The Bloody Cup (47 page)

The man with the wounded arm died quickly and Bedwyr felt a frisson of vengeance as he slashed the man’s foolishly exposed throat. His hound was avenged and she would run free in the Otherworld.

The other man was slain ignominiously as he attempted to scramble away from Bedwyr with his hands upraised in supplication. Bedwyr ignored a shallow slash he had taken across his ribs, stepped inside the defences of the retreating man and rammed the Arden knife up through the throat and into the mouth and brain of his enemy.

The night remained silent, except for two sets of lungs that strained to drag air through gaping mouths. Bedwyr retrieved his knife and pulled back the hoods over the heads of the assassins. He recognized neither man.

Bedwyr’s hound was dead, her jaws bloodied and her muzzle still raised towards an enemy. With a pang of regret and pride, Bedwyr prayed that when his time came he would die with as much grace and courage as his companion had displayed.

Trystan’s spy had collapsed and now he lolled on the frozen ground with his back to the stone. As Bedwyr bent over him, he could see that the man was bleeding sluggishly from a deep knife thrust just below the heart. Bloody froth escaped from the man’s lips, and his eyes were half-closed like those of a tired child.

‘Bedwyr,’ the spy sighed. ‘My thanks for your aid, friend, but you’ve arrived too late to save me.’

‘What have you learned?’

‘Always on duty, Bedwyr?’ the man wheezed painfully. ‘I am Glynn ap Rathwyn. Do you remember me?’

‘I do, Glynn.’ Bedwyr smiled regretfully at the dying man. ‘You have little time, and I must have your information. What can you tell me?’

‘Gronw, the Druid, is set to move to a ruined and deserted village that sits to the north of Bremetennacum on the road to Olicana. You must be careful, for you will be deep in Brigante country and their king is no friend to Artor.’

Bedwyr looked up and down the crossroads, but the night was silent and deserted.

‘I’m sorry, Glynn ap Rathwyn, but I must leave you here while I move these carrion where they can’t be found. I must give myself a chance of escape so Gronw remains ignorant of our pursuit. I’ll not be any longer than I can help.’

Glynn looked up at Bedwyr with pain-filled eyes. ‘You needn’t worry on my account, Bedwyr. I’ll be dead soon enough. Leave my body here and, if Gronw’s followers care to look for me, they’ll believe I’ve been eliminated. Take care, Bedwyr, and revenge yourself on Gronw for me.’

The words were forced painfully from Glynn’s throat, and Bedwyr knew that some major part of the young man’s body had been breached. The blood that bubbled at his mouth was filled with air from collapsed and drowning lungs and the blue tinge that edged Glynn’s mouth was a sign that the spy was slowly choking on his own blood. Bedwyr knew no remedy that could save the dying man.

‘On your way, Bedwyr. You’ve much to do, and the friends of these mongrels might be curious about my fate.’

When Bedwyr still paused, Glynn’s voice became rougher and stronger. ‘Get moving, damn you! I’m dying anyway, so don’t make it all for nothing.’

The effort drained him, and his head slumped forward.

Bedwyr trudged away, lugging one of the dead men with him across his broad back. He knew he left heavy tracks in the snow and slush, but trusted that the snowflakes now falling would hide his passage. He slung the body over his protesting horse.

The second body was lighter and he soon had it lashed next to the first. Then he went back for the corpse of his hound who would lie, in death, with the creatures who killed her.

Once more, Bedwyr ran back quickly to check on Glynn.

The figure of the spy was already shrouded in a thin cloak of snow. Bedwyr shook the man’s shoulder and the spy unwillingly opened his eyes.

‘Do you have any messages for your kin?’ Bedwyr asked calmly, for he had seen the face of death so often that it held no dread for him.

‘I have no kin. But I ask that you bid Trystan farewell for me. Tell him . . . that no woman is worth his soul.’

Bedwyr had no idea what Glynn ap Rathwyn meant, but he nodded and squeezed the hand of the dying man.

‘I feel cowardly for leaving you. Artor’s rule has always been that no friend should die alone in enemy hands.’

