The Bloody Cup (41 page)

‘He was dressed in rags. He looked like he’d ridden through thorn trees and branches because his face and arms were cut and scratched. His hair was full of twigs and his eyes were all red and mad. I could hardly bear to look at him.’

The boy searched for an amulet that was strung round his throat on a strip of hide. He kissed the rough form superstitiously, and Artor recalled his first wife’s amulet that had hung, warm and comforting, against his own breast until he gifted it to his daughter.

‘He was covered in blood - even in his hair. And he stank of it where it had dried on his hands and face. I couldn’t make a sound, sir. And him covered in my uncle’s blood as well.’

‘Yet you’re here on old Fenn,’ Artor said gently. ‘Why didn’t he take the plough horse?’

‘My aunt came running and she set up such a caterwauling and howling. The wild man drew his sword and I thought sure he’d cut her head off too. But then he sort of shook himself and howled like some beast. After a few minutes, he put his sword away and ran off into the woods.’

‘Why did you come here when the villagers could have hunted him down since he was afoot?’

Grawryd gulped, then sobbed. He shivered uncontrollably.

‘I took Fenn and rode as fast as I could to Slowwater Village. Straight away, the men found torches and what weapons they had and went after the wild man, even though they only had hoes and hay forks. I tried to warn them that he wasn’t some madman or thief, but they’d never seen a wild man before, so they thought five grown men were enough to kill or capture him.’

Tears ran down the boy’s cheeks, making runnels through the grime that had dusted his skin during the journey to Cadbury.

‘They wouldn’t listen to me because they didn’t know what he was. I was too scared to go with them, so the headman told me to take care of the women and children. I did my best, my lord, truly I did.’

‘I believe you, Grawryd of Slowwater, so speak out bravely,’ Artor replied soothingly. The shepherd boy stared up into the face of his king with mingled love and awe.

‘I made some of the women take their children into the woods at the end of Longfield, but the blacksmith’s wife and her old parents refused to budge. I hid beside the river to watch over them once I got the others hidden. I just knew that the wild man would come looking for a horse, so five farmers wouldn’t stand a chance against that sword of his. Within half an hour, I heard howling and screaming, and then it got real quiet. I knew he was coming. Old Fenn was with the women in the woods in case the wild man came after them, so I hid in a tree near the headman’s home and waited.’

The boy stopped to ensure Artor understood the gravity of what he was saying.

‘He came. Oh, sir, he came!’ Grawryd was close to tears. ‘He’d killed them all. I checked the bodies later and they’d been hacked to pieces. He’d left them where they fell, all body bits and blood, and had come to Slowwater to take any food and the horse that he wanted. He killed Etta and her children . . . and the old people . . . and he ate his food with those bloody hands on the path outside the blacksmith’s house. He seemed to smell the air as if he knew I was watching him. I could hardly breathe, sir, for fear of crying out aloud, but I hid in the leaves and escaped alive. He took the blacksmith’s pony when he left.’

Grawryd began to weep in earnest, and Artor gripped his shoulder comfortingly until the boy managed to speak again.

‘Then I went and got the women and old Fenn. When I left, they were preparing their menfolk for burial, so I rode here at once. The wild man will kill and kill until someone stops him. His eyes, sir, were red as if they were filled with blood. His face was smeared with dried mud, gore and things I don’t like to think about. Whoever he once was, he’d turned into a demon, sir, so twisted up and hating was his face. Even his hair was stiff with blood. I could smell him on the wind. Oh, sir, you must do something, else everyone he comes upon will die.’

The boy was half-fainting with exhaustion and the horror of his experiences, so Artor ordered Odin to take him away and give him food and rest.

‘This tale is monstrous,’ Balan exclaimed, sickened by Grawryd’s story. ‘This creature must be hunted down and slaughtered.’

‘I agree. But farmers don’t carry swords, so this wild man is probably a brigand, or even an escaped Saxon trying to reach the east. Whoever he is, he must be captured. If Saxons are abroad, I must know of it.’

‘I beg the opportunity to find him, my king. I’m certain I could capture him and bring him back to be judged for his crimes. I’m half-mad anyway with boredom since my brother went to Glastonbury.’

