After a time, fragments of thought and confusion intruded; hugely exaggerated faces; disembodied voices; her hand being kissed again and again; tears and laughter.
And a voice that hissed in her ear, ‘I’ll get you yet, bitch.’
Nimue woke slowly as a stray ray of light found her eyelid in the Stygian darkness of her room. A black-robed form was lying across a chair, snoring gently. Long white hair fell over a face that was etched with worry. A naked sword lay across his knees.
‘Master,’ she croaked.
Myrddion’s body snapped into instant life. The sword fell to the ground with a metallic clatter and his dark, anxious eyes fixed themselves on her face. In the darkness, half-blind and even half-dead, she would have known her protector anywhere.
Myrddion, her master, was watching over her.
Even though her head was pounding with an unbearable headache, and her left elbow was splinted and immobilized, she opened her arms as best she could and Myrddion eased his body into her embrace.
Kneeling beside her bed, with his face close to hers on the pillow, and with her right arm holding him close against her breast, Myrddion was neither able nor inclined to move.
‘You’re real. And I’m alive. Oh, my lord, I have searched and searched to find my way back to you and to the fortress.’
‘I’ve been here ever since you were found, Nimue,’ Myrddion whispered soothingly. ‘I haven’t left your side.’
‘Then I must have been having a nightmare.’
She kept her grip round Myrddion’s neck.
‘Move over, woman. If you intend to strangle me, at least have pity on my old back.’
Nimue released him and moved to one side of her pallet, and Myrddion stretched his long legs beside her. She held him again, cradling his head on her good arm and, in perfect peace, apprentice and master fell asleep.
Artor found them together in the early evening. Myrddion was lying with his face against Nimue’s breast and their hair intermingled so that man and woman seemed woven together. Nimue’s lips smiled in her sleep, in stark contrast to the livid bruises on her throat, and Artor felt a pang of bitter jealousy, for no one loved him in the way that Nimue loved Myrddion. Then, as he recalled the decades of selfless service to the crown and the old man’s unswerving devotion, he shook off the uncharitable emotion and was pleased at the good fortune of his most loyal servant.
‘Myrddion?’ he whispered, and two pairs of eyes snapped open. One pair was ebony dark and the other pair northern blue. Myrddion eased himself out of Nimue’s embrace.
‘What do you need of me, my lord?’
Myrddion’s normally pale complexion slowly suffused with blood as he realized the king had found him asleep in the embrace of Nimue. All his past guilt concerning the disparity in their ages surfaced as he struggled to rise on numbed feet.
Artor held out a hand to his friend and helped Myrddion up.
‘You’re blushing, friend. Why?’
‘I shouldn’t be here, my lord. I shouldn’t compromise her, for so I have done by my stupid behaviour. A man is never too old to be a fool.’
Artor grinned wryly. ‘Perhaps you’re finally being clever, my dearest and oldest living friend. Nimue might yet be your salvation.’
Artor glanced down at Nimue who was also struggling into a sitting position. Bandages covered her palms, cut by Targo’s blade. Myrddion himself had stitched those wounds closed lest her hands be permanently useless. He had also eased her elbow into a bent position, while forcing the broken bone and its dislocated fellows back into position, and then binding the whole arm into place with carefully shaped wooden splints. The worst injury seemed to be a superficial cut on the back of Nimue’s head, for the area immediately around the wound was very swollen. Myrddion feared that her skull had been breached, and both men knew that those poor creatures who survived such wounds often became drooling idiots or were changed beyond recognition.
The blue eyes that now met Artor’s open gaze were those of the true Nimue, and the mobile brows that rose under his careful scrutiny were Nimue’s brows. Obviously, her brain had suffered no damage.
‘We must discover who’s responsible for this attack, girl. And why. I regret my haste, but the blood trail led us in the direction of Cadbury Tor. I can’t be seen to be harbouring a savage murderer within these walls.’
‘I understand, my lord,’ Nimue responded gravely. ‘Now that my thoughts are clear, I can recall much of what happened during the attack.’
‘Are you hurting, Nimue?’ Myrddion asked. ‘We can investigate this matter at a later time if you don’t feel well.’
Myrddion held her free hand, careful not to press upon the stitches that crossed her palm.
