‘I should use this pretty little thing on you, woman, as you used it on Myrnia. I should blind you in one eye, tear off your eyelid, rip open your cheek and slash your lips - but you wouldn’t understand, would you?’
‘There’s nothing wrong with Myrnia,’ Wenhaver mumbled defensively, although her eyes were fearful. ‘She’s just pretending. Anyway, it’s not my fault. You put me in a temper, and she tore my best shawl, and . . . and . . .’
‘The world will look at you, and then at poor, scarred Myrnia and what will they think of you?’
‘It’s your fault! You’re always cruel to me . . .’ Wenhaver wept, great wrenching sobs, because in truth she was rather frightened by what she had done to her maidservant.
‘I’ll fix this matter, woman, but you will stay out of my sight for a while until such time as I forget the wounds I saw on Myrnia’s ruined face. I’ll send her home with a bride price of red gold, so a husband will overlook her physical deformities. Perhaps, one day, she’ll become a happy woman and mother. In which case, her lot in life will be far better than yours.’
Wenhaver gave a brittle, ugly little laugh.
‘In that case, she should be grateful that I lost my temper. She’d never win a respectable husband otherwise.’
Artor’s self-control broke down completely.
‘You’re such a cruel, stupid woman, Wenhaver, that I rue the day I wed you and, if I could, I’d undo the pact tomorrow. You are sickening, to suggest that poor Myrnia should be grateful that you’ve blinded her. I should parade the two of you through Cadbury Town, so the world can see what manner of woman you are, but such justice would humiliate Myrnia, and hold her up to public pity and, possibly, ridicule. I’ll not shame or upset her any further, especially when plague knocks at our doors.’
Wenhaver backed away from her husband, for she could see his fingers curling as if they were firmly gripped on her throat. He looked at her with a loathing so palpable that she felt physically sick.
Then, kicking over furniture as he went, Artor stormed out of the queen’s apartments.
For many months, she saw Artor only briefly, and then only when their roles demanded it. On one occasion, she saw him kissing a serving woman and, in response to her gasp of shock, his eyes snapped open and he simply stared uncaringly at her.
Myrnia’s wounds didn’t fester, for she was young, strong and used to obedience, so Myrddion was able to keep a close watch on her treatment and medication. Mindful of his promise, the High King commissioned an eye patch of thin, embossed gold, padded with soft wool for comfort, that tied around her head with a golden cord. On the patch, Artor’s dragon symbol spat fire, so all who saw Myrnia and thought to laugh at her scars would see his mark upon her face and be warned of the king’s anger.
Eventually, after the plague had passed and her wounds were completely healed, the High King sent her back to her village as a woman of substance. She was accompanied by a manservant and her own maid, and possessed a pair of fine grey horses, a leather purse filled with gold and a wagon containing furniture, clothing and woven lengths of cloth. In time, the young woman became the wife of a tribal chieftain’s young son, who treated her with great respect for the dowry that she brought to the marriage and the protection of the High King that came with her.
Wenhaver resented every coin that was spent on her maidservant, but she was fearful of making any complaint lest Artor carry out his threat to expose her cruelties. She was aware that most of the citizens of Cadbury would believe him.
By the time the epidemic reached its height, Wenhaver was bored and had become eager for new stimulation. She longed to hurt her husband to his arrogant core.
Although Myrnia was still recovering from her wounds in the fortress, Wenhaver’s shame over the ugly injuries had become just an inconvenient twinge in her memory. She blamed Artor for the whole tragedy, for Wenhaver was used to apportioning blame on to anyone but herself. To add to Wenhaver’s woes, she spent a great deal of time embroidering and sewing like any good wife but, her workmanship was abysmal.
Her view of her own worth rested largely on her ability to attract the admiration of men. Artor had rejected her over the Myrnia affair, but Cadbury Tor was full of virile young men.
Filled with vanity and devilry, the queen began to actively search for a diversion.
She deliberately began to wander from the clear rules of behaviour required by her noble position in life. She wantonly lowered her lashes and blushed prettily whenever men were near her, regardless of their station in society or their birth. Myrddion and Nimue watched in amazement as her flirtations and indiscretions increased, and Myrddion became deathly afraid. Nimue, little barbarian that she still was, watched the queen’s vulgarities with amusement.
