time comes, I will die for him.’
‘As will we all,’ whispered Percivale.
And Gareth spoke like an echo. ‘As will we all.’
CHAPTER XIX
ENDINGS AND BEGINNINGS
No thoughts of death or infidelity troubled Enid’s mind as spring brought forth its full promise of flowers, newly greening fields, and a child that was quickening within her womb. Like everybody in the fortress, she consulted Lord Myrddion whenever she felt unwell, and she went to see him because she couldn’t bear to eat a morsel of food in the mornings. She was becoming paler and more wan by the day.
‘I rejoice for you, Lady Enid,’ Myrddion congratulated the young woman once she had described her symptoms with many blushes and much embarrassment. ‘Your husband will be a king one day, and your child will follow in his footsteps, should Fortuna grant you the boon of a son.’
Enid stroked the tiny swelling of her belly, and Nimue felt a visceral stab of envy as she ground the preparation of dried herbs to cure the morning sickness. How she yearned to be gravid with child to a man such as Myrddion.
‘I hope my lord Gawayne will share my joy. He is distracted at times, but he is really a very good husband. And King Lot will be pleased at our news, for he has desired a grandson since we were first wed.’
Enid was looking remarkably pretty. Her
long, plaited hair was bound with a yellow ribbon that gave its soft colour a richer glow. Small spirals of curls had escaped her braids, and they framed her face. She was slender and fine-boned, and her countenance reflected her contentment and completion.
‘You can see, Lady Enid, how my excellent apprentice is likely to put me out to pasture soon, just like an old horse,’ Myrddion said. ‘She has prepared a mixture of dried herbs for you that you must drink with very hot water in the mornings, and whenever you feel the nausea coming on. You must eat well and get some colour back into your pretty cheeks.’
Nimue felt a stab of envy as Myrddion fussed over Enid. He never treated her like fragile glass, nor did he stroke her cheek in that gentle fashion which was peculiarly his own.
Then, because Nimue was a fair-minded young woman, and because it was impossible to dislike Enid with her sweet ways and pliant nature, she smiled at the young mother-to-be, offered her congratulations and put the ground herbs into a cloth bag.
‘You need have no fears, Lady Enid,’ Nimue reassured their patient. ‘These herbs will not harm your child, and you will soon be blooming. I will act as your midwife when your time approaches, for my master has trained me well, and I predict you will bear a beautiful son for your husband.’
‘I am in your debt, Lady Nimue, and I thank you for your kindness.’ Enid smiled her appreciation. ‘I am glad now that I never believed any of the horrible things that the queen always said about you. My mother warned me to beware of gossip before I came to Cadbury, and I’ve discovered that she was right.’ She sighed. ‘Queen Wenhaver dislikes me. I have tried and tried to please her, but nothing I do or say seems to have any effect on the way she treats me.’
Nimue pressed Enid’s narrow hands in commiseration. ‘I suspect that the queen feels chagrin at her childless state. It’s probably best that you feel pity for her if she says anything to hurt you. I find this helps me not to lose my temper with her.’
Enid smiled her appreciation of Nimue’s words, and her rather ordinary features were transformed into a soft but earthy beauty. Impulsively, she embraced the startled apprentice.
