Still, no matter how her conscious reason told her that she was being foolish, Nimue took pains to latch her door at night and lean a large clothes chest against it for good measure. On one occasion, when she was walking past the stables with her basket of herbs over one arm, she had seen the flicker of a moving cloak in her peripheral vision. When she turned to stare into the afternoon shadows, no one was there.
Shame-faced, she took her half-serious fears to Myrddion.
‘I think someone has been following me and watching my movements, master.’
Myrddion looked up from his calculations, and stared blankly at his apprentice.
‘What?’ Myrddion’s eyes were distant, and Nimue could tell that he was still absorbed in the task of calculating the number of troops necessary for the spring levee.
‘I feel sometimes that someone is watching me, and it frightens me a little,’ Nimue repeated, feeling obliged to trivialize her fears.
Myrddion’s eyes sharpened, and one elegant white hand nervously pulled his long silver hair behind his ears.
‘You’re not excessively cautious, Nimue. When did you first notice this . . . feeling?’
Nimue lowered herself on to her accustomed stool, and Myrddion’s heart lurched as her beautiful face frowned deeply in concentration.
‘Since the time of Targo’s death . . . at least I think that’s when I first felt a prickling sensation on my neck. Do you know what I mean, master? It’s as if someone is staring hard at me behind my back. But when I turn to look, there’s no one there. Sometimes, in the great hall, no one seems to be paying the slightest attention to me but I know that someone has just turned away.’
‘Perhaps Wenhaver is amusing herself by making you feel uncomfortable?’
Myrddion was worried and, unaccountably, his concern steadied Nimue’s nerves.
‘She stares at me like an angry, fat and fluffy cat, but she stares directly at my face,’ Nimue gurgled with amusement at the thought of Wenhaver being her stalker. ‘There’s no subtlety in Wenhaver. I could be dressed in a covering of rags but I swear she’d begrudge me the right to wear them. No, master, it’s not Wenhaver. I know her particular feel, if you understand what I mean. I know I’m not making myself clear, but it seems to me that a strange man stares at me. He wants me, but not as a man should, and I have been stared at with lust often enough to recognize that look. This man hates me, and I don’t know why.’
The last few words were whispered, for Nimue knew how formless and foolish her words sounded, even in her own ears. She wished then that she hadn’t troubled Myrddion for, spoken aloud, her suspicions seemed self-indulgent and vain.
‘As of this day you must carry Targo’s sword with you whenever you go out into the fields. I’ll ask Percivale to hone a sharp edge on both sides of the blade. The weapon is short enough to be easily carried in your basket.’
Nimue opened her mouth to speak, but Myrddion ignored her protests.
‘The man we seek is capable of insane obsession and will be motivated by some twisted logic of his own. You say you feel his eyes within the fortress? This narrows the field of potential culprits considerably. If you aren’t being fanciful, then I must accept that our murderer is one of Artor’s personal guard, or a provisioner from the town, or a trusted servant or a member of Artor’s court. It’s a wide group of potential murderers, but it’s narrower than the entire population of Cadbury.’
Myrddion’s concern was contagious and Nimue shivered in the over-warm room.
Every warrior, every smith, the servant who drew water and the aristocrats who bowed in the hall all had the potential to be a threat to her. The possibilities for danger opened like a yawning chasm before her unwilling feet.
‘Unfortunately, we are forced to wait until we can reduce the field of suspects further. Each murder will tell us something new about the killer. But you must be cautious in the extreme, Nimue, for I don’t know what I would do without you.’
Myrddion offered this admission reluctantly, but Nimue’s whole face was transfigured, and she glowed with pleasure.
‘I’ll speak to Odin and ask him to show you a few nasty tricks you could use with Targo’s sword,’ Myrddion added thoughtfully. ‘Don’t worry yourself to flinders, for we might well trap the creature. He takes risks and he exposes himself more and more with each kill he makes.’
Myrddion’s face was drawn with fine lines and, with a pang, Nimue saw that her master was finally beginning to show his age.
‘You shouldn’t have to worry overly about me, dear master.’ Nimue impulsively kissed Myrddion’s hand. ‘I will do whatever Odin asks of me.’