‘Make the killing stroke yourself, Bedwyr. I’d consider it a mercy from one warrior to another. You know what they will do to my body if they find me alive, so I ask that you strike hard and true. I assure you that my shade won’t return to haunt you.’

Bedwyr pulled out his knife with its crust of blood along the blade from the bodies of the two assassins. The elaborate carving marked it as a special weapon, and Glynn’s eyes widened slightly when he saw it.

‘So this is the fabled Arden knife. It’s an honour to see it.’

Bedwyr cleaned the blade in a handful of snow so that no impure blood would contaminate either the fine metal or the man who was about to die. Glynn’s eyes watched carefully and he grimaced with apprehension in spite of the honour that Bedwyr was about to pay him. Then he closed his eyes, so he couldn’t see the thrust that would extinguish his life.

As Bedwyr led his laden horse away from the crossroads, he sighed to think of the waste that Gronw had brought to the west; many more good men would have to die to defeat the Druid and the cause that he espoused.

Bedwyr tipped the two bodies into a sluggish river well outside the boundaries of Mamucium, trusting that they would be undiscovered until spring, if then. He buried his hound in deep snow in the exposed roots of an oak where it would rot in the spring and enrich the ground surrounding the huge tree. Finally, he cleaned the flanks and back of his horse with fresh snow to remove the blood that stained its hide.

With a renewed sense of urgency, Bedwyr rode south at speed.

Dreary days prevailed at Cadbury. The Samhein celebrations had come and gone, leaving Artor sunk in gloom at the absence of the twins. He felt like a straw king, clutching a tin crown with nerveless fingers, and his belief that civil war would burn everything he had striven to build began to turn him into a rudderless leader.

Even the messenger who brought word of a royal visitor failed to rouse Artor from his torpor. King Mark from the west was coming from Segontium, and Cadbury was sent atwitter at the news.

Wenhaver was as excited as a child.

‘I know this king is nothing much,’ she told Modred, who was still at Cadbury. ‘But it will be invigorating to have a new face here on the tor.’

‘Mark isn’t a very cheerful man,’ Modred replied laconically. ‘Nor does he travel very willingly. I wonder what he wants?’

Wenhaver smacked Modred’s shoulder playfully. ‘Perhaps he’s bored too, and is seeking pleasure in the larger world. You always think the very worst of people, Modred.’

‘And I’m very often right,’ Modred muttered.

King Mark had never pretended to approve of Artor as High King of the Britons and had, many years earlier, raised his objections publicly on the occasion of Artor’s crowning. The Deceangli were small, dour and argumentative, and they had taken in those disaffected Demetae tribesmen who chose to reject Artor’s division of tribal lands after the battle of Mori Saxonicus. Neither King Mark nor his vassals could be easily appeased by patriotic appeals from Artor’s emissaries, for their neighbours were the Ordovice tribe, warriors who enjoyed the sunshine of Artor’s approval - and were now their natural enemies.

Eventually, King Mark made his triumphant entrance into Cadbury Town like a conqueror, complete with a retinue of sixty mounted warriors who were armed to the teeth. Although his guards were short and very dark, their black eyes were bright with malice and dislike for Cadbury.

Artor met King Mark at the foot of the tor with his own fully armed retinue chosen from the most impressive men in his bodyguard. Ceremonial gold torcs encircled their throats and the hilts of their weapons were massy with cabochon gems.

Artor, in contrast, had dressed in wintry grey. His eyes, his hair and his rich clothes were sombre, but the gold on his fingers, sword hilt and knife allayed any suggestion of asceticism. As a penance, Artor wore Uther’s pearl upon his thumb, having reluctantly accepted the jewel from Elayne’s hands, after she had taken it from Balyn’s body.

‘Welcome to Cadbury, King Mark. I’m honoured to meet you again, and I commiserate with you on the rigours of your journey. Arrangements have been made to accommodate you and four personal servants in state, on the tor itself. Provision has been made for quartering the remainder of your guard in the lower garrison.’

No sensible king would welcome sixty armed men into his fortress.

