weren’t encumbered with a sterile old cow, and if Elayne wasn’t wed to my friend, I would beg to enter her heart and her bed. But I’m old, while she’s still very young - and you’re so depressingly alive!’ He paused, pressed down cruelly on his wife’s wrists and then continued threateningly, ‘Take care that you don’t go the way of Caius, my late and unlamented foster-brother. He placed me in a position where he had to meet with an accident that wasn’t of his choosing.’
Wenhaver gasped. She shook off her husband’s weight and tumbled to the floor. Her husband’s eyes were stark and emotionless, and she felt a cold finger of alarm slither down her spine.
‘I’ve warned you in the past that you’re expendable, but you’ve paid little heed to my warnings. Even your brother, Wynfael, has been embarrassed by your behaviour. Your beauty is fading daily and you’re forced to paint yourself into a grotesque parody of a real woman.’ Artor made an exclamation of disgust. ‘You’ve one item of luck in your favour. I won’t consider taking Elayne over your dead body, much as that option appeals to me. For I would then be forced to kill my friend, Bedwyr, and he is of much greater value to me than any woman, especially you, my very own drab.’
Against her will, Wenhaver shivered. The king’s demeanour was so cold that her pretensions died instantly, to be replaced by an all-encompassing terror. She felt as if her bladder would empty if Artor continued to drill her with his unforgiving eyes.
‘And so, Wenhaver, you’re going to be very, very dutiful in public from now on. You’ll not compromise Gawayne further, nor will you seduce his son or any other guest who dwells under my roof. I’m sick to the death of you, Wenhaver! I’m tired of your pouting, of your rages and your endless, stupid vanity. I demand that you be silent, or I’ll have your mouth stopped permanently. This isn’t a threat, it’s a promise!’
‘You wouldn’t dare to kill me,’ Wenhaver wailed, but her voice lacked conviction. She began to shiver in fear as thoughts of poison, accidental falls and even the assassin’s knife began to crowd her suddenly imaginative brain.
‘Wouldn’t I?’ Artor replied silkily. ‘You give me no pleasure at all, either as a wife or as a woman. Most of Cadbury would rejoice if you vanished.’
Wenhaver gagged as her stomach threatened to empty itself on to Artor’s wooden floor. She had been capricious and wilful for so long. She had flaunted her vices in his face to provoke some sort of reaction that would prove she still existed. Some part of her inner self, the part that still hoped for love and the comfort of family, began to cry softly with her loss, all to no purpose. When she was a foolish girl-child and unaware of the seriousness of her actions, she had caused her husband to reject her. Now, as she flinched away from a man beyond her control, she recalled the excesses and cruel reputations of his father and his sisters.
Wenhaver lapsed into a shocked silence and curled herself into as small a target as possible.
The terrified expression on Wenhaver’s face caused the king to feel a genuine pang of shame. Yes, his wife was a disgrace. Yes, her lust had compromised his firm hand over his subjects since she was a girl. But had he ever given her a chance? Had the loss of Gallia been so all-consuming that no woman could have filled her place in his heart?
The answers rolled through his brain.
Yes! Yes!
Had he turned a blind eye to her excesses because he cared less for her than for his most useless hound? And had he demonstrated plainly to his wife just how little she really mattered?
Yes! Yes!
Then Artor realized that his threats to Wenhaver’s life were as pointless and as wicked as any duplicity that she had inflicted on him. His father, Uther Pendragon, had responded with cruelty on those occasions when he was hurt, insulted or threatened, and Artor had struggled,
Wenhaver gasped. She shook off her husband’s weight and tumbled to the floor. Her husband’s eyes were stark and emotionless, and she felt a cold finger of alarm slither down her spine.
‘I’ve warned you in the past that you’re expendable, but you’ve paid little heed to my warnings. Even your brother, Wynfael, has been embarrassed by your behaviour. Your beauty is fading daily and you’re forced to paint yourself into a grotesque parody of a real woman.’ Artor made an exclamation of disgust. ‘You’ve one item of luck in your favour. I won’t consider taking Elayne over your dead body, much as that option appeals to me. For I would then be forced to kill my friend, Bedwyr, and he is of much greater value to me than any woman, especially you, my very own drab.’
Against her will, Wenhaver shivered. The king’s demeanour was so cold that her pretensions died instantly, to be replaced by an all-encompassing terror. She felt as if her bladder would empty if Artor continued to drill her with his unforgiving eyes.
‘And so, Wenhaver, you’re going to be very, very dutiful in public from now on. You’ll not compromise Gawayne further, nor will you seduce his son or any other guest who dwells under my roof. I’m sick to the death of you, Wenhaver! I’m tired of your pouting, of your rages and your endless, stupid vanity. I demand that you be silent, or I’ll have your mouth stopped permanently. This isn’t a threat, it’s a promise!’
‘You wouldn’t dare to kill me,’ Wenhaver wailed, but her voice lacked conviction. She began to shiver in fear as thoughts of poison, accidental falls and even the assassin’s knife began to crowd her suddenly imaginative brain.
‘Wouldn’t I?’ Artor replied silkily. ‘You give me no pleasure at all, either as a wife or as a woman. Most of Cadbury would rejoice if you vanished.’
Wenhaver gagged as her stomach threatened to empty itself on to Artor’s wooden floor. She had been capricious and wilful for so long. She had flaunted her vices in his face to provoke some sort of reaction that would prove she still existed. Some part of her inner self, the part that still hoped for love and the comfort of family, began to cry softly with her loss, all to no purpose. When she was a foolish girl-child and unaware of the seriousness of her actions, she had caused her husband to reject her. Now, as she flinched away from a man beyond her control, she recalled the excesses and cruel reputations of his father and his sisters.
Wenhaver lapsed into a shocked silence and curled herself into as small a target as possible.
The terrified expression on Wenhaver’s face caused the king to feel a genuine pang of shame. Yes, his wife was a disgrace. Yes, her lust had compromised his firm hand over his subjects since she was a girl. But had he ever given her a chance? Had the loss of Gallia been so all-consuming that no woman could have filled her place in his heart?
The answers rolled through his brain.
Yes! Yes!
Had he turned a blind eye to her excesses because he cared less for her than for his most useless hound? And had he demonstrated plainly to his wife just how little she really mattered?
Yes! Yes!
Then Artor realized that his threats to Wenhaver’s life were as pointless and as wicked as any duplicity that she had inflicted on him. His father, Uther Pendragon, had responded with cruelty on those occasions when he was hurt, insulted or threatened, and Artor had struggled,
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