The Bloody Cup (14 page)

Fire bloomed like scarlet flowers from one of the barns where the winter supply of hay and grain was stored. A warning bell tolled forlornly over the enclave where figures in homespun robes scattered like disturbed ants in a nest. Like those same insects, a small group of brothers hastened to protect their church, the sum total of their lives.

Evening prayers had not long ended when the attack began, so Bishop Aethelthred ordered those priests with him to provide protection for the outbuildings.

‘But master,’ one brother protested, ‘we can’t leave you undefended! What would we do if you were killed? You are our master, and Glastonbury’s heart.’

‘I am an old man, Brother Marcus, and God is the heart of Glastonbury. My life isn’t worth the destruction of a single building of God’s city. Leave me and save our sanctuary. God will protect his church.’

But the brothers soon returned and begged Aethelthred to hide. A number of buildings were now ablaze, and close behind the brothers were the attacking warriors who were searching for the bishop. The smell of smoke and the reek of burning polluted the air.

Aethelthred rose from his knees, his body trembling with strain. He was very old, his skin had that transparency that comes with extreme age, and delicate blue veins were clearly visible under his skin at his wrists, temples and throat. He seemed as insubstantial as thistledown yet, when he spoke in his warm, firm baritone, the listener was left with a different impression, one of strength, wisdom and purpose.

‘You are needed elsewhere, my sons. Please, save what you can without risking your lives. I’ll be safe at the altar of our Lord.’

Argue as they did, the bishop refused to change his mind and, eventually, the brothers had no choice but to obey his orders. Under his gentle manner and ancient, withered appearance, Bishop Aethelthred was an inflexible autocrat.

The attackers spread out to achieve their respective goals. Five men armed with bright swords and axes moved through the buildings of the enclave like loping wolves, driving the churchmen before them.

But more terrible, like the Satan so hated by the priests, was a man dressed in black leather who stalked towards the church armed with a short, double-sided sword and a long, black staff of curiously carved ash and oak. So fixed was his purpose that the black warrior barely acknowledged the few terrified priests who scuttled out of his path like disturbed chickens.

The five brown-clad warriors made for the outside of the church, spoke together hurriedly, made some calculations and then began to dig with their axes at a grave site near the church wall. They worked with economy and precision, as if this disinterment was the purpose of their violent intrusion into Glastonbury.

Meanwhile, their leader was about a more terrible task, one that he had chosen with relish.

Inside the church, the intruder found the bishop alone at the altar. At prayer and on his knees, Aethelthred was at the mercy of the implacable intruder.

The bishop rose, genuflected and turned to face the impersonal eyes of the intruder. The malice he saw there told him that he would soon meet his God.

‘If you must kill me, my son, then strike hard and fast,’ the old man stated bravely. Years ago, he had been a sturdy peasant who had gone to the priesthood to learn the secrets of the Latin language and to quench a strange hunger in his belly. He had never forgotten the plain speaking of ordinary folk and he had long relinquished any fear of death.

‘You will die slowly, priest’, the black-clad warrior hissed and struck the bishop on the chin with the butt of his staff, breaking the old man’s jaw. ‘But you’ll die silently.’

As Aethelthred tried to pray through shattered teeth, the warrior struck him again and again, each blow more ferocious than the last until, barely conscious, the priest lay at the feet of his assailant.

‘I . . . forgive you . . . my son’, the bishop gurgled through the blood that seeped from his mouth.

‘But I don’t forgive you,’ the warrior snarled and swung the staff down in a wide arc, striking the old man on the side of the head. Blood sprayed and splattered over the white cloth on the altar. Then, with eerie deliberation, the warrior drew aside his robes and urinated over the Cross and the precious scrolls that were laid on the altar before him.

As the warrior brought one heel down to stamp on the old man’s head, a cry like the sharp keening of a girl caused the murderer to almost lose his footing. He spun quickly and searched the hangings and dark corners of the church with malignant, startled eyes.

A scuttling like the sound of disturbed rats on the flagging made the black warrior’s hair rise. But no one was there. Nothing moved, so he turned back to Aethelthred.

One final, looping blow caught the bishop’s skull with a dull, wet thud. But the tip of the staff was caught on the edge of the altar and the heavy weapon skittered out of the warrior’s hands and slid away into the shadows.

