King Arthur: The Bloody Cup: Book Three

by M. K. Hume

  Artor’s lips set like stone. So he must have struck the lady in the bathing room during the assassination attempt. Miryll wasn’t simply a honey trap, she was an assassin.

  ‘Where are they now?’

  ‘As you instructed, the captives are under guard in the atrium,’ Odin replied with a satisfied grin. Within the tangle of his reddish beard, his brown and crooked canines seemed even more predatory than usual. ‘The mistress of Salinae Minor has a foul tongue, my lord,’ he added conversationally.

  ‘Your information does not surprise me, Odin. The lady is not a lady.’ Artor turned his attention back to Taliesin. ‘Are you finished your sewing yet, song-master? If I’m to think clearly and pursue some reasonable explanation from Lady Miryll, I’ll need to have my head wound examined and have my wits about me.’

  Taliesin snipped off the last piece of gut with his sharp knife and climbed to his feet.

  ‘Aye, my lord, I’ve finished treating my wound.’

  He found a tunic in his pack and pulled it over his head.

  ‘Now, my lord.’ He grinned at Artor. ‘How many fingers do you see when I hold my hand before your eyes?’

  Artor allowed the nervous imaginations of Miryll and her servants to stretch out painfully while they were held in the atrium. For Artor, an hour or two meant a light doze and physical renewal. For the captives, it was a period of increasing tension as they contemplated their separate fates.

  The king finally entered the atrium, sipping a cup of hot water with a little honey spooned in for warmth. Even with salve smeared on his forehead, the king still looked rested and physically strong. Behind him, his bodyguard and the lords of his retinue seemed far more worn and queasy.

  Artor seated himself negligently on a conveniently placed marble bench where he could watch both the fountain and Lady Miryll. He noticed immediately that the neckline of her gown was sagging open, revealing the edges of a growing bruise. Her eyes were furtive and frightened, although she attempted to appear calm and regal.

  ‘I bid you a fair morning, Lady Miryll,’ he greeted her conversationally. ‘How old do you think I am?’

  The lady’s brown eyes became muddy with dislike, and her hands pressed together with such force that her knuckles shone whitely.

  ‘You’re far too old,’ she retorted unpleasantly. ‘Ugly, disgusting, arrogant and old!’

  Artor smiled with such convincing sincerity that Taliesin’s blood ran cold. He remembered his father, Myrddion Merlinus, speaking of Uther Pendragon’s last, bitter days; Artor showed no signs of degenerating into the violent monster his father had been, but perhaps he was becoming something worse.

  ‘I congratulate you on your self-control, woman.’ Artor’s tone hardened. ‘You seemed perfectly at ease in my presence last night when you were parading your body for my appreciation, yet I’ve come to realize that you must hate me and all I stand for. Am I correct, Lady Miryll? If such is truly your name.’

  ‘I am Ceridwen!’ she hissed. ‘I am the maid, the mother and the hag! You are nothing, and you have no legitimacy! Your reign is a sham!’

  Indrawn breaths were the only response from the ring of men. Such arrogance and blasphemy was shocking.

  Taliesin took an involuntary step forward. ‘You’re not my great-grandam! ’

  The charged tension was released by Artor’s booming laughter. He explained to the gathered warriors that a legend persisted in the west that Myrddion Merlinus was a direct descendant of the goddess, which, if true, would make Taliesin her great-grandchild.

  Artor looked at Miryll. ‘You may pretend to be whatever, or whoever, gives you comfort. I really don’t care, but Taliesin might object to your choice if you’re claiming him as your kin.’

  Lady Miryll spat inaccurately towards Artor. Her face was twisted with hatred.

  ‘I’m disappointed.’ Artor spoke conversationally. ‘I’ve been searching for grand plots and conspiracies among my enemies, and what have I found? A foolish woman who thinks she’s a goddess. A stupid, ignorant woman who has been the tool of ruthless men who care so little for her that they have abandoned her to my justice.’

  Lady Miryll spat again, her eyes wild.

  ‘You have a lovely face, my lady, but terrible manners. Didn’t your mother school you better?’

  Miryll whitened at the mention of her dead mother.

