Warrior of the West (38 page)

Targo watched the birds as they wheeled and dipped, eager to pirate new shoots from the budding fruit trees. Their speed and grace reminded him of the men he had killed and the women he had bedded. Rome was a memory so faint in his heart that only its heat and the smell of pressed olives still stirred his senses. Like the birds, he had alighted at Villa Poppinidii and found sustenance and a home within its old walls with their familiar order and beauty. Like the crows, he had rested for a time, feasting on the rich pickings of its verdant fields, before braving the excitement and freedom of the Old Forest. In response to the fates, he had followed Artor, prepared for ruin if need be, and instead had found honour at a time when he had ceased to believe that he was worthy of the word. His heart sang with thankfulness, and he knew that he was fated to lie with old Frith and Gallia when he finally crossed the River Styx. Artor would understand that he must close his eyelids with copper coins to pay the Ferryman and scatter his ashes at Cadbury Tor.

Artor saw a far-off falcon hovering on the high winds. He recognized the dark tree line where the Old Forest began, and his heart was lost to the strangeness he had experienced years before when he found himself within its confines. If he tried, he could imagine the ivy-covered chimney of the house that had once held such brief joy for him. He hoped to find it again one day, but like the raptor on the wind, he knew that he was a solitary creature, too used to the company of strong men to willingly give his heart to anyone who demanded emotions from him that had withered years before.

He stared at the villa, and watched as a young lad carried leather and wooden buckets to the stables. He remembered his other, younger self, and wondered if he could ever have been content in this haven of tranquillity. On the whole, he doubted it, and perhaps even Gallia would have grown old and bitter had he followed some other king to the battlefield, again and again.

‘All things have a purpose, but we can never understand the master design,’ he said aloud, and Targo looked at him with frank derision.

‘The only thing wrong with you, my boy, is that you never savour the moment. You must always be off to the next experience, the next idea and the next problem so you miss the quiet days that give us the greatest pleasure. Let’s just sit here for a moment while my damned leg isn’t aching, and enjoy the sunshine. That should be enough for any man.’

Artor smiled, and nodded, but his eyes turned upward to the falcon that was circling lower and lower, having spied some creature that it could capture with its hooked talons and strong, curved beak.

I’m looking forward to the next experience already, he thought, as the bird swooped to make its kill.

Cadbury was bustling as Gruffydd, Perce and Nimue rode through the crowded township and up to the first great gate of the fortress. The guards on the wall knew Gruffydd well, for the sword bearer was a man of whom legends and songs were already sung.

As the small party made its slow way up the spiral path to the summit, Gruffydd’s patience was pushed to its considerable limits, not so much because of its steepness but because of the slowness of Perce’s spavined donkey. Nimue had cast off her makeshift straw hat and cloak in the sunlight’s warmth. Her hair was half undone and framed her face like a crown of silver, her elfin face was alight with excitement and mischief.

Few of the men who lined the ramparts could tear their eyes away from her, and some whistled or made offensive suggestions about Nimue’s relationship with Gruffydd. The sword bearer merely impaled them with a vicious stare, causing them to look away and lapse into chastened silence. Perce wanted revenge for the insults, but Gruffydd somehow kept his temper, and forced the boy to move upward and onward to their destination.

Nimue was sufficiently female to preen - just a little.

Now that Cadbury was upon them, Gruffydd doubted his wisdom in bringing either of his two charges to Artor’s fortress. Perce had been a moment of whimsy on his part, but Nimue? He had promised Gallwyn that he would guarantee the girl’s safety and, short of spiriting Nimue off to a cold welcome from his wife in Venta Silurum, Cadbury was the best alternative.

Nimue was too beautiful, too clever and too naive to be left unprotected. Artor had marked her with the dragon symbol when she was barely two weeks old, and then had completely forgotten her, leaving Gallwyn to care for and raise the babe. Gruffydd had no choice, for only Artor could decide her fate.

When Caius strolled out at the last log gate, and made similar lewd suggestions about possible uses for Nimue, Gruffydd halted his horse, instructed the children to keep moving and addressed Caius.

