Warrior of the West (34 page)

‘I will make him love me,’ Wenhaver pouted. ‘I will!’

‘You will fail, child. But others will be drawn to you as moths to the flame, and the great and the noble will worship at your feet.’

‘Well, that’s not so very bad, is it, Father?’ Wenhaver responded.

Leodegran beamed. He could already imagine the deference given to him by the tribal kings.

‘Of course, you will soon be eclipsed by the Maid of Wind and Water but, fortunately, she doesn’t care to compete with you,’ Morgan continued. ‘When that time comes to pass, you must beware that you do not show your hand too plainly, or Artor will cast you out.’

‘He would not dare,’ Leodegran rumbled pompously. Already, he could imagine the prestige of possessing such a powerful son-in-law and the bounty that would pour into his hands as a result. He repeated his challenge to bolster his courage. ‘Artor would not dare to consult the Dobunni. ’

‘Artor dares anything, for he is all-powerful. You must take care, Wenhaver, for you could burn at the stake for the edification of the people if you misjudge your situation.’

Wenhaver blanched. The thought that such a fate was even possible was beyond her comprehension.

‘You will, however, hold the keys to the kingdom in the years to come. But nothing is certain. If you are imprudent, Artor might take decisive action to remove you from his life. If you successfully carry out your role as queen, you will be remembered down through the misty years of time, and a thousand years will not dim the memory of your fabled beauty. You will also be vilified over the ages, but you will not care for that. You will always love what you cannot have, and have what you cannot love. But immortality is worth a little sacrifice, is it not, girl?’

Wenhaver bridled slightly at the scorn in Morgan’s eyes. ‘I will be queen, and I’ll be remembered forever. What else matters?’

‘Why, nothing, my child, and it’s certain that the Celts will never forget you.’ Morgan smiled at Wenhaver.

Wenhaver never stopped to consider the ambiguity in Morgan’s words. She wasn’t particularly intelligent and had never experienced the clever manipulative skills and half-truths used by courtiers.

‘I must stop now, for I am tired and feel the need to rest,’ Morgan said softly, and then smiled seductively at Leodegran. ‘But only for an hour or two. Perhaps we will speak later, my lord.’

‘Of course,’ Leodegran answered in a voice suddenly thickened with lust and a frisson of delicious fear.

Leodegran took beautiful young servant girls as, and when, he chose, but Morgan promised sexual delights that would drown his senses. He bowed to the seer as she rose from the table and walked away. The darkness was trapped in her fine woven shift and in her extraordinary hair.

As she moved silently into the apartment that Leodegran had given her, Morgan permitted her polished, expressionless face to smile. The ambitious were so easy to manipulate and, by her reckoning, Leodegran and his daughter were likely candidates for elevation to the Throne of the West. But, if Myrddion saw through the silly little minx, their loss really didn’t matter. The Fey had visited the court of the Catuvellauni King, Cadmus, now resident at Bannaventa on the edges of Arden Forest. Driven out of Verulamium, Londinium and Durovigatum by the Saxon advances, Cadmus would sell his daughter, Rutha, to the highest bidder, despite his Christianity.

Morgan considered two other kings with suitable daughters who were more than eager to take Leodegran’s place if the Dobunni king failed to convince Myrddion of Wenhaver’s suitability.

Back in her apartment, Morgan cast the bones, and then flinched when she saw what the future truly revealed. But patterns of hatred become old friends if they are clutched to the bosom for decades.

The seer saw a ship tossing on a wild sea, and she understood that she was about to embark on a journey into the west. Behind her, all the great Britons were dead and burning, even her sister, while Cadbury Tor was deserted, the buildings merely shells for the wind to play in. A yellow-haired woman, grown grey and old, prayed on her knees in a nunnery, and Saxon strength drove all the goodness from the rawness of the earth.

Then, in the mists of the past, she recalled Artorex’s beautiful face and heard her own portent: ‘Beware of a woman with yellow hair, for she will lead you to ruin.’

Then Morgan saw her own face in the bones. Her preternatural youth had finally submitted to time and she had become an aged crone, fit only for frightening children. To the north, in the forest shield, Artor’s children’s children grew tall and strong, while she left nothing behind her but the miasma of fear.

‘Is it worth all the suffering?’ she asked the bones, and for once they answered her.

