Caius enfolded his father in his muscular arms. His coarsening face was almost content as he basked in his father’s unqualified approval.
Caius was the last of the three visitors to be embraced, and the last to be recognized. Only Targo saw the faint glitter of resentment in his eyes. He didn’t blame Caius for his jealousy, for it must be difficult to be second best in his father’s eyes to a person he had actively despised during his youth. Until his death, a shadow would lie between Ector and his only son, the Shade of Lady Livinia, whom Caius slew in his rage and frustration.
So long ago! Targo had listened to the villagers when the young master rode with the dead Severinus and his friends. The downcast eyes of the simple, peasant farmers were murderous. Child killers! Pederasts! The accusations had turned the air to acid, had the aristocrats, on their fine horses, cared to notice the ordinary men who watched them with hatred and disgust.
In one dreadful night, Caius had tried to kick his pregnant wife to death, and had lifted a blade against her, only to kill his mother in error. Targo had been present when Artor and the three travellers had threatened Caius with unspeakable pain unless he explained his actions.
He had.
Old Targo had lived too long to mince words or to seek pleasing, meaningless platitudes. The Villa Severinii had given up the bodies of seven small boys, tortured and murdered by an evil ring of pederasts. Caius had sworn he was a victim, driven to madness by blackmail and terror, but Targo had doubted the boy, because he knew that Caius had often shown cruelty towards his servants and his horses.
But Targo also knew that Caius had shown his mettle in battle a hundred times over the years, and the veteran was prepared to quash the worm of doubt that wriggled uncomfortably into his thoughts.
‘You are as hale as ever, Father.’ Caius smiled at his sire. ‘You never seem to age like the rest of us.’ He placed a protective and possessive hand over his father’s age-spotted old paw.
With the affection that had grown during the many years that Artor had lived and worked under his roof, Ector examined every considerable inch of his king. Eleven battles, and twelve years, had managed to sit lightly on Artor’s thirty-seven years. His hair was as curly and as golden-amber as ever, his form was still strong and beautiful, and only the white weather lines at the corners of his eyes spoke of his many years in the saddle. Artor was almost too beautiful to be a man, and was therefore doubly beloved by Ector, for the semblance of youth was a reminder of old times and lost loves.
By comparison, Caius had thickened. He was superbly fit, because he prized the skills of battle and regularly exercised his skills at Cadbury, but his physique had gradually become overlaid by a layer of fat. His face was coarser and the pores of his skin had widened, especially at the end of his aristocratic nose. His complexion was ruddy, not with health but from extremes of temper, and Ector felt a twinge of worry for the well-being of his son. But Caius’s smile, his white teeth and his clear eyes were encouraging, and Ector failed to notice a telltale flatness that marred his son’s expression when he saw his wife, Julanna, standing in the doorway. She quickly melted away into the shadows of the villa.
Overjoyed by the visit, Ector dashed away the traitorous welling of his emotions with the back of his hand.
‘Come in! Come in! Old friends and kinsmen! The Villa Poppinidii cannot match the royal palaces you now frequent, but we still offer good meals and soft beds. Julanna will be organizing your comforts even as we speak.’
As Artor stepped over the threshold, he imagined he could see old Frith, smiling at him from the shadows before the kitchen entrance. And here came Gallia, the insubstantiality of her form belied by the brilliance of her eyes. And Livinia Major looked up from her loom with her customary elegance and grace.
All these fine people were long gone now. All were lost for the remainder of time.
A shudder of regret ran through his body as he surveyed the familiar surroundings with the bitter-sweet memories of his youth.
Ector noticed, and gripped Artor’s sword-calloused hand.
‘I often see them too, Artor,’ he whispered. ‘They comfort me as I wait to join them at the last. I am not afraid of death, for their love still embraces us.’
Then, suddenly, Artor could smell flowers and sweet perfumes, and his imagination conjured up those invisible hands that had stroked and comforted him. His eyes filled with unshed tears which he brushed away while the others were occupied with Julanna’s welcome.
Little Livinia Minor, now nearly fourteen, stood directly behind her mother. She was struck dumb with awe, and her dark eyes were wide with fascination as she stared at the tall, powerful visitors.