  ‘If your plan was to kill me, then it has failed, but only through the keen reactions of Taliesin, son of Myrddion of blessed memory, and because of the ineptitude of your accomplices. Still, failure is the greatest and the most damaging of faults, don’t you agree?’

  The lady’s face contorted into such ugly lines of loathing that Gawayne was amazed that he’d ever considered her to be beautiful.

  ‘Come, answer me, woman, for it’s only my curiosity that’s keeping you alive.’

  ‘You are the fraud!’ Miryll screamed out at last. ‘There’s no Roman blood flowing through your veins, but I’m descended from Augustus and, through him, back to the Caesar himself.’

  ‘Not that old, tired refrain again.’ Artor shook his head. ‘I’m very disappointed in you, Lady Miryll. Are you just another moon-mad claimant to the throne of the west, or do you have some deluded desire to restore the Roman Empire? Or, crazier still, do you truly think you’re a goddess?

  ‘My father, the Pendragon, was the son of Constantine II and the grandson of the great Maximus. No Roman blood, Miryll? But, I am proud of my mixed heritage, for I am Briton first and last.’

  Artor gazed sorrowfully into Miryll’s eyes as if she were a child, caught stealing by a concerned parent. The mock affection on his face was more shocking than a stinging slap.

  ‘Gawayne, my nephew, has a far more worthy heritage than you, Miryll. And Galahad has a legitimate claim. In addition, he is a Christian, which would serve him well in any dispute in the south about his succession to the throne. I assume your father convinced you that your bloodline comes from some bastard son of Augustus. If so, he was misguided or deranged, for such a bloodline would be worth nothing in the west after all this time, even if it were true. The Rome of the Caesars is dead. In these isles, succession is always followed from the present king to the next person in line. I can’t imagine the Celts accepting Julius Caesar himself, even if he could manage to escape from Hades.’

  ‘The Bloody Cup will see you dead, Artor.’ Miryll spat the words out. ‘And that same Bloody Cup will christen my son and will drive all your followers into the sea. I follow the old ways and our cause will prevail.’

  Miryll’s speech had wiped the merriment out of Artor’s eyes, a change that none of the warriors present considered propitious for the lady’s health.

  ‘So. Now we finally have your version of the truth. Of which old ways do you speak, Lady Miryll? Do you believe in the Tuatha de Danaan? Do you submit yourself to the laws of the Druids and the justice of the wicker man? Are you dedicated to the Roman gods? Or is it something older still?’ The High King paused and gazed reflectively at the mermaid fountain. For a long moment, he seemed almost mesmerized by the steady, rhythmic flow of water. Then his grey, chill eyes turned back to Miryll, and Taliesin could read no pity in them.

  ‘Or are you following blindly behind the aspirations of another?’ Artor asked. ‘I admit to wondering about the manner of man who pulls the strings that control a beautiful woman such as yourself.’

  ‘You’ll not know the truth until it’s far too late to do anything about it.’ She huddled triumphantly in her black cloak, all her voluptuousness leached from her face and her muffled body.

  ‘So where is Gronw, Miryll? Where is your little priest?’

  She started in surprise, but quickly recovered her self-control.

  ‘He’s not here’, she replied defiantly. ‘He returned to his people.’

  ‘The blue Picts from beyond the Wall?’ Galahad interrupted, his voice laced with contempt. ‘I thought the Celtic tribes had cleared those vermin out of civilized country, but it do
esn’t surprise me that Gronw is a heathen, slimy Pict. He’s surely got the tattoos and the objectionable personality of the Picts. That lot are nothing but pagan scum for the Otadini to hunt down like mad dogs.’

  Miryll’s face whipped towards Galahad like the head of a striking snake. ‘Even though you treat them like animals, you’ve failed to make them bend their knees to you. My mother was Gronw’s mistress, and she was a Pictish queen! You didn’t know that, did you? Her ancestors ruled these isles long before the Celts and the Romans came here. She led my vain father around like a bull with a ring through his nose.’

  ‘Then you have my sympathy,’ Galahad retorted. ‘It’s no wonder your father ultimately removed her head.’

  Gawayne felt a moment’s pleasure in the cruel words of his son.

