Warrior of the West (45 page)

He gripped her chin with his hand.

‘I am only going to say this once, Wenhaver. I suggest that you take the advice of an old man and stop riding roughshod over everybody on Cadbury Tor. The people of his kingdom love Artor, and if you anger him, they will soon come to hate you. But if you are clever, and manage to give Artor a legitimate son, then you could become the most powerful woman in the west. If you fail, you’ll become a distant and abandoned nobody. And you must leave Nimue alone, for Artor really did kill nine innocent men, and one guilty man, to find the warrior who murdered her mother.’

Luka stared into Wenhaver’s eyes to see if she had absorbed any of the advice he had thrust upon her. ‘Has anyone ever killed ten men for you?’

Luka was normally the most sensitive of men but on this occasion he said the one thing to Wenhaver that she could never forgive or forget: he questioned her worth. Luka really liked Nimue, and he loved Myrddion; his desire to puncture the bladder of Wenhaver’s self-importance made him careless.

Wenhaver’s mouth snapped closed, and her eyes cleared. A feeling she had never experienced coursed through her consciousness, a fear that she really wasn’t the most beautiful or the most valuable woman in the entire land. Like acid, the fear ate into her mind until it found a corner to hide and grow. Wenhaver was, in her own fashion, as brave as her husband, and as ruthless when she saw the need, but now her rock-solid faith in her own self-worth began to crack.

Wenhaver had never really hated anyone, or anything, for that matter. Why waste time on hate when no one else can attain the exalted pedestal on which you stand? But if Artor had the power to send her home to her father or have her killed with a negligent wave of his hand, then what was her real worth? Further, if a lowly apprentice could generate genuine admiration in the eyes of hard-bitten kings and courtiers, and if the High King had killed ten men for Nimue when she was still an infant, then Wenhaver could claim neither moral nor physical superiority over her.

‘I suggest you go to your bed,’ said Luka, ‘and pray that Artor joins you there. I would also pray that Myrddion ignores your insults to him, and to his apprentice, and that he convinces Artor to give you one last chance.’

Wenhaver followed Luka’s advice, but a single thought pulsed through her mind. What am I worth?

 

Begged, cajoled and, in the end, ordered by Myrddion to face the situation that had arisen, Artor found himself standing outside Wenhaver’s apartments. Odin, who knew everything and said nothing, smiled in his curiously barbaric fashion, while Artor leaned against the wooden wall and tried vainly to work up some enthusiasm for the seduction to come.

‘Well, do I knock on the door of my own room?’ Artor asked Odin testily. ‘You seem to be expert in most matters, my Odin. What would you suggest?’

‘She is a woman,’ Odin said economically. ‘And she is upsetting you, so why bother?’

‘Why, indeed?’ Artor whispered to himself, and kicked the door open forcefully.

He strode through into utter chaos.

Myrnia, the maidservant, was attempting to tidy the results of Wenhaver’s temper, while trying hard not to cry through her pain. She had been struck on the face, and the force had left cuts on her cheekbone.

The queen was sulking in her great bed, dressed in a froth of clothing that seemed excessively complex for sleeping in, but no doubt pleased female notions of what a seductress might wear on her wedding night. Artor summed up the situation at a glance, while Wenhaver tossed her golden head and smiled, suddenly reassured by his presence.

Artor decided it was time to put the little bitch off balance.

‘Odin? I want you,’ Artor ordered.

Wenhaver was startled when Odin bent to enter through the doorway. For one terrible moment, she expected to be strangled by the hulking brute.

‘You will assist this poor girl to clean this unseemly mess and then take her to have her face treated. Myrddion will make sure she is not permanently scarred.’

Without saying a further word, Artor raised Myrnia’s face and ran his fingers gently over the bruises and nail marks that could be clearly seen on one side of her face.

He winced a little.

‘Please, Your Majesty, I’m really quite well,’ Myrnia babbled, tears spilling out of her soft brown eyes because of his gentle sympathy. ‘There’s no need to disturb Lord Myrddion.’

‘Do as I say, Odin,’ the king instructed his servant. ‘Then ensure that this pretty lass goes to her rest early. She has experienced a difficult day.’

