Free Warrior of the West by M. K. Hume

which a rose tree grew in a profusion of early spring buds. Smaller buttercups and wild flowers nestled between the roots and, when the flowers bloomed, they would fill the air with a riot of colour and scent. Artor smiled at the sight of wild rosemary, thyme, sage and mandrake root growing freely amongst the flowers, for the garden mingled Gallia’s sweet presence with the soul of Frith, the healer and wise woman. Old Frith had raised him as much as had Livinia Major, his foster-mother, and these two women, between them, had shaped his character and turned him into the man he had become.
    A salt-glazed ceramic urn, banded with red gold and sealed with beeswax, stood in a rough-built stone niche. The urn contained the ashes of two of the only three women whom Artor had ever loved wholly and selflessly.
    ‘Have my labours pleased you, my lord?’
    Gareth had walked, cat-footed, behind the king and was waiting patiently for Artor’s attention. The steward was now a fully-grown man, near to thirty, with long white-blond hair secured at the nape of his neck. Like most of the men of the Villa Poppinidii, his cheeks and chin were bare of beard, and the clean lines of bone under sunburned skin reminded Artor of Frith, his grandmother. In this man, her spirit and blood ran true.
    Grey eyes met blue.
    ‘Aye, you have made beauty out of pain. Gallia and Frith are very strong in the bones of this memorial, I can feel their touch.’
    Gareth’s eyes dropped. His hands twisted with his tunic, with fingers that were roughened with work but undeniably clever and artistic.
    ‘I ask a boon, lord, a promise for my faithfulness. I have stayed within the safety and security of the villa for most of my youth, to keep Lady Licia free from harm.’
    ‘Aye.’ Artor sighed. ‘You have earned the right to ask anything of me.’
    ‘When Licia is eventually married, I ask that I be permitted to ride with you as one of your warriors. I have trained diligently with our weapons master so as to be ready to serve you. This has always been my dream, my lord, as you know.’
    Artor smiled. He well remembered Gareth as a boy, impatient to become a warrior and ride away to war.
    ‘I confess that I have never considered those sacrifices that I asked of you in the past. I should have known better than to chain you to the Villa Poppinidii for life.’ As always, Artor made his decision swiftly. ‘Yes, I will release you from your oath once Licia is safe in another man’s household. At that time, your life will become your own and I will gladly invite you to join my staff. ’
    Gareth smiled Frith’s sweet, knowing smile in gratitude for Artor’s offer. He bowed his head, and left his king alone with his memories.
    In the trees, a lark sang clearly and cleanly, and small finches dived among the flowers in their never-ending quest for nectar.
    Despite himself, Artor felt his heart lighten. It would be difficult for any person to remain melancholy and consumed by self-pity in this enchanted garden.
    ‘I pray that I will see your grave once again, my Gallia, for where I go, there will be no flowers or birds, except for the crows of death.’
    Artor remembered the texture of the dead, purpled lips of Gaheris, and thoughts of revenge immediately stirred in his hardening eyes. Whether or not his anger was fuelled by guilt at the murder of another innocent was irrelevant. Artor was consumed by the need to have wanton bloodletting expunged from his kingdom. But bloodshed and death followed him, and left its stink of carrion in his wake. He couldn’t help but be the hunter that Targo, in collusion with the three travellers, had wrought. Wracked by the weight of kingship and stifled by the heavy cloak of rule, Artor had learned that he must look to the final goal, and not consider the fine details leading to the achievement of his ends.
    Was the slaughter of his emissaries and their guards one of those fine details? Had he depended upon Glamdring’s