by M. K. Hume
Now, as Artor listened to Galahad’s disjointed report, only Taliesin and Percivale from his inner circle were permitted to be present.
Galahad’s head reared back like the head of a disturbed snake at Artor’s exclamation of doubt, but Odin put his hand ominously on the haft of his axe as a warning. With an effort, the Otadini prince calmed himself.
‘What you’re saying doesn’t make much sense to me, lad,’ Artor said more reasonably. ‘A staff that’s really a spear, which was spirited out of Israel and was later stolen from Salinae Minor? Please, Galahad, your tale sounds very far-fetched. Percivale, you explain it to me,’ the king requested, for Galahad appeared ready to storm out of the royal apartments.
Percivale took one weary hour to explain their discoveries at Salinae Minor and Glastonbury, and the reasoning behind their belief in the existence of the Spear. Tempers in the quiet room were strained to breaking point by the time he finished answering questions.
From his position in the corner of the room, Taliesin stirred.
‘We’re all friends here,’ he commented softly, ‘yet the Bloody Cup already sunders us and weakens our unity. It makes no difference if the Cup is Galahad’s Christian relic or Gronw’s Druid symbol. Faith is a powerful tool, especially when it’s manipulated by the wrong minds and held in unscrupulous hands.’
Percivale nodded in agreement. This so closely reflected his own thinking, he felt a new respect for the harpist.
‘You shouldn’t rely too much on the skewed perception of a devout adherent of Christianity, lord,’ Gareth interjected. ‘The Cup and the Spear could be anything. I’ve always believed that if something looks like a dog and barks like a dog, then it usually is a dog. In all probability, these objects are part of a complex hoax using an old, tin drinking mug and a wooden staff.’
In response to this slur on his religion and his integrity, Galahad leapt to his feet. His fists were tightly clenched and the red haze of anger blurred his sight and made his sword hand twitch.
‘Don’t flaunt my laws, Galahad!’ Artor barked. ‘I don’t care who you are or how high your birth is. No one raises his hand, or his sword, against any other man in this room.’
With ill grace, Galahad resumed his seat.
Percivale felt feverish and dislocated. The king’s eyes darted rapidly from one face to another, although his head didn’t move, and Percivale’s distressed imagination toyed with the suspicion that they were the only living parts of the king’s rigid body. He shuddered.
The king broke the spell of the moment and turned his attention to Gareth.
‘Find my nephew, Gawayne, and bring him to me,’ he told the big man. ‘He’s somewhere in Cadbury at the moment, en route from the north to a council of war I called in Venta Belgarum. I have no idea why he broke his journey at Cadbury, but at least he shouldn’t be too hard to find. Don’t let him prevaricate, or even dress, unless he’s stark naked. Drag him out of whatever bed he’s in and bring him to me - now.’
Taliesin noted the strain that revealed itself in Artor’s suspicious, down-turned lips. He’s afraid that Gawayne is in Wenhaver’s bed, he thought with a frisson of anxiety. He’ll never trust either his wife or his nephew, no matter how many years pass innocently.
‘Have you sought out your father, Galahad? Have you discovered everything he knows? Or does your foolish feud with your sire continue unabated?’
Galahad bridled, but Percivale stood on his booted foot, and the Otadini prince lurched into speech.
‘We’ve exchanged pleasantries, my king, but nothing more. I was surprised to find him here when I arrived.’
Percivale coughed tactfully. ‘Lord Gawayne explained that he sought a day of comfort before he made the final push to your summer capital, lord. When he learned you were coming here, he decided to await your arrival in the citadel.’
Unconvinced, the High King snorted irritably. Gawayne’s excuses were always so infuriatingly simple, and believable! Why did his woolly-brained nephew decide to deviate from his journey south and visit Cadbury? For that matter, why did Gawayne do anything? On impulse, of course.
‘So, Percivale. Is it true that you’ve been visiting my dear wife?’
The rapid change of topic left Percivale stranded in confusion.
‘Er . . . yes, master,’ he mumbled. ‘She ordered me to explain why we had come to Cadbury in such haste, and what was so urgent that Lord Galahad sent a courier to you, sire.’
