Dragon's Child (47 page)

Myrddion could have explained to Gruffydd that Nimue’s birth awoke dormant memories of Gallia’s fate and the cowardly murder of two defenceless women. The rigidity of the Dux Bellorum’s body caused the spymaster to clench his fist under the table and to pray that Gruffydd kept his wits about him.

With growing repugnance, Artorex absorbed the full, harrowing tale. Like a tongue must probe a broken tooth, so the Dux Bellorum continued to ask pointed questions that revealed the depth of depravity and callousness of the perpetrator of the crime. In his recitation, Gruffydd didn’t spare the sensitivity of his Celtic audience for he decided that Artorex was a man who valued truth, however unpalatable.

‘The head of the warrior who committed this atrocity will be served up to you, Gruffydd,’ Artorex said softly. ‘Like you, I’ve no taste for the murder of helpless women or children. Is there anything you desire, or need, for yourself ?’

‘I ask for nothing but the safety and well-being of our people, my lord.’

‘Good man!’ Artorex grinned for the first time in some minutes, and Gruffydd discovered that he could breathe again.

‘The guilty man is a member of Caius’s troop,’ Myrddion said blandly.

Luka and Llanwith exchanged meaningful glances, and Artorex raised one eyebrow.

‘Lord Caius is innocent of the murder, my lord,’ Gruffydd said quickly.

‘How do you come to that conclusion?’ Artorex asked shortly. He stared at Gruffydd with emotionless eyes.

‘Lord Caius wasn’t saturated in blood, my lord,’ Gruffydd replied economically.

‘Good!’

Suddenly, the mood in the room lightened, as if a heavy weight had been lifted.

‘Well, if that is so, then Caius shall enjoy the pleasure of delivering the cur up to me,’ Artorex decided. ‘My word has been given. Luka will carry the happy tidings to Caius. A public execution may serve as a warning to the more zealous of our warriors.’

‘There’ll be some resentment among the troops,’ Myrddion began, but Artorex waved away his protest.

‘We’ll contrast the life of an innocent infant against the life of a fully grown man. And we’ll let the mood of our people decide whether our cause is just.’

‘Like King Solomon of olden times, we will be cutting the baby in half, ’ Luka said in admiration. ‘What real man would place the life of a rapist and a murderer above the safety of a child, regardless of whether the infant should be Jute, Saxon or Celt?’

‘Then we’d best keep the babe’s foot covered,’ Gruffydd muttered softly.

Four heads swivelled in his direction, and four pairs of eyes looked at him for an explanation.

‘Is there more to this tale, Gruffydd?’ Artorex asked softly.

‘The Lady Morgan saw the babe when I first brought her to Venonae. She made a prophecy over the babe and even gave it a name - Nimue. I didn’t approve, Lord Myrddion, but what was I to do? I couldn’t gainsay Lady Morgan.’

‘But there has been more, hasn’t there, Gruffydd?’ Artorex stared at him with his flat, unyielding eyes.

‘As I explained, I discovered that Nimue had been ripped from her mother’s womb and thrown into the reeds by one of her legs. The bruises on her leg were ample evidence of that. Today, the Lady Morgan took the child to her quarters and she . . .’ Gruffydd’s voice trailed off.

‘Out with it!’ Myrddion’s voice was angry; the entire group knew that Myrddion’s hatred of Morgan was implacable.

‘She has begun to place her symbol on the injured ankle, and has commenced placing a tattoo of the head of a snake on the child’s leg.’

‘Shite!’ exclaimed Llanwith inelegantly. ‘She intends to mark the child as a pagan.’

‘That would end her usefulness as a symbol.’ Luka swore pungently.

‘Nimue has been christened and blessed already by the Christian priests, my lord,’ Gruffydd exclaimed, for he imagined that Nimue could be harmed because of the pagan mark on her fair flesh.

‘You’ve given me a brilliant idea, Llanwith, my friend.’ Myrddion grinned wickedly. ‘A good tattooist could easily turn a drawing of a snake into the winged serpent - or the dragon. Especially if the first drawing hasn’t been completed.’

‘The tattoo is incomplete, my lord,’ Gruffydd said through dry lips.