Wenhaver’s mouth fell open and her brows drew together thunderously but a glacial look from Artor kept her silent. Myrnia would keep. After all, where could the servant go?

Odin proceeded to fold fabrics and place them in the chest opened by Myrnia, who snuffled wetly and tried not to sob too loudly. The two servants worked together and the room was soon tidy.

‘Take Myrnia away and do all that is needful,’ Artor ordered crisply. ‘I believe I can manage one silly girl.’

‘I will care for the little one,’ Odin responded gently, his eyes smiling at the thought of what was to come.

‘I am sure you will,’ Artor stated urbanely.

When Odin and Myrnia had bowed their way out of the bedchamber, Wenhaver seated herself at the very end of the bed.

‘Undress, woman,’ Artor commanded without preamble. ‘Although I am very angry with you, Myrddion has explained that I was remiss when I didn’t explain what I require of a wife before the wedding took place. I shall remedy that situation at once.’

Wenhaver would have argued but Artor raised a single forefinger in front of his mouth to silence her, and she gulped and resisted the urge to defend herself.

‘My wife will be a generous, courteous hostess at all times, and she will never, ever, contradict me or argue with me in public. I am the true son of Uther Pendragon and I am the High King of the Britons. Whether you like it or not, you are a mere woman. Do I make myself clear?’

‘Yes. But—’

‘There will be no
buts
in my household.’ He smiled lasciviously. ‘And you are still in that ridiculous clothing.’

Wenhaver tried to be seductive as she edged the frothing frills off her shoulders, but Artor took no notice.

‘I considered sending you home to your father, but Myrddion has prevailed upon me to give you a second, and last, chance. He believes that you may, perhaps, be worth all the trouble you have caused. If you don’t prove yourself suitable to be my queen, the marriage will be annulled. You are not the only presentable princess in these lands.’

Artor removed his shirt and the woollen undergarment that protected his body. His flesh was sculpted, golden and heavily muscled. Wenhaver gaped at his extraordinary skin.

‘Now, comb my hair. Your task is to see to my pleasure, and not the reverse. Don’t expect fine words from me until you learn to school your manners and your temper.’

Afraid for the first time at the raw masculinity of her husband, Wenhaver scurried to find her bone inlaid comb and a brush of stiff boar hair. Artor seated himself and unbound his plaits, allowing Wenhaver to ease the tangles and snarls from her husband’s hair. The curls slid through her fingers pleasurably, and she could see the knotted muscles in his shoulders begin to loosen a little.

Wenhaver was used to the adoration of youths and young men, but Artor was the first truly mature man that she had encountered for, in Wenhaver’s lexicon, her doting father and uncles scarcely counted.

When his hair was tamed, Artor stripped off his soft breeches and his leather boots, and stood naked before her. Wenhaver gasped, for she had never seen a man unclothed, nor had she any benchmark upon which to assess Artor’s male beauty. She had heard that the king took women as he chose, and the maids taken had never complained of either his courtesy or his lovemaking.

But Wenhaver had no experience, and was unsure what was expected of her, or what to say, if anything.

‘Stand, woman!’

Wenhaver obeyed. She was quaking inwardly, although she tried to summon up a knowing smile. Artor was not deceived. He knew that Wenhaver was a child-woman who must be mastered. Then, perhaps, she would mature and give up her insufferable arrogance.

He reached out one firmly muscled hand, followed by the other, and Wenhaver made a slight movement of surprise when the sword callouses on his palms came into contact with her soft skin. Then, abruptly, he tore her sleeping confection from neck to waist.

The fragile fabric fell away from her shoulders and exposed her heavy, lush breasts.

She opened her mouth to speak, but Artor again raised his finger to his lips.

She shivered.

‘Take off that thing,’ Artor growled.

For all her feigned sophistication, Wenhaver had never seen a man aroused before, and she was afraid. Artor stroked her golden curls and let his fingers linger around her ears and her throat. With a quick twist, he pulled her round so that he could no longer see her face, and then pressed his body against her warm buttocks and smooth back. His hands cupped her breasts, and his fingers gently teased her nipples.

