King Arthur: The Bloody Cup: Book Three

by M. K. Hume

  ‘You flatter me with your honesty, sister. But you have judged Modred correctly, for he even rapes children for pleasure. He is indeed a monster while you are merely terrifying.’

  Morgan struck Artor’s face gently with one gnarled hand. The softness of the blow was almost a caress.

  ‘I never despised you, Artor. If your father hadn’t killed mine . . . well, there’s no point in exchanging possibilities. But our long enmity has always been direct, and both of us have scorned the plots and the machinations of lesser creatures. Modred must never be permitted to rule, for the man’s a coward and will, if allowed, become a despot.’

  ‘Modred is more likely to stab Gawayne in the back than give any material assistance to the Otadini,’ Artor agreed. ‘I hope Gawayne is sensible, for Modred can also claim his throne.’

  ‘You must take care yourself, Artor,’ Odin warned, ignoring the presence of Morgan in his fear for his master. ‘Modred has chosen to exert himself, so he’s up to something. It’s almost as if the loss of King Lot and Queen Morgause has given him his own version of Targo’s edge.’

  ‘Of course he’s up to something, you Jute clod,’ Morgan said rudely. ‘The man does nothing that isn’t in his own interests.’

  ‘I can’t afford to worry about the possibility of threats,’ Artor responded. ‘There are a host of real ones that are massing in the north, so I’ll send word to the fortresses. The last thing we need is another Saxon summer while our strongest allies are in disarray. The Ordovice are too close to Modred’s fist, and as they are the second largest of our allies, we’ll really be at risk if they should fall. I’d like to believe they are loyal, but the twins were lost while carrying out my orders. Bran may harbour a grudge over the death of his brothers. And what of King Mark? I’d as lief trust a snake as accept the word of that man.’

  Odin agreed. ‘Targo always said—’

  ‘United we stand, and divided we’re worth sod all’, Artor finished for him.

  The obscenity sat awkwardly on the king’s tongue. Only Morgan laughed at the jest.

  The three warriors planned to attack Gronw immediately before dawn, trusting that the Druid would only have a few remaining adherents to protect him. The sun would rise behind their backs, if such a grim night could spawn a sunrise. If they were careful, they might possess the element of surprise.

  The three men crawled towards the ruins on their bellies, taking advantage of any depressions that provided concealment. At one point, Bedwyr was forced to slide his body through a pool of frozen blood where the workman had died at the hands of the crowd. He continued onwards, using his elbows to force his body through the packed snow.

  They reached the hut, dug into the snow piled against the wooden walls and waited for their prey to emerge.

  Galahad had urged a full-frontal assault in the dead of night, but Bedwyr had preached caution. They were still uncertain whether Gronw was alone, in the company of the one-eyed man or protected by some other bodyguard. Percivale reminded Galahad that there had been a number of warriors present at the abomination on the previous night.

  ‘If we were all to die, Galahad, the Cup would stay with Gronw,’ Percivale argued. ‘That outcome would be sheer stupidity on our part. We cannot afford to make a frontal attack without better information.’

  Galahad had eventually allowed Percivale to persuade him but even now, as they lay concealed near the doorway of the hut, Bedwyr watched Galahad with suspicion.

  Suddenly, the door to the hut swung open and the one-eyed man strode out into the snow, drawing on fur-lined gloves as he went.

  As he walked past, Bedwyr held his breath. Then, in an explosion of snow and muscle, he rose behind the man and used the hilt of the Arden knife to strike his enemy’s skull behind the ear.

  The one-eyed man had sensed the movement behind him and managed to let out a short-lived shout of warning before the force of Bedwyr’s weapon silenced him.

  Then Hades rained down on the three warriors.

  As chance would have it, Pebr was a cautious man. He had already wakened Gronw and the four warriors who would assist them on the journey they were about to undertake. The soldiers had grumbled, but they had obeyed. Warned by the one-eyed man’s cry, the four fighting men exploded through the doorway with drawn swords.

  ‘Shite,’ Bedwyr swore and began to turn.

  A sword thrust that would have separated his arm from his body at the shoulder whistled harmlessly past his twisting body. Then he was kicked hard in the side and heard the unmistakable sound of his own ribs snapping.

