The Bloody Cup (49 page)

‘Farewell, my lady. There is nothing else to say.’

Elayne’s horse moved into the cavalcade of escorts, and her hand was torn from his grip.

‘Until later, my lord!’

‘Until later,’ he replied, and turned away so that no man could see his sadness.

Elayne soon lost sight of his tall figure in the mist. Still looking backwards at the tor, the lady reached the gates of the citadel and passed out of the ken of the west.

Bedwyr rode south with a nasty crosswind making his passage over the icy roads even more difficult than usual. Barely pausing to rest his horse, he made good speed in the poor weather, for urgency provided a sharp spur to his journey.

Gronw had surfaced at last.

The relationship between Percivale and Galahad had not fared well during Bedwyr’s absence. Years spent working in the kitchens, followed by the long process of proving his worth to Artor, had inured Percivale to displays of petulance and impatience by courtiers such as Galahad, but the young man had tried Percivale’s patience to its limit.

The problem with Galahad, Percivale eventually decided, was that the young man was totally incapable of understanding the needs and feelings of any other person. The bountiful gifts of beauty, talent and good birth had resulted in the development of a personality that was as ignorant of the natural feelings of ordinary men as a dumb beast. In fact, animals were more sensitive than the Otadini prince, for they had empathy and Galahad had none. The prince never raised a finger in the preparation of a meal, or in the cleaning of their cramped quarters, and even stolid, good-natured Percivale had tired of being Galahad’s body servant and whipping boy.

‘I hate winter. I’m never quite warm and there’s too little to do,’ Galahad complained on the last day of their enforced inactivity.

‘Then perhaps you could make an attempt to turn over the straw. The stench is vile.’ Percivale’s tone was sharp with frustration, so any sensible man would have understood the dissatisfaction underlying Percivale’s complaint.

‘I don’t do cleaning. I only do things that amuse me.’

‘Then perhaps you can kill some defenceless animal that we can eat for our supper.’

Galahad finally realized that Percivale was cross.

‘I don’t see why you should be so irritable, Percivale. This mission must be a holiday for you, for you’d be at the king’s beck and call in Cadbury. I don’t ask much of you.’

Uncharacteristically, Percivale swore at the Otadini prince.

‘Enough of your shite, Galahad! You’ve skived away from all menial tasks since we first rode together. I’m no longer a kitchen boy, I’m a warrior in the service of King Artor. I’ve earned my rank, I wasn’t born into wealth and power as you were.’

Galahad’s mouth closed with a snap and he made a great show of toying with the straw, a token effort that only served to fill the air with dust.

‘Stop it, Galahad! Even this simple task is too difficult for you, so please go outside and kill something.’

And so, when Bedwyr arrived, he found Percivale alone. The warrior had lit a new fire and was preparing a small round pot for cooking whatever delicacy Galahad managed to flush from cover.

‘Oh, it’s you,’ Percivale muttered sullenly.

‘I love you too, friend. What’s roughened your fur?’

Percivale smiled apologetically at his friend. ‘Don’t mind me, Bedwyr. I’m homesick and bored. This hut is a malodorous, dreary hole and I’d feign be on our way somewhere, anywhere, rather than remain in this dung heap for one more day.’

Bedwyr watched as Percivale snapped wild parsnips and carrots with his strong fingers.

‘I assume that Galahad has been his usual charming self.’

‘Don’t go down that path,’ Percivale warned grimly as he tore leafy greens into strips. ‘He never speaks; he preaches! I know I’m uncharitable to complain about our companion, but I’ve been driven to distraction in the weeks we’ve been camped here. I hope you’ve found the Cup, Bedwyr, so we can leave this pestilential place.’

‘I’ve discovered where Gronw is hiding, but we’ll need to ride hard and fast to catch him before he moves on to his next hiding hole.’

At this auspicious moment, Galahad pushed through the door, shaking snow all over the threshold and letting in a frigid draught of air. He was carrying two rabbits, gutted and skinned, and he seemed very pleased with himself.

