by M. K. Hume
Gawayne grunted in reply.
‘You didn’t take your rest in our quarters,’ Galahad continued. ‘I hope Lady Miryll was worth the effort.’
‘What would you know, boy? And I don’t wish to speak of Salinae Minor any further. I’d lief pretend the place doesn’t exist.’
Galahad had the impudence to laugh at his father’s discomfort. ‘Was the lady unappreciative of your charms? Could the great Gawayne be growing old?’
Gawayne clouted his son as if he was till a fractious boy. Twin spots of colour mounted on Galahad’s cheeks and his eyes took on a distinctly unchristian glint of anger.
‘Shut your mouth, laddie, and treat your father with some respect. How I spend my nights are my business, not yours.’
Galahad refused to retaliate, but he skewered his father with one last observation that would trouble Gawayne for the rest of their journey.
‘If she could have persuaded me to break my vows, Father, the woman would have taken me. Have you considered why she wanted one of us in her bed, and why we are so summarily dismissed when she has achieved her goal? The lady has a purpose other than your charms.’
Gawayne leapt carelessly on to his mount in an attempt to convey a nonchalance he did not feel. Something old and musty stirred below the splendour of Salinae Minor, and Galahad had recognized it in Miryll’s eyes.
‘You’re an infernal irritant, Galahad, far worse than any black-robed priest,’ Gawayne snapped. ‘In fact, you’re almost as infuriating as Morgan, your great-aunt.’ His gaze met his son’s amused, hazel eyes as their horses moved closer together. ‘But in this case, I’m afraid you could be right.’
CHAPTER IV
KIN, LOVERS AND SUNDRY OTHER ENEMIES
A southerner with dark braids and shifty eyes slid into the least reputable alehouse in Deva, the Blue Hag, and approached a simple slab of sawn logs that served as a makeshift bar against the far wall. His eyes darted nervously around the room and he wiped sweaty palms down his stained woollen shirt.
Inside the shoddy room, which was thick with fire smoke, the smell of some kind of fish-head soup and men in various stages of drunkenness, the stranger stood out simply because he reeked of fear.
‘I’m looking for Octa, the owner of this shit heap,’ he demanded of a shepherd who was hunched over a wooden bowl of greasy soup. The man shook off the stranger’s hand.
‘Get your paws off me’, he snarled. ‘Octa’s over there by the pot.’ He pointed a grime-stained finger at a man ladling out bowls of soup and pottery jugs of beer to his customers.
The stranger nodded, and then slithered his way through the press of men until he reached the innkeeper.
‘A man called Pebr comes here from time to time,’ the stranger began.
The innkeeper allowed his gaze to slide away from his ladle and focus on the newcomer.
‘A one-eyed man,’ the stranger added.
‘Perhaps he does, and perhaps he doesn’t. Who’s asking?’
‘It’s none of your business,’ the stranger rasped. ‘Just tell him that I’m in Deva and I have his cup. The message is that it’s begun. Have you got that? It’s begun. I’ll be here again in three days to see if there’s an answer from Pebr.’
The innkeeper filled another bowl and slapped it on to the rough-sawn bench. Some of the oily grey sludge splashed on to the stranger’s hand.
‘Do you understand?’ the stranger repeated, sucking the greasy mess off his fingers.
‘Aye. You’ve got his sodding cup. As if I care! It’s sodding begun - whatever it is you’re talking about. It’s in three days, if you say so.’
The stranger dropped a few worn coins into the smear of soup on the planks. ‘That’s for your trouble.’
Then he disappeared into the press of men packed into the Blue Hag.
‘Sodding southerner!’ the innkeeper cursed, but he picked up the coins and reflectively licked them clean.
Had the stranger chosen to check behind him, he would have seen a tall shadow leave a moment or two behind his retreating back. Had he been listening carefully, he would have heard deft feet slide into step behind him as the moon disappeared behind a bank of cloud.
An iron-strong arm suddenly encircled him from behind and gripped his throat. A knife blade ended any sound he might have made, as it sliced through his larynx. Carefully avoiding the sudden jet of arterial blood, the one-eyed man let the stranger’s jerking body drop into the spreading puddle of his lifeblood.