  Galahad was upon the warriors, his sword arcing in great, sweeping blows that forced them to scatter. One man went down in a fountain of arterial blood as Galahad struck upwards at his opponent’s genitals.

  Without pausing to glance at the man writhing in the bloody snow, Galahad went after the others.

  Percivale darted into the hut, just as Bedwyr struggled to his feet, drawing his sword as he moved.

  While Galahad was fending off two huge and very hairy warriors, Bedwyr engaged a third, using every dirty trick he had ever learned in the stews and inns of the northern cities. As he rolled away from a wicked thrust at his vitals, Bedwyr sliced through the hamstring of his adversary. The man’s legs collapsed under him and, as he fell, Bedwyr stabbed him with a clean stroke just below the breastbone.

  The mortally wounded swordsman hiccuped in surprise and collapsed over Bedwyr in a flurry of blood and snow. Meanwhile, Galahad was still in the process of dispatching the last warrior.

  Bedwyr looked up with eyes that were almost blinded by snow and glimpsed a squat figure forcing a passage into a nearby ruin. He struggled to move the corpse that pinned him down.

  ‘Gronw!’ he snarled. He struggled painfully to his feet and pursued the fleeing Pict. He had barely reached the gaping hole in a wall of the ruin when a horse and rider exploded out of the darkness within the structure.

  Gronw was escaping.

  ‘Galahad!’ Bedwyr screamed. ‘Galahad! Gronw has the Cup!’

  Galahad ceased to toy with his opponent. He sliced the man almost in two across the belly.

  ‘Your horse,’ Bedwyr continued to shout to Galahad, pointing to the wood where their horses were tethered. ‘Ride after him! I’ll join you once I find Percivale.’

  Galahad needed no further urging. He ploughed through the snow and disappeared into the tree line.

  Bedwyr held his aching ribs with one hand and struggled to catch his breath. The one-eyed man was beginning to stir, so Bedwyr sacrificed the heavy lacings from his tunic and bound the man’s hands securely behind his back. When he searched him, he retrieved a remarkable number of finely honed weapons from his clothing.

  ‘He’s no common mercenary,’ Bedwyr muttered aloud to the corpses scattered on the churned and bloody earth around him. The sword used by the one-eyed man was decorated with a cabochon sapphire on the hilt and he wore an intaglio ring on one thumb.

  The silence was unnerving.

  ‘Percivale?’ Bedwyr began to panic. ‘Where are you?’

  He cursed his painful ribs as he staggered through the doorway of the hut into the Stygian darkness beyond. Percivale must have fallen, for he would never have permitted Gronw to escape with the Cup if he’d been able to wield his sword.

  A low sound, half moan and half warning, led Bedwyr to the furthest corner of the room. His companion lay on a tangled nest of hides, his body curled into the foetal position.

  ‘Percivale, my friend,’ Bedwyr said softly. ‘What has become of you?’

  Percivale’s helmet had fallen off as he collapsed, but very little blood stained the hides beneath him. The earnest warrior looked like a tired child in the half-light, with his hair tousled over his forehead.

  Bedwyr attempted to lift his friend’s prone body, but Percivale cried out in such agony that Bedwyr decided to support his head upon a quickly structured pillow of discarded furs. He held Percivale’s hand until the wounded man opened tired e
yes.

  ‘Bedwyr,’ he sighed. ‘Gronw escaped me.’

  ‘Don’t worry. Galahad has slipped our leash and is after him. If it takes all his life, Galahad will find that sodding Cup, and Gronw as well.’

  ‘You must go after Galahad and stop him, Bedwyr, for Gronw will kill him.’

  ‘Calm yourself, Percivale. We can follow our headstrong companion when you feel better.’

  Percivale sighed. ‘I’m a warrior, Bedwyr. There’s no need to lie to me, I know that I’m dying. Please, you must save Galahad from himself, for that Cup will surely kill him, just as it has killed me.’

  Percivale’s eyes closed and he appeared to sleep.

  Bedwyr left Percivale to take a cooling pot, thick with filthy grease, from a pack that had been abandoned near the doorway. He took it outside and scrubbed it vigorously with snow. Then he filled it with more clean snow and lugged it back into the hut.

  The fire was almost dead, but Bedwyr quickly coaxed it back to life and set the snow to melting and heating. Percivale was beginning to stir by the time the water was warm, and Bedwyr helped his friend to drink.

