The Bloody Cup (24 page)

The glorious task that filled his brain with promise was far more important than the life of a girl child, he told himself. She
knew
the implications of what they plotted.

Gronw felt a sudden rush of hot tears stream unchecked down his face.

Miryll had been a sweet child when they had settled at Salinae Minor, and he had almost come to love her as she played in her favourite places in the villa. But when he saw the reflection of her dead mother’s face in Miryll’s eyes, and smelled the perfume of her mother in the child’s newly washed hair, a storm of loss rolled over him and any affection he might have felt for the young girl was washed away in a tide of bile and bitterness.

After leaving Salinae Minor, Gronw had ridden for days, pausing only to rest his horse and steal a little food before taking to the back roads again. Several times, mounted men had swept past his hiding places beside the old Roman road and he knew that Artor’s warriors were in hot pursuit.

But when fear and weariness were so heavy that he felt crushed by his burdens, he had only to feel the Cup inside the warmth of his leather jerkin to have his spirit restored. The smooth metal edges eased the feelings of guilt that niggled at the edges of his reason. He had Ceridwen’s Cup, the Cup of Lucius, and he would fill it to the brim with fresh blood, again and again, to give renewal to his mistress and her daughter.

‘I can sleep when I reach Deva,’ he whispered wearily into the night. ‘I’ve only to reach Deva, and all will be well.’

He chanted this mantra over and over as his horse moved painfully into the north.

In Cadbury, the High King stalked through his halls like a caged beast. He found no comfort in conversation, in the hunt or in his fruitful fields. His lands closed around him like a stifling shroud so that he felt like a living man prematurely buried in his grave.

Nothing had changed since he had led his troop out of Cadbury for the journey to Glastonbury. Superficially, Artor could see no changes in the faces of his court, in the security of his treaties with the Celtic tribes and in the continuing lack of coordinated resistance from the Saxons.

But Artor knew that everything had shifted out of focus since he had returned from Salinae Minor. The shades of Miryll and her son troubled him little, for they were small voices in a great tide of dead who waited at the edges of sleep to trouble his dreams. But the implications of the attack on Glastonbury disturbed his rest every night.

Beyond doubt, someone had plotted his downfall, and that conspirator was clever and well-organized. Gronw had vanished as if he had never existed; only a very efficient cadre of sympathizers could hide the Pict from Artor’s warriors and agents. The formation of such a web of co-conspirators required careful planning, great patience and fierce determination. Gronw, an unknown Pict from the north, could not set up such an organization; he did not have the power or reach to find, enlist and organize malcontents.

Gronw was an opportunist. He had managed to capitalize on the visit of Gawayne and Galahad to Salinae Minor with dashing effrontery. Likewise, when Artor had arrived at the isle with his troops, Gronw had immediately devised an assassination attempt that could have achieved his aims as effectively as his original plan might have. Chance had saved Artor, rather than any flaws in Gronw’s hasty changes of plan.

‘Whoever my enemy is, he is far more dangerous than my Saxon adversaries, because I am being attacked from within and the aggressor has remained invisible,’ Artor muttered to himself. ‘I cannot defend myself against an enemy within my walls who is so very well-entrenched.’

Artor’s angry path had taken him back to his apartments. For a moment, he stood at the door, trying to gather his wits. Then he recalled that, in his concentration on plot and counterplot, he had forgotten the petitioners for his judgement. With a show of unnecessary force, Artor hit the door with his palm and strode into the quiet room.

‘Lord?’ Odin raised his head from the sleeping couch that he was straightening.

‘I’m an ageing fox caught in a trap by one foot. Dare I gnaw off my own limb to be free?’

Odin stared at his master with concern.

Artor was dressed for his Judgement Hall, and now he threw his golden torc across the room with as much force as his arm could muster.

‘Artor!’ Odin protested. ‘How can I help?’

‘You can’t, unless you know some way to spirit me out of here.’

The king’s brow furrowed and Odin thought for a moment that Artor might weep.

‘But where would I go, anyway, if I deserted my duty and ran? There’s nowhere open to me but here!’

Odin retrieved the king’s torc and straightened his master’s robes.