‘You’re back! Where’s Gronw?’

‘No one ever thinks to ask after my health,’ Bedwyr joked, but Galahad took him literally and inspected his person from head to foot. ‘You look fit and well to me, if a little travel-stained,’ he pronounced. ‘So, where’s Gronw?’

‘I’ve discovered a group of particularly nasty individuals called the Fellowship of the Cup. They’ve murdered at least three of Artor’s servants who stumbled on to news of their foolishness. We’re talking revolution here, masters, one that’s obviously being funded by someone with a very heavy purse. Gronw, to answer your question, is currently at a deserted village south of Bremetennacum.’

Galahad dropped the rabbits in the straw and began to gather together his tackle and possessions.

‘We ride immediately,’ he ordered grandly.

Percivale and Bedwyr looked at each other.

‘Come on,’ Galahad urged. ‘Gronw might get away while we’re sitting on our backsides, stuffing ourselves with rabbit stew.’

Percivale bent to pick up the rabbits.

‘I’ve just completed a two-day ride, Galahad,’ Bedwyr explained patiently. ‘My horse will drop dead without food, water and rest. I’m not feeling so alert myself and the thought of rabbit stew sounds tempting to me. Besides, it’s getting dark outside, and it’s snowing.’

Both companions observed Galahad’s internal battle between impatience and practicality and, for once, the latter won.

‘Suit yourselves,’ he eventually conceded. Then he looked towards Bedwyr’s feet. ‘Where’s your bitch?’

‘She’s dead,’ Bedwyr replied gruffly. He missed his hound; he had hand-raised her from the time she was whelped and he felt incomplete without her.

‘I’m sorry to hear it,’ Galahad said. ‘Shall we leave at first light?’

‘Agreed,’ Bedwyr said curtly. ‘And I suggest we avoid the roads.’

The stew was acceptable and the three men devoured every greasy morsel, using their fingers and then cleansing themselves with fresh snow. Percivale scrubbed the pot with more snow while Galahad and Bedwyr fell asleep on the straw, leaving Artor’s man to wonder why he had been sent on this unpleasant journey.

Feeling unappreciated and resentful, Percivale began his nightly prayers. For all his noisy piety, Galahad often forgot to have regular communion with God if he was tired and, uncharitably, Percivale allowed his reservoir of dissatisfaction to intrude between himself and his own devotions.

As he curled into the musty straw and closed his eyes, his thoughts turned to the Cup. He had decided that he didn’t really care whether it was the Cup of the Last Supper or a simple utensil that had been passed from hand to hand by Roman warriors. The object had been blessed during the years it was held by the holy hands of Lucius of Glastonbury, and so it was a blasphemy for the relic to be in the possession of a criminal. That the Cup should be used against the interests of the High King was doubly unthinkable.

Artor is more than a king, Percivale thought ardently. He is an idea, a man who sees beyond birth and status, and into the heart.

Then Percivale considered the plight of the ordinary people whose lives were far removed from the court. One ruler was much like another to them. Artor or some Saxon king - would there be any difference? Wasn’t any king just another bubble in the vast river of human history?

He decided that the peasants would regret Artor’s passing when he was eventually washed away by time. Goodness, honour, duty and courage all endure far longer in the common mind than in the hearts of kings. Percivale decided that if he must die, then he would perish for Artor rather than the Cup, no matter how seductively it called to him.

At Cadbury, the weather was far milder than it was in the north and, on the day of the hunt, the spring thaw was already underway, so the earth under the horse’s hooves was soft and treacherous. In the crisp, pale glare of a watery sun, the hunters were black shapes outlined against the shrinking snow. Artor would have preferred to ease his bones before a fire, but hospitality demanded that he exert himself to amuse King Mark.

The afternoon was largely uneventful. A doe in her winter coat blundered across their path, disturbed by the beaters who slogged through the snow.

Out of courtesy, Artor permitted Mark to make the kill, and the northerner managed a grudging smile of enjoyment as his men dressed the beast where it fell, before slinging the carcass over a packhorse. Artor stared at the steaming entrails that were dumped in the bloody snow and thought of the beauty that had been wasted for something as meaningless as personal amusement.

