by M. K. Hume
And so the discoveries made during the next day were an anticlimax. Percivale was winched into position under the floor and risked life and limb by hanging over the empty, central well of the tower. Below him, the stone flagging threatened to break every bone in his body if he fell.
As he sought footholds on the stone that made up the wall, Percivale realized that relatively fresh iron hooks had been placed in position and painted black to disguise them from all but the closest scrutiny. With the assistance of the hooks, he reached the centre of the wheel in minutes.
‘Someone’s been here before us, Galahad,’ he called down.
After peering at the solid wooden wheel for several minutes, he pulled on one of the slabs of oak that was part of the construction and the thin plank moved slightly, leaving a narrow, dark aperture. Percivale pulled more forcefully until the board slid a little too far and fell into the depths below.
A long length of woollen cloth tumbled out of the gap, unfurling as it fell.
Percivale felt inside the diagonal space that was left, but if a relic had ever been there, it was now long gone.
‘Damn, shite and Hades!’ Galahad swore from below. ‘All that effort for nothing!’
Breathing raggedly, Percivale hauled himself back on to the tower steps.
‘It wasn’t for nothing, Galahad. We now know for certain that there is a relic, and that it was once hidden in this tower.’
‘But we knew it existed before we looked.’
Percivale shook his head. ‘We only thought it did. Now we know for certain.’
Over ale in the scriptorium, the men examined the length of cloth that had been left in the wheel.
The wool was ancient, unbleached and it had discoloured to the hue of old honey. Oil stains marked the folds in the fabric, and they could tell that the wrapped object had been long, thin and almost six feet in length.
‘The relic must have been a staff,’ Percivale guessed.
‘So what made this hole in the fabric?’ Galahad countered, wiggling a finger through a small tear caused by friction wear at one end.
‘Perhaps it had a sharp edge . . . or something.’
‘Possibly,’ Galahad said glumly. ‘But it’s long gone now.’
Percivale remembered the length of old, dark wood that had bludgeoned the Bishop of Glastonbury to death. It had been carved with a Roman satyr at one end, which had been covered in blood.
‘Gronw must have found the relic,’ Percivale murmured. ‘Perhaps he thought it was a Druid staff, or an object of magic. It’s even possible that Gronw didn’t know what it was. Questions. There are always more questions.’
The two men folded the woollen wrappings and stared fixedly at them. Once again, they considered the words of the rhyme and the legend of Joseph.
‘We have a staff, a Cup, a thorn tree and mention of the Trader of Arimathea,’ Percivale muttered. ‘But the tower was hiding a staff, when it should have been a spear . . . the Spear!’
The silence lengthened as Galahad considered the Roman spear that was said to have pierced the side of Jesus as he suffered on the Cross. His blood roared in his ears.
Abruptly, Percivale rose to his feet. ‘We may have some of the answers to the questions in our puzzle, but we could easily be wrong.’
Galahad pointed to the words of the rhyme. ‘The reference to arid lands fits the description of the land of Israel, and a Roman soldier speared the side of Jesus while He was dying on the Cross. The soldiers were said to have gambled for His possessions, which could have included His drinking vessel.’ He smiled across at Percivale. ‘Lucius said his Cup had once held wine.’
‘Slow down, Galahad. We know of the staff that killed the bishop, but we know nothing for certain of a spear. A small hole in woollen wrappings is not proof of its existence. And to guess that the Cup of the Last Supper travelled all the way to Glastonbury is . . . well . . . very hard to believe.’
Percivale’s cautionary words were just so much background noise to the feverish thoughts that circulated within Galahad’s brain. ‘All the facts fit,’ he insisted. ‘And the rhyme makes sense if the Cup of Lucius belonged to Jesus.’
‘But why would Bishop Lucius keep the Cup of the Last Supper for his personal use?’ Percivale cautioned. ‘Why didn’t he send such a sacred object to Mother Church for safekeeping? We are probably imagining a solution to the puzzle that suits our purpose, rather than following logic.’ He closed his eyes in concentration. ‘Lucius knew the danger of his Cup. He’d been a Roman officer, he’d seen the worst excesses of warfare. If he suspected its origins, he’d have known that such an object could become a powerful tool for any unscrupulous kinglet who desired to further his power and influence. Lucius must have wondered at the connection when he heard the legend of Joseph at Glastonbury and saw the white thorn growing in an alien land.’
‘So why did he keep it?’ Galahad demanded. ‘At the very least, he should have hidden it, even if his suspicions were unfounded.’
Percivale grinned. He had heard from Gruffydd the tale of how Lucius led Artor in the search to find the sword and crown of Uther Pendragon.
‘Lucius was a subtle man, so he probably wanted to hide the Cup in plain view, just as he did with Uther’s crown and sword. Who’d suspect that a battered old mug might have such a history? Besides, Lucius may have had doubts about the origins of the Cup. Nothing else fits the facts as we know them.’
‘I agree. Lucius must have had some doubts.’ Galahad’s sluggish brain had been stimulated and was now working with greater speed. ‘And his natural caution would have impelled him to have the Cup interred with his body after his death.’
Although common sense warned Percivale not to leap to conclusions, he was a Christian and he yearned for an affirmation of his faith. Heady thoughts sent his mind spinning with promises of God’s love made concrete through Lucius’s Cup.
‘There are no other answers that make any sense,’ he said slowly, his eyes shining. ‘The Spear that pierced the side of Jesus, the Cup, and the fragment from the Crown of Thorns might have found a home in Britain. The thorn tree grows freely at Glastonbury, but the other two are in unknown hands.’
Percivale wanted the relics to be Christian to validate his life choices but, gradually, his eyes cleared and he became his normal, controlled self again.
