by M. K. Hume
The night was full of laughter, wine and muffled figures. Within the king’s house, even servants were as noble as lords on this night, and the corridors echoed with the raucous noise of revelry.
Eventually, Artor escaped to the peace of his apartments, where Taliesin waited patiently at the ironclad door, his harp cradled in its nest of sheep’s wool.
‘My lord, I bear a private message to you from my mother. I don’t know what her greeting means and she told me that she doesn’t understand it either. She sends warning of a deadly peril.’ The young man was embarrassed by the vagueness of his message. ‘She asked me to tell you that the Bloody Cup has come.’
‘The Bloody Cup?’ Artor repeated. ‘Shite, boy, I’ve never heard of such a thing. Why should I fear any cup, bloody or otherwise?’
Taliesin shrugged expressively. ‘She hears the whispers on the wind and dreams night after night of portents of evil. I sometimes wonder if her beliefs are simply the foolishness of an ageing woman, but I don’t believe she’s wrong, for I can smell carrion on the air.’
‘In the words of old Targo, who was a true friend to your father, only a fool ignores any edge he’s given, no matter how improbable it seems.’
Taliesin smiled gratefully. Across the small space, he saw the king’s shadow loom monstrously like some hunched beast. He shivered.
‘You may sleep here in the antechamber of my rooms, if you wish,’ Artor added, thinking the boy might be feeling the chill of the winter night. ‘You have my thanks, Taliesin.’
‘The stables are good enough for me, my lord. The thaw will soon come and Rhiannon will weep for the open ground. I’ll trouble you no more.’
Beyond his window, Artor watched impassively as the Samhein fires collapsed inward into dirty stains on the pristine snow.
CHAPTER VI
THE ENEMY AT THE DOOR
Spring came with a rush.
Myrddion Merlinus would have told his king, had he not been cold ash, that kingdoms are rarely lost in sudden, bloody, power struggles. The rot begins from within but is nurtured from without. The old tree cracks and warps with disease until a strong wind comes and blows it down. Even though the tree is riven, it still struggles to bear fruit in a last, poignant throw at immortality. The sweetest apples grow on the dying branches, but they are pitifully few and are attacked by the small pests that prey on new, bursting growth. Then, when the end eventually comes, the ripe apple proves to be only healthy, succulent skin that encloses bruised, corrupted and worm-eaten flesh.
And so Cadbury festered.
Whatever her fears for her safety, Wenhaver could not restrain a nature that had deepened and narrowed in its channel of vanity and self-aggrandizement over the decades. Mindful of Artor’s demands, she avoided Gawayne but turned her still brilliant eyes upon that ardent youth whose impetuous nature made him easy meat.
Balyn. The twin who looked most like the young Artor.
She was never so foolish as to lower herself in his estimation by seducing him. Balyn’s worship was a sweet anodyne to Artor’s scorn and coldness. The young man’s blood and allegiances burned hot, while Artor’s passions were dormant, so she preened herself in the warmth of Balyn’s regard and deluded herself that she was still young.
‘You’re making a goose of yourself, brother’, Balan told Balyn bluntly, after he had spent several hours dancing attendance on Wenhaver’s whims. ‘She’s near as old as our mother.’
Balyn was horrified. With her working robes and tousled hair, Anna looked every day of her years, for she spared herself little time for anything but clean, warm water and the occasional use of precious oils on a holiday feast. Her wildly curling hair, now liberally sprinkled with white, was proud testimony to five living births and three stillborn children and, if her face bore telltale wrinkles around her eyes, in the long creases that ran to her mouth and in the sagging flesh of her neck, then Anna paid no mind to them.
By comparison, Wenhaver could never be old.
‘Age has nothing to do with grace and youthfulness, dolt, and Queen Wenhaver is eternally gay and feminine. She knows how to make me laugh, and she’s no sober-sides like you and Mother.’
Balan grunted in exasperation, for his brother’s brows were glowering with the familiar, mutinous warnings of a prolonged temper tantrum.
