Warrior of the West (54 page)

So are kingdoms lost and men brought to ruin.

As for Wenhaver, her excuse was that she sought to punish her husband. He had rejected her after Myrnia had left Cadbury. While neither Artor nor Myrddion had uttered a word of blame towards the queen for her brutality, whispers crept through the busy corridors of Cadbury like tendrils of smoke, so that warriors, servants and even citizens of the town viewed Wenhaver with a blend of disapproval and gruesome curiosity.

Wenhaver could not face her detractors without proclaiming her guilt. In her lavish bed, waited upon by careful maids who kept their distance, she fumed and hated her husband even more for a predicament that in her heart she knew to be her own fault. But her response, as ever, was to shift the blame. It was Myrnia’s fault. Artor was responsible. She would have described every insult, real or imagined, that had occurred since she had arrived at Cadbury to justify her actions.

Her seduction of the king’s nephew permitted the queen to feel much, much better.

 

The night was always a time for killing. A thousand tiny murders were committed in the fortress under the cover of darkness, as owls, rats and creeping insects followed their instincts and ambushed whatever prey crossed their paths.

In one secluded corner of the citadel, a pair of cold, dispassionate eyes watched the glint of moonlight on Nimue’s hair. The dark flat irises masked a desire to crush, to rape, to sink sharp teeth into her small, perfect breasts. Distantly and instinctively, Nimue felt his presence and her flesh shivered with a sudden chill. She left the slit in the window and covered her patient where his fevered tossing had bared his side.

Morning came after a restless night when the wind rattled the shutters as if strong fingers sought entry. Targo was failing, his old lungs struggled for air and his heart was swollen in his thin chest. Nimue had seen this illness before in Gallwyn, and she knew that her efforts were fruitless. His dwindling frame gave no sign of the presence of the contagion, so Nimue took a great chance. She opened the door a crack and whispered to the waiting servant.

‘Inform the High King that Targo is near death. Tell the king that old age is his friend’s undoing and not the contagion. Targo’s soul readies itself to make the dark crossing from this world to the next, and he wishes to bid farewell to his master.’

Targo was fretful and his face had an unhealthy, feverish tinge.

‘It’s a bugger to be old and dying, little one,’ he whispered, his eyes proclaiming that wit and intelligence had not deserted him.

‘It comes to us all, dear Targo. How well you have lived, though, for you have seen many strange places and known men who are now the stuff of legend. You will go to your rest knowing your life was full.’

‘You’re sweet, my dear, to try to comfort me. But the mind still wants more of life, regardless of the body’s ache. A lovely face like yours is far better medicine than those nasty syrups you make me drink. I’d really like a glass of good red wine now, my lovely. It can’t hurt, can it?’ Targo grinned with his old wickedness. ‘I’m dying anyway, lovey. Please?’

‘You’re a devil, Targo.’ Nimue laughed sincerely. ‘Perce will chase up a mug of a good Spanish wine. Or, better yet, he’ll find a flagon and several cups, so we can join you. Hades can wait until we have our toast.’

‘Good girl!’ Targo whispered. ‘Let the bugger wait for me! He’s hunted me for longer than I care to remember and he has to sneak up on me to catch me, so he’ll cool his heels till I’m good and ready. Besides, I don’t feel too bad . . . considering.’ The old warrior patted Nimue’s hand. ‘I sometimes think that it would have been better to have died in battle at Artor’s back, but then I remember I’d never have met you. Yes, old age is a bugger - but there are compensations.’

‘I heard my name mentioned,’ the High King interrupted as he entered the room. He knelt beside Targo’s pallet and gripped the old man’s hand tightly. ‘Nimue says you’re thinking very seriously about leaving me. How can you trust me not to fuck up without you to guide me?’

Nimue’s face flushed at the soldierly language, but Targo grinned, baring his few remaining yellowed fangs.

‘That’s my boy! Yes, you’ll probably fuck up, but so would a Caesar in this country of boneheads and sodding rain. Can’t be helped, boy. It can’t be helped.’

The old man lifted Artor’s hand and kissed it. Nimue felt tears prickle behind her eyes and was forced to dash one hand across her cheeks to wipe away their traitorous tracks. The death of a great warrior was no time for weeping.