Voices were rising outside the church - shouts, screams and the distant sound of horses.

The black warrior swung away from the corpse. Quickly, and without wasting time to regain his staff, the intruder drew his short sword and ran from the church towards the graves that edged its walls.

Time was short and his task was only half completed.

Behind one long hanging, a young priest sagged against the wall and vomited, careless of the mess he left on his sandalled feet. As he edged out of his hiding place, a trickle of blood from the body of the bishop ran towards him like an accusing finger.

Balyn brooded as the afternoon lengthened.

Although he was obsessive, hot-headed and stubborn, Balyn was not completely foolish. He had heeded the words of Balan throughout his whole life, for he valued his brother’s ability to see clearly to the heart of any problem. Now, thoroughly confused by the deceit that lay under ready smiles at Cadbury, he blundered through the passages of the palace like a blind man.

While Artor’s palace was not overly large, it was complex, having grown haphazardly to accommodate growing demands as the High King’s court became more sophisticated. Modelled loosely on the form of a villa, with a hugely enlarged entry which had become Artor’s Hall of Judgement, the structure had once had an atrium which had now been divided into further rooms, leaving long, narrow corridors that led to still more corridors, off which small rooms opened, most of which were dark and lacked adequate ventilation. At the rear of the structure, a second storey rose with wooden stairs linking the floors. In some ways, Artor’s palace was primitive and lacked the opulence of southern climes, yet the raw-sawn wooden floors above and the stone flagged rooms below were clean, sweet smelling and free of the straw used in so many Celtic homes to disguise the stench and dirt, especially during the winter months.

Exploration and constant usage were the only methods by which the inhabitants mastered the maze of corridors, so Balyn became quickly lost. His blind temper was a further impediment, for Balyn lost all reason when his moods overcame him. He was apt to stride away from whatever had upset him without any sense of where he was going.

By sheer accident, he met the High King in one of the passages.

Artor was in an expansive mood. He had been watching his guard as they exercised and paired off for weapons practice, and he had been entertained by the skills of two of the warriors. One was a very tall man in his early forties called Gwydion after one of the old Celtic gods. Artor remembered Gwydion’s mother well, a laughing farmer’s daughter called Olwen. Gwydion’s hair was blond like Olwen’s and held Artor’s wild curls. The boy had grown into a cheerful, open man who was as sunny-tempered as his mother had been. Gwydion had wed when he was still young, and had since sired a son who had also been inducted into the guard.

Gwydion’s partner in weapon’s practice was a much younger bastard son called Vran, who was only eighteen years of age. The lad was dark and intense, slender and steely of muscle, but he lacked the height of his sire, being short and neat like his mother, Fearn, who was reputed to be a descendant of an enslaved Pict. Unlike that dour race, Fearn had been a graceful, vivacious and fiercely intelligent young woman, and she and Artor had remained friends. From time to time, the High King would visit her snug cottage in Cadbury Town and she would welcome him in the old way, with laughter, earnest talk and comfortable passion.

Artor felt a warm surge of pride as the two warriors, both so dissimilar, fought each other to a standstill. Although Gwydion had superior reach, he couldn’t find a chink in Vran’s defence which was fast, acrobatic and intelligent. When the bout was over, Artor congratulated both men, who bowed in homage and flushed with pleasure. He clapped Gwydion on the back and ruffled Vran’s hair as he marvelled at the devotion that was so nakedly obvious in the eyes of both men.

How very strange, Artor thought. I never openly acknowledge my bastard sons, and yet they are still fiercely loyal. I believe the guard would die to protect me.

‘We thank you, lord, for your faith in us,’ Gwydion murmured, clenching his right fist and holding it over his heart in the manner of the Roman legions.

‘You have given an old man pleasure, boys. Remember me to your mothers, and remind them of my respect and affection.’

Both men stood a little taller in gratitude for Artor’s words. The king accepted their mothers and themselves as his, although they would never be legitimate and had no expectations of formal largesse from the High King.

So, when Artor ran headlong into a heedless Balyn running at full tilt, he felt a moment’s irritation, but his good mood was too warm and mellow to be easily cast aside.

