King Arthur: The Bloody Cup: Book Three

by M. K. Hume

  ‘Five other priests also died in the attack, but they were struck down by knives and swords as they attempted to put out the flames,’ Ked went on. ‘The altar was desecrated with piss, as were the sacred scrolls of the church. Worse still, the grave of Lucius, the previous bishop, was desecrated and an attempt was made to steal Lucius’s skull from his grave.’ Ked shuddered with remembered disgust.

  ‘How large was the force that attacked holy Glastonbury, Ked? You’re a woodsman and a warrior, so I imagine you could read the signs.’

  ‘Aye, my lord, I could follow their spoor clearly. There were six men in the party that attacked the holy place, but only one man was riding a warhorse. The other carrion were afoot when they attacked, although they stole two horses when they made good their escape.’

  ‘So they live close to the community of the priests. The foot soldiers wouldn’t have run far, not if they wanted to fight at the end of their journey.’

  Ked nodded in agreement. ‘The sign was clear. They headed north, so we chose to bring the attack to your attention rather than follow them.’

  ‘You have our thanks, and your master will have our support if he feels imperilled. Rest now, for tomorrow we ride to Glastonbury to discover what we can of this cowardly action.’

  As the men of Glyndwr were led away to comfortable stables and sleeping quarters, Artor rode back to his citadel. The showy roan under his strong legs was impatient to stretch its stride and he was forced to curb its enthusiasm by brute strength. Artor regretted the loss of Coal and his offspring years earlier, but there was no avoiding the relentless passage of the years.

  He was sunk in gloom when he handed his roan to the ostlers and strode into his quarters.

  ‘Lord Artor, will you spare an hour for an old servant?’ Gruffydd asked, wheezing in his efforts to match the king’s longer strides.

  ‘Of course, Gruffydd. And you’ll bring Gawayne, Galahad, Bedwyr and the twins to our discussion as well. I need fresh minds rather than the counsel of cautious old men.’

  ‘Such as myself, my lord?’ Gruffydd asked quickly, his grin not quite hiding something vulnerable that lay behind his eyes.

  ‘I’ve never considered you to be an old dodderer, Gruffydd,’ Artor answered the spymaster with a grin. ‘You’re far too nimble-witted. This situation provides an opportunity to test the young ones. Balyn and Balan are strong, I know, but are they quick-witted and flexible in their thinking? Is Galahad the paragon that he is reputed to be, or the sulky hypocrite that Gawayne’s enemies describe? Either way, my knowledge of these young warriors is increased.’ He smiled at Gruffydd. ‘You might also invite Nimue’s boy to join us. I know he’s not a warrior, but perhaps Myrddion passed on more to his son than quick fingers and an eloquent tongue.’

  ‘I live to obey, sire,’ Gruffydd replied with an impertinent grin that briefly lit his craggy face.

  ‘You’re an old flatterer,’ Artor said with affection.

  We’re all getting older, Artor thought pensively as he watched Gruffydd hobble away on swollen feet. And what of those who follow? Where will they stand, and what will they be prepared to die for?

  An hour later, Artor gazed around his spartan room where Llanwith had once put his muddy boots on the table and laughed until the room seemed too small for his mirth. Myrddion had stood in that far corner, guarding his thoughts, as his nimble mind sought answers to the troubles that beset his king. The mercurial Luka had banged this table with his knife hilt in frustration, and the wood still retained the impressions of his blows. And Targo - honest Targo - had sat at his right hand and reminded him that having an edge was the most essential part of combat.

  Perhaps, thought Artor, it might be better if he, too, was at rest with his beloved ghosts.

  Llanwith’s face swam, grinning, through Artor’s thoughts. He could still hear that redoubtable man’s demand of him, so long ago, when he was barely twelve years old.

  ‘Are you fast, boy?’

  ‘Fast enough!’

  Artor grinned reflectively. How had he dared to answer Llanwith with such impudence?

