The Bloody Cup (28 page)

Artor glanced at each of his leaders in turn, holding their eyes until they nodded in agreement.

‘Modred’s warriors will be responsible for the defences of Verterae and Lavatrae. I’ll explain his duties to him in simple language that even he should understand. However, because I have little trust in my kinsman, his forces shall be merged with warriors from your tribe, Gawayne. You are in overall command of the north, so you must make those difficult bastards serve their king. You may use your fabled charm.’

‘My charm only ever worked on women, Artor, but this task will give me a great deal of satisfaction. Shite, I’ll enjoy extracting cooperation from those Brigante bastards!’

‘You’ll need to appoint a damn good second-in-command to assist you to fulfil all of your extra responsibilities. Numerous unannounced visits and inspections of your forces will be needed to ensure that all is well in the region.’

‘I’ll install my brother, Geraint, as my deputy. He’s competent and overdue for promotion. I can trust him to carry out your orders.’

‘I don’t remember your brother, although the name seems familiar. Have I met Geraint?’

‘Yes, my lord. But he was a spotty youngster when you last saw him. He’s thirty-nine now, and was born only a year before Gaheris. He’s very quiet, but he’s a talented leader of men, even if I say so myself. His sons are almost fully grown, so he can devote his time exclusively to your interests.’

The reminder of Gawayne’s youngest brother, Gaheris, was a wrench. Artor had always felt responsible for his nephew’s death, twenty years earlier, at the hands of Glamdring Ironfist. Gaheris had taken Artor’s place at an arranged meeting with the Saxon leader to offer an honourable truce. The murder of the envoys and their personal guard had resulted in Artor’s last major confrontation with the Saxons at the battles of Mori Saxonicus and Caer Fyrddin.

‘If he’s half the man that Gaheris was, Geraint will be a welcome addition to the ranks of my captains,’ Artor said.

‘Aye, lord. He’s an able fighter and his men love him. I trust him with my life.’

‘As for Ratae and Venonae, the Ordovice and the Cornovii are already committed to defending their own lands.’ Artor turned to Bedwyr. ‘You, Bedwyr, will assume command of this united force.’

‘Me?’ Bedwyr yelped. ‘I’m not a king to be given command of an army. A promotion like this would insult my neighbours and my own liege lord.’

Bedwyr’s shock said much about the self-effacement of the Cornovii warrior. Now in his middle years, Bedwyr’s reddish hair and flushed complexion had faded, but the marks of the slave collar that had once encircled his throat were still vivid. Scars across his face and evidence of a broken nose spoke of years of danger and pain.

‘I’ve spoken to the kings of the Cornovii and the Silures and I have written to my kinsman, King Bran of the Ordovice,’ Artor said. ‘They’ve agreed to abide by my decision. Who else knows the mountains and the forests as well as you do? And, more importantly, I have absolute trust in your judgement.’

Bedwyr bowed his head.

‘I shall bestow on you the title of King of Arden. You’ll have no tribe to follow you, except for those men who come to you voluntarily. I cannot risk the alliance by gifting more men to you than you already have.’

‘I’ll obey you to the death, my lord. The title means nothing to me, but my family will be proud, and for that I thank you. The only boon I ask is that you permit my wife to remain at Cadbury under your protection, for she’s dear to me.’

‘You may be assured that Lady Elayne will always be safe in Cadbury.’ Artor turned to Balyn and Balan. ‘As for command of the south, this will be divided between you two. You will be charged with the defence of Venta Belgarum and the ports. It will be your task to prevent Anderida from spreading its poisonous influences any further. Although you’ll be far from your home and you’ve no love for the south, I trust you both to act as I would. Balyn, you have natural authority and considerable fighting skills, so you’ll assume tactical command. Balan, you are a born strategist with your cool brain, and will assume strategic command.’

Balan dropped to his knees and bowed so low that Artor was embarrassed. Balyn was a little slower to respond, for his mind was fixed on the compliments that had been given to his brother, rather than to himself. He felt a twinge of jealousy stab through his vitals.

‘What are my duties, my lord?’ Galahad asked. He had acquitted himself well on the battlefield and wondered why he was having to wait for Artor to give him a role that was commensurate with his ability and his birth.