‘I’ve loved you like a son, my boy. I loved little Gallia too. My heart hurts even worse to think of little Licia all grown up, and a wife, and us not there to see her on her big day. Old Frith was always right, wasn’t she? Fate gives some men greater burdens than others.’

Artor was dangerously close to tears; Nimue could sense them hovering in his shark’s eyes, which were now simply wintry and sad.

‘If the priests are right, Targo, then Frith and Gallia are both waiting to greet you. Lady Livinia, Ector, Luka, the Scum . . . so many friends will be there awaiting your arrival.’

Nimue had no idea what the two men were talking about, but the shared love and life experiences that bound them so tightly were revealing the High King of the Britons to her in a totally new light. Before her eyes, Artor was becoming a true man, capable of love in full measure as well as the ruthless capacity for power that she had previously seen in him.

Perce hurried into the room, balancing a dusty flagon and some rough pottery cups on a simple wooden tray. He bowed to the king and commenced to fill the crude pottery with a rich, ruby-red wine.

Artor raised one eyebrow at Nimue, who explained Targo’s last desire was for a fine glass of wine, and of her decision that they should join him in his tipple. As she spoke, Myrddion entered the room and was also handed a full cup.

Perce lifted the old man tenderly and supported him on cushions. With Nimue’s help, Targo drank deeply and a little colour came back into his pale face.

‘To Artor, King of the Britons, my lord and my last master,’ Targo said gravely in his failing, thin voice. ‘My best master, who has given me my greatest triumphs.’

Just as solemnly, Nimue, Perce and Myrddion drank with him to Artor’s good health.

‘In recompense for my loyalty, I ask that you remember your promise, my lord,’ Targo added craftily, his eyes alight. ‘I ask that you do right by young Perce. He’s nearly ready and he’ll be a loyal warrior who will guard your back for the love of me. I’ll sleep better if I know that he has taken my place.’

Artor raised his cup, drank and saluted Targo.

‘By the hours you once spent teaching me to stay alive, by the tears we shed together and by the losses we bore as one, I swear I will keep my word to you, my friend.’

‘That’s fair enough,’ Targo wheezed. ‘Now, what’s a man got to do to get a drink around here?’

Perce glanced an unspoken question at Nimue, who nodded almost imperceptibly. The young man filled Targo’s cup.

‘How fast are you, boy?’ Targo asked slowly.

‘I’m fast enough.’ Artor’s voice broke. His eyes streamed with tears, although his mouth was held firmly by the force of his will.

Targo drank a little, and then waved the cup away with ebbing strength.

‘I’m very tired,’ the old man whispered, and closed his eyes.

Odin came to the door, summed up the situation at a glance and then stood guard at the entrance like a stone effigy.

Targo dozed for five minutes or so. His breathing sounded very loud within the confines of the quiet room. Nimue held his liver-spotted hand and stared into the cup of half-drunk wine on the stone floor beside her. It seemed to swirl like a pool of pumping blood.

The old man’s eyes flickered, and then opened tiredly.

‘How strong are you, boy?’ The words whistled through his shrivelled lips.

‘Strong enough,’ Artor replied evenly, although his face was wet.

‘So think before you act . . . Targo’s law! Remember?’

Once again, the old man’s eyes drooped shut as if he now lacked the strength to keep them open. His breathing was slower and more laboured, until Nimue thought that the heaving chest wouldn’t rise again. But Targo’s will to live was still strong, and he opened his eyes once more.

‘Nimue? Lovey? My short sword is yours.’

‘Never mind, you old darling. Just sleep, and we’ll watch over you while you rest. Artor is here. And Myrddion, Odin and Perce will stay close to you.’

She caressed the old man’s forehead with the long, gentle strokes of a mother, as if Targo was a small child. The old man obediently closed his eyes once more. Targo was a husk, a shell that was cracked and broken beyond repair. His heart still laboured on but Nimue knew that his soul would soon be free of his useless body.

His eyes snapped open.

‘Odin!’ he called, his expression suddenly desperate. The Jutlander stepped forward into the light of the lamp so that Targo’s fading sight could see the outline of the familiar, shaggy body.

‘Promise to guard his back! Whatever it takes, you . . . heathen . . . lump. Guard my boy’s back.’

