by M. K. Hume
‘I don’t want to return to Glastonbury! Please! I beg you not to send me back to the monastery, my lord, for the devil came to Glastonbury - and I don’t believe he has departed. I’ll hear the sound of that staff breaking my bishop’s skull for as long as I live.’
Artor looked at the quivering priest. His bottom lip was twisted in terror, and Artor felt a mixture of pity and scorn for the effeminate youth.
‘You may journey south to the monastery at Venta Belgarum, if you so wish. It’s for you and your church to decide what must be done with the life that your god has allowed you.’
Decisively, Artor turned back to his warriors and put all thought of Petrus out of his mind. Odin nodded his head towards the door and the young priest scuttled from the room.
‘Our investigation of these atrocities shouldn’t be complicated by superstition,’ Artor stated bluntly. ‘These abominations were enacted by a man. A murderous human killed the Bishop of Glastonbury and Gruffydd has expressed his doubts that this creature was a Druid. This murderer acts like no Druid I ever met, but whatever he is, he must answer directly to me for his crimes. On a clear day, the tower on Glastonbury Tor is just visible from our fortress, so this black warrior has struck very close to me - too close. I depart for Glastonbury at dawn.’
‘I wish to go with you, sire,’ each of his courtiers requested in turn.
Even Taliesin nodded his head in agreement.
Artor acknowledged their resolve and was content. A new generation was eager to be tested in a crucible of vindictiveness, cruelty and murder. Who knew what he would discover about these flushed and eager faces that watched him with such excitement.
Gawayne felt a strange prickling along his spine. Did his sexual adventure on the journey to Cadbury have any link with the black warrior? Not possible! Yet he recalled that he had seen a number of tattoos on the arms of Gronw, Miryll’s servant, but he had been an oily, subservient creature and hardly capable of the bold, brutal slaughter carried out by the black warrior. Surely he couldn’t be the murderer. Gawayne determined to put that uncomfortable idea out of his mind.
For his part, Galahad enjoyed a surge of righteous wrath. He believed that his purpose in life was to smite those pagans who lifted impious hands against the Church. And, as the knowledge of his destiny hardened in his mind, he remembered the tattoos that he had seen at Salinae Minor on the body of Gronw. The young man tried to catch his father’s eyes, but Gawayne pointedly ignored his son, going so far as to turn his back.
Every man at Artor’s council viewed the coming journey to Glastonbury through the mirror of his own nature, his fears and his ambitions, except for one.
Taliesin bit his lip and stared fixedly at his feet. Talk of the Bloody Cup was only rumour, or his mother’s nightmare, so why did he fear that the Glastonbury killing was the first sign of its malign presence?
When he finally drifted off to sleep in the stables, a bloodstained goblet continued to mock him in harrowing dreams.
CHAPTER VII
THE BLACK WARRIOR
The ride to Glastonbury was short and gruelling, but uneventful. When the warriors left at first light, Artor set a fierce pace and even the twins were stiff and aching by the time the quiet green vale came into sight in the late afternoon.
The ride had been made more difficult because Artor insisted on full battle kit which meant that the horsemen were encumbered by their breastplates, shoulder guards, gauntlets and leg guards which, because the young men were nobles, were either solid, embellished iron or were made of ox hides covered with iron plates. Either way, the riders and horses were heavy with unaccustomed weight.
Packhorses carried the equipment and arms needed for a sustained campaign on horseback. Each warrior required at least one spear, a fighting knife, a sword and an axe as a basic weapons kit. Although the weather was still cool, the inexperienced warriors were soon sweating and uncomfortable within their shells of protection. Their supply escort, well used to Artor’s lightning fast cavalry strikes on those occasions when the Saxons ventured out of their compounds, saw to the baggage train and followed at the rear of Artor’s cavalry force.
Artor, Gawayne and Odin, all seasoned cavalrymen, viewed the younger men in their midst with amusement. Sore backsides, chaffed underarms and aching muscles would cause most of these youngsters to suffer that night. Although well trained and fit, none of the younger men had experienced Artor’s version of a fast journey. They would soon learn.