  ‘Enough!’ barked Artor. ‘Galahad, instead of exercising your prejudices on Miryll, who seems to have been spun a concoction of lies for most of her life, you will send a rider at speed towards Aquae Sulis with instructions that our warriors are to scour the wildest routes between here and the Wall for Gronw. You know what he looks like, so make sure that he is forced to run like a rabbit. Or the rat that he more closely resembles!’

  ‘That would be my pleasure, sire.’ Galahad left the atrium with much dignity and self-importance.

  The High King turned back to Miryll. ‘Now that my impetuous young kinsman has gone, you might wish to tell me about your son. I’d like to know more about this infant who will take my place on the throne.’

  ‘He’s in a place where even you can’t touch him,’ she whispered and then placed her hands protectively over her belly. ‘He’s in here.’

  ‘Of course he is,’ Artor responded. ‘The babe was fathered by Gawayne, I presume.’ He did not wait for a response. ‘Did he provide his seed willingly? I thought he had children enough.’

  The lady’s lips curled. ‘His body was eager, for all that it’s old. I had a preference for Galahad to sire my son, but that fool is drunk with his god. The father was much easier to manage and was very diligent in his task. I’m happy, for my child will be the end product of many royal bloodlines.’

  ‘Artor, I swear I didn’t intend to . . .’ Gawayne’s voice trailed off, his stomach churning with bile. ‘I know I was drugged, but I’ll admit that I was willing enough. I beg your forgiveness, my lord.’ Gawayne abased himself before his king. His eyes were filled with tears.

  ‘If I was angry on every occasion that you bedded a slut, Gawayne, I would have burst into flames years ago. This woman was just a tasty morsel for you to dine on. I attach no blame to you, so stand up and stare her down. She’s only a woman, and not a very clever one at that.’

  Artor delivered his cruel taunt with such timing that his entire guard burst into raucous laughter. Every man present knew that Lord Gawayne chased anything that even pretended to be female. Taliesin winced at the contempt for women expressed in the men’s mirth.

  ‘My lord’, he said loudly, ‘does Gronw have the talent for such a complex plot? We have a dead bishop, a stolen campaign cup from the grave of another sanctified man, a servant who considers himself to be a Druid, the daughter of a Celt and a Pictish queen, who has been raised to believe that she is a reincarnation of Ceridwen, and these strands are so entangled, Lord Artor, that only a subtle brain could create any pattern in them. As fair and clever as Lady Miryll might be, she lacks the experience to put together such a conspiracy. Listen to her, my lord. She mouths what she has been taught like the child she is.’

  ‘Be silent, Taliesin!’ Artor ordered angrily. ‘I need no lessons in understanding from you.’

  Artor’s expression brooked no argument and Taliesin backed down. ‘My apologies, my king.’

  Scarlet spots tinged Miryll’s pale cheeks and she leapt angrily to her feet. Odin freed the axe that hung from his belt.

  ‘It’s very easy to pile scorn on a mere woman, Pretender,’ she snarled. ‘I am far better born than you are. My revenge is the know - ledge that the Cup will have you in the end, for Gronw will be certain to spread the tale of what happens here. If you kill me, you’ll be known as a monster. Your Lucius left a small, poisoned dart in wait for you that will bury you in your own dung heap. I’ll enjoy watching you smother in it. You may call me an ignorant fool if you want, but I’ll glory in your punishment.’

  ‘But, my lady, I thought you understood your position. You will perish. Your pitiful beliefs, your spite and, regrettably, any child that you carry in your womb will go into the shadows with you.’

  Miryll finally understood that she would die when this inquisition came to an end. Her servants shuffled and glanced about with darting, wild-eyed stares. They saw their own executions looming and their thoughts began to scramble for some means of self-preservation. Miryll lowered her eyes. Her unborn child would never draw its first breath and she wondered, perhaps for the first time, whether ruthless men and their plans for glory had simply used her up as bait to further their own ambitions.

  Her thoughts were visible in her pale countenance. Artor watched her, and his expression softened fleetingly.