‘I take offence at your suggestions, my lord. If you’d care to look, you’d see the mark of Artor on the child’s right ankle and leg. I’m surprised that you have forgotten her, because the High King decimated your troop to avenge the death of her mother. She is the child of the willow.’

Caius whitened, leaving twin spots of embarrassment on his cheeks. Caius did not care to be reminded of those far-off days when he had been shamed. He was now well past his fortieth year, and his body had grown portly in the exercise of his duties as Artor’s steward. Even in the short time since the battle at Mori Saxonicus, the king’s foster-brother had earned prestige through his genius for making money, and he fully intended that his life would remain as comfortable as it now was.

‘All that happened a long time ago, Gruffydd. I had forgotten the brat still lived. She’s a beauty, I’ll say that for her, but the king’s new bride may not welcome another beautiful woman at Cadbury.’

‘New bride? What do you mean?’

‘The kings have prevailed upon Artor to marry. He must beget an heir, or the kingdom will endure the same nonsense that occurred when Uther Pendragon died. My brother doesn’t seem to care whom he marries, so Leodegran has become the lucky father-in-law. That sluggard is fortunate to have a daughter of the right age, appearance and pedigree.’

Gruffydd was taken aback but quickly recovered.

‘That’s excellent news, Lord Caius, for the king should be married. Has he met this beauty?’

‘No, Gruff, that’s the joke of it all. Artor says he’s too old to care. In fact, he’s younger than me. And
I’d
care, believe me!’

Caius laughed naturally, and Gruffydd found himself surprised once more at how engaging Artor’s foster-brother could be when he put his mind to it. But Gruffydd had always judged men and women by their actions rather than their amiable expressions. Even now, Ector was presiding over the marriage of Caius’s daughter in the household of the Villa Poppinidii because Caius was too busy with other interests to attend the wedding. In Caius’s view, daughters did not count; his lack of a son irked him constantly.

‘Your charges are out of sight now,’ Caius pointed out. ‘I trust that caring for that lass will be an enjoyable burden, my friend.’

‘Yes, my lord. Good day to you.’

Caius simply nodded, and Gruffydd galloped his horse in pursuit of Perce and Nimue, who were still riding upwards, squabbling about which direction gave the finest view from the tor.

So Artor is to marry, Gruffydd thought speculatively. Artor had resisted marriage for many years but now, as he settled into the beginnings of middle age, Artor’s advisers had obviously forced the High King to see political reason.

The fortress of Cadbury was boiling with servants in their best livery, rushing to and from the great hall to other buildings on the paved summit of the tor.

Leodegran’s arrival is obviously being eagerly awaited, Gruffydd thought, as he kneed his horse towards the stables, instructing his young charges to follow. Then the two young people were instructed to unload their beasts and follow Gruffydd to his quarters.

‘I will ascertain whether Artor will see you,’ Gruffydd said doubtfully as he observed the ordered chaos of Cadbury from the window of his room. ‘Clean yourselves as best you can, and then don your finest clothing. The king is a man of unusual perception and he will not judge you well if you are dressed like servants. I’ll go and find out what he expects of you.’

Before making his way to Artor’s quarters, Gruffydd entered a comfortably furnished room at the far end of the servants’ wing. There, before a fire in a stone hearth, sat the ancient Targo. He was wrapped in furs and looked as disreputable as ever.

Targo had now accepted that his arthritis was a problem. He had been an elderly man when he had trained the young Artor in sword craft, but now he was ancient, and seemed to be little more than an untidy bundle of stick-like bones, a hairless skull that he kept shaved bare and a pair of black eyes that sat deeply in his head. Artor was utterly faithful to those whom he loved, and now that Targo’s body was no longer of any practical use to his master, he was allowed to rest in an apartment as luxurious as that which was being prepared for Leodegran. Targo continued to stand at his master’s back as a bodyguard, and Gruffydd knew that Targo was still capable of spitting an assassin on his short sword, no matter what the personal cost might be. Artor would never shame his old tutor by putting him out to pasture. Besides which, Artor enjoyed talking to the old man, and the sword bearer’s simple heart honoured his lord for the consideration he gave to his loyal retainer.