‘You don’t understand how starved the queen is for amusing company and affection. She’s younger than the king by many years and he has no interest in dancing, conversation or games of pleasure. She’s lonely!’
‘You can be such a birdbrain, Balyn. Did you never ask yourself why the king is too busy to dance attendance on the queen? He hasn’t held the kingdom together for so many years because he plays at dice or amuses himself with idle gossip. He asks little of Queen Wenhaver but fealty, which many people say she has not been prepared to give. No, I won’t make slurs against the queen’s character, but you should watch and listen before you’re seduced by superficial appearance. If our king seems harsh and dour, then perhaps he has good reason to be so.’
Balyn flushed hotly. Balan was always the more measured and serious of the twins, although Balyn possessed the edge in physical skills. To Balyn, it seemed that his whole life he had been told to ‘think matters out like your brother’, so rancour now rose in him like bile.
‘You only have to look at the personal guard of the king,’ Balyn complained. ‘Don’t you see the resemblances? Modred says that Artor gets bastards on lowly women and then recruits them into his guard to protect his back. If Modred is correct, the queen is much wronged.’
The brothers stood at the very edge of the citadel. A stiff breeze from the east blew their amber and dark brown hair into disarray as the measured grey eyes of Balan met the hot grey eyes of Balyn.
Balan felt his own slow anger begin to stir. ‘Yet, brother, the queen has no child. And you must ask yourself why, if what Modred says is true, our king would turn to servant women in the first place? Then look in your silver mirror and observe your reflection and, afterwards, tell me what you see.’
Balan almost heard the two edges of the universe click together into a perfect, curved oval and the ground beneath his feet seemed to tremble and crack as if the foundations of Cadbury were breaking. He knew he had made a foolish and dangerous statement through his irritation, so he raised one hand to placate his brother. But Balyn cut him off.
‘You impugn the honour of our mother with this talk. How dare you, Balan? How dare you suggest that we’re the seeds of a despot? How could you? Your accusation strikes at yourself as much as at me.’
Balan threw his arms round his twin’s stiff form, to avoid seeing the sudden wound that had appeared in his brother’s eyes.
‘No!’ he whispered urgently in his brother’s ear. ‘No! You don’t understand. Comac is surely our father! But I have heard rumours that Mother could be the High King’s sister. Sometimes, matters are not as they appear, and only a fool would allow himself to be manipulated by gossip that could cause him harm. You aren’t Artor’s son, and nor am I. But look in the mirror, brother, and think carefully before you speak rashly. If we are Artor’s kin, we are closer in blood to him than Modred is, so we should understand why Modred might want us to fall into conflict with the king. The Brigante king makes no secret of his blood claim to the throne. Who would have the people’s approval as heir to Artor’s throne? Modred, or you?’
In his distress, Balyn had scarcely heard a word of his brother’s explanation. His agitated brain was comparing their features with the face of the High King. He pulled himself out of his brother’s arms, violently thrusting Balan away.
‘Careful, Balyn. Mother would be upset if we finally managed to kill each other,’ Balan attempted to joke. But Balyn turned his stormy face away from his brother’s pleading eyes and ran towards the stables.
‘Hades should stopper your stupid mouth,’ Balan admonished himself. ‘And Hades should devour Modred, Wenhaver and all those rats that cluster at the feet of the
High King if there is any justice in this world.’
Miles away from Cadbury, armed men were about to disturb the peace of holy Glastonbury. For centuries, no brigand or criminal had dared to seek easy pickings within the confines of its abbey or its surrounds, or to place impious feet on its flagstones.
Supposedly built by Josephus, the church was pitifully small and its walls lurched in different directions as its aged, wooden supports rotted in the earth. The tower, with its rough stone construction, was stronger and more impressive, but Glastonbury had never depended on the defensive strength of its walls for survival. Until now, holiness had kept its precincts safe.