‘Of course not. You will destroy Artor’s body, but unfortunately for your peace of mind, his spirit cannot be broken.’

Later that night, she taught Leodegran new and erotic secrets of the bed until he would happily have offered her marriage if she had been willing. By the time the night was done, Leodegran promised her everything she desired and, while he had a sharp, convenient memory, Morgan would remind him of his duties as a father when needed. But for all the bodily pleasure she gave the king, and for all that she strove to feel something of meaning, Morgan knew that her own soul was dead.

Gruffydd’s heavy body pushed through the half-opened leather curtains and into the kitchens of Venonae, carrying a pile of gifts. The familiar comforting smells of hot water, burning wood, cooked meat and human sweat mingled pleasantly to greet his entrance.

How quickly the years had passed, Gruffydd thought, since he had first brought the infant Nimue to be cared for by the chief cook of the Venonae garrison. Although she had never borne a child of her own, Gallwyn had proved to be an excellent mother and Perce, the kitchen boy, had grown to be Nimue’s staunchest companion and foster-brother. When Gruffydd came to visit, he always felt as if he was returning to a second family.

‘Where are you, Gallwyn?’ he called, a little alarmed at the quiet. ‘For shame, woman! Lazing about at this time of day when the venison is beginning to burn.’

He laughed gently at this old joke, but a quick glance at the chaos in the usually ordered hearth stopped his mirth. For twelve years, Gruffydd had become well versed in the ordered frenzy of the kitchens, so a protracted silence and the fact that a large pot of stew was about to boil over on the hearth unnerved and alarmed him.

Using a gloved hand to swing the cauldron out of the flames on its long, hooked arm of wrought iron, Gruffydd dumped his cloth-wrapped gifts on the scarred table top and began to explore.

First, he found three kitchen girls huddled together by the woodpile. They were weeping, with their reddened, coarse hands clenched over their tear-stained faces.

‘It’s Mistress Gallwyn. She’s sick, and she’s near to dying,’ one of them moaned.

Clearly, someone had to take charge in the kitchens, and twelve years at Artor’s back had prepared Gruffydd for almost any calamity.

‘You won’t help your mistress by burning the garrison’s food,’ Gruffydd shouted at the maids. ‘Get to work. The bread oven is cold, there’s no kindling, and the stew’s boiling over. Hop to it.’

‘Perce is cutting more wood now,’ one of the girls wailed.

‘Then we can thank the heavens that everyone hasn’t gone wandering off. ’ Gruffydd pointed to the oldest woman in the group. ‘What is your name?’ he asked brusquely.

‘Jena,’ the woman replied timidly, her voice trembling and uncertain. ‘Sir,’ she added as an afterthought, for the whole world knew that Gruffydd was sword bearer to the High King.

‘Jena, you are now in charge of the kitchens until you hear otherwise. And you will be held to blame if there’s no food for the tables upstairs.’

The servants scuttled away to complete their chores.

Gruffydd strode straight to Gallwyn’s sleeping compartment, a burrow too small to bear the grandiose title of a room. The curtains were drawn tightly shut.

‘Gallwyn? Gallwyn? What ails you, woman?’

A tall, slim fury exploded through the curtains and drove him back with hard blows to his chest from delicate, clenched fists.

‘Nimue! What are you doing, child? What has upset you? You know me. It’s Gruffydd.’

Gruffydd gripped Nimue’s wildly beating arms by the wrists and took in the wide-eyed, terrified expression on her face.

‘She’s not to have any noise! And she has to be kept quiet, so you’ll not disturb her!’

Irrelevantly, Gruffydd noticed that Nimue’s growth had come upon her, and now they stood eye to eye.

‘You must allow me to see her, my dear,’ Gruffydd ordered softly. ‘I’ll not upset her, I swear. If she is ill, we must make her better. Now tell me what has happened.’

‘I don’t know!’ Nimue wailed. ‘She was laughing with me as we peeled the carrots, and then she seemed to choke . . . and just dropped to the floor.’ Tears flowed unbidden from the young girl’s eyes. ‘Her lips are all blue.’

‘You’d best ask one of the kitchen hands to make some herb tea for her. And sweeten it with some of that honey that Gallwyn loves so much. But first, send a messenger to bring the herbalist to this room as fast as he can get here. He will know what to do to help her.’

