Warrior of the West (46 page)

‘Roman?’ Wenhaver crowed in delight, although she had the presence of mind to whisper her triumph into her pillow. ‘I should think the Celtic kings would never accept a Roman queen over them.’ She had to stifle a giggle, with her face half-buried in the pillow.

But Artor heard.

He rose, his anger like gall in his throat. All feelings of gratitude and forbearance fled. No one, and nothing that breathed, laughed at his memory of Gallia.

Wenhaver flinched as he began to speak.

‘Beware, wife! Enjoyment of the marriage bed is not a coupling of minds and hearts. You have far to go to prove to me that you are anything but a foolish, spoiled brat who is no better than a kitchen maid, and much less willing and experienced. My brother is Roman, my foster-mother was Roman, and the glass in that window that gives you so much pleasure is Roman. But unlike the Romans, you aren’t sufficiently clean for my tastes.’

Wenhaver gasped aloud.

Like all well-raised Celtic girls, she washed her body in bowls of warm water when needed, and her face and hands were laved every day. No one had ever dared to tell her that she was unclean.

Artor picked up his clothing carelessly, for if a king chose to be naked in his own home, then naked he would be.

‘If I call for you at night, you will bathe all over and wash your hair with cleansing oils. I will not share a bed with any Celt who makes fun of Roman ways when she is less than perfect. Do you understand me?’

Wenhaver felt an anger that was so deep and so visceral that her heart almost stopped with fury and chagrin. All thought deserted her, but for her need to strike back at him and hurt him as badly as he had wounded her.

‘We have consummated our marriage, husband, and I can no longer be cast off. If you don’t like me as I am, then perhaps we should not meet.’

Artor knelt, dropped his head and spread his arms wide.

‘I am sorry, sweet wife, for I would so miss your fair flesh.’

Then he raised his face and she saw that he was laughing at her with eyes as cold as the rock of Cadbury Tor. Her hurt and rage gave her no words to respond.

Artor rose to his feet, every movement an insult.

‘Lady, I will survive your absence.’

 

There is no worse feeling of impotence than being unable to strike back at the person who completely rejects you. Human beings may populate the forgiving earth until the end of the universe, but they will for ever remain the frail, malicious and violent creatures they have always been, although they might have developed some endearing qualities along the path to wisdom.

However, no virtues were visible in Wenhaver’s face when she rose early on the morning that followed the disastrous wedding banquet.

Myrnia took a single, frightened glance at the frozen face of her mistress and prayed that she would be elsewhere when the inevitable storm broke over some hapless head, probably hers.

‘Myrnia, I require a large tub, big enough for me to immerse my whole body. And it must be watertight, unless you wish to lose the skin off your back before you clean up the mess.’ Wenhaver flashed her maid a brief, cruel smile. ‘And I would like my personal bath by noon today. You will ensure that your choice is attractive, for I intend to wash daily.’

Myrnia blanched. She had no idea where to start on her quest. Nodding, and curtsying, she fled from the room, trying desperately not to sob with frustration and fear. As she bolted down the corridor, she heard her mistress screaming for her other maids.

‘What shall I do?’ Myrnia muttered, and wrung her work-roughened hands like an old woman. ‘What shall I do?’

Blinded by a sting of tears, she ran full tilt into Myrddion and Nimue who were arguing amicably with each other. She groaned, bowed low, and would have reeled away had Myrddion not gripped her forearm.

‘Slow down, girl! What causes your haste that you are a danger to all around you?’

Myrnia swallowed and darted quick, agonized looks at Myrddion and his servant. Then, to Nimue’s horror, the girl burst into a flood of hot tears.

‘My apologies, Lord Myrddion, but the queen has told me that I must obtain a bath for her. She wants one in her apartment by noon, and I don’t know where to look. You’ve been very good to me, and my face hardly hurts at all, but I cannot stay and explain to you . . . even if I knew what I was explaining. I don’t even know what a bath is!’

The last words of this explanation became a wail of distress.

‘She’ll have me whipped again if I fail, my lord,’ she cried piteously, the bruises on her cheek now a livid mixture of purple and green.

Myrddion and Nimue shared exasperated glances.