The last thing the stranger felt was Pebr’s boot as it caved in his ribs in silent contempt. As the stranger’s hearing and sight failed, the one-eyed man was already walking away.
‘Men who use my name never speak another word’, Pebr One-Eye muttered softly.
Inside the alehouse, Octa wiped his sweating brow and reflected on the dangers of the world. But he said nothing. Silence ensured that wise men kept breathing.
Cadbury stirred like a hornets’ nest as winter deepened and each day welcomed some new visitors of note for the population to gawk at. Balyn and Balan had initially been wonders but, now, within hours of each other, two more sets of visitors had ridden up the spiral fortification that led to Cadbury Tor, with an accompanying panoply of personal guards and packhorses.
Modred ap Cynwael had been the first to arrive. The citizens of Cadbury were cosmopolitan and accustomed to visits by envoys from the continent but, even in such exalted and exotic company as visitors from Gaul and Spain, Modred stood out.
Like all the scions of King Luka of the Brigante, Modred was lithe, dark and finely shaped. Yet, despite his natural comeliness, the man projected a sense of narrowness and crookedness. Perhaps such impressions were tricks of the light, for Modred’s limbs were clean and robust, if a little too thin for military beauty. He rode his richly caparisoned horse without any need for the cruel mouth restraints favoured by so many lords. Like the fabled centaur, his body rose smoothly from the trunk of his mount, his legs hidden by a capacious woollen cloak clasped at the throat with a golden boar’s head. White-haired grandfathers shivered at the sight of the golden emblem, as if the bad days of Gorlois and Uther Pendragon had returned.
Modred dropped his reins and slid from the back of his horse, ignoring the stable boy who ran to lift the dangling leathers from the mud.
He bounded up the steps leading to Artor’s hall and pushed open the doors unceremoniously, brushing Percivale to one side as if the king’s bodyguard was invisible. With Gareth and Percivale close behind him, Modred strode jauntily towards the twin thrones.
Artor rose from his seat.
‘Who are you to break the peace of the High King’s house?’ Artor asked the question courteously, but those warriors present could have warned Modred that the king’s eyes were as cold as the gales of winter.
Odin was the first to move. He drew his battleaxe and stepped forward. The remainder of Artor’s personal guard loosened their weapons in their sheaths and Percivale drew his sword with a sinister little hiss.
‘Why, uncle, such a welcome!’ Modred’s eyes gleamed with intelligence and laughter. ‘If your servants want my weapons, they only have to ask.’
The young man, no older than the twins and, in his own way, as comely as Balyn and Balan, ostentatiously held his arms away from his body while Gareth and Percivale thoroughly and roughly disarmed him. As Percivale removed a murderous, narrow blade from Modred’s boot, the King of the Brigante laughed sardonically.
‘Take care of my little plaything, boy. It was a personal gift from my mother.’
Percivale flushed to the roots of his russet hair in embarrassment, while Artor’s brows knitted in irritation at the twin insults to his bodyguard’s honour and to his own position as High King of the Britons. The emblem of Morgause on the blade, with its entwined serpents, was clear demonstration of where Modred’s allegiances lay - with himself.
‘Be careful, good Percivale.’ Artor smiled with a sweet insincerity that was as polished as Modred’s arrogan
ce. ‘My sister could quite readily have poisoned the blade.’ Artor’s chill smile remained fixed on his nephew. ‘Royal, or not, Luka’s grandson or not, you’ll not carry arms within the precincts of the High King’s hall. Nor have you earned the right to insult lords such as Percivale and Gareth who have far higher stature in this land than you do. You’ll curb that sharp tongue that has been the birth gift of your mother, else men here may be tempted to call you to task as a deedless bastard who lacks honour.’
Modred stood very still and his face whitened under his blue-black hair. With visible self-control, the young man unclenched his fists and allowed the insults to pass over him.
‘If I have given cause for offence, my liege, then I beg your pardon and the forgiveness of the noble Percivale and Gareth. It was not my intent to disrupt the order of this house. I was eager to meet and offer obeisance to the great Artor, as a friend and defender of my grandfather, and to swear allegiance to your house forever. I believe we are distant kin.’
