by M. K. Hume
“Beloved? Bedwyr? Oh, bless the Lord, Bedwyr has woken!”
Somehow, Bedwyr managed to pry his gummed eyelids apart and saw the face of his beloved Elayne floating above him. He tried to speak, but the words were guttural nonsense.
“Don’t try to talk, my darling. The children are here, so all you need to do is hold their hands and feel how much we love you.”
Bedwyr looked at the circle of faces round his familiar old bed. He tried to raise his right hand to stroke its honey-colored carving, but his muscles refused to obey. He pushed his feelings of panic away, for a warrior must know when his time has come.
“God has finally taken pity on me,” Bedwyr murmured, but what came out was a series of grunts and distorted sounds. “Arthur and Maeve are still not at home, but yet I must go. What will become of you all?”
With the wisdom of a loving wife, Elayne interpreted her old man’s attempts to communicate, took him in her arms, and set about putting his mind at rest.
“Lasair, your eldest son, has become a man now, and he’ll rule in your place, my precious darling. You brought us to our new home and settled us into our new surroundings, but it’s time for you to rest. And Barr is here as well! He’s taken over the defense of our new forest home, and he’s been busy training the young men to use their bows effectively along the margins of the trees. All is well within your family.”
Bedwyr wanted to weep for the loss of his children, but after a life full of losses, he had learned the value of keeping up a facade of strength. He smiled and nodded, to show the boys that he was proud of what miracles they had wrought in moving the entire tribe from Arden to Dean, although his thoughts remained fixed on the two children who had always been closest to his heart.
Elayne’s eyes were glistening with unshed tears. “We will be safe and well without you, Bedwyr, so if God calls for you to come to him, everything here has been done and you are permitted to rest.”
Her hand pressed his, while his daughter wiped his mouth of its spittle. How undignified old age is, Bedwyr thought, and how shameful! And now I find myself dribbling like a child. Like me, Myrddion must have hated growing really old, so I won’t regret being called to meet my Maker.
Bedwyr’s mind ranged back to a stony hilltop. Mountains marched across the horizon in rows like the helmed and armored legions from Rome. Although he had never seen the Romans in action, his father had told him stories of a time long, long ago, before a Saxon knife had terminated his father’s ability to speak.
The room in the half-built fortress behind sturdy walls in the Forest of Dean melted away, and Bedwyr’s memories returned to a distant time and place. He felt the weight of Caliburn in his hands—so heavy and so laden with the invisible chains of duty, self-sacrifice, and patriotism—and a beautiful woman who was telling him to throw it into the tarn that lay behind her. The face of Nimue, the Maid of Wind and Water, who became the Lady of the Lake after Myrddion Merlinus died, swam into his fading vision.
And what would become of Elayne? Bedwyr had loved her for so long that he had forgotten what existence had been like when he was on his own. He recalled that he had lived a solitary life fueled by the need to revenge himself against all Saxons, but he no longer recalled the sense of it all. Their shared communion of souls had been more important to Bedwyr than sex, friendship, or united desires for their country, and they had been one person from the moment of their first meeting.
Except for one short period of time! It was a brief and painful hour of betrayal, as fleeting as a breath. Even then, Bedwyr had lacked the heart to chastise his lady for loving the High King of the Britons, a man whom everyone adored. She had given the king her mind and her companionship in Cadbury at a time when the man Bedwyr had served and loved best in the world had been assailed by traitors, murderers, and the horror of personal doubts. Artor had valued the same things in his auburn-haired wife that Bedwyr had loved, so when disaster threatened to kill them during a snowstorm that froze their bodies, they had betrayed him. So long ago! Bedwyr had been angry for a time when he was faced by the proof of that small time of disloyalty that was made flesh in the warm, rosy body of Arthur, their son. But Bedwyr could never reject his lord for more than a week or two, so the Arden Knife had been present at the final battle when Artor had taken his mortal wound. Ever faithful, Bedwyr had closed Artor’s eyelids over his grey eyes for the last time, and he had folded the huge, scarred hands onto the breast of his king. Bedwyr had removed the pearl thumb ring to comply with his master’s instructions, but Artor went to the grave with an amulet containing a part of a scroll around his neck. Even then, with Artor dead and beyond caring, Bedwyr had refused to read that scrap of superfine vellum because his master had insisted on keeping it close to his heart.
So much had been lost, but more had been saved from those terrible days of failure and defeat. Somehow, Bedwyr had gathered together the courage to patch up the ragged edges of the king’s life and maintain the old, civilized ways in the face of a world gone berserk and brutal. “A rearguard action against fate,” Bedwyr had always called their way of life, but circumstances swept Arden away in any case, along with his children, and he couldn’t grow in this alien forest where he had been transplanted.
Bedwyr closed his eyes.
Somehow, the old man had expected death to be more painful than this gradual slowing of mind and breath. He felt the love of his family enfold him, but the fierce ties to them that once would have forced him to remain alive had weakened. And he was glad!
