by M. K. Hume
Galahad strode around the tiled and painted room, clutching a crucifix that hung at his throat. He stopped to examine a dreamy fresco of nymphs and satyrs at play in a charming woodland setting, sniffed derisively and then uttered a short, barely audible prayer.
‘No more of your piety, Galahad’, Gawayne snapped. ‘I respect your right to practise your religion as you wish, although where your faith comes from is beyond me. Our family has never been interested in anything spiritual unless it’s useful. But I’ll not tolerate rudeness to our hostess because you disapprove of her faith. You’ll keep your mouth shut, whatever your feelings might be.’
Galahad’s cold, hazel eyes showed his intransigence and Gawayne groaned inwardly. Galahad’s chilly contempt for anyone who failed to reach his exacting standards was insufferable.
‘This place stinks of corruption, Father, and luxury and ostentation tempt you too easily. You should be thinking of your immortal soul, rather than pleasure.’
‘I suppose you’d prefer that we slept on stone after we dined on dried meat and water?’
‘Rather hardship than the temptations of pagan licentiousness,’ Galahad retorted.
‘How did I father such a supercilious prig? No, Galahad! Don’t say another word! You’d do well to remember that neither I nor your grandfather ever failed in our tolerance of other faiths. You will be a king one day and you’ll have to rule over men who follow all manner of gods. In such an event, you’d be unwise to prohibit other religions for, if you do, you’ll find yourself vastly outnumbered in these isles. Even King Artor, whom I’ve never known to worship anything other than duty and loyalty, is more Roman than Christian. Perhaps you should use this night as an opportunity to practise some common courtesy.’
At least he’s not taken to wearing a hair shirt and refusing to bathe, Gawayne grumbled to himself, remembering a disreputable Christian priest who had arrived at King Lot’s hall in the summer. The putrid stink of his unwashed robes had caused the hardiest Otadini warrior to almost retch.
At the appointed hour, dressed in their best clothing and shining with health and cleanliness, father and son were delivered to a triclinium furnished with dining couches in the old Roman style. Galahad perched awkwardly on a gilded and carved couch, and sat as close as possible to the archway as if his immortal soul was in imminent peril.
Gawayne remained standing. Familiar though he was with the Roman custom, he still found reclining to eat a very awkward proposition. As he glared a warning at Galahad’s mutinous face, Gawayne wished that his son could learn to smile, if only occasionally.
Gawayne’s irritation evaporated when the mistress of the house glided into the room.
She was exquisitely beautiful with long, uncut black hair that was elaborately dressed, as befitted a maiden. Her face was unnaturally pale, as if she rarely ventured out into the sunlight, and Gawayne noticed that her fingers were unusually long. But it was her eyes that charmed, and her wide, full-lipped smile. Her eyes were deep brown, warm, and feathered with long lashes. Her eyebrows were dark and turned up at the corners so that their expression appeared both knowing and surprised. However, within a few moments of conversation with the lady, Gawayne was convinced that her facial features protected a nature that was shy, unpretentious and childlike.
‘Greetings, great lords, you honour my table with your presence.’ She smiled becomingly at both visitors. ‘I hope that we may provide good food, fine wine and peaceful rest so that you will remember Salinae Minor with affection.’
Even unsusceptible Galahad was momentarily robbed of speech by the mistress’s aura of charm. Her dress was simply cut and styled, but the fabric chosen was dyed a changeable hue of blue and green, beautifully embroidered at the neck, sleeves and hem, so that she appeared to float in a pool of moving water.
Gawayne was the first to regain his voice. ‘Your courtesy does us honour that I fear we have not earned, my lady. Salinae Minor is fair, but the isle lacks the charm and beauty of its mistress.’
Their hostess blushed and laughed. Her voice was warm and deep for a woman, and her laughter infectious.
Despite his best intentions, Gawayne felt a familiar stirring in his loins.
‘You have a clever tongue, Prince Gawayne. Too clever for me. I’m a simple girl, and unused to flattery.’
