Warrior of the West (42 page)

Perce pushed and shoved his way through the throng of servants to an advantageous position where he could observe the entire proceedings.

Shortly afterwards, King Leodegran entered the church with his daughter, who was dressed in gold and deep red with her golden hair unbound and curling. Every finger bore a ring, and so many bangles and bracelets adorned her wrists that the gold chimed oddly as she moved. Her face looked extraordinarily smug, an expression that detracted from its natural beauty.

The bride and her father walked slowly down the aisle. Caius, in his role as Steward of the High King’s Household, called on the great men of the west to stand in the presence of the High King and the Bishop of Venta Belgarum. King Leodegran and Wenhaver took up their positions before the altar, and Artor entered the church from behind the altar. He wore white, unleavened by any colour at all, in mourning for Gallia and the felicity of a marriage that he had known so briefly. He was heavily adorned with gold, in his crown, his torc, his armbands, and a shirt of ringed mail dipped in the precious metal so that the sun turned him into a nimbus of light. Behind him, Gruffydd bore the huge sword, Caliburn, by the hilt.

Artor’s eyes skimmed over Caius with some disdain, for they had argued briefly that morning when his foster-brother had postponed his journey to Aquae Sulis until after the wedding feast.

‘Your absence will force Ector’s ceremony to wait for your arrival,’ the High King had muttered. ‘I wish I could marry by proxy, and attend his last rites out of respect for our father. This feast is not important to me.’

Caius bowed in feigned agreement, but his eyes were distant.

‘Brother, my father would expect me to ensure that your wedding was perfect in every way. When all my tasks are done, then I will be gone. By all reports, Julanna is managing well with the help of Livinia and Branicus.’

And you resent it, don’t you? Artor thought acidly.

But now wasn’t the time for argument and, perhaps, Julanna would welcome more time without her husband.

Artor could feel the huge, comforting presence of Odin, who stood behind him and Caius, in his size an exclamation mark of power.

It won’t be too long before Perce will stand alongside Odin, Targo thought to himself. I can surely last that long before I go to meet the gods.

He glanced over at the rigid back of Morgan where she stood almost directly in front of him. Under the blackness of her robe, every muscle was stiff and angry.

‘That poor woman will never forgive Artor,’ Targo murmured aloud, ignoring the odd disconcerted stares of the other guests near him. ‘I doubt she will ever find peace till the day she dies.’

The wedding itself took very little time, and was conducted in the businesslike tone of a treaty, as in reality it was. The Mass that followed was longer, although many of the guests did not embrace the Christian god and so did not take part in the ceremony. Targo was surprised to see that Perce unobtrusively made his way to the end of the queue and accepted the host from the bishop’s own hands.

Then, anti-climactically, the ceremony was over. Perce supported Targo as the old man slowly shuffled away, for Targo wished to attend the feast and needed to rest beforehand. As they left the church, Targo caught at Myrddion’s arm in passing.

‘My lord,’ Targo said, with his usual disreputable grin, ‘I have a hankering to meet your apprentice. You have kept her so busy, she has had no time to visit even Perce. My lad and Nimue have been friends their whole lives. May she attend on me before the feast?’

‘You old lecher,’ Myrddion grinned, in a manner wholly unlike himself. ‘As it happens, I would prefer her out of Wenhaver’s view for a time, so your invitation solves an urgent problem for me. I must wait on our High King and his bride, and the queen has taken an unreasoning dislike to my little Nimue.’

Your little Nimue? Targo thought, astounded. But he had not reached his advanced years by rushing headlong into unconsidered speech.

‘My thanks, Lord Myrddion,’ he said simply.

Myrddion separated Nimue from an admiring gaggle of young warriors and pointed Perce and Targo out to the young girl.

‘Targo is the King’s oldest friend. He is Perce’s mentor, and he wants to meet you. You can flirt with these young warriors at any time.’

‘Thank you for rescuing me, Master Myrddion, for I find them excessively stupid.’

‘They frequently are, my dear,’ Myrddion stated drily. ‘Be quick, or you will miss them.’

As Nimue glided away with her skirts whispering over the stone of the church forecourt, a woman slid beside Myrddion, and lowered her veil.

‘The dragonlet is very fair, is she not, Lord Myrddion?’