Only Taliesin still sat easily in his saddle. Uninterested in combat, he had rejected body armour in favour of a heavy jerkin of boiled ox hide and crude but comfortable leather leggings. His head was protected by his father’s helmet, a skullcap of some blued, shining iron that had supposedly fallen from the heavens. The metal was abnormally strong, although it was much lighter than the usual iron. As his hands were precious to him, Taliesin’s gloves were soft and flexible, as were his simple boots, and his hair was plaited to form a cushioning protection under his helmet. With his hair no longer framing his face, his northern eyes were even more striking, and his clean-boned face reminded Artor strongly of the features of Myrddion Merlinus.
‘This valley is part of Glastonbury,’ Artor proclaimed as his arm encompassed the rich land that opened up before the tired eyes of his warriors. Dykes, streamlets and marshy ground caught the waning light in silvery sheets of water. Considering the violence that had taken place here just a few days earlier, Glastonbury drowsed in the beauty of an early spring afternoon, lulled by the sleepy hum of early bees, the heady scent of new growth and the rich aroma of newly turned loam.
‘Cadbury might be fair, but Glastonbury is a small slice of paradise,’ Balan said with youthful exuberance. ‘Here, all green things grow huge and even kine and cattle are more fertile than in any other place in the west that I’ve seen.’
‘To desecrate such peace strikes at the heart of the Christian faith,’ Galahad fumed. His hazel eyes were muddy with anger.
‘Ah, Glastonbury,’ Gawayne reminisced. ‘I made a fool of myself here once, didn’t I, Artor? It was only my lack of height that saved me from disaster that day. I must have appeared very silly, leaping upwards and trying to grasp Uther’s sword, when it was obviously far beyond my reach.’
‘You wrong yourself, nephew,’ Artor responded cheerfully. ‘The fates saved you from the burden of sword and crown, so you should be grateful for that blessing.’
‘Believe me, Artor, I am,’ Gawayne agreed with honest good humour. ‘Being caught between the ambitions of my mother, my father and my aunt is a fate too gruesome to contemplate.’
As the warriors rode between the green spear points of newly planted crops that had already begun to send out shoots, the priests who toiled in the fields stood upright and waved them on.
‘To work with the soil is truly God’s way at Glastonbury,’ Galahad murmured.
‘All men give what is their portion in this place, son,’ Gawayne said. He was nervous that his wayward son might cast off his weapons and pick up a hoe.
Several burned-out buildings came into view. Their desecrated walls rested on scorched stone foundations that left obscene scars in this gentle place.
Then a group of priests and lay brothers came forward to meet the king’s retinue. Under their fresh, ruddy cheeks and downcast eyes, their mouths were glum and unsmiling. Few eyes rose to meet the gazes of their visitors and caution stiffened their bowed shoulders. Surprised by the absence of an open welcome, Artor searched among the closed ranks for a familiar face.
‘Brother Simon. Simeon who was. Do you still defy time?’
A knotted, arthritic old man in a simple homespun robe stepped forth from the group and bowed low. His ancient eyes warmed as he looked up myopically at the king.
Time had not been kind to the old Jew. His black hair and beard were wholly white and he was left with a sparse fringe round his shaved tonsure. He had once been of middle height and had been whipcord thin, but now his spine was b
ent with the bone disease and Artor could tell that his hips pained him. His hands, those clever, artistic tools that had wrought the beauty of Caliburn and the dragon crown, were concealed within his robe.
‘Do your sword and knife still serve you well, sire?’ the old man asked in a hoarse baritone.
‘Aye, Brother Simon.’ Artor smiled back at the priest. ‘My weapons are still as young and as strong as we once were.’
The twins looked at the ascetic face of the churchman and then at the hilts of Artor’s weapons. Was this husk of a Jew the metal-smith who had wrought Caliburn, the legendary sword wielded by King Artor in the great battles against the Saxon hordes?
‘I’m flattered to hear you say so, lord. Those blades were the last really fine work I completed. I can do nothing now.’ He held up two twisted, arthritic hands and Artor felt pity wash over him at the thought of such a prodigious talent betrayed by the weaknesses of the body.
