In Aquae Sulis, summer had come at last and wild flowers filled the fields, competing with spear-point shoots of barley, rye and wheat. Fruit trees were beginning to blossom and the chocolate-brown earth had the fecund, ripe smell of new and exuberant life.
Artor and his usual retinue arrived without fanfare but, in the mysterious all-knowing ways of simple folk, the villagers awaited him where a smaller road forked towards Sorviodunum. Newly green branches, flower buds and hazel nuts, carefully collected where they fell because of their holiness, were thrown before the feet of the High King’s new destrier, Coal having been retired to the villa after the battle of Mori Saxonicus.
The adoring faces of the villagers embarrassed Artor as they gazed up at him with whole-hearted worship and awe.
‘Artor!’ they cried. ‘Welcome to the High King.’
The king pulled his black horse to a halt and dismounted. Many familiar faces from the villages were here to greet him and celebrate the coming festivities. Even pensioned-off farm workers from the Villa Poppinidii, men who had known him when he was a boy called Lump, offered their tributes. To all well-wishers, he gave individual welcomes, asking the names of those he did not know, and remembering incidents of credit from the lives of men and women from his youth.
The peasants kissed Artor’s hands, his feet, and the hem of his cloak, and he didn’t have the heart to rebuff their simple declarations of patriotism and affection. Many years earlier, Lucius of Glastonbury had warned Artor that a man is never a hero in his own town, but here Artor enjoyed the adoration of ordinary people who had known him in his early life.
As always, Ector embraced Artor at the time-scarred doors of the villa. Ector’s face lit up at the sight of his foster-son, but his pleasure faded a little when he realized that Caius was not among the retinue. Ector’s embrace was as fervent as ever, but Artor could feel the old man’s bones beneath his withered flesh. Artor’s heart mourned already for the loss that would inevitably come.
‘My dear boy, you are quite unchanged. Welcome! Welcome! My steward will see to the comfort of your friends and servants. Meanwhile, come to the scriptorium and share a good, red wine with an old man. You, too, Targo, my friend, for I see that you are near as infirm as I am, and I long to speak of the old days that only we three can remember.’
Talking all the way, Ector led the two visitors to his favourite place, the wood-lined scriptorium where Artor had read surreptitiously in the darkest parts of the night and impressed his master with his grasp of Latin.
Another young man, who bore an uncanny likeness to Gareth, brought wine, cups and tiny plates of dried fruit, stuffed delicacies and nuts into the warm old room and assisted both his master and Targo to sit on comfortable stools, well padded with woollen fleece for softness and warmth.
Once the young man had bowed low and closed the door, Artor raised one quizzical eyebrow at Master Ector.
‘That young man is Garan, Gareth’s youngest brother. He’s been training to become steward for a good two years, for you surely know that Gareth’s heart is set upon joining you at Cadbury Tor. Gods, I’d join you there myself, but time has imprisoned me in this lovely place, and my lady would miss me if I left for even a day.’
Artor was glad when Targo, who had been toasting his feet on the warm tiles, interruped the small moment of gloom with his usual cheerful bluntness.
‘I understand just how you feel, old friend. My days of easy travelling by horse are done. The mind is eager and young, but the flesh refuses to obey, so I’m thinking that I am looking on the Villa Poppinidii for the last time. Oh, to be young again!’
‘I try never to look backward,’ Ector replied with a smile. ‘All of my happiness is here, and I’m glad my two girls will be well settled before I join my lady.’
His face changed, and shadows crossed his faded blue eyes like dark clouds passing across the sun.
‘I see that Caius is not with you.’
‘He is my steward, and acts in my place at Cadbury,’ Artor explained. ‘But he will be here for Livinia’s day of triumph. He sends his love and congratulations on an excellent match.’
Ector smiled regretfully. ‘Caius said no such thing. The villa is merely a convenient country house in my son’s life, to be visited only when he is tired of his duties with you at Cadbury. No, don’t colour up, Artor, and don’t look so guilty. Caius has never cared for the villa since my sweet lady died. Every corridor reminds him of his sins, and the boy prefers to run away rather than face the truth in his secret heart. I’m an old man, and I have grown weary of making excuses for our only son. We cosseted him, Livina and I, and we blinded ourselves to the flaws in his character. I know what my son is, and I thank you for your long years of guardianship over him.’