‘Morgan! Why must you creep around like the monster in a children’s story? Yes, Nimue is very fair, and she has many of the qualities of a young dragon.’ Myrddion watched as the girl’s slim grey figure disappeared into the wooden palace in the wake of Targo and Perce. Then he turned to face his old enemy. ‘Time has not been kind to you, my lady. I always warned you that revenge and hatred would eat away at your soul.’

Despite the sting in his words, Morgan’s eyes were regretful. She acknowledged the truth of his words by nodding briefly towards him.

Morgan’s face had become a travesty of her once striking beauty. Her raven-black hair was now heavily streaked with white. Her skin was still soft, but in the harsh light of day, her features were creased in lines that narrowed her nose, pinched her nostrils, and turned her red lips into an inverted crescent of disappointment. Her unhealthy pallor was accentuated by a new tattoo that outlined her lips in blue and barred her forehead.

‘There is a word for old enemies who know each other so well that they are almost friends,’ Morgan said softly. ‘I don’t recall the word, but I feel that way about you, Myrddion.’

As she spoke, Myrddion noticed that she had sharpened her teeth into points.

‘They are called
fools
,’ he answered curtly.

‘Then we are both fools, Lord Myrddion, for we are already part of the legend of Artor. I know that you will finally achieve your heart’s desire, for I see it in your face and in the darkness behind my eyes. What will I receive? I wonder. The goddess does not grant the seer the power to discern her own fate.’

Myrddion took Morgan’s yellowing claws in hands that were still strong from years of riding and unmeasured hours of writing.

‘I’ll let you into a secret, Morgan. It’s one I have never told any other person before you. I sometimes see beyond the veil, or I think I do. I have seen a vision that tells me that you will die in exile, and you will bless the moment when you draw your last breath.’

With a sudden feeling of guilt, he dropped Morgan’s hands.

‘I’m sorry, Morgan, for I had no right to tell you of my dream. I don’t even believe in such rubbish. If I have caused you pain, then I regret it, and I offer you my apologies.’

‘Remember what I said about old enemies?’ Morgan smiled, a grisly reminder of the beauty that lay in the bones below her haggard face. ‘None but you, Myrddion Merlinus, would dare to touch even the hem of my robe, least of all my body. Be wary that you do not become a fool like me, for I have come to believe that a kingdom is not everything. I have made myself into a creature that frightens children and adults both. And it’s certain that only habit continues to fuel my hatred. Gorlois died so very long ago, but ancient vices are sometimes all we have left, so I find myself warning you of your fate.’

Myrddion had never underestimated Morgan’s power, regardless of whether it was born of observation or intellect or magic.

‘Then tell me the worst,’ he said.

‘Two women will destroy Artor. And both are here in Cadbury,’ Morgan stated absently and without malice. ‘I cannot maintain my rage as I once did, for the kingship was a worse punishment on Artor than any petty cruelty I could have devised.’

‘You were always wise, Morgan.’ Myrddion felt unaccountably comfortable with the witch woman, and was oblivious to the stares and superstitious dread with which the departing guests viewed them both.

‘You must know that your Artor will be the greatest of men, so you have not given your youth away for nothing,’ she added. ‘When the stars fall, and all we know is forgotten, Artor will be remembered. We, too, will become creatures of myth, as insubstantial as ghosts, because we were a part of his life here on earth. Some men were born for burdens, and one of those men is Artor. Some men were born for tears, and Artor is also one of those men.’

Myrddion stared deeply into Morgan’s eyes, now almost green with foresight.

‘And what was I born for?’ he asked casually, although his heart tightened with tension.

‘That would be telling, old enemy, wouldn’t it?’ Morgan smiled, and slipped away to be swallowed by the departing throng.

Myrddion watched as she left, feeling relieved and a little disappointed. All men wish to know their future, especially if it is pleasant and filled with happiness. But Myrddion would have been the first to admit that no one wants to learn the day and manner of his death. In that regard, he was no different from any other man.

He made his way to Artor’s side. He bowed deeply to the High King and inclined his head to Queen Wenhaver. She tapped her feet with annoyance.

‘Please accept my felicitations on your wedding day, my liege. It is widely believed that you have married a woman of great beauty and prestige who will bring acclaim to your court.’

