by M. K. Hume
‘By all reports, Otha’s a tub of lard and couldn’t be thrown far by anyone,’ Artor responded. ‘I’ll send Balyn on a pilgrimage to Glastonbury and, in the process, we’ll discover if the boy’s golden tongue can talk Otha Redbeard around in circles.’
Gruffydd pushed back his tangled hair, which had never been quite controllable, even in his youth. His weathered and lined face had the drooping folds and the lugubrious expression of a good hound. Only his eyes were still young and vivid within the deep pouches that surrounded their sockets. He had a horde of grand - children and great-grandchildren, but his days were fast blurring as his life accelerated into the decay of great old age.
‘It’s near time I retired, my lord. I’ve lived for twenty years beyond my allotted lifespan and there’s not much more I can give you. My grandson, Trystan, has developed his own spy network out of Kernyu in the north-east of Cymru. I want him away from Cymru, because the damned fool is involved with a married woman, a friendship that could easily catapult him to a premature death. The woman is Queen Issyelt, who’s married to Mark, the local king. The king is no friend of yours, so Trystan’s kinship with me will only harm him further.’
Artor snorted.
‘Kernyu is a very small kingdom, lord. It’s largely Deceangli in tribal settlement, but some Demetae headed north to settle there in Vortigern’s time, and you know what their tempers are like.’ Gruffydd paused. ‘What I’m asking, Artor, is that Trystan take my place as your spymaster. I’ll continue as your adviser in all such matters until the boy is fully settled in but, as I don’t want to die on the job, as it were, I wish to leave your employ sooner rather than later. I believe the control of the spy network will probably save Trystan from the revenge of King Mark, as well as providing you with a capable and trustworthy replacement.’
‘Mark is a sycophantic, treasonous cur,’ Artor grumbled. ‘I cannot trust him.’
‘Then don’t. He’s another tribal king who whines continuously about tribute and the cost of maintaining an army. My grandson may be prejudiced against the man, but he has been warning me to beware of Mark for years.’
‘I assume Trystan’s already on his way to Cadbury, so I’ll soon meet this young man whom you obviously admire. Don’t blush, Gruffydd. I’ve known you for near on forty years, and I’ll always remember how you first brought Nimue to my court and demanded that I mete out justice on her mother’s murderer.’
Gruffydd smiled. ‘Yes, I expected that you would approve my choice and the boy is already on his way to Cadbury. I told him that if he is to undertake this duty for you, he should use Caerleon as the centre of his operations. He loves the north, and would be effective in such a place.’
Artor was happy to grant Gruffydd’s request; it was the least he could do for a friend who had filled the shoes of Myrddion Merlinus so admirably and who had never asked for favour or reward.
The king smiled reflectively and companionably at his old friend as they toasted their chilled feet before Artor’s open fire.
‘He’s my Ellyn’s son - my eldest boy’s daughter.’ Gruffydd grinned with pride through his bristling white beard. ‘And he’s wondrously handsome, considering his sire.’
‘Didn’t I give Ellyn to a Deceangli chieftain out of . . .’
‘Castellum Guinion,’ Gruffydd reminded his king.
‘Yes, that was the place,’ Artor said. ‘I’ve an old man’s memory, Gruffydd. I’m fading fast.’
‘You’re twenty years younger than me, young man. Think of the good things that can still be done in the years remaining to you.’
‘I doubt I’ll have the opportunity, Gruffydd. The wolves are gathering to pull me down, for I’m the stag with antlers so heavy that I can barely lift my head to flee. Still, you have my permission to return to Venta Silurum. Right now, if you should so wish. You’ve earned a quiet life and one of us should survive the bad years that lie ahead.’
‘I’ve decided to visit Coed Celyddon. I yearn to see those deep woods once more before I die, so I’ll go to the mountains nearby and visit Nimue while I’m there. I loved that babe more than my own children, Artor. She wound her fingers around my heart when she was only a day old. And perhaps I’ll visit Myrddion’s resting place before I die. Your harpist has described the route.’
Silence fell, and in the peace and warmth, Gruffydd dozed off and snored shallowly, while his king watched over him through the night.