‘Did you find the lichens and mosses I collected, lord?’ Nimue asked. ‘I found some excellent samples and I was careful to collect them again after the monster went away.’
‘Yes, I found them. And they were unharmed from their ordeal - unlike yourself. We can examine their medicinal properties together when you are well.’
Artor was beginning to grow impatient. ‘I must know the details of the attack on you, Nimue, and I need to hear them immediately. Every moment is precious, with an animal guilty of rape and murder on the loose somewhere. He must be found before he takes another victim. We might not be so lucky next time.’
‘Oh!’ Nimue said, her eyes glazing with shock as a memory returned. ‘He’s definitely in the fortress. I remember that he came into this room and threatened me, but I thought it was only a dream.’
‘What do you mean, Nimue?’ Myrddion demanded. He glanced fearfully around the room as if a crazed murderer could leap out from behind a clothes chest.
‘Tell me,’ Artor ordered.
‘I was half-conscious but I remember the whisper in my ear,’ Nimue said softly and she shivered at the memory. ‘How could I not remember what he said? He called me a bitch, and he promised to come for me soon to finish what he had started. What have I done that someone could hate me so?’ A tear snaked down from one eye.
‘We are upsetting her, my lord,’ Myrddion warned his king angrily, but Nimue placed her one good hand on his arm.
‘I must tell the king all that I remember, Myrddion. I must, or I will never forget it, and I’ll not give that coward the satisfaction of a lifetime of fear. Let me speak, please.’
‘Why do you call him a coward?’ Artor asked.
‘He attacked me from behind and, because he knew I would be able to recognize him, he covered my face with that vile hood. Only a coward, or someone I knew well, would want to hide from his victim.’
Both men nodded in agreement.
‘He moves silently and knows the woods very well; I had no idea that he was there until the hood went over my face.’ She glanced across at Myrddion once more. ‘I was engrossed in freeing the mandrake root. Did you find it, master? I took some trouble to put it back in the basket.’
‘I have it, child. Just tell Artor your story.’
Nimue did so, and fulfilled her task without any particular distress except for satisfaction when she spoke of how she struck the monster twice, once with the point of Targo’s sword, and once with a blind slash. She was more circumspect about her description of the long journey out of the forest and her eventual arrival at the sanctuary of the weaver’s cottage. Both men knew at once that she was holding something back.
‘Can we reward the weaver’s wife? She was alone, except for her children, and she must have been frightened, yet she opened the door to a stranger and sent her eldest son for assistance.’
‘She has been well paid for her efforts,’ Artor replied grimly. Myrddion had been blunt in his discussion with his king. Untreated, and exposed to the night air, Nimue would probably have died of exposure and shock on the roadway were it not for the insistence of the weaver’s son that he speak to Myrddion.
‘If I had money to pay for it, I would like to ask her husband to weave me a sea-green length of cloth to thank them for their help,’ Nimue whispered tearfully, thinking of the delicate wool she had seen in the marketplace on that dreadful day.
‘I will pay for the work myself, Nimue, so don’t worry your head about it,’ Myrddion answered. ‘Now, what do you remember about your attacker?’
‘He was very strong. I’m tall for a woman, yet he pulled me off my feet as if I was thistledown.’
She thought for a second, and Myrddion could tell by her expression that she was reliving her experiences. He felt a surge of pure rage, something so foreign to his nature that he was taken aback by his reaction.
‘He was a little taller than me, but he was thick in the body. I could feel his chest and belly against my back before I fell. And his cheeks were smooth.’ Nimue muttered as she stared at the splints and bandages on her arm. ‘I managed to block the cord of the hood that was cutting off my airway, and I felt his cheek against my hand. His face was plucked smooth.’
Both men looked at each other. Most Celts wore facial hair as a sign of manhood. Only men of Roman heritage, Gawayne, some sentimentalists who emulated a younger Artor and eccentrics such as Myrddion were still inclined to pluck or blade away their beards.
‘Are you quite certain, Nimue?’ Myrddion asked her quietly.
‘Yes master, I’m certain. Even now, I can feel his smooth cheeks. At first I wondered if he was a boy, but he was far too strong and heavily-bodied to be a youth.’
