Warrior of the West (63 page)

Artor looked bleakly at Myrddion’s distant, sickened face.

‘You have cost me the trust of my true friend, Myrddion Merlinus, because of my decision to allow you to live. You aren’t worth a moment of his pain, but I must break his belief in my justice to keep you breathing. You will always have to watch your back, foster-brother. ’

Caius seemed uneasy, but he still hadn’t learned to keep his tongue.

‘So I am right once again,’ he blustered. ‘Artorex is far too squeamish to kill a member of his own family.’ He smiled knowingly. ‘I will see Nimue again,’ he leered, and his voice hissed with malice. ‘And soon!’

Artor drew himself up to his full, impressive height. ‘My name is Artor, Caius. The Artorex you knew died years ago!’

Yes, Artorex is dead, Myrddion thought regretfully, and I liked Artorex. Nay, I loved him. But I am less sure of this Artor.

Artor moved towards Caius with an impassive face, so that his foster-brother struggled to his feet with a wince of pain. Something in Artor’s demeanour shook Caius’s arrogance and caused him to back away.

‘Odin will fetch two members of my personal guard to ensure that you remain safe until I can organize your journey to Tintagel. Don’t think to move anywhere without them, for I’ll not permit any further harm to come to citizens within these walls at your hands. I suggest you pray to your ancestors beyond the River in Hades. Perhaps your blessed mother will intercede, and you’ll be permitted to cross when death takes you. Perhaps not! Whatever you decide, you will confine yourself in your quarters to ensure your continued good health. There are many men here who’d relish a chance to hasten your departure by more violent means than you’d like.’

Caius attempted to bluster, but Artor turned his back on his foster-brother. The arbor was quiet except for the tapping of creepers and the rustle of the wind through drying leaves. A flurry of fallen petals was blown into a corner and the pale pink fragments swirled and danced as the freshening air swept fitfully over the flagging.

Artor refused to turn, even when two warriors escorted Caius away to his lavish apartments. Only when the sound of their footsteps had faded into silence did Artor turn back to his friend who seemed older, beaten and lost.

Artor gazed at Myrddion. ‘Please trust me in this decision. I will allow no harm to touch the head of Nimue.’

‘I must think of my position on these matters,’ Myrddion said to his lord, but his mind was already seeking out the pretty fairy mushrooms that grew deep inside the Wildewood, in the quiet places where even the wind was strangled by the ancient trees. It was a solution that didn’t require the compliance of his lord.

Five days later, Caius rode away from Cadbury, nonchalant and smiling, with many graceful, lying farewells ringing in his ears from his fellow courtiers.

Myrddion had reported the whole incident to Nimue, who was now risen from her sickbed and was trying to dry her herbs one-handed. Myrddion was surprised to learn that his apprentice knew an impressive range of curses when she found that she was having difficulty coping with her tasks.

‘Poor Artor,’ Nimue sighed.

‘Poor Artor? The king has released a monster who would happily kill again and again for as long as he is free to do it. And I can assure you that he will torture and murder again if he isn’t stopped.’

‘But the king has so much to lose in this matter. People have forgotten that Caius isn’t blood kin and is only a foster-brother. To the world, Caius is family, and an execution would harm the honour of the High King. You must be fair, Myrddion.’

Myrddion gaped at Nimue. He had not expected her to defend Artor’s actions.

‘I’m not defending Artor,’ Nimue continued. ‘I’m simply trying to understand him. His life has been one long series of losses ever since the details of his birth became common knowledge. He has had to repress the worst, and the best, in his nature, and he has no choice in this concealment, because he is the king. I’m certain that the king’s secrets must die with Caius who will, I believe, have an unfortunate accident quite soon - probably during the journey to Tintagel. The king did ask you to trust his justice, didn’t he? And if Caius should be fortunate enough to survive the journey, I understand that Tintagel is a very lonely and dangerous place.’ Nimue looked keenly at Myrddion, and his eyes dropped under her scrutiny.

‘I know you, my lord. You play word games, just as a warrior plays with his weapons. You say that Caius
would
kill in the future. Yet you know with certainty that Artor will take steps to resolve this matter in secret, and that Caius will never be allowed to kill again. Gruffydd travels with him, which is an odd choice of companion on a long journey . . . unless Artor has chosen the way of Uther Pendragon to solve his problem with Caius.’