Artor grinned at her. He winked, and the girl giggled.
He embraced Julanna and congratulated her on the beauty of her daughter. Julanna herself was softly rounded and petal-faced. She was still a beautiful woman, and the frightened girl of yesteryear had grown into an assured Roman matron.
‘You are well, wife?’ Caius asked.
‘Yes, my husband, and little Elynn flourishes.’
Julanna’s second daughter, Gallia Minor, sucked her thumb and hid behind her nurse’s skirts. Caius embraced her, and the child endured his caress with a rigid indifference. The nurse carried Elynn, who had been named for Ector’s mother, to meet her father.
The two-year-old wriggled and smiled in the nurse’s arms, and Caius patted the child on her fine, baby-soft head.
Ever the perfect wife, Julanna’s face was fixed on her husband with a pleasing and compliant smile. Artor wondered if it was only his imagination that her large, deer-soft eyes were wary and careful.
‘Greetings, Papa,’ Livinia Minor murmured hesitantly, and planted a nervous, damp kiss on her father’s cheek. The girl was like a skittish fawn, for she hardly knew her father; Caius’s duties kept him far from home for over ten months of the year. She flinched as he hugged her.
Familiar and strange servants showed Artor and Targo to the best rooms, while Caius stowed his travelling kit in his own apartments. Already, the aromatic smells of the evening meal wafted through the atrium, and Artor remembered those occasions when he had served the three travellers with his own young hands. Time swept him back to the days when he was an ignorant young boy, and a greater part of him regretted his rise to supreme power and the demands of his duties.
Artor, Caius and Targo dressed and met for a small feast that was timed to coincide with the long dusk. Targo would have excused himself as not fit to eat with ‘his betters’, but Ector overrode all arguments presented by the mercenary. As the family reclined to eat, it was almost as if Livinia Major still lived and was present with the company. Livinia Minor was permitted to stay awake later than usual in honour of the occasion, so she could savour the fine smoked ham, eggs stuffed with honey, freshwater crayfish and sheep’s stomach filled with jellied eels and plover’s eggs. Artor would have preferred a simple repast, but he understood that the villa was offering its best to entertain the High King.
But of Licia, there was no sign.
Julanna seemed to read Artor’s mind.
‘Licia’s maidservant is attempting to clean the scamp. She is always in the fields or in the forest, so she hardly owns a robe that isn’t torn or stained. Gareth will bring her to us presently.’
‘How goes Gareth?’ Artor asked.
‘He has become my steward,’ Ector answered jovially. ‘And I cannot imagine how the villa would run without him. The scrawny stable boy has grown into a formidable young man.’
Ector had barely finished speaking when Gareth entered the room with a freshly scrubbed, coiffed and uncomfortable girl at his heels.
Artor nodded to Gareth, a mark of respect that the servant deserved for his many years of guardianship. As a boy and as the great-grandson of Frith, whom Artor had loved as a mother, Gareth had killed to protect Licia during an attack on the Villa Poppinidii by Uther Pendragon’s guard. Artor could still picture Gareth then. The lad’s striking white-blond hair had already been long, and his golden skin and northern-blue eyes had marked him as an outlander by blood. For all his barbarian ancestry, Gareth and his grand-dam, Frith, had given many lifetimes of service and loyalty to the High King.
Licia had certainly grown. The dark hair of babyhood had lightened to the colour of amber honey, enlivened by a pair of eyes that were an odd shade of brown. At certain angles, especially by the torchlight in the dining room, the flecks in her eyes seemed almost green. With a wry grin, Artor noticed that the child had scabs on both knees and the long scratches that always seemed to result when adventurous children came into contact with briars and low branches.
‘Licia.’ Ector held out his hand to her. ‘This gentleman is King Artor who grew up inside this very house. He is the High King of all the Britons, so make your bow, child.’
Licia bowed prettily, glancing up into Artor’s face through smudged, sooty eyelashes that gave her eyes and smile a special loveliness.
‘Sire,’ she said, ‘did you
really
grow up at the Villa Poppinidii?’
Artor knelt so that their eyes were level. ‘Yes, I did, Licia. I used to play in the forest too. And Frith, Gareth’s grandmother, would scold me because I always came home dirty with my hair all tangled.’