Artor winced at the mention of Galahad’s peremptory message, and Percivale suspected the prince would regret the careless wording of that demand before he was much older.
‘She threatened you, I suppose. Yet you’ve managed to survive with a whole skin. How did you deal with my wife’s questioning?’
‘I led the queen and her friends to believe that Lord Galahad acted impulsively and didn’t discuss his motives with me. The queen eventually accepted my explanation but Lord Modred seemed suspicious and interrogated me very closely. I stuck to my answers and he finally tired of questioning such a stupid servant.’
Artor nodded his approval. He was surprised that Percivale had lied successfully; his faithful servant had always been an honest man and blushed a hot shade of pink whenever he tried to lie.
‘I’ll deal with Modred if he is so imprudent as to openly interfere in my affairs.’
‘While we’re awaiting the arrival of Lord Gawayne’, Taliesin began hesitantly, ‘perhaps we should consider how much information your noble nephew should be told. Lord Gawayne isn’t always discreet, especially in the presence of beautiful women.’
‘True, but I’m forced to trust those lords who are close to me in blood. Who else can I depend upon for loyalty?’
Galahad had the grace to look shamefaced.
Gawayne entered the room a few minutes later, looking decidedly put out.
‘How may I be of service, Artor? After Salinae Minor, you instruc - ted me to go to the north, so I went to the north. Then I’m ordered to Venta Belgarum for no reason that you’ll explain to me. Does everyone conspire to deprive me of sleep? Or are you angry that I broke my journey to enjoy a soft bed for a few days? As soon as I discovered that you had already left for the south, I packed up to leave, but then he turned up.’ Gawayne pointed irritably at his son. ‘I decided you’d return like the wind in response to Galahad’s message, so I kept to my soft warm bed to await your arrival.’
‘Did you say you were sleeping, nephew?’ Artor’s voice was silky.
‘Well, I fully intended to sleep . . . eventually,’ Gawayne replied with a smug smile.
‘Well, I’ll endeavour not to keep you from your bed - and whoever you’re currently sharing it with - too long. Then, after we have had a brief meeting in lieu of the Venta Belgarum conference, you can ride back to your northern fortresses. Now, what have you heard of Arimathea?’
Gawayne gaped. ‘What?’
‘You’re not a fish to go gawping about in a pool, Gawayne, so shut your mouth and start thinking. What do you know about Arimathea?’
Completely at sea with the direction the discussion was taking, Gawayne muttered a garbled reply that included references to traders, old towers and legends.
‘If this question has anything to do with Miryll, then she was a deluded liar,’ he finished triumphantly. ‘Nothing she told me is dependable.’
‘Some matters have come to my attention that require elaboration. I don’t think you have the answers I need, so you have my permission to return to your bed.’
Gawayne rose to his feet. He was confused, but that feeling was nothing new.
‘One further matter, Gawayne,’ Artor added. ‘You are forbidden to discuss this conversation with anyone, especially the queen and Modred.’
‘I couldn’t repeat this conversation if I wanted to, Artor, because I haven’t understood a word of it. What a Jew who’s been dead for at least five hundred years has to do with your court, I have no idea. As for Wenhaver or Modred, I don’t speak to eit
her of them if I can help it. Just let me know when you want me to leave.’ With that, Gawayne stalked off.
Artor steepled his fingers in thought. ‘As Taliesin said, perception, especially by the common folk, is everything. Therefore, whether or not the Cup and the Spear are real, I must either possess these items or nullify them completely.’
‘You would destroy the relics?’ Galahad’s eyes were shocked and disbelieving.
‘Yes. I’ll destroy them if I am forced to, but only as a last resort.’
‘But the Spear and the Cup belong to Mother Church!’ Galahad’s face reflected his anger and, with a sick certainty, Percivale realized that Galahad would kill Artor before he would allow any object of Christian reverence to be destroyed.
‘In these lands, the Church owns nothing unless I permit it,’ Artor stated brutally.
‘The Spear is already in our hands,’ Galahad bleated. ‘We have only to find the Cup.’
‘You’re assuming that Gronw’s staff is this hypothetical spear. I’ve no proof that your assumptions are correct.’