Myrddion stroked her downy cheek, his eyes unreadable in the half-light.
‘It’s time you went back to sleep now, my dear. I will give you one of my bitter draughts to help you on your way and you’ll feel much better when you awaken.’
Nimue nodded like an obedient child, then her blue eyes flared with a sudden thought.
‘The stab wound must have struck him on the side for he was dragging me at the time I used the sword. It can’t be very deep. I may even have caught his left thigh, for I was not standing upright at the time. But the slash wound caught him either on the lower right arm or across the belly. I was kneeling, facing him, and no other wound is possible.’
‘Well done, Nimue,’ Artor praised her. ‘You would have made an excellent warrior.’
‘But then I’d have to be all hairy and rough, my lord.’ She gurgled with laughter. ‘I think I prefer being female.’
Outside the sickroom, after Myrddion sent a servant to fetch a sleeping potion, the two men planned their next move.
‘Every word that Nimue spoke points directly at an aristocratic Celt . . . or Caius,’ Myrddion stated baldly. ‘Her description fits him exactly because he still holds to the Roman way of dress. I’m sorry, my lord.’
‘Aye, and he is about the same height as Nimue,’ Artor sighed. ‘While his guilt, or otherwise, is yet to be proven, I can think of an immediate way to settle the matter. I had acquitted him of any guilt in these murders because the method was so different from the Severinii attacks. I’ll be sorry to discover I’ve made a mistake.’
‘Caius should be questioned and his body checked for injuries.’ Behind the reasonable words, Myrddion’s thoughts were black with a fury that he hadn’t known since his checkered youth. Artor could feel the old man’s rage, like loosened fire, as suspicion of his foster-brother’s guilt moved towards certainty. Targo had been right to warn the young Artorex that a quiet, restrained man could go berserk when he eventually reached the limit of his self-control. Artor recognized that Myrddion had reached his limit, and that he could pose a problem in the hours to come.
‘We’ll visit Caius immediately,’ the High King said, to placate Myrddion’s obvious rage. ‘And we’ll take a couple of stout fellows with us to hold him down so we can check his person for injuries.’
Had Myrddion not been so angry, he would have wondered why Artor’s proposal was so indiscreet.
‘I agree, my lord. It should be done immediately. Injuries such as those described by Nimue will be absolute proof of his guilt. But we should take no guards, my lord, for you cannot afford any gossip over this matter.’
Artor knew this, but he had wanted his friend to be the person to suggest a surreptitious investigation. Even in such a desperate crisis, Artor’s cold inner self was still manipulating his loved ones.
‘Conversely, the absence of wounds will clear him of all blame,’ he said.
Endeavouring to act naturally, the two men negotiated the warren of corridors that led to Caius’s apartments. Servants and warriors bowed as they passed but the High King ignored their courtesies. Gruffydd approached his master, but when he saw Artor’s stiff face he decided abruptly that his presence was needed elsewhere. Odin marched resolutely behind his master, his face reflecting the urgency of his master’s actions, and wise men stepped aside and whispered furtively in corners.
The High King and his counsellor found Caius in Queen Wenhaver’s garden, telling amusing stories and looking relaxed and healthy. Such was the courtier’s charm that the queen was purring with pleasure, and she even invited the two interlopers to join the merry group. Caius raised one eyebrow at his brother, for he saw through Artor’s smiling lips and Myrddion’s lying eyes. He grinned insolently at the High King.
‘Why do you bring Odin to protect yourself from women, my king?’ Caius joked, but his words had a certain bite. A little shocked at the steward’s presumption, Wenhaver nevertheless smiled in amusement, for she noticed a whitening around Artor’s mouth and nostrils.
‘Odin goes with him everywhere, in case we women attack him with our bodkins and our needles,’ she said.
‘Wife, leave us for a few moments, you and your pretty ladies, so my brother and I can speak plainly to each other,’ Artor ordered without bothering to address Wenhaver directly. His eyes were locked on the limpid, open face of his steward.
‘Your manners are execrable, as always,’ Wenhaver retorted. ‘Play your little boy games if you must, such masculine conversations are too boring for my liking anyway. Come, ladies. The king has spoken, and we must all obey the king.’