‘My thanks, Myrddion,’ Artor said shortly. ‘But do stop bowing and scraping, for you know it annoys me.’ He had been in Wenhaver’s company for ten minutes and could already feel his temper fraying.

‘You make Cadbury a place of beauty by your very presence, my queen,’ Myrddion continued, ignoring Artor entirely.

Wenhaver hovered between smug acceptance of the compliments and the feeling that she was being patronized.

‘You have an unusual apprentice,’ she sniped, her spite evident in the tone of her voice. ‘Whatever made you take on such a strange, barbarian creature, Lord Myrddion? Many people believe her to be a witch.’

‘I accepted her as my assistant because of her intellect and the logic of her thoughts, my queen. Few women have such incisive minds, and fewer still are gifted with the ability to overcome their personal feelings and see the truth in most situations. If others call her a witch, perhaps it’s because she manages to see into their secret hearts and thoughts. Besides, Lord Artor’s family has witches of real potency, unlike Nimue.’

Myrddion was a polished statesman and his courtesy was faultless, but Wenhaver recognized that she had been slighted, especially when she saw Artor’s amused smile. And there and then, she determined to do Nimue whatever harm she could to avenge this insult to her honour.

‘You are far too clever for me, Lord Myrddion,’ she simpered.

His eyes darkened with contempt.

‘Please excuse this old man, I need to rest before the pleasures of your wedding feast. May I extend my wishes that the gods bring harmony and fruitfulness to your marriage?’

‘You may,’ she replied. And to show her displeasure, she contrived to bow to Artor’s friend a little lower than custom required and with exaggerated flourishes that were insulting, and a parody of courtesy.

As Myrddion walked away, he considered how foolish he had been to ignore his initial reservations; he should not have offered her father a marriage contract that committed the High King to this unmanageable woman. She’ll see us all in the thrall of the Saxons for the sake of her stupid, pointless vanity, he thought, as his booted heels echoed on the flagstones. ‘And the mistake was mine. I was too eager to find the west an heir.’

Meanwhile, Nimue was enjoying herself hugely in Targo’s luxurious room. She drank ale with the old man, a shocking thing for a well-brought-up girl to do but, as Nimue told Targo artlessly, she had been raised in the kitchens where ale was safer than water.

Nimue nodded. ‘Gallwyn always told me that unless you can see for yourself that the water springs cleanly from the ground, it can be poison to drink it. Ale is always safer than water.’

‘Your Gallwyn was a woman of great good sense,’ Targo responded. ‘I’ve seen a whole army shitting out their guts because they drank unclean water.’ The old man eyed Nimue curiously to see if his language had offended her.

She merely laughed.

‘So, show me this tattoo of yours. I saw it when Odin put it on your leg when you were a babe, but you were barely two weeks old at the time.’

Nimue bared her fine-boned ankle and raised her skirt.

‘See here.’ Targo traced a part of the dragon’s head and body that was almost serpentine in nature. ‘That’s the work of Morgan, the witch. She called you her little serpent. She ordered Gallwyn to deliver you to her quarters. She wanted to use you as a weapon against her brother.’

‘The High King?’ Nimue was agog. Gallwyn had never told her of Morgan and the witch’s attempt to place a tattoo of her own design on her leg. ‘This Morgan must be very wicked. I think I must meet the woman.’

‘Don’t antagonize that hellcat.’ Targo was alarmed. ‘She’s a dangerous woman, Nimue.’

Nimue merely smiled. ‘But so am I, Targo. And it seems we have unfinished business, she and I. She will find that I am no one’s tool.’

The martial light of battle that had suddenly appeared in Nimue’s eyes made Targo nervous.

‘At any road’, he went on, ‘when Artor learned from Gruffydd of the abomination on your ankle, he arranged for Odin to change Morgan’s tattoo from a serpent into the design you now know.’

Nimue smiled and traced the dragon’s head, its wings, and the claws that mounted up the length of her calf.

‘The tattoo must have taken a very long time.’

‘It was all done in a single night, my child.’ The old man smiled apologetically. ‘Ah, but it hurt you, and Odin was fair weeping by the end of it, even though Myrddion gave you a drop of the juice of poppies to dull the pain. Poor Odin had to do the entire job quickly, you see, or Morgan would have changed the design once again.’