Targo peered up at Gruffydd with eyes that were glossy with the beginning of cataracts. As he caught sight of the red-grey hair, Targo recognized his guest immediately.

‘Back so soon, Gruff? My master gave you two months’ leave to visit your grandsons, and you’re back far too early. Did you have trouble on your journey?’

‘No, I had no trouble, but I acquired two youngsters along the way, and I don’t really know what to do with them.’

Targo relished news, and was sorry to hear of Gallwyn’s death. He remembered Nimue as an infant, and Gruffydd’s description merely piqued his curiosity for more gossip.

‘Bring the girl on a visit at some convenient time. I often wondered whether she was worth the lives of those innocent warriors who died when Artor decimated Caius’s troop. She must be a full-grown woman by now.’

‘She’s beautiful enough to restart even your old heart, Targo. But I warn you, there’s something wild about the girl, for all that she’s loving and . . . well . . . she’s just a sweet little thing.’

Targo snickered, and poured wine into a bronze goblet. Gruffydd noticed that Targo’s shaking hands spilled some of the wine.

‘After such high praise from you, I look forward to meeting this paragon who has caught the attention of the unassailable Gruffydd.’

Then Gruffydd described Perce, and the young man’s ambitions, his strengths and his endless, almost unnatural patience.

‘He’s far too old to be trained as a warrior. He’s twenty-five if he’s a day, but he holds to his dream regardless of what I say.’

Targo laughed outright, and then his face suddenly collapsed into a coughing fit that made Gruffydd very worried about the old warrior’s state of health.

‘Bollocks, Gruff, ’ Targo sputtered. ‘You and I know there’s no real age when a warrior is fit for training. Yes, it’s best when he’s young for there are no bad habits to beat out of him. But it’s what’s in the heart that counts. Even now, Odin trains Gareth, and Gareth is thirty. Artor will know if this Perce is suitable immediately he sets his eyes on the man, for all that he’s engrossed in thoughts of this stupid marriage with this Wenhaver creature.’

Targo sounded so peeved that Gruffydd was alarmed. The old man stalked around his chamber with something of his old vigour, although he favoured one leg and pressed a swollen-fingered hand to his hip.

‘It’s probably just an old man’s fancy, Gruff, but I remember that witch, Morgan. She told us many years ago that Artor’s second wife would destroy the kingdom, and I’m beginning to grow superstitious in my old age.’

Gruffydd snorted at the very idea that Targo would believe in anything he couldn’t see, touch, hear, smell or taste.

‘What did Morgan say that worries you so much?’

‘She told us that Artor should beware of a woman with yellow hair. At the time, no one at the Villa Poppinidii took the threat seriously because we didn’t know then how often Morgan’s predictions would prove to be correct. And how many golden-haired women appear naturally among the Celts?’ He paused. ‘Shite, Gruff, I worry about my boy. Morgan has always meant him harm and, by all reports, this Wenhaver has yellow hair.’

‘Artor’s no fool in the game of love, Targo. You know that better than anyone, and I’d not care to stand in her shoes if she ever upsets him.’

Targo slapped Gruffydd’s back in gratitude, and they resumed their original conversation.

‘I’d like you to bring the boy to me after Artor makes his decision. Perhaps there might be something that these old hands can do to help him with his ambitions. It would be an interest, mind, and I can’t promise any success. From what you say, the boy may be a clod.’

‘Your reservations are understood, Targo. I’m grateful for any help, because I like young Perce. He reminds me of how I felt when I was young.’

Targo chortled and then slumped back into his chair as another coughing fit shook him.

‘You? Young?’ he said when he could speak. ‘You were never young, you old reprobate. You and I were born old.’

Gruffydd looked closely at the mercenary, his eyes troubled. ‘Are you well, Targo? Because I must say you don’t look it. I’d be sorry if anything were to happen to you.’

‘I am well enough, old friend. Mori Saxonicus was a bit too much for me, but I’d not exchange a moment in that charnel house for an added decade of life. I’ve no plans to rust away through idleness, I’ll tell you that for nothing. Besides, my boy still needs me, so I’m good for a few years more. But I take your concerns in good heart, Sword Bearer. We’re neither of us too pretty now.’