‘Don’t mourn for my lost dexterity, lord, for I have two fine apprentices who struggle to learn my skills. A man must serve as best he can and, on most days, I am content.’
‘Where is your bishop?’ Artor asked. ‘Have you appointed someone to step into Aethelthred’s shoes?’ Artor’s eyes swept the group of churchmen, all of whom were dressed alike with their hands hidden in their capacious sleeves.
A sturdy, black-haired man stepped out from the throng. Artor noted that he wore the Aryan tonsure, rather than the Roman version, and this priest had the confidence of a Celtic warrior. His origins were not written on his quick, clever face, but his length of limb indicated an eastern heritage.
‘I shall stand for my bishop until a new appointment is made in Venta Belgarum. My name is Mark.’
‘Has your bishop been buried yet, Mark?’
‘We waited for your arrival, my lord. Brother Simon was certain that you would come to Glastonbury because your ties to this place are so strong. Our bishop has been laid out in his vestments on the altar where he died. He’ll be interred beside Lucius after you’ve viewed his body, near the church wall that he perished to defend.’
This priest is a dour, direct man who possesses neither humour nor charm, Artor thought as he dismounted and handed the reins of his horse to one of the retinue. Still, he’s honest, and he meets my eyes without fear.
‘I wish to pay my respects to your dead bishop,’ Artor requested gently. ‘I must see with my own eyes what has been described to me.’
Mark bowed and guided the warriors through a simple stone entryway that led into the church. The younger men couldn’t resist satisfying their curiosity by examining the site of such a blasphemous murder. Of the noble warriors, Gruffydd and Gawayne remained behind in company with Odin and Gareth. Percivale followed his master, falling to his knees as he entered the church and moving his lips in silent prayer.
The body of the bishop had been washed, oiled and dressed in ceremonial robes, but the gaping wounds that crisscrossed the bishop’s head were plain to see. And neither nard nor precious oils could disguise the sweet scent of corruption. A thin strip of gauze covered the dead man’s face and Artor drew it back exposing more wounds. A clear imprint, as cruel as any torture that Artor had ever seen, showed that a booted heel had crushed the bishop’s nose into shapeless pulp.
Galahad crossed himself. Even Balyn, who had no fear of death, stepped back from the sight of such desecration.
‘This poor man has been butchered,’ Artor said evenly, although Percivale felt the undertow of anger that surged from beneath his master’s veneer of self-control. ‘You can see that he held his hands up to protect himself against repeated blows.’
The bishop’s hands had been broken in many places from the force of the attack, even though gentle ministrations had straightened the fractured bones and folded the gnarled fingers into the position of prayer over the bishop’s thin chest.
Taliesin moved forward and carefully parted the robe covering Aethelthred’s torso. Another heel imprint was visible across the old man’s throat; his killer had used his boot to shatter the larynx and the spine below it. A strip of linen ran under the corpse’s chin and around the crown of the head.
‘It’s only this cloth that keeps the skull together, my lord. As the bruises show, he must have lived for a short time during this beating.’ Taliesin pointed out swollen, blackened marks that stood out hideously in the waxen pallor of the old man’s ruined face. ‘A single, well-placed blow would have given the bishop a quick death, but the murderer took pleasure in inflicting pain. His heart was filled with hate.’
Sickened and shaken, Artor replaced the gauze over the bishop’s face.
‘Rest well,’ Artor muttered. ‘Ave, brave heart!’
After a moment’s silence, Artor turned to face Mark.
‘Take me to the grave of Lucius,’ he ordered.
‘May your god save this black warrior from the anger of the king,’ Bedwyr whispered to Balan. ‘For Artor will have his revenge. The black warrior will suffer before the king lets him die.’
‘Is the king so brutal?’ Balan asked.
‘When wicked men practise evil, they must be forced to fear for their lives.’ Bedwyr spoke softly. ‘He practises the old ways of justice that he learned from the Romans who raised him. For men such as Artor, punishment is meted out to the exact measure of the crime committed, and it is carried out with complete impartiality. His justice is harsh, but it’s effective against the sort of barbarity that was inflicted on the good bishop.’