Gawayne winced as he saw Artor’s eyebrows twitch. At this rate, his son’s lack of manners would have him banished from the king’s presence.

‘You’ll base yourself at Salinae Minor and will control all those lands that surround it. Gronw hasn’t finished trying to destroy me, so you are charged with finding the Cup. I’ve heard word from Gruffydd that the Black Warrior still has influence in the district around the island, and that trouble will soon be developing from the hamlets near Salinae Minor. The villagers believe a rumour that there is a sacred relic in Gronw’s care that can save the west. Unfortunately, the rumours also infer that I’m not worthy to hold Lucius’s Cup.’

‘Why did you choose me for this task, my lord?’ Galahad asked, proving to his father yet again that the boy saw the world entirely through his own feelings and self-image.

‘You have a nose for wickedness, Galahad, and you possess Christian righteousness that is coupled with a strong right arm. I trust you not to give up until you complete the task I have set you.’

Galahad still managed to look offended but before he could voice a complaint, Gawayne punched him hard on the arm.

Artor began to pace the room, needing to match actions with the orders he had issued. So much rested on these men, all of whom were flawed in some way. Then the High King shrugged for, as Targo had often said, he must do the best he could with what he had.

‘I’ll be riding to most of the major settlements in the west to spread a message of hope and reconciliation. This Saxon summer has cost us very little, but if we are to prevail, we must remain alert.’

‘I understand, my king,’ Galahad replied. ‘You fear the blows that can come from inside our borders. For my part, I’ll carry out my duties with diligence.’

Then Artor addressed the whole group once again.

‘You may go, my friends, for we have planned our work for the coming autumn and winter. Go with grace and the favour of the gods.’

Once his captains had departed, Artor allowed his squared shoulders to slump and he sank into his chair like the old man he had become.

Taliesin moved out of his corner.

‘You’re tired, my lord.’

Artor sighed. ‘I wonder when I became such a manipulative creature, one who plays on men’s faiths as easily as you pluck on your harp strings, Taliesin. Necessity, it seems, makes monsters of all men.’

‘I understand how the love of your subjects burdens you, for you fear that you’ll be forced to betray them for the sake of the kingdom. But if you asked every warrior in Venonae how they felt about dying for your cause, they’d answer that such a death would be the will of the gods - and not your fault.’

‘I am glad your mother sent you to me. And I’m grateful that you’re content to follow me across the country so that I have someone to complain at when I feel sorry for myself, which is far too often. Tired men make mistakes.’

‘There’s no need for pretence or apology with me, my king. I’m only Taliesin, your harpist, and no man counts me important enough to court my loyalties.’

‘More fool them!’

Taliesin felt the force of the old king’s character. Like a guttering candle, Artor’s spirit still burned bright and clear. His grey eyes might be nestled within networks of old man’s wrinkles, but the intelligence and reason that had governed the king’s life shone through with purity. Although Taliesin had seen those same eyes freeze with pitiless calculation, he had also watched the deep and concealed compassion that swam in their cool depth, and enlivened Artor’s rugged face with a special kind of love.

Artor had submerged much of his own humanity into the task of saving the west from invasion. Family, love, fidelity, gentleness, consideration and humility had been ruthlessly buried because circumstances had transformed these virtues into weaknesses. But Taliesin knew that Artor still possessed these characteristics in abundance, and he was sad to see Artor’s constant struggle to keep his softer side alive.

‘I’m proud to stand behind you, my lord, and I’m grateful that I’ve taken my father’s place. I’m also privileged to see the last of your strength and, if the gods should permit it, to record the Passing of the king and the kingdom before I die.’

‘Will you play for me, friend? Give me a folk song, one to remind me of our people and what they expect of me.’

‘Of course, my lord. I’ll tell you a tale that the villagers sing in the mountains at the time of the autumn threshing.’

His voice lulled Artor to sleep for a short time and, when the king awoke, they talked as friends do, late into the night. Artor could almost pretend that Myrddion and Targo were still alive and were speaking through the mouth of the young harpist.

Elderly men take what comfort they can from their memories of the happy past.

As the first autumn winds soughed around the ramparts of his fortress, Artor felt the inexorable advance towards physical death. A sudden gust shook the shutters and the king was reminded that the kingdom was under attack. Like the wind that battered at his walls, his enemy was also invisible, but if he reached out his hand, he could feel its presence.

