‘He’s vigorous, ambitious and is fair of speech, my lord,’ Gruffydd responded. ‘He’s extremely capable and dangerous. I discovered that he has allied himself with Otha, the Saxon princeling. Together they intend to destroy our world.’
‘With such a pedigree, the man could prove to be dangerous.’
Myrddion was worried. Normally, his thoughts wouldn’t be so evident but, on this occasion, his brow was furrowed and his dark eyes appeared uneasy. Gruffydd could plainly see that his master was disturbed. Local gossip was full of Artorex’s inaction - and a belief was growing that the Dux Bellorum was permitting the throne to slip through his fingers. Myrddion had begun his search for the relics of Uther’s reign, but Artorex’s attitude was a source of concern. The young man’s manner was reticent and he was stubbornly uncooperative.
‘Vortigern, and his sons Katigern Major and Vortimer, were more than half-Briton so, as High King, Vortigern wasn’t much different from the Romans when they lorded it over us. But his bitch queen was Saxon to the bone and her legacy showed in the sons that Vortigern bred off her. Katigern Minor might be young, but he has become what his grandfather never was - more Saxon than Celt.’
‘Aye, lord. He claims his grandfather was High King in the west in years gone by, and that he has the right of blood for all the wrongs that Uther inflicted on his descendants. His birthright gives legitimacy to the Saxon invasion and he claims to speak for those remnants of Vortigern’s people who still live in the high mountains in the west - both Saxon and Celt.’
‘Of course. I’d do the same if I were in his boots. It’s unfortunate that atrocities such as the one that occurred at Durobrivae happen - they feed the growing flames.’ Myrddion sighed deeply. ‘I wish our barbarians were simple pillagers and destroyers - as they once were.’
Gruffydd stood impassively in his ragged Saxon garb.
‘Off with you, Gruffydd.’ Myrddion smiled. ‘You’d best bathe and dress so that the garrison doesn’t decide you are a Saxon - and turn you into a pincushion.’
‘No chance of that, my lord.’ Gruffydd grinned and departed.
Later, Myrddion spent several hours with Artorex, but the weight of his fears were far from lifted. However, he was able to assure Gruffydd that a full parade of all troops that were in bivouac outside Venonae would take place on the morrow. No absences or excuses were to be permitted. Artorex had tired of the endless excuses made by Caius.
This man was born to be the king of the Britons, Myrddion thought proudly, after Artorex had issued his instructions. Caius will not enjoy Artorex’s method of finding the culprit and apportioning blame. Nor, for that matter, will the rest of our warriors, for they will initially see the murder of one woman as insignificant. Still, the Dux Bellorum must be seen to be fair in all matters relating to discipline.
Myrddion sighed a little as he recalled the tender and considerate youth that Artorex had once been.
Gruffydd would be present at the parade.
‘I require you, personally, to bring Gallwyn and the child Nimue to the exercise yard outside the gates of Venonae,’ Myrddion told him. ‘The infant will be shown to the people who attend our entertainment.’
‘Aye, my lord,’ Gruffydd replied, and hastened to inform Gallwyn of her part in the day’s activities.
Word soon spread like wildfire through the garrison, village and bivouacs that Artorex wished to speak to all good Celts. An hour before Artorex’s scheduled arrival, the meeting place held a sea of faces and the event was beginning to develop a festive air. Artorex’s warriors had thoroughly prepared themselves and their horses for the occasion and were a splendid spectacle for the townsfolk to marvel at, even though a chill wind blew.
Flanked by Myrddion and his vassal kings, Artorex arrived in full state, the wolf cloak now full length and splendidly barbarous over his Roman breastplate and helmet. His great height, his amazing hair and his stern demeanour were sufficiently powerful to silence the crowd, but when he divested himself of his weapons and his helmet, placing them in the arms of Targo and Odin, the crowd drew in their breath with excitement.
This would be a momentous day, for even the witch, Morgan, clad in her crow-black clothes, was standing on a vantage point overlooking the crowd. Many eyes were turned surreptitiously towards her still form and each person prayed that her eyes wouldn’t alight upon their face.