‘I’m afraid, Odin. I see no way out of this mess!’

The last words were shouted, and Percivale ran into the room.

‘More of you to witness my shame?’ Artor threw himself into his chair and lowered his grizzled head into his hands.

Artor had studied the teachings of the philosophers and he fully understood that his kingdom was in decline. He smelled decay in his land like the rot that appeared in the folds of old parchments. Unerringly, he recognized its corruption in the squabbling carelessness of his warriors and the malice in men like Modred.

The nobles and the warrior class had forgotten the horrors of life caught between the twin evils of a despotic ruler and ruthless invaders. Artor had banished war and enforced peace and the rule of law, so very few of the denizens of Cadbury Tor remembered the distant past when the fortress was in ruins and its great defensive walls were unkempt and blurred with young trees and rubbish. They had either forgotten the rule of Uther Pendragon or had not been born when that ancient madman held the land in the grip of his terrible lunacy.

Human beings quickly forget the taste, the smell and the agony of pain. After several decades of stability, some Celtic aristocrats had forgotten how exceptional Artor had been during his youth and, even in the embers of his life, he still kept Celtic borders secure from invasion. Some arrogant nobles, who had never learned the lessons of history, had come to believe that they could rule in the High King’s place.

‘Even if my kingdom was hale and strong, I would still be under attack from the growing weakness in myself,’ Artor told Odin with a catch in his voice.

If truth be told, Artor recognized the smell of decay in his own growing rage at everything and everyone around him.

Neither Odin nor Percivale found any comforting words that could ease Artor’s distress. Dumb and miserable, they could only show their love and faith, twin burdens that bowed the High King’s shoulders even further.

Later that day, after his judgements were complete, Artor took his misgivings to the one person who listened impartially to his distress.

‘You’ve ridden too far these last few weeks,’ Lady Elayne told him, her fingers pressed against his forehead as if he was a sick child. ‘And you must be very tired.’

By all the rules of Church and man, Artor should have avoided the company of Bedwyr’s wife. The court would be quick to judge her as a faithless wife if they were discovered together. Of course, he would be judged guilty as well, although no one would dare to raise a hand against him. In the rough justice of public opinion, Lady Elayne would be damned as a whore if she was compromised in the company of the king. But Artor needed a confidante, and one who had a cooler, less biased brain than his loyal bodyguards. Selfishly, he often sought private conversations with Lady Elayne. If he felt any obligation to Bedwyr, he silenced his conscience with the reminder that neither he nor Lady Elayne had committed any impropriety.

Artor sighed. ‘The Saxons don’t care if the king is tired. Nor do those elements of Celtic society who plot against me. They wish to turn back the sand glass to those lawless days before Ambrosius brought the tribes out of barbarism. Yes, I’m tired, but I can sleep later. Today, tomorrow and for many days to come, I must be prepared to ride at need.’

With his whole heart, Artor wished that he could rest his aching head against Elayne’s cool hand and take courage from her concern.

‘My lady, I’m old and my body betrays me after every hour I spend in the saddle. Were I young again, this Saxon summer wouldn’t stretch my strength so far. Sadly, the west has grown complacent after many years of peace.’

It was now Elayne’s turn to sigh. Her new role as the king’s confidante was inherently difficult, and she had been forced to struggle with her conscience over the last three months since Artor had returned from Salinae Minor.

She loved Bedwyr dearly, as a man and as her husband, and she had no intentions of betraying her marriage vows with King Artor. She blushed at the thought, for the king had never importuned her sexually. However, Elayne was aware that Queen Wenhaver and gossips within the court would make a world of sin out of her innocent role. By being alone with Artor, she exposed Bedwyr to ridicule. But some visceral kinship linked her with the High King, and encouraged her to accept Artor’s confidences. She understood his vulnerability and his growing need, for no man who possessed blood in his veins could survive without someone to share his inner - most thoughts. Those few who ignored the necessity for intellectual intimacy with others ultimately descended into madness.