CHAPTER XIII
BALYN’S BANE
Balyn was confused. The queen was as gracious to him as ever, so much so that the young man was completely enslaved. To be given tokens of her esteem, such as a rose or a length of fine perfumed wool that she had carried in her sleeve, made his heart tighten with a painful joy.
In his short life, he had never known a woman who was so completely feminine. His rational self recognized that the queen was pampered and idle, when compared with his indefatigable mother. But, in his innocence, Balyn thought that skin such as the queen’s could never face the rigours of full sunlight, for he believed that Wenhaver’s complexion of roses and cream must be real, like her golden hair. While other women aged, the queen remained eternally young. His brother, Balan, despaired of his twin’s ignorance of female deceit.
Balyn wasn’t a fool. He was simply young and ardent for the romance of love. Unlike his brother, Balan, who was practical to the point of being prosaic, Balyn had something of the poet’s imagination, and so the world of Artor’s court was the most graceful and brilliant dream that he had ever contemplated. Within this waking dream, the queen moved gracefully, her lips smiling sweetly and murmuring elegant compliments and witty repartee. If Balyn sometimes sensed deliberate cruelty behind Wenhaver’s saccharine words, then he forgave her instantly for what he decided were unconscious lapses.
Balyn had heard the sly whispers that the queen loved Prince Gawayne, and had compromised her honour by betraying her husband with him. But Balyn refused to countenance such slurs, preferring to believe the evidence of his eyes. In his seasons at court, he had seen nothing to suggest a breach of her marriage vows.
For such a youth, disillusion creates an abyss down which he can tumble to ruin. Because he was incapable of temperance, those who Balyn loved must be perfect, or else they were totally flawed. Where Balan expected men and women to be human, with real faults that they constantly tried to hide, Balyn refused to accept that his perfect queen, in this perfect court, was not as he believed her to be.
Early one morning, Balyn rose before dawn and ventured out into the meadows to pick wild flowers for his queen. Perhaps the dew-drenched blossoms were a little untidy, but he planned to present them to Wenhaver so he could bask in the warmth of her smile. When he returned from his small quest, the servants were about their tasks but few of the nobility had yet chosen to stir.
Nothing could have prepared him for what he overheard beyond the corner in a long corridor.
‘Gawayne, my love, do I frighten you?’ the voice of Wenhaver cooed. She had trapped the prince when he had ventured from his room to use the communal privy. ‘I thought you and I were intimates of long standing.’
Gawayne had not lain with Wenhaver for over eighteen months, having managed to avoid her tentacles by regularly escaping to Verterae and Segedunum, and Wenhaver had not forgotten Artor’s threat of execution if she did not change her slatternly ways. Between Gawayne’s absences and Wenhaver’s restraint, the relationship had been permitted to cool but, periodically, with cat-like indolence, Wenhaver strived to fan the dying coals of their illicit affair into at least a glimmer of life.
Boredom had persuaded the queen to wake at an early hour simply to waylay her one-time lover. She wished to make him regret their broken liaison so, knowing how susceptible Gawayne was to bare, ripe flesh, she had donned a flimsy robe that revealed the shape of her body.
‘This isn’t a suitable time for conversation, Wenhaver! If the servants see you dressed in this . . . thing, the tale will run through the citadel
in minutes. Artor wouldn’t approve of this meeting, and I . . . well, I promised him.’
Gawayne was desperate to empty his full bladder. Besides, the early light illuminated the network of wrinkles around her eyes and Wenhaver’s thinning lips which, even now, pursed unattractively.
‘You’ve seen far more of me than this, Gawayne. On many occasions.’
‘I prefer to forget, my queen,’ Gawayne responded as sternly as he could. ‘The indiscretions of our youth should be left in the past. Please, Wenhaver, allow me to pass.’
As an unwilling eavesdropper, Balyn stood dumbstruck. The flowers, already beginning to wilt, fell from his numb fingers and he felt a sick, dizzying sensation in the pit of his stomach.
‘I am the queen, Gawayne, and I order you to explain why you’re avoiding me.’ Wenhaver’s voice was no longer the gentle, melodious invitation that Balyn knew. She sounded almost shrewish.
