by M. K. Hume
Into this well of stillness, a chanting, unseen voice cut across the whispers of the crowd. Awkwardly, a black-robed form shouldered out of the hut and faced the rapt crowd.
By Galahad’s standards, Bedwyr was a pagan. But in recent years he had cleaved to the old religion and had found comfort in it. But if he had expected to hear familiar exhortations and the calm rhetoric of the Druids, then he was disappointed. Gronw spewed out a diatribe of hatred for all things Roman. In the process, he damned those Celts who tolerated Christianity, castigating the long peace of Artor as a coward’s concession to the Church of Rome. The crowd devoured his words.
‘The Cup!’ someone called from within the crowd.
‘The Cup! The Cup! The Cup!’
The cry rose out of one hundred throats as if that simple utensil, so jealously guarded by Lucius, was somehow embodied with powers that could crush all civilized life in the west.
Like the charlatan he was, Gronw conjured the Cup out of his sleeve and lifted the battered tin high.
‘Behold the Cup of Ceridwen, she who gives all blessings! Hence comes our victory, for the goddess will smite down the Christian gods. She will destroy all the works of Jesus and overthrow the reign of the murderous Artor. Death to Artor, usurper and bastard!’
‘Death!’ the crowd roared in response, oblivious to the apparent foolishness of worshipping a battered cup.
The ceremony continued.
Brutally, Pebr dragged an unfortunate man out of one of the half-collapsed buildings. The prisoner’s hands were tied behind his back and his eyes were mad with terror.
‘Ceridwen loves you all,’ Gronw screamed. ‘But this dog was heard to curse her, while still calling for the Romans to return and bring plenty to the west. He is a spy! He is a traitor! He is a Christian!’
‘No, I’m not a Christian.’ The man’s desperate voice rose in the cold air. ‘I was drunk!’
Gronw cast his eyes around the assembled group. ‘What penance shall this traitor pay? What does Mother Ceridwen demand of her loyal children?’
‘Death! Death! Death!’ the crowd screamed.
In any event, the unfortunate workman, for so his dress proclaimed him to be, was not burned alive. Whipped into frenzy, the crowd snatched the victim away from Pebr and began to pummel and punch him. The body was soon engulfed by the crowd and disappeared from view. Then it reappeared as it was tossed from group to group and torn at with nails, teeth and knives. The bloody meat that was left when the crowd tired of this sport could hardly be recognized as a human being.
Bedwyr shuddered as he watched a woman in a rich, grey hood lick ecstatically at the blood on her fingers. Men danced and spun, others prayed, and some, like Pebr, stood impassively and watched the blood lust boil within the crowd. Some crazed men would have turned on each other, so maddened was the mood of those present, had Gronw not raised his hands and demanded silence.
Eventually he was obeyed, but only because of the strength and authority of Pebr’s sword.
‘Ceridwen has feasted and has drunk deeply,’ Gronw called exultantly. ‘She will bless you in the days ahead. But you must be ready to rise up when you hear the call that the Cup has come again.’
The people cheered and stamped their feet in a shared frenzy.
‘When this crowd has departed’, Galahad vowed on the ridge line, ‘Gronw and whoever remains with him must die.’
‘Aye,’ Bedwyr whispered. ‘The quest for Lucius’s Cup may be our primary task, but murder and fomenting revolution are totally different matters.’
‘Have you seen men and women before who have done such vile acts as those we have just seen?’ Percivale asked Bedwyr.
‘Aye. When people lack a strong, guiding mind to lead them, they can easily revert to beastliness. But these animals aren’t worshippers of the old ways. They use religion to justify the vileness of their hatred for the cause of Artor and the west.’
‘Perhaps we would be beasts ourselves if we weren’t governed by civilized laws.’
‘God shouldn’t permit anyone to live who can participate in the degenerate deeds we have seen tonight,’ Percivale whispered. His face was stark with horror.
The three watchers waited for hours as the more respectable members of Gronw’s flock quietly slipped away and the hungers of those men and women who remained turned to sex and the wine they had brought with them. Later, when a light snow began to fall, and the bonfire began to splutter and die, the night returned to a semblance of stillness and the warriors checked their weapons.