There was so much for his sons to do to secure this new forest, but his shadow was too large for his sons to stand alone without asking for his advice. Yes, it was better that he go now, before he failed in his wits, allowing his boys to grow strong in the sunlight without his form blocking it out. But, by God’s good graces, he sorely missed Arthur, now that he had come to the end of all things.
From a great distance, he heard his wife call out to him as she wiped the tears of a great loss from his eyes. But she was such a long way from him when he opened his eyes to see her once more. Elayne seemed dim, as did the whole breathing, changeable world below his hands. Bedwyr could see the light now, and his soul longed to follow the beam of unbearable whiteness to its source.
“Go, my darling! We are safe and well, and we will endure the world without you.”
Elayne’s whisper seemed to come from far away, but the message was so strong and true that Bedwyr rose and looked down on her as she folded her body over the chest of an ancient, twisted man who was lying on his deathbed. Still, the white light called him, and he saw figures in the rays of light. A hound ran out of the whiteness, and Bedwyr knew the beast at once. Together, they had served in the fortress of Caer Fyrddin a lifetime ago. And there was Myrddion Merlinus, by God, grown young and lithe again. His parents embraced him and he felt complete.
Finally, Artor embraced him in the old way, and Bedwyr found no shame in weeping into those still-young, still-vibrant arms.
In the Forest of Dean, an old legend died and was mourned overlong after the corpse went to the fires. He had known the gods when they walked upon the earth and he had served a righteous cause with other legends. The pyre burned for two days, while Elayne ordered tree after tree sacrificed to the spirit of the Arden Knife until, at the last, she handed that venerable weapon to her eldest son.
The time for miracles was now truly over.
Chapter XXII
A DIFFERENT BREED OF WOMAN
Truth lies within a little and certain compass, but error is immense.
—HENRY ST. JOHN, LORD BOLINGBROKE, Reflections Upon Exile
The three travelers had unwillingly succumbed to the power of Hubert’s argument. Gareth was especially incensed at the idea of heading south when he was determined to travel to the north so they could continue their journey. His fury was so intense that Lorcan was surprised that the air in Egbert’s barroom didn
’t catch alight. Germanus became their spokesman by dint of his experience with his own people, even though he had been a rover for several decades.
Along with Lorcan and Gareth, he had been woken before dawn and dragged down to the empty taproom at sword point by four armed Frankish thugs who had been sufficiently proficient as to remove the trine’s weapons before rousing the three men. They had been drugged, so the three travelers were easily captured, but they knew immediately who had betrayed them. Egbert of Wurms was absent, but a terrified girl of the house was serving mulled wine to the red-dressed lordling of no name, when the travelers were unceremoniously shoved into the room. She was still dressed in her underwear, with only a blanket tied over the top for modesty’s sake.
The fair-haired, elegantly dressed man stared at them as if the three travelers were some new form of life, interesting, but hardly important to his well-being.
“He wants something very badly,” Lorcan hissed at his two friends in Celt, while Hubert frowned in frustration that he was ignorant of the language.
Germanus nodded blandly, while Gareth continued to scowl. Hubert commenced their discussion by spelling out their lack of choice in whatever matters he wished to raise.
“You are strangers in the Frank lands, so no one is going to miss you if you disappear from view. In fact, it would be simple to prove that you’re sources of the plague, or spies. The mob would happily tear you to pieces over whatever story I choose to tell, and Egbert, our good innkeeper, will happily swear to it as well.”
“So you’re showing us that you have power over us,” Germanus commented. “In these lands, almost everybody has greater influence than unknown travelers.”
“You’re about to become my body slave for a month or two, so I hope your friends are fond of you. Frankly, the old priest smells, and I can’t trust the young dog with my back turned, so I’ll need to retain you as a hostage. At the very least, you speak my language and you’re almost house-trained. Perhaps their task will be more difficult to complete without your presence, but I’m sure they’ll find a way to meet my demands. The priest, in particular, appears to be resourceful, and the young cub has the muscle to ensure your safety. As my creatures, they’ll be very well paid for what I expect them to do for me.”
“And what do you want my friends to do that you can’t?” Germanus’s voice was unchanged, and Hubert gave him credit for being able to keep his temper under control. The youngest of the three strangers was furious and would need to be restrained before too much longer, if Hubert read his mutinous face correctly. The courtier of the king raised one finger in Gareth’s direction, and two large Franks moved to flank the young warrior with impassive faces, while they tensed their muscles in anticipation of trouble.
“The task I expect you to carry out is simple. While you, Germanus, purchase a town house in Reims suitable for the domicile of an aristocratic Roman woman, your friends will be delivering a personal letter to a highborn lady in Septimania. They are required to guard her when she journeys to Reims, and then assist her to settle into her new home. That’s all I require!”
Father Lorcan spat crassly on the floor.
With obvious contempt, Hubert wiped his mouth with a wisp of silk.
“All? That’s all? Do you know where Septimania is? And where in Septimania do we find this woman? It’s a moderately large state on the western shores of the Middle Sea, and it’s near enough to five hundred miles away. That’s three weeks’ minimum travel on horseback, and probably longer if we have to escort a woman and her entourage in a wagon.”