Gruffydd had seen his own grandfather die in just such a fashion when he was little more than a lad, and he was suddenly afraid.

He steeled himself to pull back the curtain to Gallwyn’s narrow alcove. What was he to do if Gallwyn should die? What would become of sweet Nimue?

The child was fourteen and her terrible birth, cut from her mother’s body under a willow tree, had done her no lasting harm. But Gruffydd remembered Morgan’s prophecy when Nimue was only a week old: she would become a fearsome creature if she wasn’t loved and, in time, Nimue would steal away the mind of the kingdom. Thanks to Gallwyn’s love and earthy common sense, neither dire prediction had come to pass.

Gruffydd took a deep breath, forced a broad smile to his lips and swept back the curtain.

Gallwyn was resting on her pallet inside the tiny room. She was sitting almost upright on a pile of cushions that had been placed behind her to ease her breathing, but her appearance was that of one who was already dead. Nimue had accurately described the blue tinge around Gallwyn’s lips, and Gruffydd knew that something vital had failed inside the body of his old friend.

‘Gallwyn?’ he whispered softly. ‘Can you hear me?’

‘Of course I can, you daft bugger,’ the old woman wheezed painfully. She opened her faded hazel eyes. ‘I’m glad you came, Gruff. Even if you are too late.’

Every word seemed forced out of her heaving chest with an effort.

‘Nimue is fetching the herbalist to see if he can help you,’ Gruffydd whispered and smiled, although he felt a lump begin to grow in his throat. ‘She is also bringing some herb tea with your favourite honey, so I expect you will soon be feeling like your old self again.’

‘No tea will help me, Gruff. I know I’m dying, and I don’t think it is far away.’

‘Then don’t talk, sweet Gallwyn. Rest now, until you are stronger.’ Gruffydd could have wept, for he could see the film of death even now as it began to cloud Gallwyn’s sharp old eyes.

‘I’ll be resting soon enough. But now is the time for some straight talk. I’m dying, aren’t I?’

‘Probably, Gallwyn.’ Gruffydd offered no false hope. ‘But some people survive this illness.’

‘Not me.’

She rested for a minute and closed her heavy eyes.

At that moment, Nimue returned with a wooden bowl of some fragrant liquid rendered almost viscous with honey. Coaxed to take a sip, Gallwyn obeyed meekly, and a little colour came back into her pallid face, but the work-roughened hand that Gruffydd held was slack and cold.

‘Nimue, my lovely, you are to listen to the words I say to old Gruff here. And you are to obey him in all things. Promise?’

Nimue would have promised anything, and did.

‘Gruff, we’ve been friends since you put my girl into my arms, is that not so?’

‘I’d never argue with you, Gallwyn, for I know I’d lose.’

A trace of her old humour returned when her other hand attempted to smack his face. The pretended blow was as light as a caress.

‘Someone’s got to take care of my little girl if anything happens to me. Someone’s got to see her safe.’

Gruffydd could see that Gallwyn’s eyes were leaking tears. He was shocked, for the ruler of the High King’s kitchens had never been seen to show weakness.

‘No!’ Nimue wailed, and began to sob in earnest. ‘You cannot die, for I won’t let you.’

‘Bring me some more tea, child,’ Gallwyn ordered gently, and Gruffydd knew she had forced herself to drink every drop in the cup. ‘Make me some more, for I feel better than ever.’

As soon as Nimue departed, Gallwyn turned her pleading eyes to Gruffydd.

‘Promise me that you’ll take her, Gruff. The dogs are sniffing around her already, and I’ll not be here to help her. She’ll end up like her mother if you desert her.’

In her agony of spirit, Gallwyn had gripped Gruffydd’s tunic with her good hand, but now her strength was beginning to fail her, and the hand fell away. Gruffydd heard how her breathing was slowing, and he placed his lips next to her ear and whispered to her as, slowly and agonizingly, the old woman began to slip away into the shades.

‘I’ll keep Nimue by my side, whatever happens. I promise. I’ll ask Artor to make her his ward, and then I’ll find her a good husband to protect her. These things I promise you, old friend, so you may die in perfect peace.’

Gallwyn’s eyes were closed when he raised his head, but she was smiling. As Nimue pulled aside the curtain and saw her drained face, she dropped the cup of hot liquid and threw herself down beside Gallwyn. She wept into the old woman’s shoulder like a small babe.