Their swords would be needed with the coming of the dawn.
CHAPTER XIX
THE BLUE HAG
King Mark had been gone from the halls of Cadbury for more than a month when the fragile balance of the west began to teeter on a knife edge. On a perfect, early-spring day, when blue skies had finally defeated the grey storm clouds of late winter, one of Artor’s oldest enemies came to the citadel.
A retinue of warriors clad entirely in black approached Cadbury Town. The citizens stepped aside and covered their faces when they saw the woman who was carried in much state in a litter of midnight black.
Morgan had come to Cadbury Tor.
Word of her arrival spread through the township, over the dykes, up the spiral defences and into the king’s hall.
‘The Witch has come’, the cry rose, and many greybeards who remembered her name and her deeds prayed to their gods that she would die before she blighted their world with her killing stare.
Artor did not leave his hall to greet Morgan. He waited for her to come to him. The king sat on his throne with his nervous and unwilling wife beside him. No friendly face in the form of Elayne was there, nor was Percivale’s calm presence warm at his back.
Four members of Morgan’s guard carried her litter into the king’s hall. Artor could see that the figure on the litter was shrunken, tiny and was clothed in the deep black of mourning.
Artor rose, permitting no sign of weakness in his ageing body to show. Standing with his feet a little apart and his wide shoulders squared, his vigour must have stabbed his sister to the heart.
She was helped from her litter and moved towards the throne with the bent gait of an old woman. Artor’s hooded eyes watched her as she shuffled along, one blue-veined hand clutching a staff carved into the likeness of a serpent. Despite their long enmity, he felt a stab of pity for the loss of her beauty.
Then she drew back her hood with her free hand.
Morgan had endured the pain of tattooing from her hairline deep into the neckline of her robe. Serpents, demons, spiders and other vile creatures crawled in blue woad over her wizened skin so that her features appeared to writhe with unholy life even when she was still. Her white hair had yellowed with ill health, and her lips had thinned over what remained of her sharpened teeth.
‘Greetings, my brother,’ she rasped in a voice that had lost its musical power to seduce. ‘You’re still favoured by time, I see.’
Morgan’s eyes were still alive, young and glistening with malice. Artor felt an even deeper pang of pity. Morgan had become very like the man she had hated most, Uther Pendragon.
‘Be seated, sister, and drink your fill,’ Artor replied in his softest voice. ‘You’ve travelled far and I can see that you’re not well.’
Morgan’s eyes snapped suspiciously at his concern. ‘Don’t pity me, King of the Britons, for I’ll see you in your grave soon enough. But I’m tired, so I’ll drink your wine. You, of all men, would never resort to poison.’
A servant fetched a goblet for her and, as she accepted the wine, her forefinger stroked his young hand. The servant recoiled and Morgan laughed at his fear.
‘I see you’re still striking terror into lesser mortals, sister’, Artor said coldly. ‘I thought you’d have wearied of such unworthy charades by now.’
Morgan glared at her brother.
‘I’m no Uther to need your charms to hold my kingdom under firm control,’ he added. ‘Or to retain a memory of youth.’<
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‘No, you aren’t, are you?’ Morgan replied, and then she turned her baleful eyes on Wenhaver, who cowered under the obsidian glare. ‘So, this faded husk is all that’s left of the fabled Wenhaver, the great beauty, noblewoman and whore. I haven’t seen you since your wedding day. Ah, what a tantrum you threw. I’m sure you’ve led my brother a nasty dance.’
Wenhaver’s mouth fell open at Morgan’s attack on her character and appearance, then her eyes narrowed into vindictive slits.
‘At least I’m not positively ugly like you are, Morgan,’ she retorted and the nobles gasped at her effrontery towards the famed witch.
‘You will be silent, Wenhaver,’ Artor ordered.
‘You must obey your master, Wenhaver,’ Morgan rasped. ‘You’ve betrayed him often enough with all manner of men, so perhaps you owe him a still tongue.’ She raised one gnarled finger, causing Wenhaver to cover her face with her hands in fear.
Artor laughed. ‘Don’t try your tricks with me, sister. You aren’t able to turn us into toads, or harm us in any way unless we choose to believe you are capable of doing what you claim. I reject your powers utterly.’
