King Arthur: The Bloody Cup: Book Three

by M. K. Hume

  ‘Aye, we have been told the story of her birth by Lady Livinia Minor,’ Balyn said, vying for the eye and favour of the king.

  ‘You have been to Aquae Sulis?’ Artor asked, his eyes flickering with sudden pleasure and his body leaning forward impulsively.

  Wenhaver gaped at her husband’s sudden animation. He obvi - ously cared for these outlandish twins. He usually tired of visitors quickly.

  ‘Many times, my lord. We have seen Gallia’s Garden and the urn containing her ashes, and we have heard the legend of the wise healer, Frith. Local folk regularly visit the shrine, although few seem to know the history of Gallia. She died before Mother was born.’ Balyn smiled as he realized he had Artor’s full attention, even if his information was inaccurate.

  ‘All the better,’ Artor’s inner voice whispered. ‘What they don’t know can’t hurt them.’

  ‘We’ve also said a prayer for Lord Targo, sword master of renown.’ Balyn spoke quickly, as was his custom. ‘And Grandfather Ector, of course.’

  Artor wasn’t disposed to like the boy, but he couldn’t disguise the affection for Ector that infused his voice.

  ‘Lord Ector was my foster-father and a man who was decent through to his bones. His dearest wish was to be buried in Gallia’s Garden so that visitors could sit awhile over his resting place and ponder the natural beauty around them. He often expressed the desire to hear laughter and the soft music of the earth as he slept in death.’

  ‘A pretty conceit,’ Wenhaver murmured in a voice just loud enough for her husband to hear. Artor gritted his teeth and continued.

  ‘Gallia was a Roman woman of little worldly account, lad, and she died long before her time. She was not yet twenty when she perished. I knew both Gallia and Frith well, so I can swear they were two of the finest women who ever drew breath in Aquae Sulis. They always had my undying respect, and their garden is maintained at my expense and by my direct orders.’

  Wenhaver yawned delicately, but pointedly.

  ‘But I fear we are boring the queen, who has little tolerance for tales of the past. She will be cross if we discuss paragons whom she has never met or understood.’

  Like an indulgent uncle, Artor gazed down at the two young men who stood so upright and proud like two fine hounds bred for battle and the hunt.

  ‘Gareth, my strong right arm, personally laid the garden during his youth. His brother and his nephews now tend it for me.’

  Balyn frowned. He had no idea what lay behind this oblique conversation, but he was determined to discuss its issues with the king’s ‘strong right arm’ in the near future.

  Balan smiled easily, for he loved listening to tales of the past and was entirely wrapped up in Llanwith’s scrolls, just as Artor had been when the Villa Poppinidii had been his home. But, unlike his brother, who always accepted circumstances at face value, Balan was wary of the waves of dislike that appeared to exist between the High King and his glittering queen. He promised himself he would think about the implications of the conundrum when he had more time.

  The weak afternoon light warned the king that night would soon be upon them, so he accepted the twins’ oaths of loyalty and offered them places in his militia where they could begin to prove their worth. Both young warriors greeted his decision with unconcealed happiness and Artor was reminded that they were still very young.

  I shall avoid prejudgement, he told himself sternly, remembering a younger self, faced with the ill will of his own father.

  As the twins bowed to take leave of their king, Balan stopped their hasty, excited retreat by gripping his brother’s arm.

  ‘Our thanks, my lord,’ a confused Balyn muttered, but Balan nudged him.

  ‘Tell them about the other visitors!’ he hissed.

  ‘Your pardon, Majesty, but the excitement of finally meeting you has driven all rational thought from my head,’ Balyn explained. ‘You are about to receive other noble visitors and kinsmen. We promised to serve as their envoys.’

  Artor raised one mobile brow.

  ‘Lord Gawayne is returning to Cadbury with his eldest son. We met upon the road, but Gawayne wished to view the resting place of the Lord Targo, so we parted at the crossroads leading to Aquae Sulis.’

  Wenhaver smiled, and Artor cringed inwardly as he read her openly excited and lascivious thoughts.

  The bitch is in heat, he thought savagely, but his face revealed nothing but polite interest.

  ‘I remember Gawayne’s boy well. He was a large and beautiful babe who almost killed Lady Enid during his birthing. The beauteous Nimue, the Maid of Wind and Water, managed to save both mother and son.’