‘Can this form of cold-blooded justice create a peaceful civilization?’ Balan was sceptical.
‘Perhaps you should consider Cadbury and the peace that has been created there. A generation ago, it didn’t exist. Harmony and plenty reign in the west, and you rode here from the north in perfect safety. The only reason that such security exists is because Artor has meted out retribution to thieves and plunderers and he’s not afraid to get his hands dirty in the process.’
‘But what of his soul?’ Balan murmured.
‘Ask him yourself,’ Bedwyr replied and hurried after his king.
In the lee of the church wall, a grave had been partially excavated. The stained and rotted shroud had been ripped away so that the skull bones and the clasped fingers of the long-dead Roman bishop were partially exposed. Out of respect for Lucius, a piece of embroidered cloth had been placed over the pathetic skeletal remains.
‘To bone and dust we all go eventually, friend Lucius,’ Artor whispered as he stroked the worn thumb ring gifted to him by the long-dead bishop at his coronation.
Artor knelt so he could remove the fragment of embroidery and carefully examine the partially exposed bones.
‘Is this grave exactly as it was left after the attackers were driven off?’
‘Aye, my lord. We knew you’d want to see this desecration for yourself, so we only covered the bones with planks to protect them from the elements.’
‘Why would these animals expend so much effort and place themselves at such risk to open an old grave?’ Artor looked up at Taliesin, who was also puzzled. ‘The black warrior had few men and little time, while Glastonbury has many potential defenders. The villains stole nothing. The attack appears to have been carried out with the intention of killing Aethelthred and opening Lucius’s grave. These actions are bizarre, because the black warrior must have known that these churchmen would fight to protect the bones of their dead bishop. A diversion, perhaps?’
‘The skull doesn’t seem to have been disturbed, my lord,’ Taliesin replied quietly. ‘See? The earth is still tightly packed around the bones. Perhaps there was something else in the grave that the Black warrior wanted. Petrus seemed certain that something was taken.’
Artor turned to question Brother Mark. ‘Was anything of value placed in the grave of Bishop Lucius when he was interred?’
‘I don’t know, my lord. I wasn’t here when Lucius ruled Glastonbury. God hadn’t called me at that time in my life.’
Artor smiled th
inly at the priest. ‘Fetch Brother Simon. He was outside the sanctuary earlier. And bring any other greybeard who served the church when Lucius was Bishop of Glastonbury.’
Men didn’t dawdle when Artor issued orders, especially when the king was visibly upset. Brother Simon soon arrived. Breathless, he leaned heavily on a sturdy staff and winced as he gazed down into the gaping grave. The empty eye sockets of the skeleton flickered with a counterfeit of life.
Four other ancient priests joined the group standing in the burial ground. Their eyes slid over the open grave as if they, too, couldn’t control the primal curiosity that living creatures feel for the dead. Age-mottled hands clutched at crucifixes and made the sign of the cross.
Artor addressed the elders of the monastery.
‘Was anything placed in the grave of Lucius at the time of his death and burial? Is something missing? It’s important that we are properly informed if we are to capture the men who killed your bishop. Today isn’t the time to preserve old secrets. Look closely, keen-eyed Simon, and try to remember if there were any objects in the grave that have been removed.’
The old priests came forward and stared down into the grave. Confusion and regret dulled their eyes.
Then one lurched into hurried speech. ‘I recall seeing something placed in Lucius’s hands as his body was laid out on the altar.’
‘What was the object?’ Artor demanded.
The old monk was frightened into a panic of incoherent mumbles.
‘It was his drinking cup, Lord Artor,’ another priest said earnestly. ‘Lucius was interred with his old campaign cup. He used it at every meal.’
‘I know the object, my lord.’ Simon sighed and lowered his eyes. ‘I remember that its dull metal had been scratched and dented by time. Before he died, I even offered to make Lucius another cup more befitting his station, but he refused my suggestion. He told me his cup had travelled over half the world and had, at times, been drenched in blood. He didn’t elaborate on how it came into his possession, but he did say that it was fitting that it should now contain clean water to quench the thirst of a simple priest.’ Simon hesitated. ‘I’d quite forgotten his battered old mug.’