Hours, days, weeks followed, and the nerves of women from both within the forest and without were sorely stretched. Then, as winter sent out its first tendrils of heavy mist and the cold weather chained men and women to their hearths, a young boy went missing from within the citadel itself.
Artor was enraged.
The child was a minor son of a northern king, sent as a hostage against his tribe’s disaffection. Afflicted by a bad case of hero worship, the twelve-year-old boy had dogged Artor’s steps and he had become fond of the lad. The boy’s constant chatter of questions and his bright-eyed interest in the business of government had charmed the High King, despite his determination to remain aloof. The lad been a great favourite with the guards, and had whiled away his days poking his nose into the stables, the kitchens and the servants’ quarters.
He never ventured outside of the fortress, so his sudden disappearance sent a frisson of fear running through every inhabitant of the tor. No one could now deny that the murderer had access to everyone within its walls. Wenhaver had treated the previous deaths as inconveniences that caused a pall to settle over her amusements, but now she importuned Artor to
do something
whenever their paths crossed.
‘His victims have all been fair-haired,’ Wenhaver nagged. ‘And who possesses more golden hair than I do? You cannot know how frightened I am and, as usual, you are more concerned with your silly work than with the safety of the queen.’
‘Madam, you are not the only fair-haired woman in the fortress. In fact, Myrddion reported to me only an hour ago that Nimue suspects she’s been watched by a hidden man for several months.’
Irrationally, Wenhaver was incensed. She couldn’t bear to think that, even in unimaginable danger, Nimue eclipsed her. How dare a monster wish to kill Nimue before her?
‘That creature has an unseemly habit of seeking attention whenever she can,’ Wenhaver exclaimed in her temper.
Artor was tired, dispirited and gravely worried, so he spoke with unaccustomed violence.
‘When will you think of anything other than your own selfish hide, woman? When will you not demand full attention at all times? When will the Saxons cut your throat to shut you up?’
Wenhaver fled, and then wept real tears before her ladies-in-waiting, stirring up even more fear among them than had existed before.
When Artor wearily recounted this latest squabble, Myrddion became agitated.
‘I have been an idiot,’ he exclaimed. ‘Wenhaver has stumbled on what I, for all my learning, have missed.’
Artor raised his mobile brows.
‘All the victims have been fair-haired. The murderer must be obsessed with a certain appearance rather than a certain age or sex. The widow was in her thirties, the girl no more than nine and the lad twelve, so it’s beyond doubt that age is no indication of his preferences.’ ‘I follow your reasoning, Myrddion, but how does this help us?’
‘Apart from being of fair complexion, all the victims were vulnerable. The widow had no close family support. The girl was an only child with no known father, and your ward was five days’ ride from his friends and family comfort.’
Myrddion was certain that Nimue must be extremely careful.
To be fair to Nimue, she tried to obey her master, but circumstances were against her.
Winter passed without a single violent incident. The citizens and villagers of Cadbury and its environs were of the opinion that a madman had dwelt among them for a short time but had since moved on to find fresher, sweeter kills. But, Nimue still sometimes felt those hot eyes of her watcher, and as the spring thaw filled the rills with clean, icy water and new shoots leapt up from the earth, she continued to keep Targo’s sword within easy reach. After an evening’s earnest advice from Percivale, she always strapped a knife to her thigh when she left the fortress, just in case her sword should be wrested from her. In addition, Odin taught Nimue how to use a blade most effectively, and showed her that even with her stiffened fingers she could hurt an attacker. Odin’s instincts told him that the monster hadn’t disappeared but was simply watching and waiting, using anticipation to sharpen his desires.
‘You must practise with the knife, little wise woman. A man who has such lusts as this man possesses will desire what is cool and unapproachable, a woman such as yourself who shows so few weaknesses. Even while he watches you, he has killed other, weaker victims in your stead. He awaits an opportunity to catch you unawares and, if you should fall into his power, he will want to feast on your fear of pain. Don’t give him what he wants. You must never show him that he terrifies you.’
