Eventually, Myrddion extracted the story of the disastrous wedding night from Artor, and his face grew grave to hear of the words that had been spoken in anger.
‘No wonder the silly child threw a tantrum. She lacks any real subtlety, my lord, and she will always irritate you, but I fear you must do your duty and you should try not to hurt her feelings too deeply.’
‘Beware of censure, Myrddion. You are the closest thing I have to a friend after Targo, but do not presume to instruct me on my duty.’ Artor spat the last word out.
‘I swear I’m not criticizing you, my lord. I am simply suggesting that embarking upon a civil war against Leodegran is not a clever strategy. You must face him in battle if you shame his daughter before all the tribes, no matter how much you are angered by her foolishness.’ Myrddion knew he had angered Artor and thought furiously how to put matters right, but a peremptory knock at the door interrupted his thoughts. The visitor was Wenhaver’s maid with an invitation from the queen for Artor to attend her rooms that evening.
‘Damn all women,’ Myrddion muttered.
‘I heard that,’ Artor replied, in his natural, easy-going tone. But Myrddion was not deceived. Artor must be mollified.
Myrddion spread his arms wide, bowed his head, and fell to his knees on the stone flagging. Artor gaped. He had expected his strategist to rage at him, or to cajole him, or to try to bribe him; he did not expect abject grovelling.
‘What now, Myrddion? Is this behaviour a bad joke?’
‘My king, the fault for this whole embarrassing mess is ultimately mine. Yes, my lord, I am to blame. Wenhaver loves jewels more than anything else, and I was unwise enough to give Nimue my Etruscan necklace. I meant no harm, for electrum can hardly suit a woman of Wenhaver’s complexion. But Wenhaver is so accustomed to eclipsing all other women in beauty, style and manner that she was aroused to jealousy.’
For one short moment, Artor looked so cross and impatient that Myrddion considered he had overplayed his hand, but then Artor’s brow cleared. He understood female jealousy, although he had no patience with it.
‘Do you wish me to send little Nimue away, lord?’ Myrddion asked the High King. ‘Perhaps it would be for the best.’
Artor stared hard at Myrddion’s old-young face, which was downcast and oddly bereft. Artor became suspicious.
‘Do you want her to go, Myrddion?’
Myrddion shook his head. ‘No, my lord. She is so full of laughter and eagerness to learn that she makes me feel quite young. I would miss her.’
Artor considered the problem.
Outside the shutters, the spring air was sweet with the scent of new-grown flowers and crops, and the king remembered all that he had wrought, and how much Myrddion had contributed towards making these dreams real.
Suddenly, and painfully, the High King felt excoriating guilt.
‘I am the one who is ultimately to blame, my friend, for I have kept you as my confidant to further my own ends. I have demanded all that you had to give during your many years of loyal service. The final responsibility has always been mine.’
‘No. That’s simply not so. What I have given, I offered willingly. And I’m even prepared to relinquish Nimue if the kingdom should demand it. After all, I was the person who pressed you to marry Wenhaver in the first place.’
Artor raised Myrddion to his feet and warmly embraced his friend.
‘Hades, Myrddion! If you are prepared to cast away your valuable apprentice, then I can at least try to beget a child on that silly cow. But Nimue stays at Cadbury. I like her, and I admire her intellect and her happy courage. Wenhaver must learn to act like a queen, and Nimue may even have some part in the process, if my wife is prepared to learn from the child.’
Myrddion shuddered slightly. ‘I don’t think that’s likely, lord.’
He knew that if Artor suggested that Wenhaver should emulate Nimue’s gay courtesy and ease of manner, his apprentice would not live a week.
‘Will you go to Wenhaver’s bridal bed once more?’ he asked.
‘I’ll go. But I can’t promise to perform, especially if she starts to speak. I can’t stand women who whine.’
Thinking hard, and mentally preparing himself, Artor set forth for the queen’s apartments. While his steps were neither jaunty nor urgent, he no longer felt intimidated by the task ahead.
In a tavern on the outskirts of Cadbury, the three travellers of old sat at their ease over glasses of cheap Spanish wine while servants cleared up the mess around them. Luka had his feet on the table, while Myrddion had loosened the collar of his black robe. Llanwith just looked sleepy, and continued to drink.