The fair words stung Artor with their delicate taint of derision.
King Luka had been close to the High King’s heart, so Artor had exacted bloody vengeance on those cowards who had murdered the Brigante king, Percivale thought nervously. Now Luka’s grandson claims the High King’s favour because of his blood ties and an old friendship. But kin or not, no one is permitted to insult the High King.
‘Your apology is accepted, Modred. As the grandson of my old friend, Luka, you hold a special position in the hearts of my courtiers, for your grandfather was an admirable man who was my mentor when I was a young man. I still owe him the greatest of debts.’
Modred smiled at the king’s omission and Odin stirred threateningly at Artor’s shoulder.
‘I believe the debt was cleared when you placed my cousin on the Brigante throne, my lord. Your justice was wise and swift.’ Modred bowed deeply in mocking respect.
‘We’ll speak again later, King of the Brigante and grandson of my friend. I tell you now that I value your oath of fealty, especially after such an inauspicious beginning to our friendship.’ Artor smiled thinly. ‘You’d do well to consider what your grandfather would have done in my position. Luka would’ve separated your head from your body. But my friend was a hasty and a passionate man, while I am neither.’ Artor’s eyes were as devoid of emotion as a shark’s.
Wisely, Modred remained silent and backed away, his head lowered modestly between black wings of hair that hung about his narrow, handsome face.
As the Brigante king left Artor’s hall, Odin made a covert sign against evil, while Wenhaver devoured the young man’s retreating body with her blue, vacuous eyes.
More man-flesh for my lady, Artor’s inner voice hissed. And this one is a dangerous, careful snake who’ll inveigle her into carrying out his desires rather than the other way around. Perhaps sending Wenhaver to Tintagel may not be such a bad idea.
Artor continued meting out justice to petitioners, but one ear was keenly attuned to catch the ripples of laughter and conversation that rose around Modred’s head like a murder of crows.
The High King was at table when, days later, Bedwyr and Lady Elayne craved an audience. Bedwyr would have retreated immediately and waited until his king had finished his meal, but Artor stood on no ceremony with his Arden Knife, the man who had delivered the Saxons to him at Caer Fyrddin.
Wenhaver pouted at the interruption, for Modred was an amusing companion, entertaining her with his wicked observations concerning Artor’s personal guard, who all bore a striking resemblance to their king.
‘Artor’s personal guards are his bastard sons,’ Wenhaver tittered. ‘Can’t you tell?’
How clever, thought Modred. Unacknowledged sons, especially those elevated to high positions in court, had powerful incentives to remain loyal. And a father’s love and affection guard against assassination. Modred’s thoughts swirled, as they alternated between admiration and bitter jealousy.
‘I mean, my dear, just look at them,’ Wenhaver whispered. ‘They’re pale imitations of their father, and they make me a laughing stock in the process.’
Amazing, Modred thought incredulously. The woman is not only barren, she’s also stupid. Why does he bother to keep her?
When Lord Bedwyr and his wife ventured apologetically into the dining hall where space had been made to accommodate them, they became objects of curiosity for all eyes.
Bedwyr was grizzled, like a good mastiff just beginning to grey around the muzzle. The Master of Arden carried his battle scars and slave marks with distinction, and his brown eyes, so like the trees of his forest, were filled with genuine love and respect. He knelt in homage to Artor and would have kissed his master’s feet had the High King not deftly diverted him.
‘I’m told that my Arden Knife has chosen to wed,’ Artor joked. ‘It’s about time, my old friend. You’ve enjoyed the benefits of youth almost into old age.’
‘The years have passed gently over you, my king. I can believe that you will thrive until the end of time, just like ancient Myrddion.’
Artor’s eyes reflected a dim shadow of remembered pain and Bedwyr reproached himself for causing his king any twinges of memory. In atonement, he lurched into speech with a plain man’s pride and awkwardness.
‘This lady is my wife, Elayne of Arden. She is the fairest flower of the Cornovii.’
Wenhaver snorted scornfully and Artor responded by kicking her shin below the table.