  With a brief flash of unholy amusement, Artor watched his wife’s chagrin at his unwelcome compliments towards another woman. Myrddion’s apprentice outdid the queen in beauty, intelligence, style and accomplishments. Regardless of the gulf of social position that yawned between them, Wenhaver knew that Nimue would always be her superior, and her hatred for Myrddion’s woman hadn’t wavered in the long decades since they had last met. In one detail only was the queen superior to Nimue - her enmity was eternal.

  Wenhaver’s dislike turned her doll-like face into a twisted and ugly reflection of its self. Yet sadness tinged his triumph, for he realized that he and Wenhaver had made a pointless, barren wasteland of their lives. He regretted the way they picked at each other, tearing off fragile scabs of mutual forbearance for the sake of a moment’s satisfaction.

  ‘What is the lad named?’

  ‘His name is Galahad, my lord, and the Otadini claim he is the greatest warrior in the world.’

  ‘Galahad,’ Artor repeated, and somewhere beyond the mortal world, he felt a tremor in the void as the wheel of Fortuna shuddered and began slowly to turn.

  ‘The boy will be welcome,’ the king said softly, and the audience was over.

  Far away in the cold north, Morgan swayed over her knucklebones and felt a fissure open in the fabric of the world. Her sister, Morgause, was in deadly peril. The bones presaged death, and the pattern warned Morgan that other deaths were promised. Her brother, Artor, was now threatened as never before, and she tried desperately to dredge up a feeling of triumph in his fall from eminence on Fortuna’s wheel. She had hated him for so long that she should have felt something - even relief.

  Her kinfolk were dying, but she looked in vain for a sign in the portents that revealed her own fate.

  ‘Shite!’ she exclaimed crudely. She brushed away a tear, for the Fey prayed for death every day of her pain-filled existence.

  Then her eyes whitened and rolled backward in her head until all she saw was a battered tin cup that filled and overflowed with fresh, glistening blood.

  ‘The Cup is come,’ Morgan whispered through lips that were dried, cracked and oozing with the fragility of poisoned old age. ‘The Cup is filling, filling, and we will all be washed away.’

  Her vision cleared and she could focus on her withered, tattooed hands once again. Her ugly mouth smiled and her tongue flickered over her bleeding lips like a lizard kissing the sun.

  ‘But Artor nears his end,’ she whispered thinly. ‘Praise be to all the gods! At last Gorlois will be avenged!’

  But reason threatened her momentary triumph. Artor was close to sixty years, Morgause was older still and Morgan felt as ancient as the dead heart of the Otadini Mountains. They should all have died decades ago, and now the siblings existed as anachronisms of power and illusory vitality.

  Her rational mind sighed.

  What does it matter after all these years? Who remembers the ancient wrongs?

  She answered her own question.

  I do! And so does my pestilential brother. Fortuna’s wheel turns . . . at last.

  CHAPTER II

  BLOOD OATHS AND BATTLE BROTHERS

  Artor paced up and down the length of his personal sleeping quarters. Bronze lamps had been lit and Percivale and Gareth moved around the spartan room, preparing for the king’s rest and comfort, while Odin leaned impassi
vely against the heavy, wooden door.

  Their lord’s frugal habits meant that Percivale and Gareth had little to do but put away the High King’s scrolls in their fitted shelves and tidy Artor’s collection of maps. Odin personally tasted the High King’s water, stored in a beaten silver flask, and nibbled at the plates of nuts, cheese and flat bread that were prepared for him. Artor always remonstrated with Odin over his precautions and called him an old woman, but when Artor’s safety was at stake, Odin simply ignored his master’s wishes with a vague, agreeable smile.

  Artor considered his three closest bodyguards and wondered why they had remained true to him for so long. Odin, the Jutlander, had to be well over sixty, but his tawny hair and greying beard suggested maturity rather than great age. His muscles were still as hard as old oak, while his huge spine remained unbent. Odin had sworn a solemn oath to cleave to Artor until death took him and, regardless of the passage of time, Odin would never change his allegiance.

