reveal and conceal, preened and smiled under darkened eyelashes in pretence of maidenhood. Earrings tossed and caught the firelight, elaborate braids and curls gleamed with perfumed oils and bodies swayed towards and away from each other in the promise of forbidden delights.
Cynical, and disposed to doubt that any truth remained in Cadbury, Artor sat on his curule chair and saw no beauty in the glimmer of fine, lying eyes, nor courage in the exaggerated boastings of loud-mouthed men. His mouth twisted. Who was he to pass judgement on the warriors and courtiers who modelled themselves on their king? He, too, was a liar. His marriage was a sham, his child had been raised by others because he had discarded her, using her safety as a convenient excuse, and he had committed sins larger and more damning than anything these light-hearted, frail creatures could even imagine.
As Artor brooded and frowned, Odin watched his master with concern. Although he was ignorant of the reasons for Artor’s misery, Odin could make an educated guess. The king’s afternoon had not been restful.
Earlier, he had been re-reading the Caesar scrolls given to him by Llanwith pen Bryn so many years before. He had one leg hooked comfortably over the armrest of his campaign chair when the queen swept into his private quarters on a wave of heavy perfume and fury, shattering his pleasant solitude.
‘What do you have to say for yourself?’ Wenhaver had demanded in a shrill voice, her mouth tightening into an unattractive line, stitched across with ageing little wrinkles of disapproval. Egged on by Modred’s whispered poisons, the queen was incensed and ready for a scene.
Artor sighed, put aside his scroll and rubbed his tired eyes. His sight was weakening; a concern that did little to improve his mood, for no man cares to confront old age or infirmity.
‘What have I done to offend you on this occasion?’ He steeled himself to repel his wife’s angry and impatient attack. From experience, he knew that Wenhaver would nag him until her anger was assuaged.
‘You know why I’m offended, you hypocrite. You’ve openly shown your partiality for another woman in my presence, so my reputation will be the subject of common speculation.’
Uncoiling his body, Artor laughed sourly. Wenhaver glowered at him with her face thrust forward on her neck like an indignant lapdog. As Artor considered her overly rouged face, he compared his shrewish wife with the lost Gallia, which led his thoughts to the gentle nature of Elayne and her sweetness of spirit.
His pent-up frustrations surfaced like hot, scarfing steam. Who was she to censure him?
‘Your reputation? You’re already well known to the common folk as a slut who would make the wife of Emperor Claudius seem virginal. You’ve cuckolded me for years and I’ve been forced to close my ears tightly to gossip, or else I’ll hear those things that even the most ignorant of Cadbury servants whisper. I couldn’t possibly compromise your reputation any more than you’ve done yourself with any number of men who have attended this court.’
Wenhaver stood tall and straight, quite unlike her usual pretentious posing, and Artor felt a fleeting admiration for her. Wenhaver seemed far more regal when she was defending her position rather than generating trouble or acting with arrogant, ostentatious display.
‘I insist that you don’t rub my nose into your indecent attraction towards that brown-skinned nobody,’ she said haughtily. ‘She’s not a servant girl who can be tumbled to beget another bastard son for your personal guard.’
Regal or not, Wenhaver had gone too far.
Artor hit her with his open hand, but carefully, so her skin would bear no bruise. She grunted with shock like a kicked sow and would have struck back at him had he not thrown her on his bed and pinned her down by her arms.
‘Don’t speak to me of Elayne, Wenhaver, when you’re not fit to even voice her name. I tell you now that if I
Cynical, and disposed to doubt that any truth remained in Cadbury, Artor sat on his curule chair and saw no beauty in the glimmer of fine, lying eyes, nor courage in the exaggerated boastings of loud-mouthed men. His mouth twisted. Who was he to pass judgement on the warriors and courtiers who modelled themselves on their king? He, too, was a liar. His marriage was a sham, his child had been raised by others because he had discarded her, using her safety as a convenient excuse, and he had committed sins larger and more damning than anything these light-hearted, frail creatures could even imagine.
As Artor brooded and frowned, Odin watched his master with concern. Although he was ignorant of the reasons for Artor’s misery, Odin could make an educated guess. The king’s afternoon had not been restful.
Earlier, he had been re-reading the Caesar scrolls given to him by Llanwith pen Bryn so many years before. He had one leg hooked comfortably over the armrest of his campaign chair when the queen swept into his private quarters on a wave of heavy perfume and fury, shattering his pleasant solitude.
‘What do you have to say for yourself?’ Wenhaver had demanded in a shrill voice, her mouth tightening into an unattractive line, stitched across with ageing little wrinkles of disapproval. Egged on by Modred’s whispered poisons, the queen was incensed and ready for a scene.
Artor sighed, put aside his scroll and rubbed his tired eyes. His sight was weakening; a concern that did little to improve his mood, for no man cares to confront old age or infirmity.
‘What have I done to offend you on this occasion?’ He steeled himself to repel his wife’s angry and impatient attack. From experience, he knew that Wenhaver would nag him until her anger was assuaged.
‘You know why I’m offended, you hypocrite. You’ve openly shown your partiality for another woman in my presence, so my reputation will be the subject of common speculation.’
Uncoiling his body, Artor laughed sourly. Wenhaver glowered at him with her face thrust forward on her neck like an indignant lapdog. As Artor considered her overly rouged face, he compared his shrewish wife with the lost Gallia, which led his thoughts to the gentle nature of Elayne and her sweetness of spirit.
His pent-up frustrations surfaced like hot, scarfing steam. Who was she to censure him?
‘Your reputation? You’re already well known to the common folk as a slut who would make the wife of Emperor Claudius seem virginal. You’ve cuckolded me for years and I’ve been forced to close my ears tightly to gossip, or else I’ll hear those things that even the most ignorant of Cadbury servants whisper. I couldn’t possibly compromise your reputation any more than you’ve done yourself with any number of men who have attended this court.’
Wenhaver stood tall and straight, quite unlike her usual pretentious posing, and Artor felt a fleeting admiration for her. Wenhaver seemed far more regal when she was defending her position rather than generating trouble or acting with arrogant, ostentatious display.
‘I insist that you don’t rub my nose into your indecent attraction towards that brown-skinned nobody,’ she said haughtily. ‘She’s not a servant girl who can be tumbled to beget another bastard son for your personal guard.’
Regal or not, Wenhaver had gone too far.
Artor hit her with his open hand, but carefully, so her skin would bear no bruise. She grunted with shock like a kicked sow and would have struck back at him had he not thrown her on his bed and pinned her down by her arms.
‘Don’t speak to me of Elayne, Wenhaver, when you’re not fit to even voice her name. I tell you now that if I
Similar Books