As the hunters rode back towards Cadbury and warm fires, a flock of large birds rose upwards from deep within a shadowy maze of gorse and trees. King Mark drew his bow and began to fire, followed almost immediately by all the other members of the hunting party. Soon, the air was filled with the hiss of arrows as they arced upwards towards the circling flock. The birds dropped like stones.

Artor took no interest.

Suddenly, something plucked at his cloak and he felt a narrow wire of pain across his side. Startled, he pulled on his horse’s mouth and the beast reared in panic. This time, Artor saw a solitary arrow curve past him and fall into a snow bank just five yards away from where he fought to control his excited mount.

‘To me! To me!’ he roared, throwing himself to the ground to use his horse as a shield.

Within seconds, Artor’s bodyguards had surrounded their king.

Odin checked the High King from head to toe before he found the tear in Artor’s red cloak. His eyes flared with panic as he swept the material away from Artor’s side.

‘Find those arrows,’ Odin shouted to Gareth, his voice suddenly devoid of its usual heavy accent. ‘And mark where they came from.’

‘It’s nothing but a scratch, Odin.’

Regardless of Artor’s assurances that he had taken no hurt, his bodyguard escorted him away from his gaping guests, back to the safety of the tor.

‘You were fired on not once, but twice, my lord. Most of the warriors and the nobles of the court, including King Mark’s servants, were at the rear, behind the hunters. It would have been easy to hide behind a tree or a snow bank and await the chance for a clear shot. No one would have noticed a brief absence by the assassin.

Gareth joined them, pushing his horse up the last incline with ruthless haste. He carried two arrows in his left hand.

‘Not here,’ Artor hissed.

He led his two personal guards into the hall and, from there, into his rooms.

Before the king had a chance to speak, Odin found a bowl of clean water and forced his master to strip off his outer clothing to reveal a narrow gouge across Artor’s side.

‘You were lucky,’ Odin grunted, as he smeared one of his vile-smelling salves over the wound, before binding it with a strip of torn cloth.

‘Why would King Mark take such risks immediately after an open disagreement with me? I’d expect an assassin to be overly friendly if he planned to kill me. I don’t think Mark was involved in this plot.’ He turned to Gareth. ‘Where are the arrows, Gareth?’

Gareth quickly produced the two arrows and handed them to his king, who began to inspect the shafts.

‘Perfectly ordinary, unmarked fletches with nothing to show who might have owned them. They tell us nothing, so we cannot make wild accusations against our guests. We’ll treat the attack as opportunistic - some ill-wisher could not resist chancing his luck.’

‘Lord, there’s more to this assassination attempt than we think,’ Gareth said. ‘I checked the flight of the arrows against the spot where they fell to earth. The assassin wasn’t behind you. He was hidden in a copse of trees ahead of us. He could be one of the beaters, a peasant or even a warrior who separated himself from the other hunters.’

‘Trust no one,’ Odin said grimly. ‘You could so easily be killed, Artor, if you don’t take care.’

‘I don’t intend to live in fear and cower on my stool beside the fire. I’ll die as I’ve lived and shall make no complaint.’ Artor grinned recklessly.

He dressed briskly and left his chamber to greet the returning nobles who all wondered at the king’s sudden departure from the hunt.

‘Forgive me, honoured guests, for I suddenly became faint and my guard panicked.’ Artor explained. He smiled at those assembled. ‘Old age catches us all in the end.’

Most of the nobles and servants appeared to accept his explanation, but both King Mark and Modred exchanged doubtful, confused glances.

Artor moved among the lords, praising their prowess in the hunt and admiring the birds, snow foxes and, of course, King Mark’s deer. The knives are beginning to sharpen, Artor thought, even as he slapped backs and told jokes with guests who could be potential assassins. Someone is tired of waiting and wishes to hasten my departure for Hades. But I’m now forewarned and the reach of my arm is long.