Myrddion turned to Artorex. ‘Perhaps, then, you could order the babe to be marked as your own. If you put the Dracos mark upon her baby flesh, she will become a true symbol, one that you can appropriate for your own uses. This child can be used as a force to unify our people, and she would be living proof that we aren’t barbarians.’ Myrddion’s expression was that of a satisfied tomcat.

Artorex laughed at the self-satisfied smirk on Myrddion’s face. ‘You love to tweak Morgan’s nose, Myrddion,’ he said. ‘One day she might grab you by the balls and then you’ll speak with the voice of a girl.’

‘And one day the sky might fall - but that day is still far off.’

Artorex made his decision. ‘I’ll send Targo to collect little Nimue in an hour,’ he stated. ‘She’ll not be harmed and will suffer only a little discomfort. By sunrise she’ll be marked as the protégé of the Dux Bellorum.’ His cold eyes warmed as he turned to Gruffydd once again. ‘You’ll forget all that you’ve heard in this room, Gruffydd. Nothing we’ve said must pass your lips.’

‘I’m not suicidal, my lord,’ Gruffydd replied dourly.

Artorex clapped him on the back and laughed. ‘I like you, Gruffydd, I really do. And I’ll not forget you, or your little Nimue!’

Lord save me, Gruffydd thought to himself, for to be known to Artorex could become a mixed blessing.

Gruffydd hastened to the kitchens. The hearth was a pile of hot coals, for the fire was not permitted to die entirely, while a sleepy boy was there to tend it during the night.

Nimue lay with Gallwyn on a pallet in an alcove that was separated from the kitchens by a fine woven curtain of striped wool.

‘Gallwyn? Wake up, woman! Lord Artorex is sending someone for the child Nimue. Wake up!’

Gallwyn’s tousled head appeared around the side of the curtain. She may have been asleep, and was still drowsy, but her eyes were sharp and alarmed.

‘What are you at, Gruffydd, waking decent women in their beds? What would Lord Artorex want with little Nimue?’

‘To undo what Lady Morgan has begun. You must arise from your bed, Gallwyn, for if I know Artorex’s speed, his man is halfway here already.’

The conversation had been hissed, for neither Gallwyn nor Gruffydd cared to waken the kitchen staff who slept with their meagre possessions on the floors of the common room.

‘I’m coming! I’m coming! Can’t an old woman have even an hour of sleep?’ Gallwyn complained behind her curtain.

‘You can tell that to the Dux Bellorum,’ Gruffydd snorted.

The two friends barely had time to wash the babe and change her wrappings before two warriors entered the kitchen. The men were complete opposites. The older of the two was a small, bandy-legged ancient with a sharp eye, some nasty scars and a short Roman sword. The second man was a giant Jutlander who was tall and blond, except for his red-gold beard. The taller man remained silent.

‘I’m Targo. You’re expecting us?’ the smaller man said, and Gruffydd knew that this soldier walked in Artorex’s shadows; these men were the Dux Bellorum’s personal bodyguards.

‘This here lump is Odin.’ Targo gave a gap-toothed grin. ‘He doesn’t say much but he’s as gentle as a lamb, aren’t you, friend?’

‘Gallwyn mothers the child Nimue, and she is chief cook for Lord Myrddion. I am Gruffydd, Lord Myrddion’s man,’ Gruffydd replied, somewhat awkwardly.

‘Mistress!’ Both men nodded to Gallwyn, who bridled slightly with pleasure.

Targo turned back to Gruffydd. ‘I’ve heard tell of you, good sir. Artorex says you’re a man to watch. He likes you, so we’ve been told to take an interest and ensure you’re kept safe.’

‘My thanks to Lord Artorex,’ Gruffydd managed to reply through a tightening throat.

‘So this is the infant? Aye, she’s a beauty.’ Targo clucked over the little bundle. ‘Give her to Odin, mistress. He’s got big hams of hands but he’s gentle-like and won’t harm her. By the time he’s finished with his tattoos, Morgan will be . . . er . . . cut out, so to speak.’

‘Good,’ Gallwyn replied brusquely, and placed the sleeping child into Odin’s huge arms. The giant looked down at the child and seemed to soften in face and form as he smelled the child’s milky sweetness.