It was now Morgan’s turn to laugh, a sound rendered dreadful because it was almost girlish.
The smile abruptly left the face of the old woman.
‘Enough of friendly banter, brother,’ she said. ‘I come bearing news of such urgency that I have been forced to travel many weary miles.’
‘I didn’t think you came because of sisterly love, Morgan, although one of my regrets is that my birth and my sire drove a wedge between us from my infancy. I have always admired your effrontery and your bravery. Speak your news.’
Morgan smiled at Artor without her customary sneer. ‘In truth, brother, I might have loved you for yourself if you hadn’t been the son of Uther Pen Worm. But if that had come to pass, you’d never have become Artor, the Warrior of the West, would you? Fate is a very odd and demanding master.’
Artor began to feel irritation redden his cheekbones as they played their old and vicious game.
‘Enough sparring, Morgan! I believe we’ve established that we are not loving kinfolk.’
‘The news I bring, brother, is that King Lot and Queen Morgause are both dead.’
Artor felt his knees tremble. He resumed his seat before the other nobles should see his weakness.
‘When? How?’
‘Lot was always a huge man and, in recent times, he barely had the strength to leave his throne. Three weeks ago, he was found dead beside his chair. He must have fallen from the throne during the night. When his body was found, his face was purpled with suffocation, for he had choked on his own weight when he couldn’t drag himself upright.’
Morgan displayed no trace of sympathy, but Artor shuddered at the gruesome manner of his brother-in-law’s death. The High King could imagine Lot’s panic and the slow pressure on his lungs that had ultimately defeated the man as he struggled for breath.
‘Lot and I were hardly friends - in fact, our opinions differed on almost everything, but he was a brave and able king. He will be missed.’
Morgan grimaced. ‘He’ll be missed by some, I suppose.’
‘What of Morgause? I cannot imagine her succumbing to grief. How did the queen die?’
‘Only one week after Lot perished, and before riders could be sent to inform Prince Gawayne that he was now King of the Otadini, Morgause was poisoned by her maidservant. I can assure you, the assassin told me everything she knew before she died.’
Artor felt his world stop on its axis. ‘Explain, Morgan. If my sister was killed in some plot, it is essential that I know the details. If her killing is not avenged, we are all at risk of assassination.’
‘Your words are touching, dear brother, but you’re a little late. The maidservant was a Pict who had been taken into slavery as an infant, so my sister trusted her implicitly. Morgause never thought to doubt her loyalty, because the woman used her skills with unguents and creams to preserve my sister’s beauty. Vanity killed Morgause as surely as the poison that was placed in her face powder. The maid used lead, I believe, and it caused Morgause to die in agony. Such poisoning takes time to kill the victim, many months at least. Had I been at court, I might have recognized my sister’s weakness, her aches and her declining appetite. But I was absent.’
‘But why?’ Artor asked, his head whirling with possibilities. ‘What was to be gained by killing the old queen?’
‘The plot must have been a long time in the making. I sense the edges of its purpose. Gawayne is scarcely known to his people after spending his youth and middle years in your service. He must return at speed, or there’ll be no crown for him to claim.’
Artor turned to Odin. ‘Send for Gawayne.’
‘The maidservant resisted our torture for a very long time. Hatred is a potent weapon, and an even more effective shield from agony if it has been nurtured for many years. But, with time, even her obsessive enmity was no protection against pain. Eventually, she begged to tell me everything she knew.’ Morgan paused to regain her heaving breath.
‘She had been swayed by a lover whom she believed was a fellow Pict, but no one in the north has ever heard of him. All I know is that he has one eye, and is called Fydyth. I cannot find him, but I believe he betrayed her, as well as being responsible for the death of Morgause.’
‘But I don’t really understand why?’ Artor muttered. The death of Morgause achieved no practical purpose that he could perceive.
‘Don’t be a dolt, Artor. The Otadini are in turmoil and will be of no use to you should rebellion threaten your throne. Morgause was respected and feared. She would have steadied the people’s resolve and bolstered her son’s reputation. Her death is a loss to you and to Gawayne, but of greater importance is the knowledge that she is lost to the Otadini people who have come to believe that she was ageless. I frighten the tribe, but she awed them.’ She smiled at the concern that was clearly written on Artor’s face. ‘I advise you to watch your back, brother.’