Myrddion smiled distantly.

‘Why did you choose the word,
would
?’ Nimue asked calmly, although her heart skipped a beat.

‘You must be innocent of all knowledge of my sins, my child, in case I am exposed. But, the king’s orders to Gruffydd came too late, for the death of Caius had already been arranged. For the first time, I doubted the word of my lord and master.’

Myrddion’s eyes were bleak, and a little catch of pain caught in Nimue’s throat. Her master was kind and human, and murder was both an unnatural and an unforgivable act for him. But worse than murder was his loss of trust.

‘Sometimes, you are a little barbarian in your thoughts,’ Myrddion said quietly. ‘But you are right, it was determined that Caius would die in an accident arranged by Artor. I should have realized that the king’s intentions were for the good of the west, but he didn’t tell me of his plans until after Caius had departed.’

‘You are too good a person, Myrddion, to understand the true viciousness or the pragmatism of human beings.’

‘Whatever the outcome, Nimue, I no longer trust Artor with our lives. He loves us, but he would use us up if it became necessary to save the west from danger. I’ve learned that I’m no better than he is. In fact, I’m worse because he has never failed me and I broke my faith with him. I don’t know how I can live with the shame. I can’t imagine facing him, the son I always wanted, and doubting him, as I will from this point onwards.’

Nimue cradled his craggy face in her hands.

‘Nothing is forever, master, not even love.’

‘He is now the perfect king because he has mastered his nature, but I regret that he has lost some of his humanity in the process. If the cause of the west could be advanced by our deaths, Artor wouldn’t hesitate to sacrifice both of us.’

‘Of course,’ Nimue answered. ‘That choice is his burden, and also his fate. ‘But he would sacrifice himself as well,’ she added as an afterthought. ‘He already has.’

Myrddion wept silently, and Nimue longed to raise her hands to his twisted face and wipe away his hopeless tears.

‘I desired to make the perfect king, Nimue. In my hubris, I believed I could mould a suitable young man into another Caesar - for the sake of the people, and for my inflated pride. I was successful, but I find I cannot bear to face what I have done.’

Myrddion looked so sad that Nimue hugged him hard with her good arm. Myrddion tried to pull away, but she gripped his hair and he laid his head on her shoulder. He wished he was younger and wiser.

‘We must leave Cadbury,’ Nimue said quietly. ‘And the sooner the better. But it must be after Enid is delivered of her child, for I have promised to assist her with the birth. We should go far away, Myrddion, to a place where the Celts, the Saxons, Artor or any of the warrior kings cannot find us.’

‘You have never called me by my name before,’ Myrddion whispered.

‘I have called you by name a thousand times, but you were never listening. You thought yourself old and celibate, and that I was far too young for you. You ran from me as if I had the contagion, when you are all I could ever want, or ever will.’

‘But I will be dead before you reach middle age, Nimue. You have not thought of the practicalities of such a union.’ Myrddion tried to pull away from her, but his efforts were only half-hearted. ‘And I am needed here in Cadbury.’

Nimue chuckled richly and seductively. ‘Gallwyn was dead at fifty, and young warriors can be mown down like grain during the harvest. Death comes, sooner or later, so we should snatch what happiness we may while we can. I do not count the cost. We are friends first, and yet we can still be lovers. I have so much to learn from you, Myrddion, and you, my love, can learn from me.’

Myrddion would have spoken, but she laid two fingers on his mouth to silence him.

‘Artor needs you, but he will survive your loss. A gulf lies between you now, and you will both bleed internally in the full knowledge that the gap cannot be breached. It’s better that we go, my Myrddion, with love for Artor still alive in you, rather than risk its erosion with the passage of time. Better to be with me, my love, even if only for a little time. Artor has his Gallia. And you shall have me.’

‘I will think on it,’ Myrddion whispered. ‘Enid has a month before the birth of her child.’

‘I can wait, my love. I have waited for several years, so what is one more month? But time is narrowing here at Cadbury, for Wenhaver grows worse and worse, and her spite knows no bounds. She’ll harm me if she can and I fear her spite far more than I fear the revenge of Caius. Artor may have defeated the Saxons, but Wenhaver will be the death of him in the end. I’d prefer not to watch the decay of a dream.’