With a chill, he admitted that nothing, and nobody, could stop the wind.

CHAPTER X

A WEB OF DECEIT

Gronw sat in a mean little hut built of wattle, daub and reeds, and stared sullenly at his tattooed hands. The hut leaked when it rained and the wind found its way through a myriad cracks and holes that made every damp winter night a misery.

The black warrior’s refuge stood in a cleft between two windswept hills to the west of Deva, a large provincial town that lay at the end of Seteia Aest. Deva was situated on the main Roman road from Venta Silurum into the north, and any intrepid traveller knew that Deva was the gateway to the Brigante lands. In obedience to the instructions that had been hurriedly whispered to him at an inn in the town, Gronw had ventured on to the smaller, rutted road heading towards Mamucium and, from there, he had followed an almost invisible track that branched away into the hills. Few travellers ventured into these windy, barren slopes, so the murderous priest was relatively safe from discovery.

Only the hardy or the desperate braved the desolate track that served as a pathway for shepherds and farmers from the lowlands. While Gronw’s quarters in the wild were ugly and uncomfortable, the families who provided the shelter were true believers who had long adhered to the old ways of worship, so Gronw was secure. They gave this shepherd’s hut freely as a base for Gronw’s work.

Malcontents, the curious and a number of ragged hill people had come to listen to the rantings of the black warrior, who was popularly believed to be a Druid of the highest order. In fact, Gronw bore no resemblance to the masters of the old lore and didn’t possess the high status that he assumed so glibly. He clung to ancient, Prydyn woman’s magic rather than Druid maunderings over mistletoe or oak.

The Prydyn, the ancient name for the Picts, recognized the Tuatha de Danaan, although the Celts could never get their mouths around the Pictish names. Gronw smiled unpleasantly. Ceridwen was fundamental to his faith, for Prydyn queens often decided who ruled the land in the name of the goddess. Many a Prydyn king governed only because his mother held the true reins of power in the name of Ceridwen.

‘These Celtic pigs accept their Ceridwen in Her place. Her name is too holy for their tongues.’

The emptiness of the ramshackle shepherd’s bothie echoed his words oddly, so that a second voice seemed to speak aloud with him. Gronw shivered within his cocoon of furs and rags. The goddess came rarely, but when She did notice the affairs of fragile, feeble men, every message was charged with meaning. Celts had killed Gronw’s mistress Gernyr, Ceridwen’s priestess, and Celts had killed Miryll, the daughter of Gernyr, so She was thirsty to drink their blood and feast on their raw and quivering flesh. Many years earlier, the Roman legions had castrated the Celtic Druids at Mona, and only the shivering remnants of those priests still worshipped in the sacred groves of oak. But She went on and on, wearing different names, and bearing different faces. The goddess was forever, and She would dance on the graves of the Celts.

‘Men are fools when religion is used as an excuse for their failures,’ Gronw muttered to himself as he stripped off his threadbare ceremonial robe and busied himself with heating a simple rabbit stew that had been sent by a member of his flock. ‘Celts are easily convinced that the gods have turned their faces away from them - as if the gods would care if some petty chieftain loses a son or two in battle, or a disease kills all his cows. Rather than accept that they themselves might be inadequate, these Celts choose to blame Artor for their ills. He has angered the gods so they must suffer!’ Gronw spoke aloud to relish the taste and sound of his words.

‘Their selfish stupidity is an easy weapon to use against them, Mistress Gernyr,’ he whispered. ‘Yes. We’ll use it, won’t we? How these Celt pigs love it when I blame Artor for their poverty, the Saxon attacks and even the weather. They salivate to heap their sins on to the shoulders of the High King. Miryll has served her purpose, although I had not planned to use her in quite this way.’

The Lady of Salinae Minor had assumed a mythic martyrdom since Gronw had been forced to flee from his southern base of operations. A helpless, pregnant woman was an ideal symbol to illustrate that the High King was a depraved and murderous barbarian. Even an unborn child could not be permitted to survive if it threatened Artor’s hold on the throne. Many men who had ancient quarrels with the Romans, or who possessed Saxon heritage that had its genesis during the reign of Vortigern, embraced any myth that fed their resentments.