When he explained to his daughter the importance of their visit to Cadbury, Wenhaver had preened and sulked by turn until her doting father had promised her a slew of new robes, dresses, hair adornments and gems, all as fair bait to capture the eye of the High King.
And now, two legendary nobles were visiting Corinium to assess the appropriateness of Leodegran’s daughter.
‘I can convince these silly old people that I will be an excellent queen,’ Wenhaver decided with an uncritical glance in her silver mirror.
‘Mistress?’ her maid asked, and Wenhaver realized that she had spoken her thoughts aloud. Her cheeks coloured with chagrin and anger, and the servant flinched away from her mistress’s displeasure.
‘I will wear the yellow shift this evening, Myrnia. And take care that it’s uncrushed. Father has summoned a seer to read my fortune, and I’ll not look a fright in front of him.’
The servant bobbed her head in acknowledgement, and inwardly cursed that she should bear the responsibility of making the yellow shift presentable. Wenhaver was notoriously careless with her clothing, and left the finest fabrics in untidy piles wherever they happened to fall. Then any hapless girl who tried to remedy the damage had the skin stripped from her back.
Wenhaver was very young to be such a celebrated beauty, but Leodegran had been so vain of his small girl-child, that he had shown her off to his guests from the time she could first walk and talk. Gifted with unblemished golden skin, clear blue eyes and plentiful golden hair, she had been a perfect, delicate child.
The young woman had only grown in beauty over the years and had been so cosseted, spoiled and flattered that Wenhaver had come to believe that physical appearance was everything and that her wishes superceded the needs of everyone else in Leodegran’s house. She never counted the cost of an item, nor cared for the feelings of others, because she had been encouraged to believe that she was ideal in every way.
Nobody liked Wenhaver overmuch, except King Leodegran, but then she was his daughter.
In fact, Leodegran was mostly to blame for the excesses of his daughter. He had married a beautiful girl merely sixteen years ago. Leodegran furrowed his brow in concentration as he dredged up her name out of the four wives and countless concubines, mistresses and casual inamorata that had littered his path in life. Yes! She had been called Sybille, and she had huge, aquamarine eyes that were really the only part of her he had ever noticed. She had borne Wenhaver, her first and only living child, sighed quietly as if her work was over and then died without fuss.
Leodegran grinned. Sybille had been the perfect wife, all things considered. He loved fine food, good wine, elegant clothing and all the comforts of the senses. In short, Leodegran worshipped at the altar of physical appearance and sensation. Yes, Sybille had been perfect. She bore his lovely Wenhaver and then ‘went away’.
Nobody liked King Leodegran overmuch either.
When evening came, Wenhaver permitted herself to be dressed, and a band of beaten gold was positioned to restrain her golden curls. The yellow shift suited her colouring, and Wenhaver added a necklace, several bangles and two thumb rings of the same metal to accentuate the effect. Like a child with too many baubles, she tossed her box of jewels on to her table and rooted through the scatter of ornaments to thrust rings on to every finger.
Myrnia was secretly amused by Wenhaver’s ostentation. Her own mother had been serving woman to a Roman lady and, as a child, Myrnia had marvelled at how one, single, well-chosen gem could enhance the lady’s style and grace, qualities that Wenhaver wholly lacked.
Much pleased with herself, Wenhaver swept into Leodegran’s eating room with much swirling of fabric and tossing of her yellow curls.
Leodegran was wealthy and he enjoyed the luxuries of that wealth. He was large, portly and fair in hair and features. His face had once been masculine and handsome, but now he was fleshy, and his cheeks and nose were ruddy with broken veins. He, too, was dressed with much outward display, so he saw nothing amiss in his daughter’s attire.
The woman who sat quietly at the table at his left hand was a study in contrasts. She wore black, broken only by panels of charcoal in her under-shift, so that darkness moved about her as she walked. Her hair was unbound, signifying her single status, and was streaked liberally with silver that, oddly, made her black hair even darker and more lustrous. Her face was pale and narrow, her eyes were downcast and the few lines on her smooth countenance were the only visible betrayals of her age which must have been closer to fifty than forty years. Although she was already very old for a woman, her hands were unblemished and ringless. In fact, her only ornamentation was a band of filigree gold of great price across her unlined forehead and a necklace at her breast that was shaped like an open eye. The prism of the pendant was a single large topaz that winked in the torchlight as if it was alive.
