by M. K. Hume
‘There’s no need for pretence or apology with me, my king. I’m only Taliesin, your harpist, and no man counts me important enough to court my loyalties.’
‘More fool them!’
Taliesin felt the force of the old king’s character. Like a guttering candle, Artor’s spirit still burned bright and clear. His grey eyes might be nestled within networks of old man’s wrinkles, but the intelligence and reason that had governed the king’s life shone through with purity. Although Taliesin had seen those same eyes freeze with pitiless calculation, he had also watched the deep and concealed compassion that swam in their cool depth, and enlivened Artor’s rugged face with a special kind of love.
Artor had submerged much of his own humanity into the task of saving the west from invasion. Family, love, fidelity, gentleness, consideration and humility had been ruthlessly buried because circumstances had transformed these virtues into weaknesses. But Taliesin knew that Artor still possessed these characteristics in abundance, and he was sad to see Artor’s constant struggle to keep his softer side alive.
‘I’m proud to stand behind you, my lord, and I’m grateful that I’ve taken my father’s place. I’m also privileged to see the last of your strength and, if the gods should permit it, to record the Passing of the king and the kingdom before I die.’
‘Will you play for me, friend? Give me a folk song, one to remind me of our people and what they expect of me.’
‘Of course, my lord. I’ll tell you a tale that the villagers sing in the mountains at the time of the autumn threshing.’
His voice lulled Artor to sleep for a short time and, when the king awoke, they talked as friends do, late into the night. Artor could almost pretend that Myrddion and Targo were still alive and were speaking through the mouth of the young harpist.
Elderly men take what comfort they can from their memories of the happy past.
As the first autumn winds soughed around the ramparts of his fortress, Artor felt the inexorable advance towards physical death. A sudden gust shook the shutters and the king was reminded that the kingdom was under attack. Like the wind that battered at his walls, his enemy was also invisible, but if he reached out his hand, he could feel its presence.
With a chill, he admitted that nothing, and nobody, could stop the wind.
CHAPTER X
A WEB OF DECEIT
Gronw sat in a mean little hut built of wattle, daub and reeds, and stared sullenly at his tattooed hands. The hut leaked when it rained and the wind found its way through a myriad cracks and holes that made every damp winter night a misery.
The black warrior’s refuge stood in a cleft between two windswept hills to the west of Deva, a large provincial town that lay at the end of Seteia Aest. Deva was situated on the main Roman road from Venta Silurum into the north, and any intrepid traveller knew that Deva was the gateway to the Brigante lands. In obedience to the instructions that had been hurriedly whispered to him at an inn in the town, Gronw had ventured on to the smaller, rutted road heading towards Mamucium and, from there, he had followed an almost invisible track that branched away into the hills. Few travellers ventured into these windy, barren slopes, so the murderous priest was relatively safe from discovery.
Only the hardy or the desperate braved the desolate track that served as a pathway for shepherds and farmers from the lowlands. While Gronw’s quarters in the wild were ugly and uncomfortable, the families who provided the shelter were true believers who had long adhered to the old ways of worship, so Gronw was secure. They gave this shepherd’s hut freely as a base for Gronw’s work.
Malcontents, the curious and a number of ragged hill people had come to listen to the rantings of the black warrior, who was popularly believed to be a Druid of the highest order. In fact, Gronw bore no resemblance to the masters of the old lore and didn’t possess the high status that he assumed so glibly. He clung to ancient, Prydyn woman’s magic rather than Druid maunderings over mistletoe or oak.
The Prydyn, the ancient name for the Picts, recognized the Tuatha de Danaan, although the Celts could never get their mouths around the Pictish names. Gronw smiled unpleasantly. Ceridwen was fundamental to his faith, for Prydyn queens often decided who ruled the land in the name of the goddess. Many a Prydyn king governed only because his mother held the true reins of power in the name of Ceridwen.
‘These Celtic pigs accept their Ceridwen in Her place. Her name is too holy for their tongues.’