‘How fortunate for you that we crossed your path, pretty lady.’ Myrddion smiled. ‘I am sure that my apprentice will know exactly where to look.’

Nimue shot Myrddion a glare over the top of Myrnia’s bowed head. ‘Of course,’ Nimue soothed the flustered maid. ‘But why a bath? What is wrong with using the stream?’

‘I suppose a stream or a pond would be cold and lacking in privacy,’ Myrddion replied urbanely. ‘I am far more interested in why the queen has suddenly decided to develop a Roman attitude to cleanliness.’

Myrnia simply looked blank, as if Myrddion spoke gibberish.

‘Perhaps we could make one of wood,’ Nimue thought aloud. ‘No. That would leak, unless it was lined with pitch - and that would be unsuitable for bathing.’

She continued to muse over the problem.

‘A bathing container cannot be bought at any marketplace.’

‘Ah.’ Myrddion had seemed lost in thought. ‘I wonder.’

‘Wonder what, master?’

‘Come with me.’

The two women pattered along behind him, sharing puzzled glances.

The trio made their way out of the palace, across the paved forecourt and down the long, winding road that led to the town below. Myrddion presented a sunny grin to the warriors lazing against the walls, while Nimue thought seriously about boxing his smug and self-satisfied ears. Plainly, Myrnia was terrified, but Nimue was bursting with curiosity.

‘Where are we going master?’ she asked, a little puffed from the haste of their journey.

‘To see Glaucus, the sarcophagus maker.’

‘The what?’ Nimue stopped abruptly, as did Myrnia, who was nearly in tears with ignorance and fear.

‘A sarcophagus is just a fancy name for a stone coffin,’ Myrddion explained, as if he was delivering a lecture. ‘Some Romans prefer to lie above the earth inside a coffin after they pass into the shades, while others choose to have their remains buried underground. Still other Romans, and many Celts, prefer to be burned - or cremated.’

‘How could anyone wish to lie in the earth?’

‘Glaucus doesn’t have much business, so he also builds kitchen implements and furnishings. Like all good Roman men of business, he always has an eye to the main chance.’

Through the town they twisted and turned, past the marketplace where farmers had spread their produce on the grass. Apples, pears, nuts in wicker baskets, eggs wrapped in straw, live chickens, rabbits and ducks in willow-wand hutches, as well as every conceivable type of bread and cake filled the square with noise, smells and the excitement of commerce. One gnarled old man sold live pigeons, squabs and quails while an old woman had been out of bed long before dawn collecting mushrooms, lichen, fungus and a range of dried herbs that hung upside down from a wooden pole. Nimue’s curiosity was such that she would have paused, but Myrddion ushered the girls on like two chicks. The women’s skirts soon became fouled and bedraggled at the hems from the mud that lay along the walkways, although they managed to avoid manure from penned piglets, young calves and even a couple of foals.

Then, before a gaily-painted hut of wood and plaster, Myrddion stopped and gazed with admiration at a number of coffins displayed outside the building. In pride of place was an agate, body-shaped container with a lid carved in the likeness of a fair woman with ample, rounded hips. It bore a striking similarity to the goddess Andromeda.

With the lid removed, the size and the shape were perfect for their needs.

‘I thought I’d remembered seeing this,’ Myrddion said to himself.

He banged his staff of office on the entrance wall that led into the hut. ‘Where are you, Glaucus, you old reprobate? You have customers! Come forth and stop lazing about.’

The sound of hammering came from several open-sided huts behind the main building. Obviously, Glaucus had several servants hard at work.

The merchant proved to be a large, portly Romano-Celt with an oily smile and greasy palms. A leather apron covered his considerable girth, and he smelled strongly of sweat, sawdust and fish.

‘Lord Myrddion, my humble abode is open for all your needs. How may I assist a man of such obvious good taste?’

Myrddion sat in the sun on the lid of the stone coffin and accepted a cup of hastily produced wine. Nimue nibbled a proffered fig, while Myrnia seemed like a stone effigy of herself. She was almost catatonic with anxiety.

‘I’m interested in Andromeda’s sarcophagus. I hear that she is an order that the patron refused to accept. Why did she refuse it?’

The merchant flushed, and Nimue could see his agile brain trying to decide if he was in some kind of trouble.