‘To ruin! To the death!’ the Jutlander swore, and Nimue began to sob. She could no longer watch in silence but she couldn’t turn away either.

As she watched the final minutes of Targo’s life, it was almost as if his god smoothed the wrinkled old face with a great invisible cloth, until the years that burdened his body began to fall away. Now Nimue could see the narrow, clever face that Targo once wore when he was young and vigorous, and her sobs increased in frustration and despair.

‘He’s gone,’ she whispered with a blend of joy and anguish. ‘His heart is still beating slowly . . . but his soul has fled.’

Gradually, so quietly that the watchers could barely discern the small differences, Targo’s breathing slowed and weakened . . . and then stopped.

A single heartbeat stirred the frail chest one last time, and then Targo’s body was dead.

Artor kissed the dead lips and rose to his feet, ignoring the tears that darkened his short beard. His face was twisted, with regret, loss and something darker that reminded Myrddion that the king had borne more than his share of losses during the past year.

‘I will wash Targo myself, my lord, and sew him into his shroud,’ Nimue promised.

She gazed up into the ashen face of the High King and stroked his hand hesitantly. Artor seemed oblivious to her small, comforting gesture.

‘Do you wish him buried?’ she asked, proud to give this final, woman’s grace to the old warrior. ‘Or burned?’

‘Targo will be burned as a true Celtic warrior. And his ashes will rest at the Villa Poppinidii where he spent so many happy years.’

Artor’s sharp gaze turned on Nimue, and he seemed to see her truly for the first time. For one brief instant, she thought his eyes would pierce her heart, and she shivered under his fierce regard.

‘I will send a shroud to you, the very best that my kingdom possesses. I thank you, Nimue, apprentice of Myrddion, and I am forever in your debt.’

‘I live to serve you, my lord. You only have to ask.’

Artor bowed, turned abruptly on his heel and strode out of the room. Myrddion stared fixedly at the iron-straight back with a kind of fear and, reluctantly, followed his master, the High King of the Britons.

 

Artor entered his wife’s apartments like a tidal surge. His raw emotions caused the perfumed air to crackle around him.

‘Wenhaver? Where are you, woman?’ he bellowed.

The queen’s ladies fled from him like gaily painted birds disturbed by a hawk.

Wenhaver entered from her sleeping room, her long hair unbound, and looked at Artor with something very like disdain.

‘I am here, husband. There is no need to shout.’

‘Where is the cloth of gold that came as a part of your dowry? I want it!’

Artor’s voice was crisp and curt, and the maids observed him cautiously from under lowered eyes.

‘I plan to make that length of cloth into a gown, my husband, so I must decline to give it to you.’

‘Your desires are of no interest to me. The cloth is mine, and was paid for when I married you. I have a use for it.’

Artor’s right fist clenched and unclenched unconsciously. The maids clustered in the corner of the sumptuous room to avoid the coming confrontation.

‘Don’t force me to search for that cloth, Wenhaver. It’s mine, not yours, so it will be used to shroud old Targo, my most trusted servant, who is newly dead.’

A wiser and less grasping woman would have acquiesced in the face of her husband’s obvious distress. But, as usual, Wenhaver saw his demands through the filter of her own desires. She had found a replacement for her husband in her bed, and she had set her heart on an ostentatious gown, one designed to eclipse every woman in the west.

‘That smelly old man! No, he cannot have it! My father owned it, so it’s mine and I mean to keep it.’

Her voice had risen until she was quite shrill. Artor, by comparison, became dangerously quiet.

‘You’ll obey, woman, and you’ll comply with my wishes this very minute. Now!’ He pointed at the prettiest of Wenhaver’s handmaidens. ‘You! Find the cloth! This instant!’

‘I am warning you, Linnet. Don’t you dare do his bidding,’ Wenhaver shrieked.

Linnet’s loyalty swivelled between Wenhaver’s spiteful face and the king’s implacable eyes.

‘Linnet, you will obey! I am the king!’

Her decision had been made for her. She ran to a large chest, opened the heavy lid, and began to search through precious lengths of fabric until she struggled to lift out a bolt of shining gold.

Wenhaver stamped her small foot. ‘I will have you whipped, Linnet, and I don’t care who your father is. You are not the king’s servant, but mine. I order you to give that cloth to me.’