The emptiness of the ramshackle shepherd’s bothie echoed his words oddly, so that a second voice seemed to speak aloud with him. Gronw shivered within his cocoon of furs and rags. The goddess came rarely, but when She did notice the affairs of fragile, feeble men, every message was charged with meaning. Celts had killed Gronw’s mistress Gernyr, Ceridwen’s priestess, and Celts had killed Miryll, the daughter of Gernyr, so She was thirsty to drink their blood and feast on their raw and quivering flesh. Many years earlier, the Roman legions had castrated the Celtic Druids at Mona, and only the shivering remnants of those priests still worshipped in the sacred groves of oak. But She went on and on, wearing different names, and bearing different faces. The goddess was forever, and She would dance on the graves of the Celts.
‘Men are fools when religion is used as an excuse for their failures,’ Gronw muttered to himself as he stripped off his threadbare ceremonial robe and busied himself with heating a simple rabbit stew that had been sent by a member of his flock. ‘Celts are easily convinced that the gods have turned their faces away from them - as if the gods would care if some petty chieftain loses a son or two in battle, or a disease kills all his cows. Rather than accept that they themselves might be inadequate, these Celts choose to blame Artor for their ills. He has angered the gods so they must suffer!’ Gronw spoke aloud to relish the taste and sound of his words.
‘Their selfish stupidity is an easy weapon to use against them, Mistress Gernyr,’ he whispered. ‘Yes. We’ll use it, won’t we? How these Celt pigs love it when I blame Artor for their poverty, the Saxon attacks and even the weather. They salivate to heap their sins on to the shoulders of the High King. Miryll has served her purpose, although I had not planned to use her in quite this way.’
The Lady of Salinae Minor had assumed a mythic martyrdom since Gronw had been forced to flee from his southern base of operations. A helpless, pregnant woman was an ideal symbol to illustrate that the High King was a depraved and murderous barbarian. Even an unborn child could not be permitted to survive if it threatened Artor’s hold on the throne. Many men who had ancient quarrels with the Romans, or who possessed Saxon heritage that had its genesis during the reign of Vortigern, embraced any myth that fed their resentments.
Gronw giggled again, but louder, and the sound was manic and teetering on hysteria as it filled the bare, wooden room.
‘Vortigern fell prey to Ceridwen. His wife, Rowena, was an adherent of the goddess, for all that she was Saxon. Those barbarians accept Her influence as well, although they prefer their gods of thunder and discord. Poor foolish Vortigern was old and frightened of his sons, so he invited Rowena’s kin to enter his kingdom.’
Gronw snorted mirthlessly.
‘Imagine, mistress, an old grey rat who is frightened of the sleek sons he had spawned. He welcomed in the cats to protect him - and the kin of Vortigern, High King of nothing, have been trying to get rid of them ever since. Vortigern was a Celtic fool, so Uther and his son have wasted Celtic lives to root out the Saxons the old man invited into the land. Good! Fewer for me to kill! But Vortigern left a legacy of hatred which we can use, mistress, as Ceridwen used Miryll in our holy cause. Miryll’s death has served a great purpose. The people, great and small, will listen to the story of her death and weep for her lost love for Gawayne. It doesn’t matter that there was no love on either side. The story is pretty, and they can weep over her innocence and her loveliness.’
Gronw was right. Legends achieve a life of their own. Miryll’s tower, her weavings and her liaison with Gawayne had
developed a distinctly sentimental tone. Even the tale of her watery burial had been adapted so that the lady sang her own burial song.
‘Men are such fools, mistress. You’d smile to see how easily the Celts can be manipulated.’
Gronw never spoke to Miryll’s shade. Her spirit did not choose to visit him, although he had been present at her birth and had acted as her foster-father for most of her short life. Gronw still served the raven-haired Gernyr, Miryll’s mother, who had been his secret lover before her husband, Rufus Miletus, exercised his rights as paterfamilias. Even the passage of nineteen years had not dulled Gronw’s deep hatred for all things Romano-Celtic, or for those people who preserved that hateful regime.