  Aye, the years had proved that he was fast enough, and strong enough, to overcome almost any hurdle - other than his loneliness. Llanwith had died twenty years ago of a burst vein in his head that sent a rush of blood pouring out of his ears, nose and eyes. He was replaced first by one son and then another, but his great strength hadn’t been passed on to his tall, virile sons. Only Comac, the youngest, had lived long enough to marry Licia, to father children and to hold the Ordovice tribe together. But he, too, had died tragically before he reached old age. His eldest son, Bran, now ruled in his stead and the line of the Ordovice kings seemed set to rule for generations. Artor smiled nostalgically. What would his old friend have said if he had known that Artor’s grandson would eventually rule the Ordovice in his place?

  ‘He’d have laughed, loud and long!’ Artor spoke aloud to the empty room, and hoped that his dead friend still watched over him.

  Ignorant of their king’s black mood, the next generation of warriors trooped into the chamber, rather over-awed to have reached the inner sanctum, and surprised by its lack of luxury and decoration.

  ‘My tastes are simple, young men,’ Artor offered in explanation, while Odin filled plain campaign cups with mead, ale and wine. ‘I have little patience with golden plates or fine fabrics, for possessions would only slow me down and deflect me from our cause. Ultimately, we must all be ready to surrender everything we own if we want to win the battles that are coming.’ He turned to his spymaster. ‘You’ve brought the staff used in the attack on Aethelthred, and you’re the expert on Druids. What can it tell us?’

  Gruffydd shook his head. ‘The Druids had no part in making this staff, my lord. I’ve served the old ones for all of my life, so I know and understand their symbols. I can swear without hesitation that this false object has no part in their ceremonies.’

  ‘How so?’ Balan asked carefully. ‘It looks authentic.’

  ‘Only to an untrained eye. The carving is very crude and I can’t recognize any discernible link with the old faith. For instance, this leering face where the hand sits against the wood is a satyricon, and that’s a Roman symbol. Besides, the decoration was carved long after the staff was made. See? The wood is cleaner and it has a different texture - in fact, it’s a different wood altogether.’

  ‘The Druids are in decline,’ Galahad interrupted. ‘There are few of them left since the Romans exterminated them on Mona Island. Could this attack mask an uprising against Christianity by disaffected Druids for the sins of the past?’

  Galahad’s prejudices were obvious and Gawayne shifted awkwardly on his stool, more sensitive than his son to the feelings of those who followed the old ways.

  ‘The Druids were teachers, lawmakers, healers and intellectuals.’ Bedwyr’s voice was flat but Artor could trace the faint shadow of disapproval under his words. ‘They’ve not fallen so far or become so stupid that they’d kill the Bishop of Glastonbury, a man who lives under the protection of the High King of the Britons. It’s well known that our king tolerates many religions.’

  Bedwyr had embraced the Christian faith in his youth, and had then become a pagan. But what religion did he follow now? Few men would dare to ask the Arden Knife what allegiances he held, other than loyalty to the High King.

  ‘Many of my people still cleave to the old ways, although the Christian religion has begun to make some inroads in Arden,’ he added. ‘But, like all sensible people, we pay lip service to both faiths.’

  Galahad snorted in derision.

  ‘Why would anybody try to take the skull of Bishop Lucius?’ Balan asked, stabbing to the heart of the conundrum. ‘He can’t be very important, for I’ve never heard of him.’

  ‘The desecration was aimed at me,’ Artor stated with conviction. ‘Lucius assisted at my coronation, and he saved my life when I was a babe by sending me to the Villa Poppinidii to be fostered by Lord Ector. Lucius was a man who
displayed both Roman reason and Christian faith, which is a rare and valuable combination. Perhaps the skull was required for some symbolic ritual that was designed to draw me out of Cadbury.’

  ‘Why would you leave the safety of your fortress?’ Balyn asked.

  ‘Because he must, my lord,’ Taliesin answered. ‘The murderer considers Lucius to be responsible for pains, real or imagined, that he feels have been exacerbated during Artor’s reign. If Artor ignores this insult, he will demonstrate to his enemies that he and his warriors are prepared to sit behind safe borders until the Saxons destroy all the kingdoms of the west.’

  ‘Thank you, Taliesin,’ Artor responded. ‘Like your father, you speak clearly and with brutal honesty. I’d rather stay at home and find peace at the fireside, but such a fate is not for me. My witch of a sister, Morgan, foretold my destiny many years ago.’ He smiled wryly at Gawayne and Galahad. ‘I apologize to you both for speaking of your aunt in such a manner.’