Elayne had waited patiently, with her eyes downcast and with her cloak’s cowl covering her face. She was dressed in russet, the exact shade of autumn leaves, and even beneath the heavy robes, Artor could discern that her body was lissome and strong. Her sun-bronzed hands lifted back the hood on her cloak and she faced the High King for the first time.
Artor gazed at Elayne, the wife of an honoured friend, and his ageing heart fluttered in his chest.
Elayne was neither fair nor beautiful in the accepted fashion of Celtic or Roman Britain. Both Wenhaver and the legendary Nimue outshone her in form and feature, while the long-dead Gallia had possessed a face that held greater piquancy and prettiness. Elayne’s skin was amber from the sun and her fingers were scarred from apple and berry picking. Her hair was very thick and sword-blade straight, but its russet-brown length glowed with health and sun - light. Artor imagined that he could smell the scent of sunny days in her travel-tumbled plaits. Where stray tendrils had escaped, they crackled with life in the charged air and fanned her uplifted face like a halo of flame.
Elayne’s nose was narrow, but a little too long for orthodox beauty, while her nostrils flared slightly as if she could scent the moral malaise that festered around the feasting table. Her eyes were warm and amber, with flecks of green surrounding deep, black pupils. Such eyes never flinched, not even when the king stared deeply into them with his flat, grey stare.
‘What need I fear?’ her eyes seemed to say. ‘I am Arden and the trees are forever.’
Elayne’s brows were winged and mobile, rather than the thin crescents that Wenhaver had made the fashion at Cadbury. They were a pleasing foil for a mouth that was wide and full-lipped, topping a firm, determined chin.
And, for all her slender strength, she was as small as Gallia had been, and as unafraid in the presence of great men and women. She bowed low with the impudent grace of his long-dead Gallia, and Artor’s heart was irrevocably lost.
‘Lady Elayne is indeed the fairest flower to come from Arden,’ Artor stated clearly so that the assembled guests could not help but hear. ‘My congratulations on your choice, Bedwyr, and I welcome you both to Cadbury Tor. I’m fully aware of the many years of service you have given since you left your beloved forest to serve the people of the west, so I’m forever in your debt.’
Bedwyr flushed with pleasure at the High King’s acknowledge - ment and guided his wife to a bench seat that Artor indicated with a negligent hand. Wenhaver was the only person present who noticed a slight trembling of Artor’s fingers and his unwillingness t
o meet Elayne’s eyes.
‘What? Is the indestructible Artor afraid of a woman?’ she exclaimed so softly that even her husband missed her words. ‘I don’t believe it!’ She smiled slyly at Modred to see if he had noticed Artor’s indiscretion. The bastard is lusting after another man’s wife, she thought acidly. And the woman of a friend at that. Perhaps blood does flow through Artor’s veins after all.
Modred tapped her hand with one long, white finger, as if to warn Wenhaver that her expression was making her thoughts transparent to any person who cared to notice.
Wenhaver lowered her eyes and wiped away the self-satisfaction on her face.
Artor was assiduous in his role of host to both Bedwyr and Elayne, taking care not to give particular preference to his friend’s wife. Balan, who was seated beside Elayne, quickly engaged her in conversation and Artor watched her glow with pleasure as she described her husband’s land holdings, the fecund fields and the villagers who had already taken her into their hearts. The High King imagined that her flesh would smell of newly baked bread, clean hay and the milky sweetness of young animals. His groin tightened with desire.
‘The people are very kind but they’re so poor,’ Elayne told Balan with the simplicity of truth. ‘I intend to do whatever I can to make their lives more comfortable. As chatelaine, it’s my duty, and my pleasure, to give what I have to my husband’s people.’
‘Your devotion does you honour, my lady,’ Balan replied earnestly. ‘My mother, Anna of the Ordovice, always says that her day is only ended when the last of the children are fed.’ He was mesmerized by the warmth of Elayne’s eyes and, like the High King, he struggled to find the words that would cause her to gaze on him with pleasure.
Damned cub, Artor thought with mounting irritation as Elayne shyly smiled at the young warrior. Her unconscious charm had ground Wenhaver’s florid beauty into dust.
My wife converses easily with these great ones, Bedwyr thought with pride. She’s bringing me lasting credit in the king’s court.