Drawing back from the youth, Artor eyed Balyn with concern. The young man had virtually no ability to hide his emotions behind a smiling façade. That he was deeply troubled boded no good for Artor’s peace of mind and the king felt, rather than heard, his protective Jutlander as Odin moved carefully into a striking position behind him.

So deeply was Balyn enmeshed in his own chaotic thoughts that he would have blundered on carelessly through the palace, but Artor gripped his arm and swung the lad round to face him.

‘Hold up, young Balyn. I swear you’re as skittish as a frightened horse. Where are you heading in such a mad rush, and who’s put that frown on your face?’

Balyn paused, blushed and stammered out his apologies.

‘I’m angry and confused, my lord. I didn’t see you. I crave your pardon for my haste and discourtesy.’

‘That’s not good enough, young man. I’m on my way to see the queen, but she can wait a few moments more. How may I help you?’

The boy’s eyebrows knitted together, just as Gallia’s had done when she was worrying away at a particularly troublesome problem. The king’s chest contracted painfully with this small trick of memory. Artor wondered how he could remember such fine details about his beloved’s mannerisms and yet couldn’t recall the details of her face. For Gallia’s sake, he chose to ignore the mutinous flash of anger that passed through the expressive eyes of this grandson who scowled and stared mulishly at his feet.

‘I argued with my brother, my lord,’ Balyn replied. ‘It was only a passing squabble, not worth keeping you from your duties to the queen.’ Balyn shuffled his feet like a small child caught out in a lie. His telltale eyes dropped to stare fixedly at his hands.

‘Come, Balyn. Wenhaver can wait, but I fear that you cannot do so.’

Firmly and patiently, Artor began to draw the young man towards his private apartments, acutely aware of Odin’s disapproving scowl.

Balyn protested half-heartedly, but he permitted Artor to lead him into his spartan quarters where he was firmly pressed to accept a cushioned bench. As the boy’s eyes roamed this inner sanctum, Odin gave him a goblet of light Spanish wine. The golden alcohol was the same colour as the tiny yellow flecks that lay in Balyn’s grey eyes.

‘I’m an old man, lad, but I’ve seen too many summers come and go to confuse a brotherly squabble with a serious disagreement. Tell me the nature of your argument.’ Artor used the full force of a voice that had always had authority. Balyn blushed, even though the king’s tone was kindly.

‘You’ll be angry with me,’ the youth began, then stopped abruptly.

‘I’m often angry, but tell me anyway.’

‘We argued over you, sire . . . and the queen.’

Artor ran one hand through his close-cropped curls. Balyn was almost childish in his lack of tact. The blurted-out words washed away any impatience that the king still felt. He raised the boy’s mutinous chin with one hand. For a moment, he wished that this beautiful youth had half the poise of Vran or Gwydion.

‘As you are so confused and upset, I’ll permit you to ask whatever questions you choose of me. I’ll answer them as honestly as I can, as long as I don’t besmirch my honour in the process. I’ve nothing to hide from you, young man.’

‘Modred says that your personal guards are all bastard children that you’ve sired,’ Balyn stated baldly. ‘I felt sorry for the queen and Balan told me I was being hasty.’

Artor became a little pale around the eyes and one booted foot jerked unconsciously.

‘And?’ Artor raised one quizzical eyebrow. ‘I know that small piece of gossip wasn’t enough to send you rampaging through my halls like a blind young bull.’

Dismayed, Balyn tried to retreat from the king’s all-seeing eyes but, like many better men and women before him, he could not. Artor missed nothing.

‘Balan told me to look in a mirror,’ he said quietly. Torment stared out of eyes that had the same quick passions of the long-lost Gallia.

Instead of words of comfort, or the truth, Artor drained his wine cup in one swallow.

Odin immediately refilled it.

‘Do you really think that I made a bastard out of
you
? And a whore out of your
mother
?’

Artor’s tone was regretful, but not angry, and Balyn’s heart ceased to hammer ferociously against his ribs.

‘Not exactly,’ he stammered. ‘Balan said I was crazy to think such treasonous thoughts. But what am I to do when every time I shave my face, I see your image in the mirror? Kings have been known to beget sons on aristocratic women before now. Modred has told me of the failings of my family.’