‘Artor is our liege lord, my lady,’ Gawayne explained stiffly. ‘He’s treated me with honour and respect, and overlooked the excesses of my obnoxious family. He’s also my uncle, and I know that I’m only half the man he is. You no longer tempt me, lady; my eyes are finally opened, and I’ll never again be your paramour. You’ve never loved me, and I’m tired of being a convenient means of hurting my king.’
Balyn heard the queen stamp her foot in frustration and then came the sharp sound of a slap as she struck Gawayne’s face.
‘You oaf! You were only ever a convenience to dishonour the bastard I married. He’d kill me, you know, if he thought he could get away with it.’
Balyn felt sickened by the malice that thickened the early morning air.
‘Your husband could have had you killed years ago and no one would have cared. In fact, most of the nobility would be overjoyed at your death.’
Balyn heard the sounds of a scuffle and then a thin cry of pain from the queen as Gawayne forced his way past her.
‘I hate you,’ she hissed. ‘How dare you touch the person of the queen?’
Balyn’s flowers lay, forgotten, on the flagged floor. Before the queen could see him, he took to his heels, back to the small room he shared with his brother, who was curled up under a fur rug.
‘You’re back,’ Balan muttered and tried to cover his head.
Balyn ignored his twin and threw himself on to their shared pallet. He wanted to sob, to scream or even to kill something. A small moan escaped his lips, causing Balan to open his eyes and look at his brother’s tightly curled body with concern.
Balyn sighed brokenly.
‘What’s happened, brother?’ Balan asked. ‘And don’t try to fob me off. ’
‘Nothing!’ The fur coverlet muffled Balyn’s vehement reply.
‘Bonehead!’ Balan said affectionately. ‘I don’t care what you’ve done. You’re noise and I’m silence. You’re heart and I’m mind. We’re one, brother. Our mother explained that to us long ago.’
‘You don’t understand!’ Balyn choked back a sob.
‘Try me. I won’t laugh or fuss at you.’
Balyn surged up from the pallet, and Balan felt a physical, visceral spasm as he looked into his brother’s white face and haunted eyes.
‘The queen is false,’ Balyn sobbed. ‘Everything you said was true. I heard her try to seduce Gawayne - just so she could reject him! They’re lovers of long standing!’
Balyn turned his face to the wall.
‘But she didn’t actually betray Lord Artor, did she?’
‘Of course she did! She spoke of it shamelessly, and then Lord Gawayne told her that their liaison was over.’
Balyn was beginning to shout as his self-control unravelled, and Balan clapped a hand over his brother’s mouth.
Balyn pulled the hand away. ‘She was half-naked! She fawned all over the Lord of the North until he ran away from her. Such insinuations! I felt sick! Are all men and women bare-faced liars in this place?’
Balan struggled to hide his exasperation. ‘Most people lie out of laziness, or because of fear of consequences - or even of being disliked. Unfortunately, you haven’t learned to dissemble as they have. In any place other than Cadbury, such a virtue would be praised. But here, it’s the mark of a fool, which you’re surely not.’
‘I am a fool, for I’ve danced attendance on a strumpet. How can I face her, brother? How can I pretend I didn’t eavesdrop on her?’
‘There’s no need to lie to her, Balyn. Simply be distant, then you won’t be forced to pretend.’
Balyn’s face lightened. ‘Yes, King Artor is the wounded party here, and I’ve done nothing of which I should be ashamed.’
Balan sighed. Ever at the whims of his emotions, Balyn must cleave wholly to one side or another, when a cooler head would weigh his allegiances more objectively. Having been exposed to Wenhaver’s feet of clay so brutally, Balyn must now turn his ardent, uncritical heart towards her enemy and lay his whole faith and devotion at the feet of the king.
‘You must understand that our king is also flawed, despite being the greatest man of his age’, Balan said softly. ‘He can’t fill the over-large shoes that you would thrust on him. When will you learn?’
But Balyn refused to listen.
Later in the day, Wenhaver chose to summon the twins to her bower. Her invitation was unwelcome; the young men had planned a hunt to allow Balyn’s raw and lacerated pride to form a scab and heal a little. But Wenhaver was insistent; her self-esteem had been shaken and her vanity required the balm of Balyn’s uncritical adoration.
