Warrior of the West (35 page)

Eventually, Gallwyn simply stopped breathing and died in her foster-daughter’s arms, almost as if the clockwork of her body had irreparably broken.

Nimue was inconsolable. She refused to leave Gallwyn’s corpse for the rest of the day, and sat weeping and rocking her body, no matter how Gruffydd tried to comfort her. The girl only stirred when she was told that Gallwyn must be wrapped in a shroud for burial.

‘No,’ she stated flatly. ‘Gallwyn wanted to be burned. She told me many times that she didn’t want to go into the cold, wet ground. She said she would hate it, so I won’t let anyone do that to her. You can’t put Gallwyn into a hole in the mud.’

‘I promise you that we won’t bury her, Nimue. I promise. But she must have a shroud. Did she have a favourite dress?’

Nimue wiped her reddened eyes, and then used both hands to tear down the brightly woven curtain.

‘She loved this length of cloth. I’ll sew her into it if you and Perce will find wood for her funeral pyre.’

As the child found Gallwyn’s precious needle and a length of rough thread, Gruffydd asked her if she would need help to move Gallwyn’s corpse.

‘No. I will move her myself. It is my duty to wash her and prepare her for the fire.’ She spoke with an unconscious pride.

Gruffydd patted his foster-daughter on the shoulder and kissed her on her forehead. ‘You’re a good girl, Nimue. Gallwyn was very proud of you.’

Somehow, during the grim day that followed, the kitchen workers contrived to ensure that the inhabitants of the fortress were fed.

Meanwhile, Gruffydd and Perce spent their time gathering wood in preparation for the funeral pyre. Together, the two men dragged logs into a rough platform and packed dry moss and kindling around its base. Then the whole pyre was soaked in a jar of oil that Perce had purloined from the storehouse in the fortress.

When construction of the pyre was completed, the household servants took turns, when their duties permitted, to gather pine boughs and sweet-smelling grasses to dress Gallwyn’s last bed. Nimue completed her last offices for the only mother she had ever known, and Perce and Gruffydd bore the corpse to the pyre with relative ease, considering the distance. Gruffydd had always believed the cook to be a large woman but, as she lay in his arms, he realized that she was only as large as a twelve-year-old boy.

She always seemed bigger than life, so I never really noticed how short she was, Gruffydd thought sadly. It’s difficult to imagine that I will never see her smiling face again.

Once Gallwyn’s body was placed on the pyre, Nimue pressed a bunch of wild flowers, bound with a length of her own silver-blonde hair, on the very centre of the shrouded shape. Gruffydd added a length of fine linen that he had brought for Gallwyn as a present, and a treasured leather armband that had been given to him by his own mother.

Then, before a small but grieving cluster of mourners, Gruffydd pressed a lighted oil lamp into Nimue’s hands.

‘She loved you best, child. Send her to whatever gods she served.’ At first, the wood was slow to burn, but then the oil caught and flames leapt high into the coming night, wreathing Gallwyn’s remains in flickering fingers of orange, red and rose. The smell of burning pine logs and needles almost masked the distinct odour of human flesh as her body shrivelled and burned. Perce, Nimue and Gruffydd remained at the fire until the whole platform collapsed in a pile of smouldering ash, and then the two men led the weeping girl away.

In Gallwyn’s sleeping alcove, they found that Jena, full of sudden self-importance, had ensconced herself on Gallwyn’s pallet.

‘Get out of this room, you bitch,’ Nimue yelled. ‘Get out! Gallwyn’s ashes aren’t yet cold, and you’re trying to steal her possessions. I’ll rip every hair out of your head if you don’t move your sorry carcass out of her room.’

‘It’s mine. I’m the head cook now,’ Jena whined at Gruffydd.

‘You may have it tomorrow after Nimue leaves this place,’ he growled at Jena’s sullen face. ‘Then you can sleep wherever you like. And if you have anything in your pouch that is not your property, you’ll give it to me immediately. If you refuse, and I find that you have stolen anything from Gallwyn’s room, you will be flogged.’

Jena shook out the roughly woven pouch that was tied round her waist. A small silver-gilt mirror and Nimue’s bronze hairpin fell on to the tiny table that took up much of the small sleeping cubicle.

Nimue flew at Jena like a sleek white cat, claws and teeth bared in rage. Only the combined efforts of Perce and Gruffydd managed to avert serious injury to the older woman.

Jena rose to her feet, clutching her bleeding face where Nimue’s nails had torn the flesh.