‘Ector, there is no need—’
‘We may be honest now, Artor.’ Ector placed one gnarled and swollen-jointed finger over the king’s lips. ‘Unfortunately, I can leave you nothing of the villa, but I have these scrolls that I have always intended should be yours at the appropriate time. That day has come, so I will order them packed away to return with you to Cadbury. What Caius doesn’t see, he won’t miss, and I’ll sleep well knowing that Lady Livinia’s ancestors didn’t collect these scrolls in vain. The land that you and poor Gallia were given is still your own, and the title is in the name of little Licia. You may be sure that Garan will care for it with as much devotion as Gareth has done in the past.’
‘What can I say, master? I will miss you when you go to your ancestors, for this villa is my only true home, and you have been a loving father to me, the only one I ever had.’
‘I wasn’t always the best of fathers to you, Artor, and I regret my lack of warmth when you were a boy. Yet I have learned to love you, and I hope you have forgiven me for my indifference.’
Artor flushed with embarrassment. ‘You ensured that I had a full belly, useful labour and play, a woman to love me, and an education. What more could a kinless foster-child expect? And I ran wild, as I recall, yet I was never badly beaten or mistreated.’
‘It’s very kind of you to make an old man feel better, very kind indeed,’ Ector muttered, and brushed away a couple of old man’s tears. ‘Your loveless childhood has often preyed on my mind.’
‘You have been my father for all my life, Ector, and I would have been proud if you had sired me.’
‘Shite, Artor, you’ll have me in tears in a moment,’ Targo broke in with his usual irreverence and gap-toothed grin. ‘What would your enemies think if they discovered you were as sentimental as the next man?’
Targo saw that Artor’s usually veiled eyes were clear and unguarded here in the villa’s scriptorium, as he drank in Ector’s essence in the full knowledge that he might never see the old man again.
‘You don’t need to mourn for me when I go to the shadows, for my lady Livinia is waiting impatiently for our reunion. When Caius eventually dies, Livinia Minor and her husband will own the Villa Poppinidii, for I have made my wishes clear to the magistrate, and to Drusus, his son. Our simple way of our life will continue, and I will die happy.’
Wordlessly, Artor embraced the old man’s frail form, and felt the fluttering of Ector’s ancient heart through his breast.
Ector struggled to his feet.
‘Now is not the time for sadness. Our girls are to be wed, and the sun will shine in the next two weeks as it has never shone before. I know you will not be present for the nuptials, so tonight we shall enjoy an early bridal banquet and we shall be happy with our lot. Come! We shall bathe, then rest, and tonight we will make merry.’
Targo grinned evilly. ‘Are your wine stocks still good? I’ve never developed a liking for ale.’
‘My friend,’ Ector replied, ‘on this night you may swim in beautiful Falernian wine that I managed to discover in the storehouse of Gallinus. Let us drink a toast to the finest girls in the land of the Britons with the best wine that has ever been fermented.’
‘I’ll gladly drink to that!’
‘I have planned a feast for tonight that will rival anything but the bridal feasts themselves,’ Ector added with satisfaction. ‘We’ll dine on oysters swimming in periwinkle sauce, soups made from the finest fish, shellfish and eels that can be found, whole glazed boar stuffed with doves, squab, jellies and a cornucopia of sweet delights to make my old arms master believe he has died and gone to the abode of the gods. We shall gorge, Artor, on the finest that Aquae Sulis can offer.’
‘You spoil me, Ector. I swear I grow fatter with every night I sleep beneath this goodly roof. ’ Ector slapped his foster-son’s flat belly in jest.
‘You’ve never overeaten in your life, my boy,’ Targo said with a smile. ‘For tonight, forget that iron control you always exercise and let us make merry until the morning comes.’
Targo and Ector slapped each other carefully on their backs and looked well pleased with themselves.
Artor and Targo eased their aching muscles in the baths while Ector continued with his duties in the villa, and then the High King commenced his daily sword practice in the villa’s exercise yard.
‘Damn, boy, you’re still so very good,’ Targo praised as he watched Artor move gracefully through the old choreographed patterns of killing. ‘Your new wife will have no complaints of your strength or your staying power.’