‘I have heard that her looks can kill,’ one old besom said to another in superstitious dread and secret enjoyment.
‘The High King turned up his toes when she gazed at him,’ her friend added.
Shortly thereafter, the brazen roar of battle horns silenced the crowd.
Artorex stepped up on to a raised dais over which his battle standard flew, snapping viciously in the cold wind. He turned to survey the horse troops and their captains.
As was his strategy, Artorex offered praise for the fields of Saxon grain that had been burned black, the granaries that had been plundered and the trade routes that had been disrupted. The troops smiled at their leader’s approval, although like good soldiers they held to their positions in the ranks.
Then Artorex explained the emergence of Katigern Oakheart, Saxon to the bone, but born and nourished in Britain. He added that Katigern had claimed a tenuous legitimacy to supremacy over the west. The townsfolk and soldiers roared their anger and defiance while Artorex smiled openly, although his eyes were very cold.
‘But great trouble afflicts us all, my loyal men of the west. How can I speak of the charges laid against us to men such as you, men who demonstrate their bravery and loyalty every day in pursuit of our freedom? How can I permit your efforts to be tarnished when the Saxons accuse you of wanton bloodlust and depravity? At first, I could not believe that these rumours were true. That is, until I discovered for myself that, indeed, these tales were not lies. Some of your brethren have flouted their vows, my noble soldiers. They have killed for sport - not for necessity.’
A great roar of denial rose to disturb the crows and rooks that gathered on the walls of the stone garrison. For one short, prophetic moment, the air was alive with black and shining wings.
‘Bring forth the infant known as Nimue,’ Artorex demanded.
Gallwyn had begged, borrowed and, it must be said, stolen what finery she could. The babe was all but invisible beneath her wrappings of furs. She mounted the dais, bowing almost to the raw wooden planks in homage, and then stood to face the horse soldiers.
‘Show the child to the men,’ Artorex demanded, and Caius felt his knees turn to jelly.
Gallwyn lifted the naked baby high above the neat lines of men, and the infant whimpered a little at the sudden chill upon her skin. But then she smiled, and her rounded limbs and extreme fairness reflected her natural beauty.
By now, Nimue’s tattoo had mostly healed - and the symbol was clear to see upon her right leg and ankle.
‘It is for innocents such as this babe that we fight. We die to preserve the old ways of honour and duty. To maintain peace for children such as this little one, we brave the snows of winter and leave our widows to weep in their loneliness. We risk everything we have so that such children might grow in beauty and safety. We are the champions of the west, not ragged barbarians who burn churches, rape women and split infants asunder with our axes.’
The whole crowd roared their approval. Artorex held them in the palm of his hand.
He took Nimue from Gallwyn’s hands and wrapped her again in her furs, leaving only her right leg exposed to the air. Hundreds of eyes watched his every move.
‘The bruises have faded under my mark. This child is no longer the bloody, blue creature found in frozen reeds. She was nigh dead from exposure.’
The crowd was utterly silent.
‘One of you betrays the west, and this mongrel dog sullies the names of our great dead. Let me tell you of Nimue’s birth and then
you
shall judge what I should do.’
Clever! Gallwyn thought to herself.
‘Good man!’ Myrddion whispered under his breath.
‘Mithras save me!’ Caius mouthed, while taking care that he shouldn’t be heard. His Roman face remained impassive.
‘The child’s mother was a woman from the village of Durobrivae, a nothing place in the marshes. Our troop came to this place deep in enemy territory, ably led by my foster-brother, Lord Caius. The soldiers did their work, distasteful as it might be, and burned the granaries, the fields and the village itself, for such is the way of warfare. Nor do I begrudge them what spoils they took in my name.’
Artorex grinned fleetingly, establishing an immediate rapport with the warriors.
‘Much that was taken was ours anyway, stolen by marauders. Yes, there were villagers who were put to the sword, and there were women, too, who died, for such measures are sometimes necessary when Saxon women fight like men.’
Many heads nodded in agreement, as Artorex continued in the perfect stillness of their complete attention.