  Gareth was almost a kinsman, for his grandmother, the slave woman Frith, had been Artor’s mother in all but blood. Frith had died with Gallia, Artor’s deeply loved Roman wife, whose memory had developed into the idealized beauty of a distant dream. Gareth had spent his youth caring for Artor’s daughter, mother to those strong twins who had so shaken the High King’s guarded heart. Gareth knew no other life than service to Artor and his family.

  As for Percivale, chaste, Christian and a superb athlete, he was partly of Targo’s making and partly a product of Gallwyn from the kitchens of Venonae. With his whole, passionate heart, Percivale had sworn to guard his king while breath remained in his body. Artor knew, to his cost, that Percivale would dare anything, risk anything and sacrifice himself beyond reason for him.

  Suddenly, Artor was angry with both himself and his servants. Why must they love him? He could never care for them with that same, unreserved devotion. He wore their love around his neck like a chain of lead.

  ‘I have waited so long for a sign that I’d almost given up hope of a solution,’ Artor sighed, speaking to no one in particular.

  ‘Lord?’ Percivale looked up as he tidied the High King’s desk. ‘Is there anything I can do for you?’

  ‘This matter goes beyond your understanding,’ Artor growled. He continued to pace, but he felt ashamed of his outburst of temper.

  Gareth set down the draught of clean water in its silver jug which was heavily decorated with a dragon swallowing its own tail. He placed one hand gently on his master’s shoulder and stilled the king’s frenetic movement.

  ‘Yes, my lord, they are your grandsons. And, no, you cannot share the secret of their birth with them, for such knowledge could lead to their deaths.’

  Percivale tensed at Gareth’s effrontery, while the stolid Odin raised his white eyebrows.

  Artor shook his leonine head and Gareth almost flinched, but his faith in his master held true.

  ‘You are among the few men left alive who know the tale of Gallia and my childhood at the Villa Poppinidii’, the king hissed in warning.

  Percivale’s mouth gaped open.

  As always, Artor saw everything. ‘Keep your mouth tightly shut on this matter, Percivale. You’d be wise to remain silent about my secrets. I am an old man, and my temper is uncertain.’

  Percivale wanted to protest that he knew no secrets but he heeded Artor’s warning and closed his mouth.

  Artor resumed his pacing. ‘I know that neither of the twins can be told of their birthright. Rumours that Anna is my sister places them in an invidious position as it is. But in spite of the danger, I cannot help but wonder if one of them has the temperament and the ability to become the heir to my throne.’

  ‘Perhaps,’ Odin rumbled.

  Gruffydd hobbled into the room, leaning on a cane and swearing as one swollen foot came in contact with the doorframe. The sword bearer was now decrepit, and his temper and health hadn’t improved with the passage of time.

  ‘Perhaps you can offer an old man a goblet of good wine.’ He smiled. ‘I know you favour water but, as far as I’m concerned, it’s only good for pissing, making things grow or washing my beard. You’re the king, so there must be something drinkable stashed away in here.’

  Artor nodded, and Percivale opened a chest where flagons of wine awaited the king’s pleasure. Pottery mugs were lifted on to the king’s desk, for Percivale knew that the king would expect his guard to drink with the old sword bearer.

  ‘You should have cast off that slut you married when you had the chance,’ Gruffydd muttered darkly. ‘And found yourself a real woman, one who could bear the son that would carry on your line.’

  ‘Even you, old friend, should learn to keep your mouth closed over your teeth.’ Artor’s glacial stare promised dire consequences if Gruffydd continued to offer unsought advice. ‘I’ll speak to you first if I want the matter discussed.’

  ‘Damn it all, Artor, you can glare at me all you like, but nothing changes because you’re in a bad mood,’ Gruffydd responded tactlessly. ‘Targo was dead right about that bitch of yours. It’s not too late to remove her, and you can’t throw everyone out of Cadbury who speaks the all too obvious. She’ll be the death of you and, with her luck, she’ll survive to a disgusting old age, whining and carping as she fondles those young men she seduces.’

  ‘Enough!’

  ‘A winter or two at Tintagel would do wonders for the queen’s temperament,’ Guffydd persisted, ignoring Artor’s stormy expression. ‘It’s far away and bleaker than a witch’s tit in a snowstorm. Your mam never took to it overly, by all that I’ve heard, and Duke Gorlois managed to spend most of the year in his summer capitals. Even Morgan, who professes to love all things pertaining to her father, avoids Tintagel like the plague.’

