Warrior of the West (53 page)

Gracefully, she bowed low to him.

‘My lord, I am trying to convince Perce to open the door a crack so that I can enter. I have preparations made by my master’s own hands that might save Targo’s life but,’ Nimue kicked the door again, ‘Perce won’t let me in. They are both being incredibly noble.’

Artor sighed, and his torment was so clear on his usually controlled face that Nimue felt her hand begin to rise in a gesture of comfort.

‘Perce, this is Artor, your king, at the door. Will you please allow Nimue to enter.’

The sound of a muffled discussion could be partially heard within the apartment.

‘Targo forbids me to risk her, my lord,’ Perce replied, his voice not quite steady. ‘He says he will not be responsible for her death.’

‘I am the one who is responsible,’ Artor replied. ‘As his only visitor, I am the one who brought this evil illness to Targo. But what has been done is done, and cannot be changed. So open the door, Perce, and give Targo a chance at life.’

‘Targo says that you are not to enter, my lord,’ Perce insisted. ‘He says he’d rather die alone than risk your life.’

Nimue could see Artor’s face contort, and she believed he was about to help her to batter the door down, but with a great effort of will he controlled his face and his shaking hands.

‘Tell Targo that I will bargain with him. I’ll not enter the room, regardless of what might prevail, as long as Nimue is permitted to care for him during his illness. I will send whatever food and drink you need and have it placed outside the door. I will respect his wishes in all things, provided he allows Nimue to enter.’

Artor could hear Targo’s reply without straining his ears.

‘Ah, shite! The boy has always had ways of getting what he wants. Let her in, Perce. I don’t think even Hades is ready for a difficult Nimue.’

The door opened a crack and Nimue slithered in lithely before Perce could change his mind. Artor heard the long wooden bar rammed home, and knew the oak door would not re-open until the contagion was gone, or all those souls within the room were dead.

Through eyes filming with tears, Artor saw Myrddion running towards him. The scholar’s hair was wild, and his robe was only partly fastened, revealing a smooth, white torso.

‘Nimue? Nimue?’ he yelled at the door. ‘That lying little bitch!’

‘She lied?’ Artor asked simply.

‘Of course she lied! I asked her to pack my satchel with the herbs and salves I needed while I dressed. When I came out of my room, she was gone. And my satchel left with her.’

Artor could hardly tell if Myrddion was violently angry, distressed or terrified. In fact, all three emotions chased themselves across the healer’s face.

‘I’ll kill her for this! She is the most disobedient, fractious, troublesome . . .’ Myrddion ran out of appropriate adjectives.

‘How about courageous?’ Artor added. ‘Let her remain, my friend, while you go to Gawayne and order him to stay in the stables in quarantine. If I see him, I may kill him out of hand. I, too, will remain alone until we know if the fortress has been breached by this illness.’

‘You’re not at fault, Artor. Targo’s an old man, and his health has hung in the balance for years. Don’t crucify yourself with guilt, because it’s still possible that Targo may not even have the contagion.’

‘I should have quarantined Gawayne immediately.’ His voice began to break in his grief for his friend. ‘I visited Targo, so the contagion must have come from me. If Targo has the fever, then I am at fault.’

Myrddion gripped his master’s arm. Artor was surprised at the sinuous strength in his fingers.

‘Don’t do anything stupid, Artor. Gawayne is a fool, but the west should not fail over an idiot who knows no better. Seal off all that you can of the tor, and call me if anyone else sickens.’

In the capricious ways of destiny, Targo was the only person in the fortress to become ill. While Artor waited for news of his sword master, his face was ashen with anger and fear, so the court kept out of his way, as if he carried the taint of death in his wake.

Wisely, Gawayne settled into the stables of the fortress with his horse. He remained there, snug in the straw, until the king’s mercurial temper had improved. Even Gawayne understood that if Targo died of the contagion, there would be no safe refuge for him anywhere in Artor’s kingdom.

Nimue took careful stock of Targo’s room with its open fireplace, shuttered windows and a narrow, pallet bed. The room was small but well-appointed, and the fire provided a source of hot water that would be essential if Targo was to have any chance of survival. In a pool of diffused light, a pile of furs and homespun wool covered the simple pallet and the shrunken form that lay beneath it. Nimue squared her shoulders and prepared to do battle with old age, infirmity and a killing disease.

