Dragon's Child (15 page)

The woman used a wooden stake to put the cleansed, steaming rags into a wicker basket, bobbed her head to the steward and then ran to tend to the needs of her mistress. Artorex knew better than to intrude into the female business of childbirth, so he waited in the corridor, pacing in time to the beating of his heart.

The night was still and Julanna’s final scream tore the darkness apart with her primal need. The frail cry of an infant was anti-climactic, but Artorex sighed deeply, muttered a quick prayer to Mithras, the soldier’s god, and waited for Myrddion.

Instead, Frith came to the doorway. Her back was straight and her arms held a dark-haired babe wrapped in fresh linen.

‘A child is born, my lord.’ Frith held the baby out to him. ‘You must bless her. Please, my lord, for she’s a weak thing, and she mustn’t die, for the shade of the mistress would never forgive me.’

‘Don’t name me by titles that aren’t mine, Frith. You know that I’m only the steward. But if it will set your mind at rest, I’ll bless the child for you.’

His large hands obscured the red, monkey-like face of the infant as he murmured the old blessing of birth over its head of dark hair.

‘Now the child will live,’ Frith exclaimed happily, her old eyes alight with something fey and strange. ‘I’ll take her to the master - for she has the eyes of my sweet Livinia.’

Myrddion watched the tableau in the doorway. His mouth was smiling, but his eyes were grave as he wiped his bloody hands on a scrap of cloth.

Artorex smiled gratefully at him. ‘I thank the gods that you were here when Caius ran amok, otherwise more than one soul would have fled to the shades during this night. Once Julanna is safely abed, I beg you to tend to the head of Mistress Gallia, my lord.’

‘You give me too much credit, Artorex. What of your own wound?’

Artorex looked down at the long shallow gash that ran from just below the shoulder to his elbow. It had stopped bleeding some time ago, but was now beginning to redden with heat from the wound.

‘I’ll see to Gallia shortly,’ Myrddion decided. ‘But first, I’ll clean and dress that trifling wound.’

As Myrddion cleaned the gash in hot water, Artorex continued to issue orders to the servants.

‘Before you see the master, Frith, I wish you to oversee the moving of Mistress Julanna. Her room should be prepared by now. If not, inform the servants that I require them to work faster. You must also send one of the girls to the village for the wet nurse. And I want Targo here - I need him immediately, Frith.’

‘All shall be done as you desire, master.’

‘Stop calling me that, Frith. I am still that same grimy boy you forced to bathe.’

‘Yes, master,’ she replied, with perfect sincerity.

‘Will this take much longer, my lord?’ an anxious Artorex asked Myrddion while his wounded left arm was bandaged. ‘I left Lord pen Bryn with Caius and the gods alone know how I shall deal with him.’

Around them, servants bustled as the stable boys carried a pale Julanna to her quarters, and the women struggled to put the dining chamber to rights. Frith issued orders with the clear commands of a general and, before Myrddion had completed his task, the entire room was once again bare and silent.

‘I am still at your service, Artorex. Where do I find the Mistress Gallia?’

‘She is in Luka’s room. He is concerned that she should not be moved.’

‘I shall see her immediately.’

After Myrddion left him to tend to Gallia’s injuries, Artorex sucked in the luxury of blessed silence - and tried to think. The dining room, where the whole tragedy had begun, had been restored to its usual state. Cleared of the bloody detritus of birth, it was simply a room of some opulence, with its couches awaiting the arrival of valued guests. Yet, Artorex was certain, it would never be the same cheerful place again. The benign graciousness of Livinia was lost forever.

Leaving the cursed room, Artorex waited in the lee of the alder for the wet nurse and Targo to arrive. The night was not yet finished, nor was its bloody aftermath even begun, and he desperately needed the advice of the rugged old campaigner. Artorex had never seen a living soul die so violently, least of all someone he loved, and his head swam in a vortex of emotions.

Some little time later, a small, pixyish woman from the village hurried out of the shadows with Targo as her escort. She was carrying an infant in a sling around her neck.

Artorex noted grimly that the warrior was still fully armed.

Directing the wet nurse to Julanna’s quarters, Artorex instructed her to send Frith to him when the old woman could be spared. Then, flexing his suddenly aching arm, he turned to his old tutor.