The woman made Leodegran uncomfortable as her eyes bored into his, while her monosyllabic answers to his attempts at gallantry made him feel gauche and unsophisticated. Unnerved, Leodegran was inclined to find fault, and Wenhaver was his first victim.
‘You’re late, daughter. We have long awaited your arrival.’
Wenhaver pouted, and her eyes swept over the strange woman who sat at her father’s hand with such ease.
A dowdy creature, she thought. But the filigree brow band caused her a twinge of envy.
‘We only wait on a seer, father. Of what account is such a person that I should come to you carelessly dressed?’
Wenhaver had been encouraged from birth to speak her thoughts, unfettered by reason, kindness or common sense, and Leodegran’s brows drew into his aquiline nose with displeasure and embarrassment.
‘The seer, as you refer to her, is here. We are privileged this day to eat with the Lady Morgan, half-sister of the great Artor, and daughter of Ygerne, the fairest flower of the Britons. She has come specifically to meet you, so mind your manners.’
Now, under her false smile of shy greeting, Wenhaver was truly sulking. She was a practised actress, so her pretty apologies gave every indication of honesty but, under the artless expression, she was furious.
She noted that the woman, Morgan, was ancient, and as for the seer’s mother and her fabled beauty, little of it showed in the daughter.
In her formative years, at the cruel bidding of Uther Pendragon, Morgan had learned patience as well as cruelty, and the old monster had also taught Morgan the value of good intelligence. Like Leodegran, her brother, Artor, and even her sister, Morgause, she used a spy in every court in the west. And Cadbury’s secret watcher had sent word to Morgan that the High King was likely to wed at last.
Remembering a very old prophesy she had made in the villa outside of Aquae Sulis when she and her brother were still young, Morgan wondered if this scion of a corrupted and idle tribe was Artor’s bane. Did the child Wenhaver have the capriciousness under her beauty that would weaken everything that Artor built up? Would she prove to be his feet of clay?
Morgan had hurried south, had ridden day and night, sparing neither her personal guard nor the horses, when she received word that Myrddion Merlinus planned to visit Corinium on the orders of the High King.
Now, seated across from a girl-woman whose beauty was heart stopping and whose eyes were mercenary, Morgan pondered how best to warn the child that Myrddion’s instincts were the sharpest in the west. Wenhaver must dissemble, and the spoiled little bitch didn’t know how.
As for her father, Leodegran was plump, vacuous and well meaning under his dyed hair and salivating interest in food and women. He must be persuaded to protect his daughter from her worst excesses if she became queen, and this epicure had no power to protect a cat from an ageing mouse. Artor would behead Wenhaver and find another wife, if the silly little slut over-reached herself.
By and large, simpering into Leodegran’s faded blue eyes with feigned admiration, Morgan decided that the Dobunni king was the most pressing of her worries.
But he was just a man, after all, and an old goat at that. He could be induced to dance to Morgan’s music, just in case he was needed in her complicated game of meddling and malice.
Satisfied, Morgan swivelled her attention to the spoiled beauty who raised one eyebrow at her in disdain. No one could teach Wenhaver subtlety but, perhaps, self-interest would teach her how to lie.
‘No, my dear, I do not share my mother’s beauty, do I?’ Morgan stated without preamble. ‘Not like Artor, my half-brother. But I am not old either, whatever my hair might say. I was born with the white streak of prophecy at my brow, and it simply deepens with time.’
Morgan’s voice was beautiful and finely accented. More disconcertingly, Wenhaver felt as if the older woman had looked deeply into her brain and picked out her innermost, most shameful thoughts, ready to expose them to the light of day. Morgan’s lightless eyes trapped Wenhaver’s with her own, and the seer smiled in a particularly unpleasant fashion.
Wenhaver shuddered.
‘I apologize again for my lateness, Lady Morgan, and if I was rude, I’m sorry for that, too,’ Wenhaver managed to say with some sincerity. ‘I am afraid I am flustered and am not myself. The whole world has heard of your great skills, and I would never have dreamed that one so lowly as I should be singled out by you to demonstrate your art.’ Wenhaver curtsied deeply as she spoke, and lowered her telltale eyes so that Morgan couldn’t see the false flattery in them.