‘You barbarian cow! You cursed whore! You’ve even got the serpent mark to show you’re the daughter of a stinking, barbarian slut.’

Gruffydd’s large and calloused hand slapped her sharply across her bleeding cheek. His eyes, which had been merely irritated until now, were suddenly hot and bloodshot.

‘Shut your filthy mouth, woman. The High King himself ordered the tattoo to be placed on Nimue’s leg to show that she is his. He will not take kindly to your description of the Dragon of Britain as a barbarian serpent mark, nor to your calling his ward a whore and her mother a slut.’ Gruffydd took hold of the terrified Jena by her homespun shift and shook her. ‘Now get out and return to your place with the other servants. Whether you remain in charge of the kitchens remains to be seen. But I suggest you think over what has happened today and return at a later time to make your peace with Nimue.’

The round-eyed cook ran from the tiny cubicle.

Gruffydd turned to face Nimue. ‘It’s time you attempted some sleep, young lady. We must ride from Venonae at first light.’

The tired child was compliant, and Gruffydd left her to join Pelles and his captains of archery who had returned to the frontier town after the victory at Mori Saxonicus. He drank too much ale, and when he finally fell asleep, he was far too drunk to dream.

 

The next morning, Gruffydd’s temper was not improved by a thudding hangover. He drank copious drafts of fresh water, and then set about finding a horse for Nimue. He managed to purchase a surprisingly cheap little mare. He checked the mare’s legs and physique carefully and could find no obvious fault with the animal, but the look of triumph on the shifty horse trader’s face when the deal was struck told Gruffydd that the beast had some sort of defect.

‘You’d best watch this horse, Nimue. That greasy trader thinks he’s put one over on me; I don’t like his attitude at all.’

‘Well, I think she’s a beautiful creature,’ Nimue crooned in the direction of the large dun-coloured horse. ‘I shall call her Gallwyn - or perhaps Whinny, since Gallwyn is not really a suitable name for an animal.’

Nimue was fighting hard not to cry again, so Gruffydd strode away to load his pack animal. He found Perce already fulfilling that task, and beside Gruffydd’s old horse stood a wall-eyed donkey.

‘Going somewhere, Perce?’ Gruffydd asked roughly. ‘Where did you get that donkey?’

‘I’m off to Cadbury, Lord Gruffydd. I’ve dreamed of going there all my life, so now I’m going. I’ll walk there if needs be. As for Betsy here, I just found her.’

‘Why, Perce? You’re twenty-five years, at least, which is far too old to take up the sword or the bow. What can you possibly hope to achieve by going to Cadbury Tor with us?’

Perce glared mulishly at Gruffydd. ‘I want an opportunity to show that I’m capable of more than just cutting wood and washing out the cauldrons. You know the way to Cadbury Tor, and I don’t, so I intend to go with you whether you like it or not.’

The High King was fond of saying that no possible weapon should ever be overlooked, so Gruffydd decided to let Artor decide if he could use the boy. The lad’s willingness and apparent good intentions seemed genuine, and Gruffydd was loath to dash his dreams.

Nimue joined then and they stood beside the cold ashes of Gallwyn’s funeral pyre. The morning breeze sent spirals of silver dust into the air to be dispersed over Venonae and the land that surrounded it.

‘She’ll be happy here in these lands where she worked for such a long time,’ Nimue said sadly, then dropped her horse’s reins and walked carefully between the charred wooden supports of the pyre. Something caught her eye, and she fell on the object with a glad little cry. She slipped it into a simple bronze locket that had been her last gift from Gallwyn.

Gruffydd had a suspicion that Nimue had found a fragment of Gallwyn’s bone. He had paid two peasants to collect any bones that the conflagration hadn’t devoured and beat them into dust so that Nimue wouldn’t be upset by the sight of any of her foster-mother’s remains. They had apparently failed to complete their task efficiently.

The idea of cherishing such a grisly object was repugnant to Gruffydd, but Nimue had strong instincts of love and a great dam of passion within her. If some remnant of Gallwyn’s life gave her the strength to face a lonely and uncertain future, who was he to be her critic? Gallwyn would not have cared. In fact, Gruffydd knew the old cook would have been secretly pleased that a part of her person would lie above Nimue’s heart.

‘Well, Perce,’ he said, ‘if you are to ride to Cadbury with us, you can forget your creature comforts for at least a week.’