‘I imagine the messenger told you what occurred tonight?’

‘Aye, Artorex, he did. What caused the young master to turn into a madman?’

Artorex grimaced wolfishly, his eyes suddenly flat and unforgiving. ‘I’ve no idea but I intend to find out. Bring Luka and Myrddion to me from Mistress Gallia’s rooms as soon as they’ve finished with their ministrations. I’ll be with pen Bryn and the young master in his sleeping apartments.’

‘Aye, lad. All shall be done as you require.’ Targo gripped Artorex’s shoulder with one hand. The lad’s expression softened for a moment, and something wounded looked out of those glacial eyes. Then Artorex’s mental shield dropped back into place.

When the steward entered the room where Caius was secured, nothing had changed in the sad tableau, although his foster-brother was no longer weeping. Llanwith pen Bryn leaned casually against the wall as he cleaned his nails with a dagger. His eyes never left the miserable form of Caius.

‘Foster-brother!’ Artorex used his most authoritative voice. ‘The time for plain speaking between you and me has arrived.’

‘Leave me alone,’ Caius whined.

‘Not this time, I’m afraid, foster-brother. Sit up and dry your eyes like a man, and then explain yourself. ’

Caius reluctantly obeyed. The glint in Artorex’s eyes promised dire consequences if he refused.

‘It wasn’t my fault! I never meant to hurt her! Mother stepped in front of my blade. Does she live?’

‘No, Caius, don’t treat me like a fool. You’re fully aware that your mother is dead and that it was your hand that guided the blade. If you hadn’t struck her, then you’d have murdered a harmless, pregnant woman in her stead.’

‘What will become of me now?’ Caius sobbed.

‘Still thinking of yourself,’ Llanwith rumbled, without taking his eyes from the dishevelled form of Caius. The Cymru prince was stiff with revulsion and contempt.

‘You’re the father of a daughter, Caius, and your wife is well, in spite of being badly bruised at your hands. Your father is prostrate with grief and the Mistress Gallia is even now in the hands of the physician, Myrddion. Tonight, you have torn apart all that was good in this villa, yet still your thoughts are only for yourself. ’ Artorex fairly spat the last words. Caius thrust his face into his pallet and continued to weep.

Targo and Luka silently entered the room.

Artorex had been patient enough for ten men throughout the long evening. He crossed the room to the pallet in two quick strides and dragged Caius up by the hair.

‘Stand up and face your guilt, foster-brother. I’m sick of your puling and whining.’ Artorex slapped the face of Caius with such force that the imprint of his hand stood out on the cheek of the young man.

‘Your mother has forbidden me to kill you, Caius, but I can hurt you! And I will hurt you very badly, and then I’ll lie to Master Ector without a shred of guilt. Now, I want to know what is maddening you.’

Caius collapsed as if his legs were made of jelly. ‘They’ll kill me if I so much as hint at their guilt.’

Artorex laughed drily and pointed to the travellers. Three pairs of cold, contemptuous eyes stared fixedly at Caius. Llanwith spat on Caius’s pallet with contempt.

‘I swore an oath to your mother. She forgave you as she lay dying, and she forced me to make a promise to protect you. These gentlemen, however, are not bound by my oath, and they are men of far greater powers than you would believe. They have the authority to punish a matricide in the name of the High King. Do you wish to discover what Uther Pendragon’s law prescribes for any man who kills his mother? The Celts deem matricide as one of the worst murders - unlike the Romans. I’m sure that Luka would be pleased to explain the difference to you. Ector cannot protect you from these men, so you must answer before we lose our self-control.’

‘I was angry . . .’

‘That’s no excuse!’ the voice of pen Bryn rumbled from his position against the wall. ‘We’re not interested in your feelings. Try again!’

‘I’m tired of being second best . . .’

Llanwith knocked Caius down with a swift blow to the side of the head.

‘Second best? You’re the only son of Ector, the lord who owns the Villa Poppinidii,’ Luka said grimly. ‘You’ll rule the villa when your father goes to join his ancestors. You will act like a master - and not like a cur!’

‘Artorex is fatherless, and lives on the charity of my father. But everyone at the villa obeys him and not me!’

Llanwith knocked Caius down again, and he began to bleed from the mouth.