‘She’s been a figure of fun for years, master, for she’s always puffed up in those ridiculously tight gowns that she wears. Wenhaver truly believes she’s the only woman alive who has breasts.’
‘But can you imagine what Artor will do if he becomes aware of her involvement with another man?’ Myrddion murmured.
‘He’ll be forced to kill her, I hope. And then life at Cadbury will be delightful once again.’
‘Will it really?’ Myrddion asked. ‘Unfortunately, I don’t believe Leodegran and his son would take kindly to violent recrimination against a member of their family. And, although they are supposed to be our allies, King Lot and his faction would immediately tell the world that the soul of Uther Pendragon had returned to the west. I’m afraid that this problem requires a great deal of thought.’
‘All I ever seem to hear is the name of Uther Pendragon! The man has been dead for longer than I’ve been alive, but every person I know still whispers his name in terrified undertones as if he were still alive and breathing. Just how bad could be have been if he continues to instill such terror?’ Nimue was unused to major disagreements with Myrddion, but she had the confidence and certainty of opinion that is the province of the young.
‘Uther was so terrible that his son still bears the taint of his name,’ Myrddion replied. ‘So don’t wish that disaster upon us.’
But the indiscretions of the queen were a serious matter for the crown, the court and the realm. Cautiously, and unwillingly, Myrddion drew Artor off to one side in an attempt to have a private discussion on the matter.
‘I have a matter of some sensitivity to discuss with you, my lord,’ he whispered. ‘I am concerned that the queen has been so unwise as to—’
‘Be silent on the subject, old friend, for I’m afraid I cannot hear you.’ Artor’s lips were pressed firmly together, and his eyes were very cold.
‘But my lord, I am obliged to tell you that—’
‘There are some things that a king must know,’ Artor interrupted, ‘and others that are far too dangerous to be spoken aloud.’
‘Even by me?’ Myrddion asked sadly.
Artor roughly embraced his friend, and then whispered in his ear. ‘Even by you, old friend. But have no fears, for the queen will soon become more circumspect. I will see to it.’
What else could Myrddion do or say? Like most souls on Cadbury Tor, he was forced to wait and to watch.
And then, two tragedies struck simultaneously.
Gawayne had come to visit Cadbury at the beginning of summer, and Queen Wenhaver was immediately entranced by his red-haired beauty and supple strength. Unlike his brothers, Gawayne had resisted early marriage, having a passion for hunting, battle and available women, preferably married, to circumvent any encumbrances. Once the tor was sealed off from the outside world, time lay heavily on Gawayne’s hands, for he could only groom his horse so often and drink with his friends on so many nights.
Cadbury town was quiet during the day and completely silent at night, when few lights burned and the streets were deserted. Artor had ordered that markets and all places where groups of citizens congregated must be closed to slow the spread of the disease. The citizens shut themselves within their homes and relied on warrior volunteers to deliver food. Tedium prompted Gawayne to join their number. Provisioning the townsfolk, guarding all exits and entrances to and from Cadbury town and burning houses where whole families had perished provided distraction for a time, but it soon palled through the daily grind of predictability.
The town was a place of ghosts, both living and dead. The trees in the orchards still bore fruit, the animals still dotted the fields and raised their heads when a stranger passed, and grain still grew in the fields although, mostly, it was untended. Soft breezes stirred the verdant vegetable patches, but no smoke rose from the conical roofs of the farms. The only sound to break the preternatural silence was the pained lowing of cattle with full udders whose owners had died, leaving them unmilked. Eventually, the crows came as if they smelled the path of death and they, too, called hollowly over the still villages.
Thick black smoke obscured both the sun and the moonlight on wasteland on the edges of the township. Here, the dead were incinerated by warriors, their hands protected by gauntlets, their mouths and noses, and all exposed areas of flesh covered by cloth. No matter how hot the day became, the fires continued to burn, and the smell of incinerating human flesh turned the air fetid and vile.