Surprised, Wenhaver felt her breasts harden, and she pushed them deeper into his hands. Smiling with amusement, Artor set about arousing and seducing his wife. She was not Gallia, but if he did not look at her, he could imagine she was. His lips teased the tender back of her neck and his hands explored the gentle swell of her buttocks. As she shivered, his flat grey eyes were alert and rather cruel, but Wenhaver could not see his expression.

As his hands and the sensitive pads of his fingers moved lower and lower, Wenhaver was suddenly aware that there were advantages to marriage that she could not have imagined.

‘Your body is mine, woman, to do with as I please. This possession you vowed was mine in front of the assembled nobles of the Britons this day, so do not flinch away from me. Besides, Wenhaver, you are beautiful and you’re a warm, sweet peach that I plan to devour.’

The tone of his voice remained unchanged, almost as if he was discussing a battle plan or a ride in the country; Wenhaver had no idea what to do, or if she should respond.

In the past, no one had ever dared to trespass on the privacy of Wenhaver’s body so she was surprised that Artor could do such magic in a manner so knowing and so distant. After a time of stroking and feather-light kisses, Wenhaver no longer cared if he ever used her name or professed his undying love for her. She had never thought she would find pleasure in the marriage bed so she was surprised when Artor eventually mounted her. Amazingly, she found that her body, after a short moment of pain, responded to his mastery with joy and abandon.

Artor smiled, his face indifferent to his body’s pleasure. But Wenhaver responded as eagerly as Gallia had, even more so, for she savoured her new sensations and demanded them again and again as Artor began to school her in the arts of love.

She was an avid, greedy pupil.

‘You’re an insatiable little bitch, aren’t you, my queen?’ he murmured as he pressed her deep into the down coverlet. ‘You may be a novice, but you’ll learn quickly.’

Her body was sleek with sweat, and she had wrapped both legs about his waist, moving instinctively in ways that gave him pleasure. For one brief, betraying moment, it was Gallia’s face he saw under him and it was Gallia’s breasts and thighs he was teasing when he climaxed. He shouted his first wife’s name in his extremity and, even in the pleasure of bodily sensation, his heart felt bruised and yet alive, as it had not done for many years.

For a moment, Artor was grateful to his wife for forcing him to feel more than fleeting desire. In that brief period, the possibility of a long and happy marriage existed, but the young woman didn’t recognize the gratitude in his eyes; she was focused on her own feelings of self-worth.

She realized instinctively that, in matters of sex, she was a potential master. Exultation vied with pleasure in the synapses of her brain and, even as she panted with the satiation and exhaustion of successful sex and the languor that had turned her limbs into sweet honey, Wenhaver’s single-minded egotism returned with a vengeance.

‘Who is Gallia?’ she demanded, drawing deep breaths into her lungs.

Artor turned away from her in the soft bed. His mood had now shattered, and he couldn’t bear her to see his wounded, lonely face.

‘She was the first girl I ever loved. She was only eighteen when she died, and I was little older. You need not be jealous of a ghost, and if you become half the woman that Gallia was, I will be well pleased with you.’

Wenhaver must have heard some thickening in his voice. Regardless of her body’s enjoyment of the sexual act and her husband’s obvious skills, she still burned in that distant pocket where fear cowered, fuelled in part by her abject terror of what Artor could do to her.

‘Was she fairer than I am?’ she asked guilelessly, although she guessed that the agony of his memories was one of Artor’s greatest weaknesses.

Wenhaver may have been foolish but she was intuitive, especially when self-preservation was her spur. She determined to lie smugly in the warm darkness and twist the knife.

‘She wasn’t half so beautiful in face and form as you are, Wenhaver,’ Artor sighed. ‘But people loved her because she laughed so often. And she hated cruelty above all things. Even ants and wasps were safe from her, but she could fight like a tiger and kill in defence of those folk who needed assistance. If you can learn qualities that match hers, then you will truly become a queen.’

‘If she was such a paragon, why didn’t she become the High Queen of the Britons?’ Wenhaver asked sharply. Scorn came, unbidden, to her lips, and jealousy of what she knew were qualities she lacked.

‘She was Roman,’ Artor replied with finality. ‘Now, let me sleep, woman.’