‘My thanks, lord,’ Mark responded. ‘I’ve ridden far to meet you, for I need to transact some business with you that I hope will not be unwelcome. But I’d prefer to speak of my requirements later, after I’ve rested.’

Artor’s lips tightened slightly at Mark’s presumption.

‘You’ve gained my attention, Mark,’ the High King replied silkily. ‘I await our discussion with anticipation. As always, I am at the disposal of any petitioner,’ Artor continued urbanely. ‘But for now you must allow me to conduct you to the tor and to your quarters.’

King Mark was an angular, ageing man whose hair was almost wholly silver at the brow but still black elsewhere. He wore his hair chopped off at the shoulders, and the contrasting locks made him resemble a blackbird with white facial markings. His nose emphasized the avian image, because it was sharply hooked and narrow across the bridge. His lips were thin and colourless, while his black eyes were beady and acquisitive.

Once Mark was ensconced in the best rooms in the citadel, Artor asked Odin and Gareth to join him in his bedchamber.

Artor motioned the two men on to stools and then poured wine for them.

He looked at Odin. ‘What do you make of King Mark, old friend?’

‘He has a hungry and a busy eye, Artor.’

‘What should I know about the man?’

Odin put his large, sandalled feet on Artor’s table and drained the wine cup in one long swallow. ‘Mark missed nothing of the defences as we climbed the tor. That isn’t surprising because all strangers to Cadbury gawp when they see our fortifications for the first time. But I noticed that he made one mistake. He avoided meeting Modred’s eyes when he entered our hall, and Modred avoided meeting the eyes of Mark. As Targo would have said, I can smell a large rat in our straw. The Brigante stoat is a near neighbour to King Mark, so they must be acquainted.’

‘Mark has never shown any desire to visit us before. Why now? Why would he come in winter? He looks like a person who enjoys comfortable surroundings.’

The three men sank into companionable silence.

‘I wish Balan was still here,’ Artor muttered sadly. ‘He would have had insights into the man. He was a good listener, he had a capacity for stillness.’

‘Your Bran is alive . . . and he’s a suitable heir, Artor,’ Gareth reminded the king. ‘He’s healthy, he’s fully grown into manhood and he’s already fathered a successor to follow him.’

‘No. I’ll not rob Anna of her last son. It’s essential that Anna and Bran remain safe after I am dead. While I live, they’re vulnerable to predatory claimants to my throne, but this would be as nothing compared with the dangers they’ll face once I’ve gone to the shades.’

Artor sank back into silence, clenching and unclenching his aching knife hand.

Odin looked speculatively at his king, his head cocked to one side. As he aged, he seemed to look more and more like a disreputable bear.

‘The winds tell me that you will have another son soon, Lord Artor,’ the Jutlander said suddenly. His eyes were veiled and he seemed to be struggling to breach the void that exists between silence and speech.

‘I’ve sired many sons, but they’ve been born of women whom the tribal kings would never accept. They’re good boys, but none of them has the qualities needed to rule our people.’

‘Lady Elayne quickens with child,’ Odin stated. ‘Her maidservant tells me she vomits every morning, and that she’s careful with her choice of food.’

The silence that fell was deep and absolute.

‘Her maid also informed me, with a little encouragement, that Lady Elayne has not had the moon blood for four months. The lady quickens, as I have said.’

Artor stared at the huge Jutlander with growing horror in his eyes.

‘The world will know her to be a faithless wife,’ Gareth said regretfully. ‘The maids already whisper their suspicions, and it would be foolish to protest that the world will not know the child was sired by the king. Bedwyr has been absent from court for six months and who else would dare to touch Lady Elayne other than the king, given that they were together during a blizzard at the time the child was conceived. The courtiers of Cadbury can count.’

‘May the gods save us,’ Artor moaned. ‘Bedwyr will demand a blood price for his lost honour. And I? I deserve to pay it. But Lady Elayne is without blame in her predicament, and I’ll not permit her to become the butt of cruel rumour.’

Odin cleared his throat.

‘I say she’s without blame,’ Artor repeated roughly. ‘I am the High King, and my word is law!’