‘What creature comforts?’ Perce retorted gaily, his face wreathed in a wide grin. Unlike many peasants, the young man’s strong and healthy white teeth enlivened his face.

Then Gruffydd turned his attention to Nimue whose delicate face was torn between sadness and excitement.

‘And you, my girl, must wear a covering over your head and shoulders while we travel. You’ll burn to toast and develop a fever if your skin cooks, and then where would we be?’

She carried out his bidding and covered herself. Her extreme fairness would attract unwelcome attention from all the young males for leagues around, so her continued health wasn’t Gruffydd’s only consideration.

Barely half an hour from Venonae, the dun mare began to pirouette and dance in an attempt to unseat its rider.

Gruffydd instantly understood the problem.

‘Hand me the reins, Nimue. And then you must hang on to Whinny’s mane for dear life. She is trained to toss her new rider, and then return to the stables of her old owner. We must lead her with brute force until she becomes used to the fact that she has left her old home forever.’

Nimue obeyed instantly, and Gruffydd quickly lashed the reins to the pack carried by his own horse - just in time, for a moment later, Whinny succeeded in tossing the girl off her back and on to the hard ground.

Without concern for her grazes and bruises, Nimue leapt to her feet, gripped the sides of the iron bit that ran through the horse’s mouth and pulled downwards with all her strength. Perce contributed his part with a whippy branch that he used on her flanks. Between them, they forced Whinny to follow in the wake of Gruffydd’s mount.

For some miles, the mare fought them, squealing in protest, and Gruffydd promised himself a long, hard conversation with the offending dealer when next he returned to Venonae. He was beginning to think they would make better time if they just let Whinny go when at last the horse surrendered and began to plod along as if she had never caused them any difficulties at all.

The journey settled into a humdrum string of days in the saddle and nights lying under the stars, and Gruffydd had leisure to examine his new charges more closely.

Nimue was beautiful, in an odd, alien style. Her hair had never been cut, except for the hank at the front that had been used to bind Gallwyn’s funeral flowers. For the long days of travel, she wore it plaited into a thick rope that hung well below her waist. In colour, her hair was a rich silver-blonde, as rare as sunshine on a midwinter’s day. Even Gareth’s striking pale hair did not match the silken glory of Nimue’s colouring, and her very white skin added to her memorable face. In marked contrast, her eyebrows were dark and feathered upward, giving her face an icy, otherworld appearance. Her eyes, framed by long, dark lashes, were the deep, gentian blue of the north, and revealed a lively intelligence and curiosity, honed by Gallwyn’s tutelage. The cook had ensured that her charge could read a little and knew her numbers.

No wonder the young men are sniffing around her like randy dogs, Gruffydd thought with dismay.

Even without the dragon tattoo on her leg, which accentuated the delicacy of her bones, there was something wild, unnatural and wholly erotic about Nimue’s appearance. She was tall and slender, which wasn’t unusual given her Saxon or Jutlander ancestry, and her long legs and narrow feet and hands gave her a sensuous, almost serpentine grace. Her beautiful, full mouth smiled often, and she could use her mobile brows to pull comical faces that kept both men laughing.

She looks as if she could insinuate magic into a man’s soul, Gruffydd mused as he gazed at her by the campfire, but she’s just a little child at heart.

Then Nimue grinned at him, and even the ageing Gruffydd felt his heart stagger a little in his chest.

As for Perce, Gruffydd discovered that he liked the young man, now that he was finally coming to know him better. In all the years that Gruffydd had visited the kitchens of Venonae, Perce had been just another servant, always hard at work, and always with a simple smile on his freckled face.

On closer examination, Gruffydd realized that Perce’s boyish, tow-coloured hair and guileless blue eyes hid a nature that was as stubborn as the donkey he was riding. Perce had come to Venonae as a child, and had been given the back-breaking tasks of wood cutting, scrubbing and washing to earn his food. He had completed every menial task without complaint, believing that at Venonae he was one step closer to his dream of becoming a warrior.

Such patience and good humour spoke well for the young man. And he was strong. The formidable muscles on his arms and shoulders were a testimony to years of cutting down old trees for kindling and lifting huge iron cauldrons in the kitchens. Most men with dreams would have become embittered during the long years of dreary toil, but Perce retained an internal joy that put a spring in his step and a natural, quick smile on his face. The lad’s needs were simple and his thoughts were imbued with hope. He was going to Cadbury, and anything was possible where Artor, the High King of the Britons, rested his head.