Morgan laughed, her mirth like the tinkling of silver bells, and Wenhaver was forced to watch her father being seduced by Morgan’s charm. She fumed inwardly as she reclined on her couch and picked up a tiny knife with a hilt shaped like a humming bird.
This bitch knows exactly what I think.
‘Every word, child. I understand every word,’ a voice whispered in her head, and Wenhaver dropped her eating knife.
It’s all in my imagination, Wenhaver thought desperately.
And Morgan laughed again.
The meal was opulent, and rich in sauces and fine meats. Morgan ate sparingly, refusing the Spanish wine and choosing water instead. She ignored Wenhaver entirely, and set about capturing Leodegran with anecdotes about Uther Pendragon, Artor, life at court and the oddities and peccadilloes of the great ones. Her wit was sharp and unkind, but humorous for all its bite, and Leodegran was not a kindly man anyway. In sharp contrast with her chilly responses before Wenhaver had joined them, Morgan was now the great lady, even coquettish as she pressed Leodegran’s puffy hand with her slender fingers.
Irritated, ignored and thoroughly outclassed, Wenhaver noticed that Morgan dyed the tips of her long white nails with henna, and patterns of great intricacy had been painted on to the still-young skin of her elbows, disappearing erotically into her shift. Leodegran could not take his eyes off Morgan, and Wenhaver could almost read his lascivious thoughts.
‘If I want him, I will have him, child! I do as I please!’
Wenhaver was just beginning to believe that the mocking inner voice came from her own jealousy, but then Morgan laughed once again and lifted her fathomless eyes to meet the angry blue irises of Wenhaver. She smiled at the girl with the same sweet falsity that Wenhaver had struggled to master.
‘Dear Leodegran, I do believe that Wenhaver grows impatient. We will talk later, alone if you wish, but I fear I must do my duty by your house and discover Wenhaver’s future.’
Leodegran’s chest swelled, probably from thoughts of the erotic pleasures that were to come. Morgan was no doubt a woman who was well versed in the skills of the sleeping chamber, thought Wenhaver distastefully. She was beginning to wish that she could flee from the room.
‘Give me your hand, child. Let me read the lines.’
Wenhaver complied, but she flinched rudely when she felt the cool, reptilian touch of the seer.
‘You will live for many years, child. And during your long life, you will experience only a gradual loss of your beauty. At the end, you will hide yourself in a convent, rather than permit the world to know how fate, and your own decisions, have contributed to your ultimate ugliness.’
‘I thought you were supposed to predict pleasant things,’ Wenhaver cried, almost in tears at the thought of such a future. ‘I don’t want to be old, and I don’t intend to become ugly.’
‘You may call on me when your beauty starts to fade. For I have a glamour that will trick any man. You have only to ask.’
Mollified a little, Wenhaver asked whom she would marry.
‘Why do you think I am here, Wenhaver? Even now, Myrddion Merlinus rides to Corinium to broker the marriage between you and the great Artor. Yes, you will become High Queen of the Britons, if you are very, very careful.’
Wenhaver pulled away from Morgan’s fingers, and clapped her hands with glee.
‘I will become the queen, and beloved, and all shall look upon me and marvel at my beauty.’
Morgan fixed the girl with her extraordinary eyes. ‘Do you wish to know more? I can tell you more of your future if you are not content with what I see in your hands.’
‘Yes! Yes! You must tell me more,’ Wenhaver urged.
Leodegran looked smug.
Morgan drew out a fine strip of delicate leather and bound her eyes.
‘Artor will not love you, no matter what you do. His heart was given to another woman a long, long time ago, and he will measure you by her, and he will find you wanting. In time, he will come to love a plain woman who is lovely within.’
‘Was his first love so beautiful?’ Wenhaver snapped, her petulance rising dangerously.
‘She was fair enough, but she was good, and clean and loving. These are the qualities he admires in a woman, as you will discover, and he will search in vain for similarities between his first love and yourself. He will find another as his fires slowly die, but even then, happiness will elude him.’