Gernyr and her servant, Gronw, had been the spoils of a skirmish beyond the Wall when she was little more than a child. They were captured on a rutted horse trail overlooking the soft landscape above Ituna Aest by Rufus Miletus, a prominent man in Salinae who had been visiting King Lot with his father, Miletus Magnus. At that time, hunting barbarians was a popular Celtic sport and ten-year-old Gernyr had been a valuable catch, had any of her rapists chosen to discover that her father was a Prydyn king. Ignorant of her status, Miletus Magnus had made the little girl a slave in his household.
Gernyr had hated secretly and with utter concentration for her whole youth. She did not soften even after Rufus Miletus had become so captivated by her beauty and spirit that he had taken her as his wife, and she had used her woman’s knowledge, and Gronw’s aid, to ensure that she never fell pregnant to the man she loathed. Miletus had not been cruel, and he had endured harsh censure from his dying father when he entered into marriage with a freed slave, so her coldness, promiscuity and visible dislike was an unbearable insult.
Over time, she had eagerly taken Gronw, or any other man of influence, into her bed so she could revenge herself on her husband for stealing her away from her homeland. That her daughter, Miryll, was born at all was a small miracle, and Gernyr was unsure who had fathered the babe that she had initially attempted to abort. Ultimately, the child had become just another tool of revenge that Gernyr used against the hapless Miletus, who could never be sure if he cherished another man’s child. To his shame, the Celts of Salinae enjoyed gossiping about his disgraceful wife until he had no choice but to take action against her.
Gronw remembered the last, terrible battle of words that had resulted in Rufus Miletus striking off Gernyr’s head. Since that dreadful, blood-soaked moment, Gronw’s life had ceased to have meaning, and only his taste for revenge gave his life a semblance of reality. Rufus Miletus had been banished and had died peacefully at Salinae Minor. Who was left to hate but all Celts, and the High King in particular, whose laws perpetuated the enslavement of the Picts, the proud Prydyn?
Although the assassination attempt at Salinae Minor had failed, Gronw had discovered that Artor was assailable. The High King’s true and utterly faithful followers were growing old, while the king’s safety seemed rarely a matter of concern for the younger lords. Artor’s fighting skills were legendary and his aura of invincibility was so strong that few of the High King’s loyal servants could imagine that old age could dim his prowess. Complacency blinded Artor’s court, and even the High King had become careless of his own safety through many years of peace and prosperity. So great was Artor’s reputation that, in a few months, the vigilance born out of a narrow escape from death would begin to fade and he would once again become easy prey. Artor did not value his own life, although he would do nothing to end it. Gronw had no understanding of why the High King might welcome death, but he was happy to oblige if he had the opportunity.
In the meantime, the Cup was in his possession.
Although Gronw was a natural conspirator, he had few leadership skills. After Gernyr died, Gronw had been alone, raising Miryll in bitterness and lies - until his new master discovered him in the sterile solitude of Salinae Minor and his life regained its purpose and direction. His new role was to spread sedition and distrust against Artor, and if religion could help serve this avowed purpose, then it would be used.
Gronw extracted the Cup from its hiding place beneath a loose stone in the floor of the hut. It was such a plain, unassuming object, considering it wielded so much power over human imagination.
When Miryll had first seen it, newly recovered from the grave at Glastonbury, she had looked at it in wide-eyed amazement.
‘Why is the Cup so precious, Father Gronw? It’s only a metal drinking vessel.’
‘It’s not what it is that accounts for its worth, Miryll, but who owned it. This battered mug once hung at the girdle of Mother Ceridwen. And she used it to ladle out drops from the Cauldron of all Knowledge. If you drink from the vessel, and your lips touch the rim once handled by Ceridwen, your heart will gain all her knowledge.’
The poor little fool had believed both his promises and his lies about her kinship with Ceridwen. A small lump stuck in his throat, for he had valued her worth to him, but his habits of obedience ran too deeply to be swayed, even by love. His new master had told him to kill the bishop when he took the Cup, and he had enjoyed murdering the Christian prelate at his own altar, but Gronw had been mystified by the need to kill him. Aethelthred was too humble to be powerful, and his death was of no appreciable worth to their cause.