Galahad twitched one eyebrow in ironic tribute to his father’s skill with women. If Gawayne could have read his son’s thoughts, he would have been shocked, for Galahad was certain that the lady’s intention was to titillate and his father was rising to the occasion like a gaffed fish.
‘Your servant neglected to tell us your name. I’m loath to refer to you as my lady throughout the evening,’ Galahad stated baldly, without an iota of diplomacy or charm.
The lady embraced him with her brown eyes, but she found neither admiration nor liking reflected in his direct, frigid gaze. Gracefully, she returned her attention to Gawayne.
‘I apologize, Prince Gawayne, for I’ve been remiss in courtesy. My father, Rufus, named me Miryll after the old ones of our family. Although we are of the Ordovice, Roman blood runs through our veins and he didn’t follow the Christian god until late in life.’ She smiled and Galahad chose to read a challenge in her moist, pink lips.
‘Your son purses his mouth, I see, so he must believe in Jesus, the carpenter’s son,’ she continued pleasantly. ‘I’ve found that Christian believers have no room in their hearts for those of us who follow the old ways.’ She sighed prettily. ‘But I’ll say no more as I have no wish to offend my honourable guests. Let’s eat and drink well and you shall give me the tidings from the west. I’m isolated here at Salinae Minor and visitors rarely entertain us.’
It was Galahad’s turn to blush, for Miryll had neatly pointed out his prejudices. She had left him with little to say in his own defence, especially as Gawayne shot him a glance that promised trouble if his son’s rudeness continued.
Miryll reclined elegantly on her couch, nodded to her guests to join her and then clapped her hands.
Food and wine jugs came quickly, carried by silent maidservants. The meal was epicurean, sophisticated and exotic. Galahad closely inspected each morsel with a doubtful eye. Throughout the meal, Mistress Miryll maintained a steady, light-hearted flow of conversation that she aimed primarily at the more polished attentions of Gawayne.
As soon as the meal drew to a close, Galahad stiffly excused himself, claiming fatigue. Gawayne recognized the signs: a period of sulking and awkward silences would greet the morrow.
‘You’ll not be long, Father, will you?’ Galahad said pointedly. ‘We must be on the road early tomorrow.’ His demeanour was so stern and parental that Gawayne felt like a recalcitrant child. And, as such, the prince resolved to defy his eldest son and heir.
Perhaps Gawayne responded to Mistress Miryll because he was determined to put his son in his place. Perhaps habits of seduction were simply too deeply ingrained in his nature. Or perhaps Gawayne simply missed the company of women who flattered him. The oil lamps were guttering by the time he excused himself and made his weary, inebriated way to his sleeping quarters.
Even before he had refused the last cup of wine, Mistress Miryll had wrung a promise from him that he would stay at the Isle of Salinae for one more day. Predictably, Galahad was peeved by his father’s decision but, for once, he wisely refrained from complaining.
Gawayne had learned from Mistress Miryll that the river passed close to Glastonbury and its tributaries provided the rich waters that made the religious centre one of the wonders of the west. When he suggested that they could take a trip to Glastonbury by boat, Miryll had laughed and explained that Glastonbury was landlocked, although it had once been surrounded by water, hence its name, the Isle of Apples.
Galahad concentrated on learning more about the mistress of Salinae Minor, Gronw and the history of her family. Why he dis - trusted Miryll, he was unable to explain exactly, except that he felt awkward in her company and suspicious of the circ
umstances that had led to their brief sojourn in this strange, timeless place.
Miryll smiled admiringly at Gawayne’s most inane stories and Galahad wondered how such a young, intelligent and beautiful woman could be entranced by the attentions of an older man.
Gawayne felt none of his son’s alarm. He was charmed by the garden, the pool with its hazel tree, the artfully wild roses and even the fields of dying marsh flowers and swaying bulrushes. When Miryll invited him into the tower, he was eager to explore the ancient fortification, which was so at odds with the luxurious villa it protected.
‘The building is very old and its origins are lost in the sands of time,’ Miryll said, her dark eyes misty with affection, fascination or some darker emotion. ‘It was old even before the kings made peace with the Romans. We sealed the stone interior with a mortar of mud, dung and horsehair in the old way.’