“Of course I know where Septimania is! Your destination is the town of Beziers, and you must go to the House of Sedonius, whose family members are domiciled there. Your charge is the Mistress Deuteria, who is now the head of that excellent family. I don’t believe there’s anything else you need to know if you’re to successfully carry out my instructions. Frankly, I don’t like your face, your manners, or your effrontery.”
“It seems my charm is working again,” Lorcan retorted as his Hibernian irony won out over his priestly common sense. “You have the upper hand in this conversation, and we’ll be forced to traipse across the countryside doing the actual work. Where are our rations to come from? What—and where—will we be paid? And how are you going to force my young friend and me to comply with your demands? You can’t watch us every minute of the day!”
“I’ll be holding your friend as my hostage, and I must tell you that I can be imaginative when it comes to punishment for perceived failures to comply with my wishes. On the contrary, you’ll certainly enjoy a great deal of my patronage if you obey.”
“Can you guarantee us free movement through the lands of Theudebert, leading to the border of the Cimbric Peninsula, once we have completed this task for you? We are on a mission to rescue kinfolk, and your task slows us down. I’d imagine you’d want us to disappear anyway once we’ve carried out your little chore for you.”
Lorcan raised a hand in Gareth’s direction to keep him quiet, while Germanus registered his understanding at this new turn in the conversation. Perhaps the priest could still salvage something useful out of this mess.
Hubert grinned like the shark he most resembled in character. How perfect! He had thought it might be necessary to assassinate these three pawns on their return, a task that would probably cost the lives of any number of good men if he judged the physiques, skills, and cunning of the potential victims. However, if these men continued on towards the Dene lands, especially in light of the imminent invasion by the Saxons and the bastard Anglii, they’d be wearing extra grins before they passed through the northern border regions. It would be child’s play to send couriers to his Anglii allies, who’d happily remove these three annoying travelers for the few coins and the goodwill that Hubert was offering. Hubert was always happiest when someone else could be found to clean up his messes at minimal cost to himself.
“Of course! I’ll issue you with documentation in Latin that will take you through all lands under the control of King Theudebert, and I’ll have these papers ready for you as soon as our arrangements are completed. I’ll pay the expenses for your travel into the south in gold, and each of you will receive three gold pieces for a little over two months’ work. I’m fully aware that I needn’t give you anything except the body of your friend, whole and well, but our bargain must be taken on trust if it is to arrive at a satisfactory conclusion.”
Hubert’s smile was sincere and dazzling. “Of course, I expect you to leave within a few hours, so it only remains for you to decide who between you will be carrying the coin to cover your expenses for the journey?”
Lorcan held out one hand, and Hubert dropped a purse into it. The leather pouch made a satisfying series of clinking noises as Lorcan weighed it on his palm.
“We accept your offer, so we should be back within forty days if all goes well,” Lorcan said neutrally. “Have the money and the papers in Germanus’s hands, and ensure he is ready to depart into the north with whatever documentation he considers necessary to get us up to our destination in the Dene lands. One word of warning, my lord! I will devise ways and means of ensuring our well-being while we are about your business. I will also make a special effort to ensure that we are safe from retribution from you should the arrangements not work as well as we would wish. You can be sure that my retaliation for treachery will be simple, but very effective. I would be especially displeased if anything unwise should happen to my large friend here. I don’t think I need to elaborate on my views!”
Lorcan smiled toothily at Hubert, an effect slightly weakened by a missing canine. Hubert nodded and responded with the practiced sincerity of a politician.
As the three men were ushered out of the inn’s barroom, Gareth lagged beside the door as he bent to straighten his leggings. His young ears overheard Hubert’s reaction when he realized that Egbert’s barmaid had heard the entire conversation. Gareth
could easily imagine how the poor drab had tried to become inconspicuous when she found herself trapped in the corner.
“Strangle that creature for me as quietly as possible,” Hubert ordered his bodyguard. “I want no loose talk about this meeting. You do understand, Cully, don’t you?”
Gareth was trying to decide what to do when the girl’s neck snapped and his guard shoved him in the back with a naked blade. As he followed his friends back to their room, he thought furiously about their likely fate when they had finished this mission for Hubert. This man, whatever his motives and his source of power might be, could never be trusted. Forewarned was forearmed!
Meanwhile, as Cully removed the body of the dead girl, her blanket slid obscenely away from her pendulous breasts. With his lip curled in distaste, Hubert fished through a pouch on the table and removed a small square of vellum sealed with red wax. Idly, he smelled the faintest hint of perfume that still clung to the fine writing surface. It held the scent of money, prestige, and untrammeled power.
A name had been carefully written on the front of the sealed vellum—Deuteria.
“Make sure the priest gets this letter before our friends leave,” the courtier told his bodyguard. Then he wiped his hands clean, before sniffing at a perfumed pomander made from cloves in an attempt to cleanse the stink of humanity from his nostrils.
Then he retreated to the peace and quiet of his tent.
• • •
THE TWO TRAVELERS let their horses have their heads and set off with their legs crossed over their saddles for comfort. The two tall steeds plodded along patiently, much as they had done for the twenty-two days it had taken to reach the outskirts of Beziers.