  ‘The west would never embrace the bastard son of Gawayne if I should be murdered’, he told her. ‘I have so many presumptive heirs that I could start my own village with them, and I have nephews and great-nephews all over the north. You and your unborn child are a cruel diversion that has been devised to trick attention away from the real point of attack. Gronw’s real plan was centred on achieving his purpose at Glastonbury. Perhaps, in time, your infant could have caused me problems, but I doubt it.’

  ‘Gronw wouldn’t use me,’ Miryll whispered brokenly. ‘He raised me and cared for me as part of a great and noble plan.’

  ‘And he’s filled your head with lies. Why, Miryll? The black warrior has succeeded in drawing me out of Cadbury but, had I not come to Salinae Minor, you would have borne your child and suffered an arranged death in childbirth. Don’t shake your head in disbelief, Miryll, for where is your protector now that you have need of him? Sooner or later, you were doomed to die. But Gronw understood me, for he knew I couldn’t allow dissent within my kingdom. He left you behind so that I would be delayed in my pursuit of him.’

  The king smiled regretfully at Miryll, much as a disappointed father would have done.

  ‘The kingdom would have collapsed if Gronw had been successful and if I had died in last night’s assassination attempt. Such an outcome would have freed Gronw to build a secure base at Salinae Minor where he would be ready to pick up the pieces after the inevitable civil war had run its course. You were always expendable, my dear, regardless of what direction his path followed. You’re female. Had you been born a male, Gronw’s plans would have been quite different.’

  Taliesin could see the flaw in Artor’s argument, but the rest of his troop stood gape-mouthed as the king unravelled the plot. What part did the Cup play in all this? Taliesin was certain that Gronw could not be the main conspirator in the plot. He did not possess the necessary knowledge of court life or of Artor himself. A more influential personage was moving the human pieces around the board game.

  ‘You lie!’ Miryll screamed, but her words lacked conviction.

  ‘I’m truly sorry for you, Miryll’, Artor replied with sincerity. ‘You’re an accomplished and beautiful woman who was born to marry and to be loved. Gronw has taken your future and poisoned it without a thought for the woman he used as a weapon to suit his own purposes.’

  Taliesin watched as the truth of Artor’s words was reflected in her eyes and in her agonized face. His heart ached for her youth and naivety, and he feared for her as well.

  Artor took a single step towards her and extended an open hand. ‘I could excuse your betrayal if you chose to reveal what you know of the Bloody Cup. For that information, I’d happily extend mercy to you and to your servants. I’d also allow your child to be born, for I’m not a monster who makes war against innocents. I’m particularly intrigued by the history of the relic, for I know
that Bishop Lucius wasn’t always a priest, but was a Roman who served throughout their world.’

  Perhaps Artor would have kept his word and taken back his earlier threats. Maybe he would have spared Miryll even if she knew nothing that was of importance to him. After all, Gallia had been pregnant when Uther had ordered her death; Artor had no wish to follow in his father’s footsteps - the very thought haunted him.

  But all this would remain conjecture, for Miryll believed that the king truly desired her death. Backed into a corner, and with the fabric of her life in tatters, she chose the Roman way. Had she possessed a sword, she would have fallen on it. Instead, she tore a long golden pin from her hair and leapt towards Artor, intent on stabbing him through the eye.

  ‘No, Odin! No!’ Artor roared, but too late.

  Faster than the flicker of a serpent’s tongue, Odin struck her head off at the throat with his axe.

  The lady’s body stood quivering for one poignant moment, spurting blood from the stump of her neck. Then her knees began to buckle and she fell, some distance from her staring head which had landed several feet away.

  The servants wailed and covered their heads with their robes.

  Artor sighed wearily as he fastidiously stepped away from the growing pool of blood.

  Taliesin was the only person present who wept for the lady. He would remember that twisted face, turned ancient by betrayal, for the rest of his unnatural life. He alone saw that in the course of a single winter, Lady Miryll had been a maiden, then a newly impregnated mother, and then had died wearing the face most feared by any woman, the mask of the hag.

  Carefully and reverently, Taliesin stepped forward and closed Miryll’s eyes, then reunited head and body. Immediately, her face became smooth and young again, as pale as moonlight and as silent as shadows. The spurting blood had darkened her hair further, so she appeared to be a creature of light and shadow, a carved effigy of a fair young woman who had never truly lived.