Also, because Elayne was an honest young woman, she acknowledged that a part of her took pleasure in her growing importance to the High King of the Britons. She couldn’t deny how very flattering it was to be sought out by a powerful man, not for her sexuality, but for her intellect. For perhaps the first time in her life, Lady Elayne was truly needed, and such heady knowledge was difficult to relinquish.

‘Are the barbarians truly stirring, my lord? I’ve heard tales of their savagery, but we’ve not felt their menace in my lifetime.’

‘They stir, Lady Elayne. And this time, they’ll come on horses. They’ve learned from us, so this time I’ll need more than dumb beasts to hold them back behind the mountain spine. Ratae, Venonae, Lavatrae and even Portus Adurni have sent messengers seeking reinforcements to repel the wolves who are now baying at their gates. Fortunately, no leader has risen to unite the Saxon enclaves, so we can pick them off piecemeal, thanks be to Mithras and the other gods of war and soldiery.’

‘But aren’t such widespread engagements difficult for our troops to manage? Surely they’ll have to ride many miles to confront the enemy at places such as Ratae and Anderida?’

Artor bowed over her hand and kissed it. She blushed, and conscious that Artor had crossed the bounds of propriety in their relationship, she pulled her hand away and hid it in her skirts.

‘Dear lady, I have strengthened the fortresses to repel invaders in these situations. Pelles, Gawayne and your strong husband have trained with our warriors over many years so that they can deal with any number of separate Saxon forces. It’s only when the Saxons unite under a single leader that they will cause us trouble.’

‘And you’re confident you can repel the force that comes out from Anderida?’

‘Aye. Anderida has been my sole responsibility since my twenty-second year. I’m looking forward to riding out against the Saxons from that pestilential place.’

Elayne gazed earnestly into Artor’s eyes. She saw irritation and fear in his grey irises, but excitement as well. Artor lived for challenges and, in his advanced age, the Saxon menace had ceased to be his primary fear.

‘Do you have reinforcements to send to the fortresses, lord?’

‘Not yet, my lady. But your Cornovii kin will ride to fortify Ratae and Venonae, where Gawayne is already stiffening the spines of the defenders. At this stage, I hold no fears that the Saxons will slip through the forest.’

‘Yet your brow is furrowed,’ Elayne murmured. ‘If the tribes remain true, the Saxons will be forced to face the power of our border garrisons as they always have.’

‘But what if they don’t hold true? I’ve wondered at the motives of the Brigante tribe recently, because they’ve been slow to move troops to Lavatrae. Modred mouths all the right platitudes, but his troops stay within his borders. They continue to keep themselves isolated, and I’ve been forced to rely on the courage of Galahad’s warriors to defend the north, bolstered by Morgause’s hatred of all things Saxon. Fortunately, the Ordovice tribe will advance under the rule of Bran and the wishes of his mother, Anna.’

Elayne flinched instinctively as Artor shared these details of his family in such casual language. Although she was flattered by the trust that the king placed in her, she was also appalled by the interplay of hatred, politics and distrust that powered the Union of Kings. The High King’s confidences revealed a world that was usually closed to women, and the insights she gained from his openness were almost oppressive.

‘Don’t you fear that the walls might have ears, lord? The Union of Kings does not encourage friendship or trust, so there must be spies in your household. No doubt you have spies in theirs.’

‘Of course. Gruffydd is skilled in finding talented servants who keep him well supplied with information.’

‘Don’t you fear that someone could be listening to what we are saying right now?’

Artor shrugged without expression.

Elayne moved to the far side of Artor’s hall and twisted back the long, woven hangings that softened wood and stone. Satisfied that no ears but Artor’s bodyguard could hear their conversation, she turned back to the king.

‘Lord Modred makes much of his kinship with you,’ she said quietly, approaching the king more closely than was her custom. ‘He claims his mother is your elder sister, although we have only his word that Queen Morgause seduced his father. Modred whispers that he’s your true heir and that you’re too old to control our lands. He preaches revolution, but furtively.’

Artor slammed his fist down upon the carved arms of his royal chair. Then his eyes narrowed suspiciously. For a short moment, Elayne knew that he doubted her.

‘How did Modred permit you to learn all this? Modred is far too clever to openly reveal his plans.’