Kneeling by the pile of furs, Nimue drew back the cocoon that Targo had formed about his face. His bright, raisin-brown eyes were as alive as ever, but his face was sunken, and she could see the skull beneath the paper-thin skin. The sheen of sweat beaded the old man’s forehead.

‘Come, Targo, tell Nimue where your pains lie?’ she ordered the old man with the brisk tones of a mother.

Targo ignored her, focused as he was on Artor’s conversation with Myrddion on the other side of the heavy door.

‘They mustn’t come in,’ he wheezed, and Nimue could hear the thick phlegm that filled his lungs as it gurgled under the effort of his laboured speech. The old man called out his instructions once again, and the effort seemed to further weaken him.

Purposely, Nimue left Targo and strode to the locked door.

‘Please go away, master. My lord Targo is tiring himself by worrying about your safety. He is my patient now, so you must trust me to do everything that can be done.’

‘How old is she, this apprentice of yours, Myrddion? Sixteen?’ Artor asked.

‘She’s seventeen, lord,’ Myrddion muttered ruefully. ‘And she really is hoping for some form of a miracle. It’s a futile hope, but she is uncontrollable.’

‘Then perhaps you should get rid of her,’ Artor snapped.

‘I can’t, so please don’t demand it of me. I know that I should, my lord, but whenever I try to find her a suitable husband, I find myself procrastinating.’

Myrddion sounded so miserable that Artor eyed his old adviser with sudden interest. Myrddion had coloured across his cheekbones.

‘Well, well. The great Myrddion has been hooked at last.’

Myrddion’s face twisted with so powerful a mixture of embarrassment and shame that Artor felt his heart go out to the man.

‘I’m sixty years of age, and I’ve managed to defy time up to the present, but I can’t live forever. And Nimue is little more than a babe. My love is obscene and unworthy, and it will never be reciprocated by so fair a girl. It’s useless to deny that I love her, if for no other reason than I admire her agile mind and her indomitable manner. I would be able to show my feelings if she were older, but my Nimue is a child in all things, and so I attempt to remain her master.’

‘Wenhaver is only a little older than your Nimue,’ Artor replied casually. ‘My father, like King David in the Jew book, took girls into his bed to ease his bodily pains by transferring his diseases to younger, stronger flesh. Your foolish maunderings are misplaced, old man; age always mates with youth. I’m not saying such a pairing is ideal, just that it’s not unusual. I can’t understand why you should be so . . . scrupulous in your feelings for her.’

Myrddion gazed sadly at Artor, as if he could force this older, sometimes inexplicable Artor to understand his reservations. The young Artorex would have immediately understood how his sense of duty and decency tortured him. Artorex had known how youth calls to youth.

Myrddion squared his shoulders in sudden resolution. He would enjoy the life that remained to him with Nimue, rather than waste precious time in frustration and doubt. If she remained untouched by the contagion, he might have time to untangle his unfamiliar feelings. But for now, she needed him to be decisive and impartial. The sun seemed to rise over the dark waters of his thoughts and flooded his doubts with light for, as always, tomorrow would take care of itself.

‘We must help Nimue, my lord. She will need a large basin for water, some ewers, fine cloth, clean rags, several covered pans, a goodly supply of easily heated food and water. A servant must be posted here to do her bidding immediately she wants it done, but only one servant, and always the same one. All that comes out of that room must be burned.’

‘All what? I don’t understand.’

‘The body still has its needs and its functions, my lord.’ Myrddion coughed respectfully until the king reddened.

‘Of course,’ Artor said crisply. ‘I never thought of the practicalities. You can organize everything needful in my name, but I expect you to keep me informed.’

Myrddion nodded and the two men parted.

Within the room, Nimue heard the departing footsteps and was glad. If the most important task in her short life was simply to ease Targo’s pain, then she had a noble cause. Gallwyn had often told her that to survive her terrible birth, the gods must have had a purpose for her; her future was laid out like a golden ribbon that only Nimue could untangle.

‘Well, Targo, it’s just you and me and Perce now. You haven’t told me exactly how you feel, so out with it or I will be cross. Believe me, old man, you’d be wise to keep me happy.’