‘A toast, gentlemen,’ Luka suggested, and all three men raised their glasses. ‘I offer a toast to us, for we have managed to avert disaster over two entire nights. Firstly, my felicitations go to me for my golden tongue. Then my congratulations go to Llanwith for his tact. And, finally, my enduring gratitude goes to Myrddion for his tale of his search for a bath.’
The three men touched goblets.
Llanwith pushed one of the innkeeper’s hounds away. The dog had developed a sudden affection for his leg.
‘Let’s hope that Artor shocks Wenhaver into silence for a day or two,’ Luka said. ‘And not the way he did on his wedding night.’
‘And let us pray that she becomes pregnant quickly so she has something else to occupy that empty head,’ Myrddion added.
‘Artor has proved his virility any number of times, so I don’t expect any difficulty with that aspect of our plans for the succession.’ Llanwith absent-mindedly scratched the head of the persistent hound.
‘Hmmn.’ Myrddion sounded glum and depressed. ‘The one thing I have learned about Wenhaver is that if circumstances can go disastrously wrong around her, they do.’
‘At least Nimue is safe.’ Luka tried to cheer up his morose friend. ‘Damn me, but I like that girl.’
‘Never mind me,’ Myrddion muttered. ‘I can still feel a storm blowing up, and Wenhaver is at the centre of it.’
‘You and your sensitive feelings,’ Llanwith joked. ‘Are you sure your father wasn’t a demon?’
‘I’m quite sure. Otherwise I’d have turned you into a toad by now, my large friend.’
CHAPTER XV
A MATTER OF TRUST
The mysteries of what took place behind the sealed doors of the royal apartments were of endless interest to the common people of Artor’s realm. The wedding feast had given all of Cadbury, its surrounds and the whole of the Celtic west a source of excited gossip, and the tale of events in the great hall grew in the telling. Far to the north, Morgan found herself almost happy, as discord had begun to tear away the veneer of paradise within the kingdom.
But in complex matters of the heart, Morgan misunderstood Artor entirely, for he was nothing like Uther Pendragon, a man who was cruel and calculating until his death. Although Artor had been changed by the untrammelled power of his position, he had spent his childhood as the butt of jokes and knew, too well, the unrelenting misery of one who has strayed from his destined path in the world. Unfortunately, he had also experienced the simplicity of true love, and Wenhaver was no Gallia. Unfortunately, Leodegran’s daughter wasn’t a queen either, although she’d been raised for that role.
But Artor was an accomplished seducer, and he was perfectly capable of ensuring that his wife would come eagerly to his bed. If he could curb his impatience, distaste and an unmanly desire to puncture Wenhaver’s smug self-satisfaction, the silly girl would learn her royal role. Her delight in sex was an added bonus that Artor could use to gain her loyalty and what affection she was capable of feeling.
On the second, true night of their marriage, Wenhaver was very clean, and Artor complimented her on her skin, which now smelled of roses. She purred with gratification.
As he smoothly explored her healthy, golden body and kissed her wilful mouth, Wenhaver was quickly aroused. He was so handsome that the queen found it easy to forget his advanced age. Everyone told her that their blond good looks complemented each other and, according to the peasants, they were like rulers of the otherworld, fair and beautiful beyond human understanding. Of course, Wenhaver devoured such praise.
No, Wenhaver had no legitimate complaint to make of her husband and his bedding of her. In fact, the scars and marks of violence on the High King’s body brought home to her, for the first time, that Artor was a great warrior first, and a High King second. At times, she secretly hugged herself with glee that such a mighty man had taken her for his wife.
But if the worm is scooped from the apple, the sweet white flesh will still continue to rot. The corruption has taken root, and cannot be winkled out by sexual conquest or the promise of greater glory. No matter what the heart possesses, it desires more than it should have, and so the contagion in Wenhaver’s soul spread.
Cadbury Tor was filled with beautiful young men eager to praise her hair, the ruby redness of her lips, the narrowness of her waist which stayed obstinately slender. And when Artor left to ride to the border cities, Wenhaver was left alone, except for a small group of girls, the daughters of kings, with whom she surrounded herself.
They flattered her endlessly.
‘You are so fortunate, my queen,’ Ludmilla of the Iceni murmured as she brushed the queen’s knee-length hair. ‘Most women with fair hair have brassy tones in their curls, but yours are like spun gold.’