  ‘Are you still here?’ Bedwyr had to strain to hear Percivale’s thready voice. ‘Ah, well. God will decide.’

  ‘How did Gronw manage to wound you?’

  ‘It was my own fault,’ Percivale whispered. ‘I had him trapped on these hides. He was desperate, so he told me the Cup was on the rafter in the corner.’

  Bedwyr understood in an instant. ‘You couldn’t resist the temptation to hold the Cup, could you? You had to touch it with your hands, just once.’

  ‘Aye . . . and I did hold it, for a moment.’ The warrior in Percivale grimaced at his stupidity, but the priest in his soul longed to sing with joy. ‘It’s such a simple object. It’s so plain and so ordinary that you’d find a hundred better in any market. But I felt such peace when I held it in my hands. I believed I could never be happier. I was enchanted. And then Gronw stabbed me in the back. I don’t feel anything below the wound, and I’m cold . . . so very cold!’

  Bedwyr was distraught. Artor’s gentlest and truest warrior was fading before his eyes and he had no means to prevent his death.

  ‘You’re not easy to sneak up on, Percivale,’ Bedwyr said softly. ‘Even when you’re distracted.’

  ‘As I fell, Gronw snatched the Cup out of my hands, but it doesn’t matter now. I can still feel its power.’

  ‘I’m glad, Percivale. But you must rest and try to sleep.’

  ‘I’ll soon be in the deep sleep that will comfort me until the Last Judgement.’ Percivale smiled. ‘You must allow me to speak while I can, for my mind is clear, even though my body feels heavy and doesn’t follow my commands.’

  Bedwyr cradled Percivale’s head in his lap and they talked sporadically as the warrior drifted in and out of consciousness.

  ‘If you can, you must save Artor from the worst ravages of his fate, for he is my dear and tortured lord,’ Percivale begged Bedwyr at one point.

  ‘And I ask that you leave my body to the beasts,’ Percivale added later.

  Bedwyr could do nothing but nod sorrowfully.

  ‘Galahad will need you soon. He thinks his faith will protect him against the might of pagan savagery. But he’s young. I should have waited for you and Galahad to share the Cup and any goodness that dwelt within it. But I was captivated, and my selfishness has brought me to an ignoble end.’

  ‘That’s not true, Percivale,’ Bedwyr responded. ‘You’re the truest and most perfect warrior I have known in my lifetime. You’re among the very best of men.’

  Percivale clasped Bedwyr’s hand weakly.

  ‘I was at fault, Bedwyr.’ He sighed. ‘The curse of the Cup is that it seeks out our deepest longings and our greatest flaws. Artor mustn’t have it. And neither should any other man, unless he has a soul that is as tested and as pure as the spirit of Lucius of Glastonbury.’

  Time passed and Bedwyr listened to the fire crackle. Percivale was silent but still breathing. Suddenly he gave a sharp, high cry.

  ‘Save her! Save her! Save the babe!’

  Bedwyr understood that Percivale was caught in another time and place, but then the dying man’s eyes cleared and seemed unnaturally bright.

  ‘Tell Nimue I loved her truly, nearly as much as I love God. Tell her.’

  ‘I will, Percivale. I swear I will!’

  Then Percivale smiled sweetly and died.

  Bedwyr had no time to weep and no leisure in which to feel regret for the loss of a companion of the road. Percivale had been the best warrior of them all, and Bedwyr had disobeyed the wishes of his king to sit through the long vigil while Percivale died. But now the dogs of Hades were snapping at Bedwyr’s heels.

  A cold, merciless anger embraced him. He strode out of the hut and into the killing ground before it, his fury seeking an outlet.

  And there, like the answer to a cruel prayer, was the prone form of Pebr, conscious and angry within his bonds. The one-eyed man glared balefully at him, his lips pressed together tightly as if daring Bedwyr to force him to speak.

  ‘I don’t intend to waste time on carrion like you. You’ll tell me who your master is, and Gronw’s destination.’

  The one-eyed man spat up at Bedwyr’s face.

  The Cornovii wiped the spittle away reflectively. ‘The noble Percivale would have forgiven you for that particular insult, but I believe in an eye for an eye. My friend lies dead at the hands of Gronw. I intend to obtain my revenge for his suffering from you.’