‘Bloody women!’ the old legionnaire wheezed. ‘They’re more trouble than they’re worth, especially the pushy ones.’

‘I heard that,’ Nimue replied sweetly.

After carefully sponging Targo’s seamed and decrepit body, Nimue was certain that Targo had caught a fever, but she was equally certain that it wasn’t the fatal contagion. Either way, the treatment was the same for both illnesses, and it served no purpose anyway to dwell on what she couldn’t change. She convinced the old man to ignore any embarrassment when his bodily functions demanded to be eased, and then had to endure Perce’s fierce protectiveness over the same matters. She checked a small cubicle where Perce slept and decreed that this little compartment would be their temporary latrine.

Perce was persuaded to move his pallet, and then was given the task of collecting the articles and medical supplies that had been left outside the locked apartment door and storing them inside his erstwhile sleeping cubicle.

‘Myrddion hasn’t failed me,’ Nimue noted with satisfaction. ‘He has provided everything I could possibly need.’

‘I can see he’s taking care of our delicate sensitivities,’ Targo responded drily.

‘Of course he is. Perce and I need a latrine as well, so don’t be difficult, old man.’ She smiled sweetly. ‘And now, Targo, it’s time for some herb tea to reduce your fever.’

‘I won’t like it, will I?’ Targo grimaced in anticipation.

‘You’ll hate it,’ Nimue replied cheerfully. ‘But get used to the idea.’ Targo’s body had been worn away by time. Nimue held out little hope that he could fight off the infection that was spreading through his lungs.

Targo took some days to die, for Nimue used every trick in her repertoire to keep the old man alive and breathing. Three times a day, she would lay the old man’s head over the end of his pallet, push several pillows under his shrunken buttocks, and then pound his back and rub strange concoctions into his chest and sides. Targo would cough out the vile green mucus that seemed to be gradually drowning him. After each session, the old man would talk about his long, adventurous life, and he asked Nimue to write down exactly what he said. It was the deathbed story of a life filled with the devastation and excitement of war, the only thing Targo loved other than Artorex.

In the strange and terrible business of killing, Targo was a master. In another world, with parents other than the peasants who had briefly guided his life, he might have risen to great heights, for he was intelligent and was a natural survivor. But the Roman legions had become both mother and father to him when he was little more than a boy, and his comrades-in-arms were his only family. All that was required of him was unquestioning obedience and a talent for carnage.

In the late evening, Nimue pondered the horrors of Targo’s tales and the map of old injuries on his frail body. The old man’s cheerful recitation was at odds with the violence he described. He seemed quite untouched by what he had seen and done.

Nimue gazed at the moon as she leaned against a narrow window slit. The sky was clear of cloud. Far above, distant and freezing, stars glimmered. The sound of drunken laughter rose on the wave of a light breeze that feathered her pale hair and cooled the close little room.

Targo is like a child who plays with toy soldiers, and he’s always been careless of the slaughter in a game that is much loved by kings and masters of men, Nimue mused. I suppose that he’s a realist; the world is a cruel, ruthless place, and he has dealt with all manner of ugliness by treating battle as a business.

‘I miss you, Master Myrddion,’ Nimue told the wind as it rose to stroke her forehead. ‘I miss our talks.’

But the dark is not always friendly. Small children will tell you how horrors conceal themselves in dark corners that the light cannot pierce. Nor is darkness comforting, for its black folds are secretive and can hide all manner of sins that would wither in the brightness of day.

In the king’s stables, rosy with forbidden thoughts and a deep itch that demanded to be soothed, the queen so forgot her honour and her duty as to kiss the flushed face of Gawayne. The supper she had brought for him was forgotten as the queen and the prince settled into the welcoming straw and surrendered to temporary hungers and casual treasons. And if Gawayne was a more eager and attentive lover than her husband, it was only because he was obeying Wenhaver’s royal commands, or so he reasoned. As was his habit, Gawayne acted without thought of the consequences. Certainly, the queen’s rounded arms, her long, curling hair and the sweet, pert breasts that somehow found their way into his hot mouth didn’t allow for prudence or conversation. Any consideration of familial betrayal never entered his feverish mind.