‘The lady in question desired the hardest and most durable of resting places. That would normally be agate, my lord, because any fool knows how hard that stone is. But she had an objection to the colour. She took offence to the fact that it is black. What is an honest man to do? She refused to pay the bulk of the commission and insisted on marble, so I made very little profit by the time I found some of that stone, I assure you. Then the stupid woman decided that she disliked the green in the marble, so I told her it was that or nothing, and that I’d take my complaint to the High King himself if she didn’t pay the money she owed.’

‘And that left you with the sarcophagus of Andromeda.’

‘Correct, my lord.’

‘Is it watertight, Glaucus?’

‘Absolutely, my lord. We cannot have a corpse leaking fluids all over the place.’

Myrddion gave a little grunt of agreement, while Nimue managed to avoid bringing up her fig. Myrnia simply gaped with an open mouth.

‘How much?’ Myrddion demanded.

Glaucus named a figure that caused Myrddion to laugh drily.

‘I’m sure that King Artor will forgive your little joke and your efforts to cheat him.’

In an instant, Glaucus recalculated his costs, and arrived at a figure that still seemed enormous, but was acceptable to Myrddion. The old man spat on his hand to seal the bargain.

‘Your final part of this arrangement is to move Andromeda to the queen’s apartments before noon. If you are late, the deal is off. Do you understand my terms, my friend?’

The merchant nodded frenetically. ‘Yes, my lord, for your wish is my command. But who will pay me?’

‘Send the bill to me and I will give it personally to the High King. Fail me not.’

Glaucus looked hurt.

‘One more thing, Glaucus. I don’t require the lid. I want you to smash it to rubble and then dispose of it. Personally. Is that understood?’

‘Yes, my Lord. I am to dispose of the lid.’

‘Not dispose of it, my friend. I want you to destroy it. Should the lid be seen again, your suffering will be considerable.’

As the trio made the long climb back to the citadel, Nimue asked the obvious question.

‘Will the queen wish to bathe in a coffin?’ she asked. ‘I’d be happy to use it myself, but I can’t see Queen Wenhaver enjoying her bath in such a receptacle.’

‘I certainly won’t be telling her it’s a coffin,’ Myrddion replied happily. ‘And I’m sure Myrnia won’t explain to Wenhaver what Andromeda is either, will you, my dear?’

The servant girl shook her head so vigorously that Nimue had the unsettling thought that she might shake it off.

‘So, as none of us intends to tell Wenhaver anything about her new bath and, as Glaucus will destroy the lid, I’m sure the queen will be content.’

‘My lips are sealed, my lord,’ Myrnia promised. ‘Besides, I can’t even remember what the thing’s called.’

‘Then we shall all keep it that way,’ Myrddion answered glibly.

The adventure of the sarcophagus, as Nimue thought of it, proved a splendid solution all round. No one at Cadbury Tor possessed such an object of practical beauty, so Wenhaver was mightily pleased at her good fortune.

Not so the kitchen staff, who muttered dark threats at the prospect of heating all the water needed to fill that bath, nor the warriors and maids who were tasked to fill and empty the receptacle in Wenhaver’s apartments each time she felt the urge to use it. Rose petals, oils and perfumes were placed within Andromeda’s form to soften and sweeten the queen’s skin as she luxuriated in the pleasures that were only hers, making Andromeda doubly precious to the queen.

After her second bath, Wenhaver instructed Myrnia to attend the High King’s apartments with a message for Artor.

‘You are to tell him that I am exquisitely clean,’ she told the terrified maid who did not understand the meaning of the instructions she had been given.

When Artor arrived at Wenhaver’s chambers in response to her cryptic message, he almost choked with suppressed laughter. He managed to control his expression, and congratulated his bride on her purchase and the speed of her response to his demands.

Later, when Artor was talking to Myrddion, he raised the subject of the Andromeda bath.

‘Myrddion, what possessed my wife to purchase a coffin to use as a bath?’

‘It’s a sarcophagus, sire,’ his chief counsellor replied, with a bland, expressionless face.

‘I know what it is, Myrddion, but where did she find it?’

‘I found it, sire. I discovered the queen’s bath at the establishment of Glaucus. But what I cannot understand is why she wanted it.’