One afternoon, Gawayne joined a troop of soldiers who had volunteered for duties outside the fortress. He thought to show his courage once more by facing this invisible enemy that struck its victims at random. But he quickly, found that he did not have the stomach for the foul labour of burning swollen, corrupted bodies in the hot sun. He returned to Cadbury Tor at midnight, by simply climbing over the ramparts.
When Artor discovered that Gawayne had broken his strict rules, the High King was incensed, especially when the prince strolled into the hall, frightening several servants and setting the hounds to baying.
‘But I’m perfectly healthy,’ Gawayne pleaded his case. ‘I’ve never felt better, my lord. I thought you would be eager for word of how the town goes, and I’d never have risked the fortress if I considered for one moment that I might be ill.’
In exasperation, Artor looked at Gawayne’s freckled and handsome face and knew that he could berate Gawayne for hours, but the prince would never really understand what he had risked. Only one of the sons of Lot had inherited their father’s intelligent cunning, and Gaheris was long dead. The others were very much like their idle, pleasure-loving mother, Morgause. But then, none of them had inherited Morgan’s capacity for hatred either. Gawayne was the hero of a hundred forays against the Saxons, and was known to be a useful man in difficult straits, as long as someone told him what to do.
‘At least stay away from the very young and the very old; this contagion sometimes clings to the healthy so it can creep into corners to trap the weak. I’d appreciate your showing some consideration for other dwellers in this fortress.’
‘Of course, my lord. I will have all my clothing burned and will cleanse myself thoroughly. The Jew physician in the town has told me that the number of new illnesses has declined in Cadbury. He believes that the contagion is passing.’ Gawayne grinned at his king irrepressibly. Artor tried to quell his irritation; Gawayne, at thirty, was still an impressionable, irresponsible youngster, and would never be other than what stood before him, a smiling warrior with a genuinely equable nature.
‘If I punished you for disobeying my orders, it would be like expecting a rabbit not to breed, or a hawk not to hunt birds. But, shite, Gawayne, we don’t need the sickness inside this fortress. What if the queen becomes ill? Or Myrddion? Or me?’
‘I hadn’t thought of that,’ Gawayne looked blankly at his king. ‘But now I can see what you mean.’
Artor could picture the slow, patient machinery in Gawayne’s head as it worked on the answers to the problem.
‘So, you will do as you’re told in future?’ Artor asked, but his mouth began to quiver in the beginnings of a smile. Gawayne had that rare capacity that could bring humour to any situation, even when he had no intention of complying with instructions from any authority.
Ironically, when Targo suddenly became ill, he didn’t catch the contagion from Gawayne, who never visited the old warrior. It was Artor himself who eventually brought death to the man he loved most of all those souls who dwelt upon the earth. Perhaps the illness had nestled in Artor’s plaited hair, or had curled, serpent-like, into the folds of his cloak. Or perhaps the sickness had begun as a chill from sitting up too late with the High King.
One day, Targo was his usual sharp-witted self. The next, after a late-night visit from his king, he began to sicken.
Perce sealed the doors of Targo’s rooms immediately, for the illness must not be allowed to spread further. Word had no sooner been sent to Artor than Nimue was pounding at the door, a leather satchel over one shoulder and a mulish look in her eyes.
‘Who is it?’ Perce called through the door.
‘It’s Nimue! Let me in right now, Perce, or I can promise you that there will be trouble.’
‘You cannot enter, Nimue. Targo has told me what to do for him, so I think we’ll both survive this illness.’
Nimue kicked and pounded even harder on the door.
‘Listen, you great oaf! Only by the greatest persuasion have I prevented Lord Myrddion from insisting on caring for Targo himself. I will not have my master threatened, so I’ve come instead. You will open the door this minute, or I swear by Jesus, or Odin, or any other god that ever was, that it will be broken off its hinges.’
These last words were shouted, and Artor, who rounded the corridor at a run, saw a red-faced Nimue perfectly prepared to batter at the door with a stool.
The young woman’s blazing face turned at the sound of Artor’s footsteps. She registered his anguished mouth, his desperate eyes and hunched shoulders, and she felt a stir of fear for her king. Nothing could have calmed her temper faster.