‘Very well. But you must take Gruffydd with you. He’s old, and is no longer fit for battle, but he speaks the Saxon tongue and knows the hills and forests like no other person. He must be consulted first, mind, for I promised him that he could leave the court in honourable retirement, but if you hope to find this beast, then Gruffydd is the best man to assist you in your task.’

‘Do I take Grawryd with me?’

‘Yes. He knows the terrain and he knows the villagers. They will trust him where they would not trust strangers in their midst, especially warriors with swords.’

Artor knew in his heart that this wild man was a rogue soldier so inured to blood and death that the slaughter of a few more peasants meant nothing. Killing was a dangerous habit, one that weakened the barriers between right and wrong. Artor could hear Targo’s voice, beyond the shadows, as he reminded his student that warfare had its own particular perils.

‘Killing can weaken us,’ Targo had said, his face sombre. ‘Good soldiers kill on demand, without any thought or guilt. They act on orders, like trained animals, and their consciences aren’t troubled by the deaths.’

Artor remembered the shadow of the alder tree and how it barred his tutor’s face and hid his expression.

‘But there seems to be a point where the taking of a human life becomes so familiar that it resolves any problem. I need a horse! He has one! So I’ll kill him for his animal! You see, boy? Our morals become stretched out of shape by hard use and, somehow, we become animals ourselves.’

‘I won’t, will I?’ the youthful Artorex had asked nervously.

‘Since you’re not a soldier, I don’t see how,’ Targo had answered.

But Artor, king and warrior, had felt the danger of becoming exactly what Targo had described.

Artor and Balan walked side by side on the tooth of rock that was Cadbury Tor, one old and one young, both so alike in many ways. The shadows lengthened around them.

‘You must go on the morrow, Balan, although I would prefer to send another warrior in your place. I am too old and too tired to wish to risk a kinsman on a task that gives me cause to worry. It’s a sad truth that men such as Modred always sit safely at the hearth while better warriors keep him and his warm and secure. Go with your god, my boy.’

‘Thank you, Your Majesty.’ Balan grinned engagingly. ‘I’ll be glad to be doing something useful while I await word of my brother. The concern I feel for him itches at the back of my mind, and if I can’t scratch my itch, then I’d lief be about service to the village of Slowwater.’

The High King and his kinsman stood for a long time in their separate silences and watched the far, visible edges of the land turn red and then purple as the sun slipped away.

CHAPTER XV

THE BEGINNING OF THE END

As the days shortened with the advance of another autumn, Artor remained within the halls of his palace and kept alone, weighed down by matters of state and the ominous silence from his warriors in the north of the kingdom. To add to his woes, the intransigence of Bishop Otha at Glastonbury was causing Artor to endure many sleepless nights, for no word had come from Balyn since his departure. Coupled with these worries, Gronw was an oozing sore in the north where his putrid influence was spreading damaging rumours and talk of insurrection.

And always, above mere personal threats and difficulties, the Saxons hovered on his borders as they sought to gain further toeholds in the west. They didn’t attack, but like the ravens and the crows that lived deep in the woods, they waited for carrion.

Artor kept to himself and tried to maintain a commanding, untroubled presence. Nowhere was safe and nothing was certain. Even in Cadbury, his citadel and stronghold, the king’s enemies waited patiently for any sign of weakness in its ageing king.

Artor knew he spent too much time alone, but the two men who might have provided company had ridden out with Balan to slay a human monster. Gruffydd had accompanied Balan on the orders of Artor, but Taliesin had volunteered to join them in their quest. The harpist was partly motivated by curiosity and partly by the overwhelming horror of Grawryd’s tale.

As for Elayne, Artor could hardly bear the physical and emotional pain that her presence caused him, for he was forced to face anew his loveless existence and the nauseating self-pity that this prompted in him. And Bedwyr deserved his loyalty. Wenhaver’s sullen features promised tantrums and held no appeal. Moreover, her company would bring him into the orbit of Modred’s sniping, as well as the sweet, tempting presence of Elayne. Artor longed to banish Modred, or to slit his throat, but neither action was politic in such restless times.

Two weeks had passed since Balan had left with Gruffydd, Taliesin and the shepherd boy. The two weeks brought nothing but silence and a sense of numbing hopelessness. Who could say when Cadbury would see his grandsons again? In quiet moments, Artor would wonder whether staff and spear were one and the same, and if he should have warned Balyn of the significance of the staff. Forewarned was forearmed; his duplicity haunted the king.