  Artor’s expression was stony, and Odin read something dangerous in the shark’s glare that had never quite deserted his lord’s countenance. He concentrated on cleaning his nails.

  ‘It’s an excellent idea, my lord. Just send her away,’ Percivale soothed. ‘And no blood will have been spilt.’

  ‘I’ll think on it,’ the king said curtly. Then he threw his arm over the thin shoulders of his agent in belated welcome. ‘Now, spymaster, how go my lands?’

  Gruffydd was very grey and had the disreputable look of a townsman down on his luck. During the period since Myrddion Merlinus had disappeared, only Gruffydd seemed able to resurrect and maintain the web of spies who provided Artor with intelligence.

  The spymaster felt a familiar ache in his chest whenever he thought of Myrddion Merlinus. Cadbury had survived the scholar’s departure but a light had been permanently extinguished in the eyes of the High King when his friend had deserted him. Without the fair Nimue, the Maid of Wind and Water, the glamour of life at court had vanished, along with magic and long peals of honest laughter that offered hope to the sternest and most adamantine heart. In the long years of loss, Artor had avoided mentioning the name of his friend. Even the memories of the common people relegated Nimue to the role of fair, inhuman enchantress who had stolen Myrddion away.

  Gruffydd sighed and considered his own mortality as he sipped Artor’s excellent wine. Events of the recent present were less clear to him now than were the deeds of yesteryear, and he knew that he would soon pass on the care of Caliburn to his eldest son. In private, Gruffydd admitted that the blade was almost too heavy for his thin arms to lift.

  Gruffydd kept Myrddion’s spy network ticking along, but he was a realist and knew that he added nothing of significance to a formula decided by that wise old courtier so many years earlier, when Artor’s kingdom was still young and fresh. Since the departure of Myrddion, the free west went on, for Artor expended his blood and his soul to ensure the kingdom endured, but Cadbury was frozen in time - and hovered on the brink of decay.

  ‘Stop dozing off over my excellent wine and tell me how my tribal kings are faring.’

  Gruffydd started, grinned apologetically and put his scrambled thoughts in order.

  ‘
Well,’ he began. ‘I can say that Wynfael is no epicure like his father, the gods be praised, so Leodegran’s kingdom fares better without him. When he dropped dead while trying to mount a slave girl, his whole tribe was mightily relieved. The man was so corpulent when he died that he could barely walk, unless it was to stuff his face with food. Wynfael is a Christian, so his oath to the Union of Tribal Kings will hold. Those maniacs seek martyrdom at any price, so I’m convinced that you could cast off your troublesome wife and her brother would confine himself to praying for her soul. He disapproves of his sister.’

  Artor remembered Wenhaver’s father as a man with expensive, exotic tastes. How strange that the son should deny his father’s vices for the dubious attractions of religion.

  ‘Bran and your Anna hold the Ordovice lands with strong hands,’ Gruffydd continued. ‘In fact, the last of the Demetae who have managed to survive seem to welcome Bran as their master. And the Cornovii remain true to your cause. The faithful Bedwyr has emerged from Arden - with a wife, if you can believe it. I expect him soon, my lord.’

  ‘Everyone seems to be coming to Cadbury of late but, of all my guests, Bedwyr is most welcome. Mori Saxonicus would have been harder won without him, and the gods alone know when we’d have cracked the lice in Caer Fyrddin if Bedwyr hadn’t let us in through the old sewers.’ Artor’s brows drew together in a frown. ‘What of the south? What of the Dumnonii, the Durotriges, the Belgae and the Atrebates? Have the remnants of the eastern tribes joined the Regni with whole hearts, or do they still long for the old days?’

  Gruffydd blinked in surprise. Artor’s parents both came from southern tribes who had always formed the core of the High King’s power base.

  ‘Aye lord. Perhaps they are a little complacent, for there has been no Saxon attack for three years and our borders appear to be accepted by the barbarians. But some displaced Celts from the east are disappointed that you haven’t driven the Saxons into Oceanus Germanicus. However, they are not fools, for they understand how deeply rooted the Saxons and Angles have become. Some Iceni are even calling their old country by the name of Angleland. And the South remains faithful.’