  ‘No offence taken, Artor,’ Gawayne responded. ‘She’s always been a thoroughly poisonous woman.’

  ‘Aye,’ Galahad agreed primly. ‘She’s heathen and her spells are works of the devil.’

  ‘So who are our enemies?’ Artor asked the assembled group. ‘And where are they?’

  ‘The priest may know something,’ Balyn suggested. ‘He must have had a good reason to come here on such a wild ride. Has anyone asked him yet?’

  Artor laughed and, slowly, the other men joined him.

  Balyn flushed to the roots of his amber hair.

  ‘Well done, Balyn. It seems that Queen Anna has true sons in her twins. You’ve asked the obvious question while we’ve wasted time in speculation.’

  Balyn blushed even more hotly.

  Artor turned to his bodyguard. ‘Find the priest, Odin. And try not to frighten him witless.’

  ‘You joke, lord,’ Odin said reproachfully as he left the room.

  ‘He frightens me witless’, Bedwyr quipped, ‘and I’ve known him for years.’

  Before the priest eventually stumbled through the doorway, he had found time to clean his face, dust his habit free of the dirt of the road and to bolt down a little food, so his boyish face had regained a little colour, while his slender body stood a little straighter and more at ease. His thin hands were pale and free of calluses, except for swollen and cut palms caused by the reins. From the damage to his tender hands, Artor judged that this priest had never ploughed the fields or worked in the orchards of Glastonbury.

  ‘What is your name, priest?’ Artor demanded.

  The willowy young man shifted nervously from foot to foot and a tic jerked along his weak jaw.

  ‘My birth name is Eldric, sire,’ was the whispered reply. ‘But I’m known within the church as Brother Petrus.’

  ‘Come, Brother Petrus, you don’t need to fear blade or cudgel here,’ Artor told him. ‘What are your duties at Glastonbury?’

  ‘I’m a scribe, my lord, and I’m copying and repairing the old scrolls for the glory of Mother Church. Glastonbury has become a place of learning as well as piety.’

  Artor rubbed the stubble on his chin and promised himself the luxury of a long bath and a close shave with his special blade when time permitted. This clean-faced stripling was making him feel withered and dishevelled.

  ‘Were you present when your bishop was killed? If you were, I order you to tell me all you saw or heard. Speak boldly.’

  Brother Petrus wrung his swollen hands together nervously without any apparent thought for the cuts and bruising that must have been causing him pain. Dreadful memory or fear seemed to distort his young face and he was obviously distressed. Taliesin was certain that this shy, pallid man was reluctant to relate his experiences in the church at Glastonbury because the recitation would do him no credit.

  ‘It was near to dusk when they came to the monastery, just after we rose from evening prayers. We smelled the smoke first. Had they not paused to set the hay barn alight, they would have had us trapped within the abbey.’

  ‘Why were these attackers so stupid?’ Taliesin murmured to no one in particular from his corner of the room. ‘Everyone knows at what time evening prayers are said in Christian churches. Besides, what would the attackers achieve by setting fire to valueless outbuildings?’

  Brother Petrus wondered briefly whether he was expected to answer these questions.

  ‘The bishop ordered the brothers to hasten outside to quench the fires,’ he said. ‘I stayed behind with Aethelthred, who was very old and frail.’

  ‘How many priests stayed with Aethelthred?’ Taliesin asked.

  ‘None of the brothers remained with the bishop. Why do you ask?’

  ‘I’m simply trying to imagine exactly what happened during the attack,’ Taliesin replied innocently. For Taliesin, Petrus was either a coward who avoided the fires or a dutiful young priest who wanted to protect his bishop.

  ‘Several brothers returned and told the bishop that the Glastonbury enclave was under attack. Again, they begged him to go with them and seek safety, but the bishop refused. Aethelthred ordered the brothers to put out the fires without risking their own lives, and assured them that God would protect him.’ The young priest almost spat out these words, and his mouth twisted unattrac - tively. When the eyes of the warriors registered their surprise at his manner, Petrus coloured and looked away in embarrassment.