‘Ugh!’ Nimue shuddered. ‘Such creatures should not be permitted to live. Why can’t we see the wickedness written on his face, friend Odin?’
‘He knows what he is, so he is used to hiding his true self behind a friendly smile. You can trust nobody.’
Nimue grinned. ‘But I trust you, and Perce, and my dear master . . . and the High King, of course.’
Then she sobered, for Odin tapped her right hand with his calloused fingers.
‘You know what I am saying, little wise woman. Targo would bid you to be very, very careful and to obey your instincts. I will keep you under observation when my duties permit, but if this creature wants you, he will wait patiently until you come within his reach.’ He smiled suddenly. ‘Be careful, or—’
‘I’m dead. I know.’ She grinned up at the Jutlander. His clear, northern eyes were open windows to the concerns that he felt and his anxiety stiffened Nimue’s resolve. ‘I will carry Targo’s sword with me whenever I leave the fortress, and I will ponder what you have said,’ she assured the Jutlander. ‘I will practise dutifully for, in truth, I refuse to be murdered without striking back at my assailant.’
For all her precautions, Nimue still didn’t feel safe.
The remains of the laughing, curious boy who had disappeared in the autumn were found during the spring thaw. The body had been reduced to gnawed bones and scattered fragments of fabric. Now, Artor’s eyes watched the denizens of his fortress with a new, icy suspicion, and Myrddion’s dreams were often disturbed by the horrors of a bleeding willow tree that his waking mind understood all too well. The past had come to torment the present.
Gawayne returned to Cadbury in the early spring, accompanied by a pale, brown-haired bride with kind, green eyes and a sweet, otherworld smile. Enid, for such was her name, was soon a favourite with the citizens of the citadel, for she was good-natured and shy. Gawayne took great pride in his young wife; she placed so few demands upon his time and his emotions, and she made his days comfortable and easy.
Like the termagant she would become, Wenhaver alternated between cloying civility and spiteful rudeness in her dealings with Enid. The mere sight of Gawayne’s wife devotedly kissing her husband’s hand before he embarked upon a day of hunting was quite sufficient to cause Wenhaver to find fault with her maids until they were bruised and battered. She directed the acid of her tongue at the well-born ladies of the fortress with almost equal venom. One of her so-called companions tearfully returned to her father’s household rather than face Wenhaver’s wrath.
Eventually, Artor was forced to intervene.
He entered Wenhaver’s luxurious apartments where she reclined, sulking and pretending to stitch a hem. His nose itched with the mingled aromas of scent, dying flowers, female flesh and rose water that roiled together into an unpleasant sweetness. With a dismissive wave of his hand, the High King sent maids and ladies running for the door until he was alone with the woman whom he had come to actively dislike.
‘You’ve gone too far this time, madam.’ Artor snapped at his queen. ‘Myrddion has had to treat the injuries of another maid after one of your temper tantrums and this poor creature had done nothing but try to serve you. Don’t bother to speak of laziness or greed. You find it difficult to remember that you are a queen and, as such, you are supposed to be representative of the best of Celtic womanhood, not the worst!’
Wenhaver put aside her sewing, and daintily selected an almond encased in a sweet paste. She popped it between her red lips, sucked on the morsel noisily before crunching the nut between her perfect teeth, and then raised her limpid eyes to her husband’s irate face.
‘I will do precisely as I please, husband. I don’t see what you can do about it.’
Then she picked up another morsel and smiled.
Artor crossed the room to her bed with two quick strides. His eyes were unreadable, but his muscles clenched like coiled springs along his still-firm jaw line.
‘You risk much when you wager your pretty skin on that belief, wife! You are barren, and are of less use to me than your lowliest servant. You are queen only because I value the alliance with your father and, unfortunately, my wedding vows.’
Feeling safe within her scented, rose-damask room, Wenhaver made the mistake of laughing, and Artor’s large hand reached out with serpentine swiftness and gripped her chin and cheeks so tightly that her tender flesh was bruised.
‘You’re hurting me,’ she whispered, her eyes wild and frightened.
‘I’ll do worse if you cross me, or shame me, or continue to flout my authority,’ Artor hissed.