Inside the church, narrow apertures allowed filtered light to enter the building, and the simple stone flagging, installed long after the church was raised, was spotless from scrubbing and sanctity. The altar was simple but the cross that stood upon it was made of purest gold. Woollen hangings warmed the little structure and covered the stained and darkened walls. Rough benches, laid out in neat rows, served to seat the brothers, and these could, if needed, be pushed against the wall to provide more space.
The priests and lay brothers slept in separate wooden dormitories with semi-attached kitchens. The order of this green enclave was restful, because the original builders had used a careful plan for the whole settlement. Of course, the passage of many centuries had welcomed growth and unplanned structures were added at need, so that Glastonbury’s precinct had charm as well as order. Infirmaries, apothecaries, stables, forges, accommodation for travellers and even latrines surrounded the small, unpretentious church at its centre.
Murder was about to come to this ancient seat of power and religious piety.
The afternoon was cold but clear, so that sound carried as the attacking warriors fell upon the outbuildings like the sudden gale that presages a storm. The priests and brothers had no choice other than to flee, for they were forbidden by their faith to shed blood. Several lay brothers, however, attempted to slow the advance of the six determined invaders. But, as these courageous farmers were unarmed except for hoes and rakes, they were quickly dispatched by cold iron.
Fire bloomed like scarlet flowers from one of the barns where the winter supply of hay and grain was stored. A warning bell tolled forlornly over the enclave where figures in homespun robes scattered like disturbed ants in a nest. Like those same insects, a small group of brothers hastened to protect their church, the sum total of their lives.
Evening prayers had not long ended when the attack began, so Bishop Aethelthred ordered those priests with him to provide protection for the outbuildings.
‘But master,’ one brother protested, ‘we can’t leave you undefended! What would we do if you were killed? You are our master, and Glastonbury’s heart.’
‘I am an old man, Brother Marcus, and God is the heart of Glastonbury. My life isn’t worth the destruction of a single building of God’s city. Leave me and save our sanctuary. God will protect his church.’
But the brothers soon returned and begged Aethelthred to hide. A number of buildings were now ablaze, and close behind the brothers were the attacking warriors who were searching for the bishop. The smell of smoke and the reek of burning polluted the air.
Aethelthred rose from his knees, his body trembling with strain. He was very old, his skin had that transparency that comes with extreme age, and delicate blue veins were clearly visible under his skin at his wrists, temples and throat. He seemed as insubstantial as thistledown yet, when he spoke in his warm, firm baritone, the listener was left with a different impression, one of strength, wisdom and purpose.
‘You are needed elsewhere, my sons. Please, save what you can without risking your lives. I’ll be safe at the altar of our Lord.’
Argue as they did, the bishop refused to change his mind and, eventually, the brothers had no choice but to obey his orders. Under his gentle manner and ancient, withered appearance, Bishop Aethelthred was an inflexible autocrat.
The attackers spread out to achieve their respective goals. Five men armed with bright swords and axes moved through the buildings of the enclave like loping wolves, driving the churchmen before them.
But more terrible, like the Satan so hated by the priests, was a man dressed in black leather who stalked towards the church armed with a short, double-sided sword and a long, black staff of curiously carved ash and oak. So fixed was his purpose that the black warrior barely acknowledged the few terrified priests who scuttled out of his path like disturbed chickens.
The five brown-clad warriors made for the outside of the church, spoke together hurriedly, made some calculations and then began to dig with their axes at a grave site near the church wall. They worked with economy and precision, as if this disinterment was the purpose of their violent intrusion into Glastonbury.
Meanwhile, their leader was about a more terrible task, one that he had chosen with relish.
Inside the church, the intruder found the bishop alone at the altar. At prayer and on his knees, Aethelthred was at the mercy of the implacable intruder.
The bishop rose, genuflected and turned to face the impersonal eyes of the intruder. The malice he saw there told him that he would soon meet his God.