Galahad’s eyes roamed around the room as he sought for allies. Finally, his gaze came to rest pleadingly on Percivale.
Percivale was silent.
‘Only the Roman Church has the sanctity to care for these relics,’ Galahad said desperately. ‘The esteemed Lucius drank his mealtime water out of the very cup that Christ used at the Last Supper. That in itself was blasphemy.’
‘Why?’ Artor asked. ‘Even if the Cup is as you say, Lucius was both a bishop and a Roman. The Cup was perfectly safe in his care, wasn’t it? You would have us send it on a voyage of thousands of miles to the Romans, of all people - the very same Romans who now quiver in Constantinople.’
Galahad should have been warned by the tone of Artor’s voice, but the young warrior was a zealot.
‘The Cup will bring thousands - millions - of new souls to Christ. What do we poor mortals matter in the scheme of God’s intentions?’
‘I would hope your god is fond of the Celts as well. They need saving too, Galahad, and from enemies who are far more pressing than your devil. I have already charged you with finding Gronw, and the Cup. When you do, you’ll bring it to me.’
Galahad abased himself. ‘I won’t fail you, my king.’
‘Percivale will go with you, and you will both be equal in standing in the completion of this task. Percivale’s mind is quick and he has the practical common sense of the ordinary man.’
Galahad flashed Percivale a grin. ‘A wise decision, my king, for it was Percivale who solved the riddle of the Cup.’
Here comes the difficult part, Taliesin thought to himself. Artor has another surprise for Galahad, one that he won’t enjoy.
‘And Bedwyr, who is neither pagan nor Christian, will also go with you. I shall send for him - Ratae can survive without him for the present. And he will go under the same terms as you. You need his scepticism, his woodcraft and his knowledge of languages. Neither of you could walk safely among those worshippers who follow the old ways. Neither of you can dissemble.’
‘No!’ Galahad exclaimed. ‘Bedwyr is not fit to undertake a task such as this.’
‘Not fit?’ Artor asked quietly, with an unreadable gleam in his gaze. ‘I am your king, Galahad! If I say that Bedwyr is to be part of this endeavour, then Bedwyr goes. Either you accept my terms or your father will assume your role in finding the Cup. Gawayne will obey my orders completely and without question.
‘Send a courier immediately to Bedwyr informing him that I require his presence at Cadbury. Ratae can survive without him for the present.’
‘The Spear!’ Galahad interrupted wildly. ‘The Spear is still at Glastonbury.’
‘We know that Gronw’s staff is certainly at Glastonbury, but I don’t intend to leave it there for much longer. Balyn needs to be tested, so I shall send him to the monastery to inveigle the spear away from Bishop Otha. I’m uneasy that any man who is jointly distrusted by both Percivale and Simon the Jew should hold sway over such a dangerous object. Once the staff is in my possession, we’ll soon discover if it’s a spear, as you believe! Meanwhile, Gruffydd will use his wiles to discover whose influence was instrumental in appointing Otha to the post of bishop at Glastonbury. Now leave us, for there’s much for you and Percivale to do before you can depart on your quest. Gruffydd will have the latest intelligence concerning Gronw’s movements. You must arrange provisions for your group carefully for the time that you’ll be in dangerous territory. Your face stands out in a crowd, young man, so we need Percivale and Bedwyr to provide a screen for you.’
As the two men rose to leave the king’s rooms, Artor laid one last injunction upon them.
‘You’ll depart as soon as possible after Bedwyr has arrived at Cadbury. Under pain of my punishment, you will not speak of your quest within the confines of this citadel. Even the walls have ears in this place, and there are enemies among our people who wait only for a chance to harm us. If you value the Cup and wish to ensure its safety, you will remain silent.’
After the two warriors had left the chamber, Artor’s strength deserted him like ice melts in a fire. His shoulders slumped forward and he rested his head on his hands.
Inwardly, he thanked all the gods, Christian or otherwise, that he had returned to Cadbury before the snowdrifts had become too deep for travel. Galahad was as dangerous to Artor’s reign as the Cup and the Spear combined. They were objects that were fixed and unchanging, whereas Galahad was an explosive mix of fanaticism, unpredictability, violence and bigotry. No ruler could depend on this young lord, for he had no inner compass, except his own interpretation of the will of his God.