Gronw carried out his master’s wishes but master and servant had their own, separate goals. Gronw sought the destruction of every Christian Celt in the land, for nothing less than a river of impious blood would appease him. Let his master dream of power, but Gronw was at war, ultimately, with all things Celt - including his master.
Gronw’s lips twisted in fleeting pleasure. He knew he was a pawn, and at times like these, when he was cold and hungry, he railed against his fate. But next week, he would leave these uncomfortable lodgings and find a new refuge where he could spread his poison to a wider audience. He wouldn’t sleep soundly until all the Celts in the west were washed away and the shade of his mistress could finally rest. And then, perhaps, Gronw would no longer dream.
Galahad strode through the gardens of Salinae Minor, finally alone now that his father had taken up his duties in the north. Within the villa, Percivale slept in unguarded peace.
Before leaving Venonae, Galahad had sought out his king in a private audience.
‘Forgive my rudeness, my king, but I need your assistance. It’s imperative that I have someone I can trust to act as my second self at Salinae Minor during the search for Gronw. If we are to find the Cup, as you have ordered me to do, I’ll need someone who shares my beliefs and thinks as I do. Moreover, we cannot afford to alienate the priests of Glastonbury, so I’ll need a good Christian warrior as a companion.’
The High King chose to judge Galahad’s brusque manner as a personality trait caused by a fixed and obsessive nature, rather than intentional discourtesy. Galahad’s request made sense, although Artor doubted the prince’s clarity of purpose. Faced with a choice between his god and the Celtic cause, Galahad could well falter.
Gruffydd had informed Artor that rumours of Ceridwen’s Cup were circulating widely in the north. His spies could speak of little else, and solving the origins and location of the Cup was an urgent matter.
‘Would my bodyguard, Percivale, suit your needs?’ Artor asked. ‘I’ll be sorry to lose him, even for a short time. Percivale is more my friend than my servant, and I made a promise to Targo on his deathbed that I would keep Percivale by my side. However, this puzzle of the Cup is more important than my own needs, so I’ll temporarily relinquish him to you.’
Impressed by the speed of the king’s decision-making, Galahad nodded in agreement and Percivale was soon summoned into the king’s private presence.
Percivale was now forty-five and a seasoned warrior. His face was boyish, but his scarred body was muscular and fit.
‘I must ask you to leave the court and undertake a mission of great importance to the west,’ Artor told his aide. ‘If I had any choice in the matter, I wouldn’t ask th
is of you, but Galahad needs you in his quest to find the Bloody Cup, a religious relic that is being used to rally forces against me. This Cup must be found, and Glastonbury is the key to its origins. Someone there must know where Lucius first obtained it. After all, the Cup was in Glastonbury for at least seventy years. Your god dwells there among the priests, so you will fare better than I, or even Galahad, for that matter, for he comes from the pagan realms to the north. The priests are more likely to speak freely to you than to either of us.’
Percivale sighed, and a world of sadness dwelt in the sound.
‘I live to serve you, my lord,’ he responded. ‘If this task is the best way to do it, then I am prepared to take my leave from you and perform my duty.’
Artor clapped Percivale on the shoulder.
‘Good man. It’s unfortunate, but I can’t trust Galahad’s judgement. He’s mad with love for his god, so the interests of Christianity might not always be best for his king. I know that you’ll always be loyal and true to your conscience.’ Artor smiled at Percivale. ‘You have one further task. As well as finding the Cup of Lucius, I want you to discover who is behind its use in what I suspect is a conspiracy against me. I believe that Salinae Minor may still have secrets that might be of use to me. And while you’re in the area, visit Glastonbury and introduce yourself to the new bishop.’
Percivale nodded in agreement. He recalled Brother Simon’s cautious reticence when the king had questioned him about Lucius’s Cup; a courtesy call to the new bishop would provide an excellent opportunity to seek out the old Jew and question him further.
Percivale left for Salinae Minor in company with Galahad, but not before Odin had voiced his fears.
‘The trine is broken, Perce. How shall Gareth and Odin serve King Artor without you? Two is unlucky and a dangerous number.’
Odin looked so disconsolate that Percivale almost changed his mind. But Taliesin stepped forward and volunteered his services as the third bodyguard.