At this point, Gawayne strolled into the hall and, seeing his aunt seated before the king, would have taken to his heels if Artor hadn’t quickly and succinctly explained the situation.
Gawayne shook his head as if his loss was incomprehensible.
‘I must return to my tribe, my lord, and quickly,’ he said impulsively. ‘I must see to the burial of my parents.’
‘Yes, you must depart immediately,’ Artor agreed. ‘Enid and your brood must be having a difficult time coping with the death of both Otadini sovereigns.’ He frowned. ‘You must take great care on the roads, for I’m beginning to suspect there might be a plot to deny the throne to any of my kin. You’re at great risk of ambush during your journey.’
‘You may take my guard with you if you wish,’ Morgan offered. ‘They’re loyal to Lot’s lineage.’
Gawayne thanked her and turned to depart.
‘You must find a large horse for yourself, Gawayne’, she added conversationally. ‘You are getting a little fat; you should remember that you are your father’s son.’
‘Bitch,’ Gawayne muttered. ‘You should spend some time with Galahad when he returns. You’d be perfect company for each other.’
She grimaced. ‘I am spared that lily-white prig at least, if he is away on your service,’ she retorted. ‘Gawayne may not be a clever man, but at least he has a talent for blood work. As for Galahad, he’s useless. Enid must surely have betrayed her husband when she gave birth to that one.’
Fortunately, Gawayne did not hear Morgan’s opinion of his son’s worth.
Wisely, Artor made no comment about the young man.
‘I beg that you find me a soft bed, brother. I’m weary, and even a crone must rest her bones from time to time.’
‘Before you go to your well-earned rest, Morgan, I have one last question to ask you. Are you certain that Lot died by accident? I don’t believe in coincidences, and the death of both sovereigns in such a short period of time stret
ches my credulity. I could believe in chance more readily if revolution didn’t threaten from the north.’
Morgan grinned. It was a grotesque sight.
‘Yes, the charlatan is causing you trouble, isn’t he? But he’ll pay soon enough for his blasphemies.’ Her baleful eyes narrowed. ‘Lot would have been easy to kill, too easy, but only a trusted servant could have approached so closely to the king. Lot was fat, but not stupid, brother. However, taken by surprise, he could have been murdered.’
‘I suppose it doesn’t matter,’ Artor murmured.
‘It does matter, Artor!’ Morgan snarled. ‘If it was Fydyth who killed Lot and Morgause, he did so as part of a greater plot. I won’t forgive such a crime, or the reasons behind it. Fydyth, or whatever his name is, will wish he had never been born before I’ve finished with him.’
‘Not if I find him first’, Artor said. ‘Thank you for bringing this news to me in person. Given our past history, it’s odd that I always value your opinions so highly.’
Morgan rose and bowed. Try as he might, Artor could not remember her ever doing so before.
‘Sleep well, brother. The bones tell me you will need your rest.’ She turned to the queen and smiled. ‘Perhaps I’ll tell your future, Wenhaver. When I’m rested.’
Wenhaver barely managed to hide a shudder of revulsion.
The presence of Morgan, even sequestered in the best apartments, dampened the spirits of every soul within the fortress.
Gawayne was gone before dawn and the morning brought news of yet another defection. Modred had departed in the dead of the night. He left behind a servant to inform the High King that he was in mourning for his mother and was returning to the north to offer his services to Gawayne.
Morgan smirked at the news. ‘If he thought to avoid my notice, then he failed. He was the slender epicure in black, wasn’t he? Morgause was wise to rid herself of that creature. I read the bones when he was born, and I warn you to beware of that young man, Artor.’
‘Do you think he’ll kill me?’
‘No one can completely kill you, Artor. But he’s wounded you already. He wants your crown, and he’ll tear down every obstacle in his path to achieve his ambitions. He hates you with his entire being and plots to end your reign, so I should be sympathetic to his plans and stratagems. But how could I join with a monster such as Modred? The man is totally unworthy of my regard.’