‘May the gods spare me from the extremes of all religious men,’ Artor muttered, his doubts and formless concerns evident in the quaver in his voice. Odin looked up from the tray on which he was assembling a simple meal of bread, cheese and red wine. ‘They’ll destroy everyone and everything for the sake of their faith, even in the Christian Church where their Jesus preaches peace and piety. The gods make us crazy, and old Targo was right to be suspicious of them. Yet, when it came time for my friend to cross over to the shadows, Targo depended upon me to pay the Ferryman his due. We humans are strange, inconsistent creatures.’
A sudden gust of wind shook the shutters and the oil lamp flames dipped and danced.
‘But what if the Cup isn’t found by my searchers? God help the west! Any rebellion, no matter how small, draws my eyes away from the Saxons. I’ve already decided that Venta Belgarum must do without me, in case I must ride north at a moment’s notice. Gronw, or whoever pulls his strings, can stir up spot fires of resistance that will be difficult to root out. Even worse, if I make an example of any credulous fools who raise their hands against me in the name of the Cup, I make them into martyrs and feed the rebellion myself!’
‘Galahad is crazed with his god,’ Odin offered. ‘He’ll probably find the Cup, because he’ll kill everything that stands between him and his desire.’
‘Obsession,’ Taliesin corrected.
‘Yes, I’m afraid you’re right,’ Artor agreed. ‘I hope that Bedwyr and Percivale will blunt his worst excesses, for obsession has always been a family curse and is not easily deflected. My sister, Morgan, is a perfect example of Galahad’s particular form of madness, although he’d probably remove my head for suggesting that they’re alike. The difference between them is that she is obsessed with revenge; her gods, if she possesses any, are dark and vengeful creatures who feast on blood and pain. In the meantime, I’m forced to utilize the services of two good men to ensure that Galahad obeys my orders. I don’t have enough men like Bedwyr and Percivale, and I can’t afford to waste them on wanton stupidity.’
‘There’s no reason to suppose that they won’t survive the quest’, Taliesin reasoned as he moved to fill a cup of wine for the High King. ‘But this Gronw appears to be a cunning and vicious adversary. Galahad underestimates him because he considers that all pagans are stupid.’
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‘His zealotry blinds him, but it also drives him, and therein lies our hope. The Cup must be removed from the game, or we will all be lost.’
Wenhaver lay alone in her perfumed, over-heated room and pleasured herself by imagining what punishments she could rain down on several vulnerable heads. High on her list was Gawayne, who had scarcely acknowledged her existence in recent years. He refused to meet her eyes and scuttled away in the opposite direction whenever he saw her.
‘I don’t want him, but he should desire me,’ she told her pillow. Chagrin filled her eyes with selfish tears of self-pity.
Modred had also displeased her. This very day, after Artor had returned in haste from the north, Modred had snapped at her when she’d asked some trivial question of him. Who did this minor king think he was? A Brigante by-blow, begotten on a slatternly Scotti queen, had no right to censure her. Although the court accorded Modred the respect that his station demanded, Wenhaver knew the Brigante was disliked and would never be trusted within the Union of Kings.
His presumption offended the queen, for Modred issued orders in her presence. Her faded blue eyes snapped with remembered anger. If Modred didn’t curb that sharp tongue of his, she’d order the guard to snip a little of it off.
‘And they’ll do it, too,’ she comforted herself. ‘All those bastard sons of Artor hate Modred like poison for the comments he’s made about them and their mothers.’
Wenhaver savoured the most recent insult to Modred’s honour that had been delivered by a younger member of Artor’s guard.
Modred had been sniping at Artor’s old age and the king’s fear of the Saxons that had sent him to Venta Belgarum during winter, when all the evidence of the past indicated that the Saxons never attacked in the colder months.
‘Our High King is becoming over-cautious in his old age, although I suppose we can never be too safe. Artor is right to fear that his arms have become weak with the march of time. It’s a pity that a king can’t enter honourable retirement, for our Artor obviously wishes that he could be free to rest.’