Gawayne examined the stone used in the construction of the walls and the design of the winding stairs. He instantly recalled another tower at Glastonbury where he had made a prize ass of himself as he attempted to grasp the sword of Uther that had been embedded in the wall just beyond his reach.
He cleared his throat. ‘It reminds me of the tower on Glastonbury Tor.’
‘The Maid’s Nipple. Aye, so it does.’
Gawayne felt some slight discomfort until Miryll slipped her warm hand into his. ‘Do you fear legends from the old days, my lord?’
Gawayne shook his head.
‘The villagers tell tales of an old man who journeyed from alien lands to Glastonbury,’ she continued, ‘where he built a church devoted to the Christian god. They believe he planted a thorn bush taken from a crown and then, for safety, built this tower to guard a treasure. Can you imagine such a crown?’
Gawayne displayed immediate interest.
‘You needn’t look so eager, Prince Gawayne. No treasure is hidden within these walls. If such a cache had ever existed, we would have found it when we rebuilt the tower. When Father came to the island, the structure was mostly in ruins, and many months of labour were needed to make it habitable.’
‘Who was the old man who built the original church?’
Miryll permitted a flash of annoyance to cross her face. ‘Who knows, Prince Gawayne? I’ve heard him called by many names. Some scholars have called him Josephus, but others have called him the Trader, or simply the Outlander. Five hundred years, at least, have passed since he came this way, and his true name has been forgotten in the river of time.’
Gawayne shrugged off a vague premonition of danger as he followed the lady up the winding stairs to a remarkable circular room.
Great stone apertures opened the tower to the elements. They were uneven, but attractive in their rustic simplicity, and light flooded every corner of the upper room. Gawayne could see that heavy panels of wool could be rolled across each window to keep out the winter chills, but the faint shimmer of cobwebs showed how rarely they were moved to counter the cold winds.
A large slab of undressed stone dominated the floor in the very centre of the tower, and Gawayne trailed his fingers over the heavy piece of limestone that had been raised with much labour to catch every shaft of light. A richly woven length of cloth softened its harsh, tomb-like appearance.
One corner of the room housed a frame on which the flowers, reeds and meads that grew beyond the window had been translated into woven thread. The half-completed work was oddly beautiful. He raised one eyebrow in inquiry at Miryll, who smiled back shyly.
‘Yes, this is my work. I weave and embroider what I see through my windows. My next task will recall the scene of you and your son resting by the oak trees, with Gronw in his skiff coming to fetch you to the villa. My weavings reflect my life here on the island.’
For a moment, she seemed very sad, and Gawayne wondered what weight lay across her spirit like a malevolent spell. Then her eyes widened and her lips parted.
Gawayne’s breath caught in his throat and his easy, seductive compliments were immediately forgotten.
The prince’s day passed in a waking dream as Lady Miryll strolled with him through the gardens and whiled away the afternoon with stories designed to amuse her visitor. Before he was aware that the light was fading, evening came with a gentle reminder that they should return to the villa to bathe and dress for the evening meal.
Galahad was uncharacteristically silent when Gawayne joined him in their room, and the prince had to coax his son into speech. The young man had spent the day amongst the shelves of the scriptorium, looking through dusty rolls of fine vellum and Egyptian parchment.
‘Father, there’s a large collection of pottery jars stored here, all very ancient, to judge by the dirt and dust that covers them. I found documents that were rotten and still others that were brittle with age. I couldn’t understand the language, but I found notes written by Lady Miryll’s father that speak of an ancient relic that has been hidden here for safekeeping.’
Gawayne was surprised to see his son’s excitement, for the young man rarely expressed enthusiasm for anything but his god.
‘That may be so,’ Gawayne said slowly. ‘Miryll spoke to me of some treasure that was supposed to have been hidden in the tower.’
Galahad was silenced for a moment, before rushing back into speech.
‘I believe the scrolls may have been written in Aramaic. I’m only guessing, but the notes written by Rufus refer to the original builder of the tower as having spoken in that heathen tongue. The name, Josephus, also suggests that he was of that cursed race - a Jew.’ He gazed piercingly at his father. ‘Can you imagine the wealth of knowledge stored here?’ he asked in awe. ‘It must become the property of the Church.’