  Artor irritably cleared his throat and Petrus resumed his narrative.

  ‘I heard the sounds of violence outside, so I tried to convince the bishop to leave the altar and flee to a place of safety. No matter how I begged, he wouldn’t see sense and remained with his sacraments. When the black warrior entered the body of the church, I tried to stand between my bishop and the ruffian, but he was armed and I couldn’t defend myself. Aethelthred simply continued with his prayers.’

  Artor wondered why Petrus hadn’t simply carried the ancient bishop to safety against his wishes. Petrus was young enough to perform such a simple task. Artor felt his lips curl, for he suspected that the sour-faced young priest had left his frail master to die.

  ‘The attackers must have desired the death of Aethelthred alone’, Artor stated drily, ‘for you’re unharmed. What became of the brothers who left the church?’

  ‘They dispersed to fight the fires, or tried to defend the church against the ruffians,’ Brother Petrus whispered nervously. ‘I thought they’d be murdered, but other brothers came in from the fields when they saw the flames. The villains eventually took to their heels and left.’

  ‘Did you flee the church?’ Artor asked impatiently. ‘What did you actually see with your own eyes? You must be precise! I don’t care about your part in this incident, or if you were hiding in the church to save your own skin. Far better men than you have found it prudent to run when they were outnumbered. So tell me, without embellishment, exactly what you saw.’

  Brother Petrus stared beseechingly at Artor and his mouth quivered. Like many ineffectual men, he could not face the knowledge of his own inadequacies. What he saw in Artor’s stern countenance gave him no help and he lowered his eyes.

  ‘I watched my bishop die while I hid in shame behind the altar hangings.’

  ‘Describe what you saw, Petrus,’ Taliesin said gently. ‘No one will blame you for protecting yourself because we’re fortunate to have a witness to the murder of the bishop. All we ask is that you help us to identify the murderous animal who committed this atrocity.’

  The kindness in Taliesin’s voice brought a fuller response.

  ‘There were six men. Five of them were servants of the man who was their leader, who was dressed in black. The men wore leather jerkins with plates of iron set into them and simple helmets without any emblems or symbols on them. They looked more like village ruffians than warriors, even though they carried knives and cudgels. The leader ordered them to leave the church, and I heard them digging outside.’ He paused for a moment, as if to gather his resolve.

  ‘The man in b
lack was different from his minions. He wasn’t tall, but his body was thick and powerful and he was heavily armed. I saw him clearly as he moved past me. He wore a black robe that was cinched at the hip with a silver belt of small skulls. His body armour was made of black leather with iron plates set into it, and he wore a helmet topped with black horsehair. The visor was down, so I couldn’t see his face.’

  ‘And?’ Gawayne urged impatiently.

  Artor glared at his nephew when Petrus flinched away from the Otadini prince.

  ‘He beat the bishop to death with his staff, that one there.’ Petrus pointed at the staff in Gruffydd’s hand. ‘The leader beat the bishop until Aethelthred’s head was cracked like an egg. Then the staff became caught under the altar and the killer was forced to leave it behind. I had to jam my fist in my mouth so that I wouldn’t make a sound.’

  ‘Did you see anything else?’ Artor’s voice was hoarse, for the tale was sickening.

  ‘The man’s hands and neck were tattooed, for I saw them when his robe fell open. There were more on his arms in the gap between his sleeves and his gauntlets. There were tattoos of serpents and strange monsters over his lower arms where the flesh was visible. The man was perverted and he cursed the altar in the old tongue, although I couldn’t understand the words. But I recognized the language. Then he urinated on the altar.’

  The young man gagged and would have vomited, but Taliesin pushed a cup of strong red wine into his unresponsive hands and forced him to drink. When a little colour had returned to the priest’s face, he continued.

  ‘When the black warrior left the church, I tried to see what he was doing through one of the window slits. His servants had opened the grave of Bishop Lucius and the black warrior reached through the exposed bones to remove something that I couldn’t quite see. Then our brothers arrived and the attackers fled. Their leader rode away on a black horse.’

  The young priest crossed himself to ward off evil. Palpably, the room’s heat seemed to dissipate in a chill of superstition. Petrus began to weep, his face twisted as if he was a child.