‘If you must kill me, my son, then strike hard and fast,’ the old man stated bravely. Years ago, he had been a sturdy peasant who had gone to the priesthood to learn the secrets of the Latin language and to quench a strange hunger in his belly. He had never forgotten the plain speaking of ordinary folk and he had long relinquished any fear of death.
‘You will die slowly, priest’, the black-clad warrior hissed and struck the bishop on the chin with the butt of his staff, breaking the old man’s jaw. ‘But you’ll die silently.’
As Aethelthred tried to pray through shattered teeth, the warrior struck him again and again, each blow more ferocious than the last until, barely conscious, the priest lay at the feet of his assailant.
‘I . . . forgive you . . . my son’, the bishop gurgled through the blood that seeped from his mouth.
‘But I don’t forgive you,’ the warrior snarled and swung the staff down in a wide arc, striking the old man on the side of the head. Blood sprayed and splattered over the white cloth on the altar. Then, with eerie deliberation, the warrior drew aside his robes and urinated over the Cross and the precious scrolls that were laid on the altar before him.
As the warrior brought one heel down to stamp on the old man’s head, a cry like the sharp keening of a girl caused the murderer to almost lose his footing. He spun quickly and searched the hangings and dark corners of the church with malignant, startled eyes.
A scuttling like the sound of disturbed rats on the flagging made the black warrior’s hair rise. But no one was there. Nothing moved, so he turned back to Aethelthred.
One final, looping blow caught the bishop’s skull with a dull, wet thud. But the tip of the staff was caught on the edge of the altar and the heavy weapon skittered out of the warrior’s hands and slid away into the shadows.
Voices were rising outside the church - shouts, screams and the distant sound of horses.
The black warrior swung away from the corpse. Quickly, and without wasting time to regain his staff, the intruder drew his short sword and ran from the church towards the graves that edged its walls.
Time was short and his task was only half completed.
Behind one long hanging, a young priest sagged against the wall and vomited, careless of the mess he left on his sandalled feet. As he edged out of his hiding place, a trickle of blood from the body of the bishop ran towards him like an accusing finger.
Balyn brooded as the afternoon lengthened.
Although he was obsessive, hot-headed and stubborn, Balyn was not completely foolish. He had heeded the words of Balan throughout his whole life, for he valued his brother’s ability to see clearly to the heart of any problem. Now, thoroughly confused by the deceit that lay under ready smiles at Cadbury, he blundered through the passages of the palace like a blin
d man.
While Artor’s palace was not overly large, it was complex, having grown haphazardly to accommodate growing demands as the High King’s court became more sophisticated. Modelled loosely on the form of a villa, with a hugely enlarged entry which had become Artor’s Hall of Judgement, the structure had once had an atrium which had now been divided into further rooms, leaving long, narrow corridors that led to still more corridors, off which small rooms opened, most of which were dark and lacked adequate ventilation. At the rear of the structure, a second storey rose with wooden stairs linking the floors. In some ways, Artor’s palace was primitive and lacked the opulence of southern climes, yet the raw-sawn wooden floors above and the stone flagged rooms below were clean, sweet smelling and free of the straw used in so many Celtic homes to disguise the stench and dirt, especially during the winter months.
Exploration and constant usage were the only methods by which the inhabitants mastered the maze of corridors, so Balyn became quickly lost. His blind temper was a further impediment, for Balyn lost all reason when his moods overcame him. He was apt to stride away from whatever had upset him without any sense of where he was going.
By sheer accident, he met the High King in one of the passages.
Artor was in an expansive mood. He had been watching his guard as they exercised and paired off for weapons practice, and he had been entertained by the skills of two of the warriors. One was a very tall man in his early forties called Gwydion after one of the old Celtic gods. Artor remembered Gwydion’s mother well, a laughing farmer’s daughter called Olwen. Gwydion’s hair was blond like Olwen’s and held Artor’s wild curls. The boy had grown into a cheerful, open man who was as sunny-tempered as his mother had been. Gwydion had wed when he was still young, and had since sired a son who had also been inducted into the guard.