Wenhaver preened and was gracious to Ludmilla, going so far as to give the girl a small thumb ring from her childhood hoard, for Ludmilla was tiny and dark.
‘You are married to the greatest man in Britain, perhaps in the world,’ Ludmilla enthused. ‘He is handsome and strong, and so very, very attentive.’
‘Yes, he is, isn’t he? Still, at times I feel like a brood mare, and I swear all of Cadbury looks for signs of quickening. I would prefer to enjoy our marriage for a while, alone.’
‘It’s all so romantic,’ Ludmilla sighed. She put down the silver brush and returned to her embroidery.
‘Mostly,’ Wenhaver agreed, although she was no one’s fool when it came to matters of pride and consequence.
And that one factor ate away at her self-esteem like a slow-acting poison. She knew that her need for Artor’s body was far more urgent than his desire for her flesh. She didn’t love her husband. She didn’t love anyone, but she wanted him, and he knew it. Fear stirred in the dark corners of her brain, and then surged to conscious life. What was she worth to him? Very little, she decided with bitter resentment.
Artor came to her chambers when he felt like it, regardless of her wishes. Then, when she was prepared to do anything to keep him by her side, to lie in the crook of his arm and feel loved, he would yawn, smile carelessly and wander away, naked and oblivious to her feelings.
So easily are earthly kingdoms jeopardized.
Meanwhile, life in the apartments of Myrddion Merlinus was quiet and, for the first time in his long life, filled with laughter. The sight of Nimue transfixed him, as she practised new words with the tip of her pink tongue peeping out of the corner of her mouth in concentration. He told himself that he was turning into a doddering old fool to be so taken with a girl who was young enough to be his granddaughter, yet every day he rose with a spring in his step and joy in his heart. Myrddion tried to persuade himself that she was just another curious child, a little brighter than most young people, and a trifle unusual compared with other striplings of either sex. Yes, the king’s most sage counsellor tried to rationalize his feelings, but he was aware that he was only contriving to fool himself.
Myrddion’s sojourn in contentment couldn’t last.
Artor was absent, called to Venonae by Pelles to reorganize its defences, so Cadbury was quieter than usual, and Wenhaver was listless and bored. Autumn had come knocking at the tor with heavy rain, grey days and damp walls that set the nerves of the courtiers on edge. Many of Wenhaver’s ladies nursed colds and the corridors echoed with sniffles, coughing and dismal conversations in corners. The queen spent most of her days in the tedium of sporadic bouts of sewing, spinning, weaving and gossip. Needless to say, her mood was irritable and dissatisfied.
Perhaps Wenhaver never meant to cause such a disagreeable and vulgar display, but as Myrddion would later say, if wishes were horses then beggars would ride.
Targo put his interpretation of her behaviour more bluntly.
‘You can’t turn a whore into a queen. She’ll always love the muck.’
Wenhaver happened to see Myrddion leaving the fortress to walk to the township below, so she decided to amuse herself. She sent Myrnia to summon Nimue to her apartments.
Nimue was busy grinding herbs with a mortar and pestle when Myrnia disturbed her and, surprised by the invitation, she brushed her hands clean, tidied her hair and sallied forth.
‘Be careful, mistress,’ Myrnia whispered, her eyes darting around the hallway for any listening ears. ‘The queen is in an odd mood today, and she’s no friend of yours.’
Nimue grinned widely and pressed Myrnia’s cold little hand comfortingly.
‘Don’t worry on my account, Myrnia. Your mistress has no power over me. After all, she can’t order me to do anything I would dislike.’
Nimue was sadly mistaken.
In her over-warm morning room, Wenhaver reclined on a couch, surrounded by her ladies who were busy with various tasks of embroidery, mending and spinning. By comparison, Wenhaver’s hennaed hands were idle, although she toyed with a late, rather sad rose whose petals had grown unevenly in the unseasonable wind.
‘Please be seated, Mistress Nimue. I’m pleased that you answered my request so readily, for I fear I’ve been tardy in becoming acquainted with you.’
Wenhaver toyed with her heavy red gown. Because the colour was scarlet, rather than crimson, its folds clashed with the queen’s pink blondeness. By comparison, Nimue’s plain grey garb was elegant and understated.