‘Have done with excuses! I had a great fondness for your mother.’

‘But . . . she listened to Artorex rather than to me,’ Caius wailed and pointed at the steward.

Artorex made an exclamation of disgust and gave Caius a backhanded slap across his face himself. It effectively ended the sickening whine.

‘Jealousy isn’t an excuse for the damage you’ve done, Master Caius,’ the unforgiving voice of Myrddion came from the darkness of the doorway. ‘We’re all aware that you spend little time at Villa Poppinidii and avoid taking part in its affairs. Who deserves the respect of the servants, a young man who spends all his hours carousing with his friends or the steward who controls the destiny of the villa and who works in the fields with the men?’

‘The servants don’t care for me . . .’

‘They believe that you and your friends are involved with the murder of children,’ Targo declared bluntly as he stepped into the room.

Caius recoiled and covered his face with his hands. What could be seen of his countenance was bone-white except for the red marks where angry hands had struck him.

Then, tousled and dishevelled as he was, he lifted his head and faced the accusing eyes of Targo. The expression on his face had all the cunning and slyness of a stoat.

‘You can’t prove anything! I’ve been here for days!’

At that moment, Artorex knew that Caius was guilty of more than matricide, and he felt his gorge rise. What could he do? How could he save Ector? How could any honourable man save Caius from the consequences of his vices and yet retain a semblance of decency for himself ?

‘You know nothing of Severinus and my friends,’ Caius blustered, his eyes downcast and shifty. ‘I didn’t kill those children. No! I had nothing to do with them! I’m not a monster!’

Artorex was revolted by his cringeing foster-brother.

‘But we do know that you attacked your pregnant wife’, he said evenly. ‘And we also know that you’re responsible for the death of your mother. Enough! I’m tired of this whole charade, so I’ll hand you over to Llanwith who’ll decide what punishment you will receive for your crimes.’

Whatever self-justification Caius was about to offer died on his lips as five pairs of eyes bored into him. Llanwith straightened and reached out one huge hand and gripped Caius by the throat. Then, straight-armed, he raised the young master into the air so that his feet kicked feebly and his face began to purple.

Artorex glared at his foster-brother. ‘I’ve sworn an oath to protect you, but that promise was for those sins committed this night, and this night only.’ He paused. ‘Will you speak now? Raise your hand if you wish to speak.’

Caius kicked, struggled and slowly strangled. His head bobbed up and down like a child’s toy while his eyes almost popped out of his skull.

Llanwith tossed him on to his pallet like a piece of dirty rag, and Caius attempted to regain his breath with harsh, ragged gasps.

‘The foul acts ascribed to Severinus - and to your own self - are matters we want to discuss immediately,’ Artorex told him. ‘Not only do you have to worry about those of us who are in this room, but you may have to face the wrath of the villagers who, this very night, are mourning the loss of another of their children. Should we be dissatisfied, we intend to hand you over to them for questioning.’

Even the impassive face of Llanwith pen Bryn looked a little sick at this pronouncement.

Haltingly, fearfully, Caius told his story. His eyes were shrouded so that Artorex was unsure what motivated his foster-brother.

‘Severinus will kill me if he thinks I’ve betrayed him. You must save me!’

‘Why must I save you?’ Artorex snapped. His eyes were like grey slate.

‘Because he’s a murderer and a pederast - he’s truly an abomination. I fear for my life each time I see him.’ Caius huddled into the very corner of the room, oblivious to the drying blood of his mother that still stained his hands and tunic. He was a study in ugly self-pity, and his judges weren’t convinced that this sudden capitulation was honest or sincere.

‘When did you first know that Severinus was a murderer?’ Artorex was implacable.

‘Not until it was far too late to remove myself from his influence. You must believe me!’ Caius’s eyes turned from one man to the next, pleading for sympathy and mercy.

‘Then you must tell us everything,’ Artorex insisted. ‘And I must warn you that Targo will know if you leave anything out. He’s familiar with some aspects of your activities.’

‘I’ve known Severinus and his friends for many years. He seduced me years ago with talk of epicurean manners and the Roman right to rule. By the time I realized that Severinus was a perverted aberration of nature, I was too deeply enmeshed to extricate myself.’