Targo’s ribald laughter lightened Artor’s heart a little, for this night was for celebration. He dressed with great ceremony and care, and with his magnificent hair unbound, he was a wondrous sight in fine wool and cloth of gold that reflected the dancing firelight. Odin had brought two finely carved timber chests from the packhorses, and they waited in the atrium until Livinia Minor and Licia joined them at their feast.
Julanna was justly proud of her girls. Livinia Minor had become a beautiful dark-haired maiden, with rosy cheeks and a form that was now womanly and lush. When Artor presented her with his gift, she coloured sweetly and kissed his cheek. She showed the natural grace and dignity of her grandmother, tempered by Julanna’s sweetness of spirit.
The girl exclaimed over the fine woven cloths and the glass goblets from the Middle Sea. As she delved deeper and deeper into the box, more and more marvels came to light. And then she found the necklace and earrings of rare Scotti pearls that were the grey colour of Artor’s eyes. The contents of her box would make Livinia Minor a hostess of distinction, even in sophisticated Aquae Sulis, and her smile of delight was all that Artor could have desired.
Licia, on the other hand, was very like Artor with her amber hair, her fine but strong-boned face, and in her unusual height and slenderness that made every movement a graceful dance. The eight months that had passed since he had last seen her had transformed her from a child into new womanhood, but she was still young enough to be excited as she opened her box.
Artor had lavished all his love on the gifts for his daughter in her moment of celebration. Golden wine cups, flagons chased with the dragon motif, long lengths of wondrously dyed fine fabrics, a kitchen cauldron of the finest iron, and jewels and ornaments to tempt the heart of any girl were stroked and admired. At the very bottom of the box, a small bag of silver mesh held a golden chain, and a similar container concealed a dragon knife fitted for the smaller hand of a woman.
‘My lord king,’ Licia breathed as she lifted the golden chain out of its small silver bag. ‘This gift is magnificent.’
Hanging upon the chain was a burl of wood, small in size, but smoothed by years of use. It was perfectly formed in the shape of a little pregnant female.
‘But this is yours, my lord,’ Licia protested. ‘I cannot accept such a gift.’
‘
You
cannot accept it . . . but Anna can,’ Artor replied, and smiled at the young woman. ‘For it belonged to her mother.’ His grey eyes were aglow with happiness.
Licia smiled and drew the knife from its scabbard. ‘This dagger is the twin of your own knife, Lord Artor. Wherever I go from now on, I will have no need of protection. Aye, it is a beautiful weapon.’
‘All I ask is that one day you will give it to your first son, in remembrance of me.’
Her face became serious at last, and her warm amber eyes embraced him. ‘Am I really your sister, my lord? I have heard the rumours, and I am not a fool. Such regal gifts as this could only come from kin.’
Artor placed his hand on his wildly beating heart, and looked at his daughter longingly, his whole soul visible in his yearning eyes.
‘Your personal safety demands that you have not been told the details of your birth.’ Artor smiled affectionately at the young woman. ‘Perhaps Llanwith will tell you the truth of your birth one day, but I cannot do so. These baubles are only expressions of love and admiration. I wish you well throughout all the days of your life.’
The girl reached up and kissed his cheek. ‘I thank you, my lord, even though I don’t quite understand what you are saying.’
Artor pondered her words. Had she guessed at the truth? In Licia, he saw the mirror of his own contained face, but her features were more animated and joyous because life had not worn away her faith in all things good. He hoped with all his heart that time would keep her protected from the travails he had suffered during his younger days.
The feast that evening was all that Ector had promised, but for all their boasting, Targo and Ector were both safely in their beds long before midnight. Artor sat by the fountain and breathed in the scent of wild roses, jasmine and rosemary. The stars were white lights in a velvet summer sky and the wind stirred Livinia Major’s tree with a gentle susurration of leaves. That night and in the days that followed, Artor knew a peace that had been absent since he had left this safe and lovely villa to become High King of the Britons.
When Artor, Targo and Odin left the Villa Poppinidii, they looked back at the quiet pastoral scene one last time and filled their eyes with the view of the mellow stone and brick structure on the hill. Each man saw the peaceful scene through different eyes, but each acknowledged in their hearts that it was probable they’d never sleep under its roof again.