The child grinned engagingly. ‘Gareth says he’ll beat me black and blue if I go into the forest - but he won’t. He loves me, you see.’
‘Then you are a very lucky girl, little lady. To be loved is the best feeling in the whole, wide world.’
‘Doesn’t anyone love you, sire?’ the child asked seriously.
‘Some do . . . but there are many more people who would like me to vanish in a puff of smoke.’ Artor blew out his cheeks with an audible pop, and Licia giggled.
Then her compelling eyes became serious once more. Artor felt their force as they examined him dispassionately.
‘I’ll try to love you, if you like,’ Licia said carefully. ‘But I can’t promise, because I don’t know you very well.’
‘Thank you, Licia. I’d be very honoured if you could like me.’
Licia giggled again. ‘Oh, I can do that. I like nearly everybody.’
Artor smiled, but he felt the hollow pain of the loss of his wife stab through the space under his ribs. Although Gallia had been dead for over twelve years, she often entered his thoughts. He could recall the smell of her, the silken quality of her skin and the erotic softness of her touch, but he couldn’t remember her face. Even now, as he looked gently into the eyes of their daughter, he couldn’t picture Gallia’s features and he mourned the betrayal of time.
‘Enough, Licia,’ Ector said gently, recognizing the sheen of moisture in his foster-son’s eyes. ‘It’s time now for you to go with Livinia and eat your supper. Then it’s off to bed for both of you.’ He patted the heads of both girls with affection.
Livinia looked dismayed, but Licia hugged Ector impulsively.
‘I’ll go if you say so, Grandfather,’ Livinia said softly. ‘But I’m not the least bit tired,’
‘Do I win a hug, my little ones?’ Artor asked.
Livinia did not hesitate, and clasped her arms round the shoulders of the kneeling Artor.
Licia considered the matter more carefully and then, quite visibly, decided in Artor’s favour. She approached him and lifted his curling hair away from his brow with the same deft touch that her mother had used so long ago. Then she kissed him on each eye.
‘These kisses will help you to sleep well, my lord,’ she explained neatly. She studied him for a moment. ‘Your hair curls just like mine. Gareth says that my curls are just like the tendrils on the wisteria vine where Mama lies. Did you know her, sire? Did she have hair like ours?’
‘No . . . Your mother’s hair was thick and glossy, and was far shinier than even the mane of my horse. Your mother’s hair was very beautiful but it was not as curled as yours.’
‘Then I must have inherited this mop from my father.’ Licia smiled at him. ‘Did you know him, sire?’
Artor laughed softly, but only to disguise his reluctance to answer the question.
Targo had turned away on his dining couch, and Ector’s eyes were misty.
‘Yes. For, to me, he was like a twin brother. You should always think of him as being brave and strong, and he loved you, and your mother, very dearly. But he is no longer with us, for the life he lived with your mother ended a long, long time ago. He had no will to live without her by his side.’
Licia sighed happily. ‘How lovely.’ She smiled up at him. ‘No one will ever quite tell me, you see. Don’t you hate it when people don’t quite tell a lie but they don’t quite tell the whole truth either?’
‘Yes, Licia, friends often act just as you say, but it would be wise of you to remember that people can often appear to be cruel when in fact they intend a kindness towards you. You should be proud of your parents. They were devoted to each other, and their memory remains with me.’
‘Thank you, sire. I hope you sleep well.’
Then Licia tripped away with the awkward, stumbling gait of a child who was still growing into the length of her very long legs. Artor drank in every careless movement, every swing of her cascade of curls and the sweet sway of her burgeoning body.
The men present felt his pain but, trapped in their masculine inability to express the depth of their sympathy, they said nothing. Julanna reached across the table to grip Artor’s hand with her own, which he wordlessly kissed.
He shook his head to clear his dismal thoughts, and rose to his feet.
‘You have wrought miracles, Father Ector,’ Artor congratulated his host. ‘And you, too, friend Gareth. Licia is delightful and free of care. She has been raised to be herself, and I am encouraged for her future.’ He turned to Julanna. ‘And you, Julanna, should be especially proud that the girl has such pretty manners and is so natural in her dealings with adults. Gallia would be so grateful to you.’