‘The Church! The bleeding Church! Don’t you think of anything else?’
‘Not often, Father. Except, of course, of my duty to you.’
As Galahad paced about the room, Gawayne reflected that his son had at least found something on the island that captured his interest.
‘Salinae Minor is neither a fair nor a healthy place, Father,’ Galahad added stiffly. ‘I can smell the decay that pervades this villa and lies under the scent of the perfumes.’
Gawayne dismissed his son’s warning with frank incredulity. ‘Really, Galahad! All I can smell here is good cooking and cleanliness. Surely, Salinae Minor and its tiled floors make an exquisite change from the rushes thrown over flagging stone, the odour of your grandfather’s hounds and the odd old fish head that stinks up Lot’s hall. Grow up, boy, so we can enjoy this brief sojourn while we can.’
Galahad couldn’t deny that Lot’s house was lice-ridden and dirty, especially during winter, so he retreated into a sulk.
‘I am certain there’s a relic here in this villa, Father. I believe it’s a holy object and I do not trust the hands that protect it.’
‘Well, whatever it was, it’s long gone!’ Gawayne turned away. He was accustomed to Galahad’s odd obsessions and was impatient with the prejudices that so easily blinded his son.
That evening, Gawayne drank freely. The wines were sweetened with honey and were liberally poured during the meal. Afterwards, he had little recollection of the stumbled journey to the top of the tower and even less of the intense sex that took place on a pile of furs in the very centre of that looming, circular space. As he grunted and moaned over Miryll’s sweet young flesh, he imagined he heard the sounds of chanting in a strange tongue, but his mind was muddled by the needs of his body and the heady perfume of the moist loins below him. Puzzlingly, he found his erection remained painfully and stubbornly unsatisfied, no matter how often he spent himself inside the woman beneath him.
Eventually, he found himself being led from the tower on trembling legs and taken to the luxury of Miryll’s soft bed. When his body permitted him to sink into an exhausted sleep, he dreamed of women who wound white arms around him and drove him painfully with the whips of their desire.
When he reluctantly left the embrace of sleep, he looked at Miryll lying beside him, t
ousled and still endearingly beautiful. He scowled at the awkwardness his lust had caused. The girl had been virginal! This much his sluggish brain remembered. Well, I can’t marry her! She knows I have a wife over the Wall, Gawayne thought gratefully. So there shouldn’t be any tears. But she’ll want something - women always do!
To punctuate his thoughts with some form of action, Gawayne planted a perfunctory kiss on the dishevelled black hair that fanned out over the pillow.
Miryll opened sleepy eyes and watched the naked Gawayne climb from her sleeping couch. She stared at the softened belly and the sagging neck of her ageing lover but, other than a small grimace of distaste, she said nothing. Her eyes were flat and enigmatic as she stretched like a sleek kitten.
‘I imagine you’ll be eager to depart for Cadbury, Prince Gawayne.’ She smiled perfunctorily up at her guest. ‘You must forgive me if I’m still abed when you’re ready to depart. I’ve asked Gronw to oversee your passage back to the river bank.’
Then Miryll stretched once more, folded her long, narrow hands under her pillow and went back to sleep with the ease of a small child.
Gawayne had expected tears, arguments and angry demands from a forsaken young lover. He had been braced to cajole and to flatter, so his abrupt dismissal was both surprising and deflating. The prince had little option but to tiptoe back to his room, leaving Miryll to her careless slumbers. Fortunately, Galahad was still asleep.
Gawayne felt manipulated and used. Ignoring the obvious truth that he had left a hundred women over the years with as little affection as Miryll was now displaying towards him, Gawayne indulged in a middle-aged sulk that lasted through a cursory meal, a silent journey from the island and the recovery of their mounts and provisions.
Galahad pursed his flawless, chiselled lips in annoyance when his father swore vilely after dropping a pannier on one foot.
‘I trust you slept well last night, Father?’