‘Why are you so silent, Lord Balyn?’ Modred asked the young man. ‘I’d swear you’ve changed places with your brother. Balan is positively verbose today, while you seem uncomfortable.’ Modred’s sharp eyes had missed nothing.
‘I have had a sick headache all day long, King Modred, and I’m not inclined to converse with anyone at all.’ Balyn stared into the distance and made no effort to hide his distaste for the Brigante king.
‘You don’t fail me, my boy, but the queen is looking decidedly put out. She enjoys those pretty flatteries that fall so easily from your tongue.’
‘She’ll receive them no more!’ Balyn retorted unwisely and wandered off to engage Lady Elayne in conversation.
Wenhaver’s eyes followed the young man with a mingled expression of bafflement and resentment.
Modred smiled inwardly with suppressed glee. Oh, Wenhaver. You’ll hand me the throne yet, you silly old cow!
Then he recalled the humiliating conversation he had had this morning with his most powerful kinsman, and the amusement in his eyes died.
The High King had been striding across the flagged forecourt when he spied Modred sitting in the early sun, looking over to the north and the distant blue tower on Glastonbury Tor.
‘Hoi, Modred!’ Artor shouted, deciding his ride could wait for a few minutes. ‘I meant to speak with you later, so I’ve saved myself some effort.’
Modred examined the king’s tall form, back-lit by the sun, and he felt a visceral stab of envy. Artor still retained a patina of youth well past his prime. The sun gave his grey hair the sheen of russet, and its shadows hid the lines upon his face and neck. Modred felt his spirits droop and wither.
‘How may I assist you, sire? I’m yours to command.’
Artor came straight to the point. ‘Do you plan to return to your own country at any time in the immediate future, nephew? You’re welcome to remain here, of course, but surely you must be concerned that your throne can be weakened during your absence?’
‘Not at all, Artor. As you know, the Brigante have run out of potential kings, and those members of the aristocracy who’d try to take what is not theirs tend to conspire against each other, rather than against me.’
Artor laughed, but there was very little humour in the sound. ‘And I suppose you and your supporters control the warriors.’
‘Of course, uncle. I’ve found it always pays to think ahead, and to ensure that the numbers are at my back.’
‘How
true, Modred. Still, I do pine for my privacy, as should you.’
The High King turned on his heel and strode away, leaving his nephew to wonder if he had been dismissed from court.
Balyn’s head ached fiercely as he was forced to watch his hitherto ideal woman through eyes that were newly critical. He hungered to depart from the bower and ride out into the countryside where he could shake the mouldy, clinging comforts of Cadbury from his booted feet.
Elayne recognized the young man’s turmoil and placed a hand upon his forearm.
‘You must forgive me, Lord Balyn, but I believe you are developing a sick headache that is not caused entirely by the weather’, she began. ‘Will you take some advice from a woman old enough to be an elder sister?’
Balyn bowed distantly, but the pressure of Elayne’s fingers drew his eyes to meet her gaze.
‘The queen is a vain, foolish and irrelevant woman, my lord. She has no power to harm the kingdom, or you, unless you permit her to do so. Somehow, she has managed to put you out of temper and to hurt you deeply. But she acts without thought, and certainly doesn’t intend to damage you or to cause you pain. So you must emulate King Artor and treat her with courtesy but without serious con - sideration. I fear that you wear your heart on your sleeve, and there are those at this court who will pursue you if they believe that you care for her.’
Balyn’s forehead knitted with mingled disapproval of Elayne’s blunt words and his acknowledgement that she had correctly interpreted his feelings.
‘I’m grateful that you would think to spare me pain, Lady Elayne. But I fear your warning comes too late and perhaps would be misconstrued, if eavesdroppers heard our discussion of the queen’s character. Perhaps we should both be silent on this matter.’
With a neat, dismissive bow, Balyn excused himself, leaving Elayne with two spots of high colour on her cheekbones and a heart that was burdened with foreboding.
That young man can’t tell friend from foe, she thought sadly as she watched his tall form move through the press of courtiers. May the gods protect him.