  ‘Do your worst, pig!’

  Bedwyr began to collect dried wood from the hut. ‘You must be cold, sir. Had I the time, I’d build a proper fire and a long, wooden spit, and I’d warm you slowly, as the Saxons once taught me to do. But I’m in something of a rush.’

  The one-eyed man sneered at him.

  Bedwyr built a good-sized mound of wood over the feet of his prisoner, but not before he had tied the man’s thrashing legs together. Struggle as he might, Pebr couldn’t dislodge the heavy logs.

  Bedwyr set the wood alight.

  Because the one-eyed man lay prone, no blessed smoke rose to choke his lungs and give him a kindly death - or unconsciousness. Bedwyr hardened his heart against the man’s screams and he sat in the doorway of the hut cleaning his nails with feigned nonchalance.

  The one-eyed man was strong, but no one can endure the pain of burning. When Pebr could no longer feel his feet, Bedwyr stoked the fire higher up his legs. He felt neither shame nor qualms at his use of torture.

  Eventually, crazed with pain, the one-eyed man admitted that his true name was Pebr, although he had used many names in the service of his master, including the Outlander name of Fydyth.

  ‘Well, Pebr, you have my word that I will douse the fire if you wish to speak to me. You have only to ask.’

  Between screams, Pebr begged.

  Bedwyr doused the fire with snow. Pebr whimpered and stared at his blackened feet and legs. He would have fainted if Bedwyr hadn’t slapped him back to consciousness.

  ‘I’m now going to ask you nicely. Just once. Where is Gronw going?’

  ‘He’ll follow the river to the sea and then he’ll take the old Roman road north towards Bravoniacum. Friends will meet him and guide him along the journey.’

  ‘Well done, Pebr. I’ve one more question. Who is your master? Who provides the gold?’

  Pebr’s single eye flared wildly. ‘I serve no master! I have my own means!’

  ‘Oh, dear. And we were getting along so well. I shall have to collect more wood.’

  ‘No!’ Pebr screamed, but Bedwyr began to trudge back towards the hut. ‘The Brigante king pays me! I’m Brigante, and Modred is my master. I’m his servant.’

  Bedwyr turned, his face showing his contempt. ‘So you’re a mercenary as well as a traitor. I suspected as much. Only a man who’s been bought and paid for could countenance Modred as his master.’

  ‘No, I am a patriot. Artor killed my master, Lord Simne
l, and left his body to be eaten by the crows. Simnel was the true Brigante king, and I swore an oath that I would revenge him.’

  Bedwyr spat into the snow near Pebr’s tortured face. ‘Your master stole the throne from King Luka. What did you expect Artor to do?’

  ‘I was oath bound, as are you. What would you do in my place?’

  This final plea rose to a scream as Bedwyr placed a log carefully across Pebr’s genitals.

  ‘What other devilry has your master ordered you to complete?’

  Pebr answered in a rush, barely pausing for breath. ‘It’s all done and the pathway towards the throne of the west is prepared. That evil bitch, Morgause, is dead. I tricked one of Morgause’s maid - servants into placing a poison in a face powder that her mistress used every day. It took months for her to die. I also tipped King Lot out of his throne when he was alone. He couldn’t rise to his feet so I left him to die like the pig that he was.’

  Bedwyr felt his stomach roil with the scope of Modred’s planning. ‘What was the purpose of these crimes?’

  ‘My master wanted to ensure that the Otadini don’t come to Artor’s aid when Modred eventually commences his revolt against the High King. The claimants to the Otadini throne will be fighting amongst themselves to determine the succession. Their self-destruction will truly be a just punishment, for they didn’t lift a finger to help my master when he was their ally and needed their assistance.’

  ‘God’s teeth,’ Bedwyr cursed. ‘You believe you’ve done your liege lord a great service, but all you’ve achieved is to raise a storm of opposition against him. Modred will die for his treasons. How could he be so depraved that he kills his own mother?’

  ‘But Artor and his kin will also be dead,’ Pebr wailed. His muscles began to spasm and he began to weep hoarsely in pain.

  ‘I know what I’ve done. I’ve murdered my honour to fulfil my oaths to Modred. I’ve killed in the dark like a felon. But the gods will understand that I’ve been a tool, forced to become as base as the masters who own me.’