‘But Nimue’s nameless mother was near to birthing. She had no weapon, other than her great belly and her beauty. She ran towards the river, and an old willow tree, to what she hoped would be safety.’
The silence was intense, a living thing composed of the indrawn breath of over a hundred citizens.
‘She was wrong!’ Artorex roared.
A sigh ran through the crowd, especially from the women. In Artorex’s mind, the vision of Gallia, also heavily pregnant, rose up spectrally to nod her assent at her husband’s words.
‘One of our men saw her flee into her sanctuary - but
man
is not a word I choose to use when I speak of him, for to do so insults all warriors and citizens of decency and honour. He pursued her, followed her into the safety of the willow branches and then, free from prying eyes, he raped her.’
A few women and some of the men remembered the fate of their own kin, and tears ran unchecked down their cheeks.
‘But such horrors happen, do they not? Terrible, unmanly, secret horrors that we do not care to pull out into the light of day. Such is war.’
Fewer men nodded in assent this time, while their companions looked sideways at them with the stirrings of dislike.
‘But this man wasn’t finished with the fair young woman under the branches of the hanging willow. No, not nearly. Hard as it would be, she could have survived her rape and borne her child, suckled Nimue at a mother’s breast and lived with the nightmares of the willow tree as her daughter grew tall. That woman might yet have found some reason in this child to live on.’
The whole crowd was now mute with awful imaginings. That the child was here meant that her mother was dead. They pictured the victim with her throat cut or her heart pierced, and felt a little squeamish - just as Artorex intended they should.
‘I cannot tell you why this man - this Celt - this one of us - carried out this abomination. I can’t really bear to think upon his actions, for they step far beyond what you and I would consider to be the rules of warfare.’
Soldiers now stared at their feet, as they recalled the litany of their own hate crimes. Their own deeds in battle, small and great, flew like stinging wasps through their consciences.
‘This cur cut this young woman with his knife. He split her belly open like ripe fruit and hacked at the open wound while she screamed and tried to fight him off. He put his hands into her womb and ripped the unborn child from her body while she still lived.’
A rumble rose from the crowd, soft, but full of disgust and loathing.
Artorex barely paused for breath.
‘He cut the infant’s cord with his knife, for he had plans for this tiny, perfect little thing. Aye. And this mother still fought, even as her blood gushed forth until the earth was red with it. Her hands were cut to the bone where she gripped his knife, for she feared that he would commit further unspeakable acts upon the body of her daughter.’
You clever, clever man, Myrddion thought silently. The rape of babes isn’t acceptable in any society. To hint at it is enough to sicken any rational person.
‘But he didn’t rape the infant. Not him. Perhaps he was not man enough, or beast enough, for such a deed. He left the mother to bleed to death under the willow tree, safe from prying eyes.’
Artorex paused to determine the effect of the tale on his audience.
‘This man gorged himself on suffering,’ he roared.
He lifted Nimue’s tiny body high into the air with one giant hand.
‘He took this child by her fragile ankle, whirled her round his head and tossed her towards the river, a river that was covered in winter ice.’
The growl of the crowd was now louder, like the start of a heavy thunderstorm that builds and builds in intensity until it blackens the sky.
‘The gods saw what was done, and perhaps they wept in pity for what had occurred that day. The dried rushes on the banks of the river cushioned Nimue’s fall and protected her. Only an impossible chance sent a good man who was fortunate enough to find her, a babe whose ankle was black with bruises and whose skin was blue with cold. She was meant to live, this little one, as a symbol of what our Celtic peoples can become if we degenerate into Saxon ways. Yet, I have heard from our spies that even the Saxons were sickened by the actions of this beast whose victim bled to death in agony.’
Now the crowd roared its disapproval.
‘Are we such beasts? Is this the way we make war?’
He held Nimue high once again.
‘Should I dash this child’s brains out now, so that she will not grow up to be a Jute or Saxon whore?’
‘No! No! No!’ the crowd roared in unison.
‘And what should I do with such a man as this desecrator? I, the Dux Bellorum, ask you what the punishment should be?’
‘Death! Death! Death!’ The chant echoed through the assembled populace as soldiers and townsfolk alike shouted as one.