Artor was already sunk in gloom when he went to Cadbury’s gates to view a slow and doleful party climbing upwards towards the fortress. Gruffydd and Taliesin rode together and two horses with wrapped, man-shaped bundles tied across their backs plodded after them.

Tears appeared in Artor’s eyes. Those leather-bound shapes were unmistakable.

‘I need only to learn how they died,’ he whispered brokenly, then squared his shoulders and marched to the gate.

Gruffydd and Taliesin bowed low when they had passed through the final gate and entered the citadel. Taliesin raised his head and his eyes expressed such misery and pity that Artor wanted to run and hide in his private rooms to delay the inevitable news. But, such courage as he still possessed forced him to stand his ground, even when the wrapped bundles were placed on the flagged forecourt at his feet.

‘I am heavy of heart, my lord,’ Taliesin began.

‘I guess at your news’, Artor muttered, his head low. ‘These bundles are the mortal remains of my grandsons, Balyn and Balan.’

‘Aye, Artor,’ Gruffydd replied. His eyes were sombre and direct.

‘Let me see them’, the king ordered, drawing himself to his full height. ‘I sent them to their deaths, so I should see what I have done with my own eyes.’

Two guards cut the rawhide thongs that bound the wrappings in place, and then lifted away the coarse wool and greasy hide that had covered their bodies.

Balan appeared to be asleep, despite the extreme pallor of his face. His well-shaped lips smiled and his dress wasn’t disturbed; the wound in his breast seemed little more than a narrow tear in his leather cuirass. His weapon had been cleansed and placed on his breast where his stiffened fingers gripped it firmly, even though the rigid seizures of death had long passed.

‘Balan, my boy, what mischance has killed you?’ Artor choked, his eyes shining with unshed tears. He turned to his guards. ‘Take him to the chapel, cleanse his body and begin the prayers for his soul.’

As the guards carried away the body of one twin, Balyn’s snarling lips were exposed to the harsh morning light.

Balyn’s beauty had fled under a thin shroud of caked dirt and dried crusts of blood; his once golden skin had faded to the colour and insubstantiality of ashes. Like his brother, Balyn’s hands also gripped his sword hilt, but his sensitive fingers were cut, scarred and fouled with dried blood.

Artor’s pearl ring winked derisively at the king from Balyn’s thumb.

‘Balyn, my grandson, what brought you to this pass?’ Artor whispered. ‘What curse drove you into madness?’

The young man’s clothes had been reduced to bloody rags through which his skin should have shone whitely, had it not been so bruised and bloody. His flesh was covered with cuts, slash wounds and injuries that almost seemed self-inflicted, but he had died from a knife thrust in the belly and another to the throat. He had bled freely and fatally from both gashes. The beautiful young man, so much like the young Artor when he first rode into Cadbury, was now an effigy bathed in blood, or some grotesque sacrifice to a cruel god.

‘Serve the same offices to Lord Balyn as to his brother. These warriors were precious to me, so prepare them carefully for the fire.’

A hand touched Artor’s elbow from behind.

‘I will see to them myself, my king,’ Lady Elayne murmured, and Artor felt the tears rising in his eyes until he could no longer stop their flow. Nor could he turn to face her, for he could not bear to gaze on her wise, quiet face filled with the pity that he heard in her voice.

Artor strode away, his jaw set and his shoulders squared, but both Gruffydd and Taliesin recognized the stiff gait and rigid muscles of a man who has been pushed to breaking point. They hastened to follow their damaged king.

Behind them, Elayne looked down at the mortal remains of Balyn. She had dressed for the open with haste, and her hair still hung in long plaits below her waist while her face was flushed and her cloak hadn’t been pinned in place. With one hand, she clutched its folds together, while the other gripped the skirts of her robes. The shell of Balyn’s ruined beauty tugged at her heart so fiercely that she wept unashamedly.

In death, Balyn’s face had aged and mirrored Artor’s; Elayne could all too easily imagine that Artor lay there, fresh from some terrible battle, and dead from a multitude of gaping wounds. Her heartbeat faltered, and she realized that more than loyalty lay behind her sorrow; the king had captured part of her heart.