Myrddion winced, for he had shared that dream for the whole of his adult life.

‘There must be some remedy,’ he exclaimed.

‘The remedy will only be found if Wenhaver can change, and only if Gawayne can be persuaded to return to the north with his wife and child. Yet my reason tells me that Wenhaver would only seek out another lover.’

‘Then we are in the hands of the gods.’

‘No, my love. Our future lies in our own hands, and in no others. You have proved this truth in your judgement of Caius.’

 

On the road to Tintagel, taken in easy stages to spare Caius’s wounds, Gruffydd waited his chance. His orders had come from the mouth of Artor himself, so Gruffydd knew that the needs of his king must be sorely pressing if he was forced to send a trusted friend to assassinate his own foster-brother.

Gruffydd felt soiled at the thought of a cowardly stab in the darkness, but he had followed Artor for most of his life and he couldn’t throw away an allegiance that had become an essential part of his life. Gruffydd could not know that his king was near to breaking point, for he was repeating an ancient sin committed by his father, Uther Pendragon, by imperilling the soul of a man who loved him.

Shortly after midnight, when the darkness was absolute and the fires had banked and guttered, Gruffydd waited silently behind Caius’s travelling tent, his dagger sheathed at his waist. Eel-like, he slid through the tent flap and stood over the supine body of the king’s foster-brother.

Caius’s eyes snapped open, and Gruffydd recoiled in surprise.

‘Help me,’ Caius whimpered, even as a spasm rippled through his whole body.

Gruffydd saw that Caius’s pallet was dark with blood where his wounds had pulled apart and bled anew. He shook his head in confusion. What other assassin lurked in the darkness? What was happening here?

Even as he shouted for the guards, Gruffydd’s eyes and ears were straining to discover whether another killer was hiding in the shadows. As he lit the wick of an oil lamp with shaking hands, he thanked his gods that the blood of Caius would not stain his soul and that his master would be freed from guilt.

When light revealed the interior of the tent and its writhing inhabitant, Gruffydd could see clearly how the healing cuts on Caius’s belly and thigh were now oozing blood, but no fresh wounds marked the man’s body. Gruffydd’s lips curled with distaste, for now his unpleasant orders made sense. Sword wounds were distinctive, especially on flesh that stretched over layers of fat. Gruffydd had seen Nimue return to Cadbury Tor, wrapped in warm wool with dried blood in her fine hair. Like the rest of the inhabitants of the fortress, he had speculated on the identity of the Wildewood murderer and the audacity that led to his attack on the Maid of Wind and Water.

So this sick bastard is the monster of Wildewood, Gruffydd thought to himself with contemptuous horror. No wonder Artor wants him assassinated.

‘What ails you, lord?’ Gruffydd asked softly of the desperately ill man. He was careful to ensure that his face was wiped clean of all suspicion.

Caius continued to thrash about in his sweaty, bloody clothing.

‘I’m ill! My stomach and bowels boil, and my head aches abominably. I can scarcely see you, Sword Bearer. I command you to fetch a healer to tend to my needs.’

‘Of course, lord, you have but to ask,’ Gruffydd replied evenly, his thoughts firmly fixed on the remembrance of a laughing boy, a battered widow, and a disembowelled girl.

‘And, in pity’s name, leave the light,’ Caius yelped, for in the corners of the tent he could see pallid faces peering at him. Caius’s dead had come to wait for him. The sick man gibbered as yet more faces loomed out of the darkness and smiled at him.

‘What is wrong, my lord? Why are you frightened? The tent is empty but for your guards. No one here will harm you.’

Caius whimpered and turned his face into the pillow. ‘Can’t you see them? The girls? Who let in the dog? Get it out! Get it out! I am the king’s brother, so obey me! Get the whole hell-brood out of my tent.’

Caius almost screamed in his hysteria and the miasma of horror and illness in the tent was so thick that the warriors clutched their amulets and rolled their eyes superstitiously.

‘What dog, lord?’ one warrior asked nervously.

‘Go to the nearest village and find a healer,’ Gruffydd ordered the frightened man, cutting smoothly into the silence. ‘But you don’t need to be overly fast about it. For all that our master looks ill, he is still remarkably strong and isn’t at death’s door.’