‘She’s a . . . a sea-wife!’ he said in a voice that was rusty with disuse.

‘Whatever you say, Odin.’ Targo replied. ‘But she will be as Lord Artorex commands.’

‘She will be a . . . wise woman.’ Odin struggled for the words.

‘So much the better if she is to be marked as Lord Artorex’s protégé,’ Targo replied.

Targo noticed a kitchen boy who had suddenly woken to find the large room full of wonders.

‘You,’ he commanded the boy gently. ‘Back to your sleep.’

The boy’s expression was the same as a startled rabbit caught in a circle of light. The whites of his eyes were completely visible.

‘You get back to sleep, Perce,’ Gallwyn said softly and pointed in the direction of the sleeping room. ‘You’re just having a dream so off with you, and I’ll watch the fire for you.’

Perce vanished behind the striped curtain, and Gallwyn turned back to her visitors.

‘I expect you to take care of Nimue or you’ll have me to answer to,’ she said in a valiant return to her usual acerbic manner.

‘We’ll be back before dawn, mistress.’

Targo grabbed Gallwyn’s ample buttock with one hand and gave her a resounding kiss on the lips.

Before Gallwyn could regain her voice, the warriors and little Nimue were gone. The night air, stirring through the swing of the leather curtain, caused the coals on the hearth to flare into sudden life.

Gruffydd and Gallwyn took turns to sit up through the long and chilly night. Honey in warm water sustained them and, at times, they talked quietly of family matters and the simple pleasures of life in their home villages. Gallwyn could see the man that lay behind the mask of the spy, and recognized his deep love for his family and his homeland. She empathized with the sacrifices he had made by leaving a world he loved so he could preserve it for the future.

In turn, Gruffydd discovered that Gallwyn ruled a small kingdom in much the same way that Artorex cared for a larger one. Her abrasive manner hid an exceptionally kind heart, one that often bled for her charges when they were afflicted by the small exigencies of life.

Two hours before dawn, Odin returned with a very fretful Nimue. She whimpered and refused to be comforted, even when Gallwyn’s soft finger rubbed honey against her baby gums.

Gallwyn stared fixedly at Odin and snorted reproachfully.

‘This child has been hurt,’ she said sharply.

‘Yes. The tattooing took many hours . . . care was taken . . . but she was hurt,’ he replied sadly.

Gallwyn swept back the cloth that covered the child. A superb tattoo of a serpent dragon encircled the tiny ankle, its wings spreading up the tiny calf of the babe. The flesh was angry and red, and had been smeared with a thick salve.

Odin mutely offered a wooden box with a tightly fitting lid that, presumably, held more of the remedy. One huge hand gently supported the child’s head.

‘She is a serpentling. A little magic woman.’ The descriptions were offered like a prayer, unlike Morgan’s malicious tones, although the words used were almost identical. Gruffydd felt a chill that had nothing to do with the giant Jute, or the small, fretful girl child.

‘She belongs to Artorex now - or perhaps he belongs to her,’ Gruffydd said. ‘I am not certain which is which.’

Both Gruffydd and Gallwyn examined the child’s tattoo.

A skilled hand had reshaped Morgan’s reptilian form. The mighty northern dragon was incongruous on the child’s body but Gruffydd could see that the dragon would grow in power as the child aged. With an eldritch life of its own, the black scales and the vivid red eyeball of the beast would glow against the white flesh of an adult woman.

‘I’ll wager that Odin, or whatever he calls himself, finished that tattoo himself. And I can easily believe that such detailed work has taken most of the night. Poor little Nimue! She must live into this mark. Damnation to Lady Morgan for starting this whole sorry process.’

Gruffydd felt a burning resentment against the witch, and wished heartily that his path had never strayed into her bower.

He spat on the hearth.

Gallwyn grinned impishly. A rather odd expression had appeared on her plain, broad features. ‘I can’t wait to see Lady Morgan’s reaction when she sees that tattoo, for it is finished beyond her power to change it. She’ll fair fly into a rage.’

‘I have no desire to be turned into an insect or poisoned - I wouldn’t put anything beyond that creature. You should heed my warnings, Gallwyn, and not tweak the witch’s tail. Nimue will have need of you, and I will be gone in two days.’