‘Perhaps these relics really are what we would like them to be . . . and perhaps they aren’t,’ he said. ‘Either way, they could easily be manipulated by some ambitious and greedy person who was fortunate enough to gain possession of them. A man as pious as Lucius would never have made personal use of the Cup of the Last Supper if he’d truly believed that was what it was. But he knew how dangerous the Cup could be if it fell into the wrong hands. Lucius took great care to keep the Cup out of men’s imaginations, for the very reason that he didn’t believe it held religious power.’
‘He could have been wrong,’ Galahad stated flatly.
‘Aye, but perhaps we yearn for proof that our faith is paramount. Perhaps we ascribe too much meaning to the Cup’s purpose. Whatever the truth might be, we can never truly know - never. The Cup is dangerous because it could be made into Ceridwen’s Cup, or the Cup of the Last Supper, or anything else we care to imagine.’
‘So Gronw holds the most powerful relic in all of Christendom in his profane hands,’ Galahad murmured. ‘Artor must be told of this danger.’
Percivale nodded. ‘The hunt for the crown and the sword of Britain was as nothing compared with this quest. No throne is directly at stake here, but this search leads to the very roots of Christendom. The Cup must be found.’
‘We can’t afford to waste a moment, can we, Percivale?’ Galahad said impetuously, having absorbed little of what Percivale had said. ‘God intended that you should come to Salinae Minor with me and that you would place the Cup of Christ into my hands.’
Percivale saw the light of zealotry and madness dancing in Galahad’s eyes. Lucius’s worst fears about the
power of the symbol were evident in the young prince and Percivale saw his path clearly at last. The cold, ambivalent and largely godless Artor would have the strength of character to see the Cup for what it really was. And, the High King must ensure that the staff used to kill Bishop Aethelthred must never fall into the hands of the same unscrupulous persons who now held the Cup. Percivale recalled that as he had stood at the last gate of the tor and listened to the news of Aethelthred’s murder, Gruffydd had been given the staff. Artor must be warned of its potential for evil.
‘We must ride to Cadbury,’ he agreed, and Galahad needed no further urging.
If the gods of the Romans were watching, Percivale was certain that they would be laughing at the frailty of mere humans.
Galahad permitted their beasts to take no rest on the journey to Cadbury. The horses were near to exhaustion when the two warriors reached the southern road leading to the tor. Galahad demanded fresh animals from a group of pilgrims en route to Glastonbury. They saw the red fever in Galahad’s eyes and handed over two of their horses without hesitation. As Galahad spurred his new mount into a gallop, the pilgrims crossed themselves.
Every fibre of Percivale’s being screamed the need for caution, but Galahad’s fervour permitted no argument. In vain, Percivale pointed out that Artor was likely to be absent from Cadbury and could be waiting in Venta Belgarum for more clement weather, in case the damaged Saxon forces of Anderida made another abortive attack on the Celtic forces in the south.
‘All the more cause to hurry in case Artor hasn’t left for the south,’ Galahad insisted.
‘But if he’s gone, we’ll have to follow him!’ Percivale called after the prince’s back. ‘The horses will die if we keep up this speed.’
‘Then they’ll die, and we’ll just take others,’ Galahad shouted back.
Eventually, in an exhausted daze, Percivale glimpsed Cadbury Tor pointing skywards like the index finger of some buried giant, and he thanked God for His mercy. At the wall that ringed the tor, the sentries told unsettling news. The king was absent from Cadbury. Galahad ordered the king’s steward to send a courier to Artor with a simple message.
‘What you seek is found. Return to Cadbury.’
Privately, Percivale was furious. Galahad’s eagerness had told the entire west, and its many enemies, that they had discovered information of great importance.
The court boiled with curiosity after the return of Percivale and Galahad. Within a few hours, Balyn and Balan also arrived to report to the king on other security matters, so the court was set abuzz with rumours before a single night had elapsed. Percivale thanked God that the arrival of the twins had diverted some attention away from Galahad’s crazed intensity.
Modred appeared unconcerned by the frenzied activity in Cadbury but he listened in corners more than usual. Wenhaver was sullen with resentment; when she summoned Galahad to her bower, the young man refused point blank to tell her why he had returned to the court in such haste.
‘But I’m your queen,’ she demanded, her chin lifted arrogantly. ‘I insist that you impart to me the reason for your return to Cadbury. I speak for the king!’
‘No, Your Majesty. I am on pain of death from King Artor not to discuss my mission with any person other than my liege lord, the High King himself,’ Galahad replied evenly, and all her threats and tantrums had no effect.
When Wenhaver remembered that Percivale was also present at the court, she demanded his presence in her bower. Artor’s warrior choked at the summons.
What could he say?
Artor might have affection for him as a friend and body servant, but Wenhaver had no reason to care a jot for him. In fact, Wenhaver resented Artor’s friends and was inclined to believe that they conspired with Artor against her. She could have him put to death before Artor returned if he refused to accede to her demands. As the king’s servant, Percivale had no rights during the absence of his master and, being peasant-born, no aristocratic family would give him protection.
Percivale dressed carefully to visit the queen, even though her messenger became angry at the delay. As he entered the sweet-smelling bower, he felt himself skewered by a circle of hostile eyes.
‘Bodyguard, I expect the truth from you as you hold to your god’, Wenhaver began before Percivale even had time to bow. ‘Why does Galahad demand to see the High King?’
Percivale succeeded in looking like the innocent kitchen boy he had once been, dressed up in borrowed finery.
‘I don’t know, my queen,’ he answered as calmly as he could. ‘I’ve been given no indication of what Galahad intends. I swear by the blood of the Christ that I’ve never been able to fathom the workings of Galahad’s mind. He nearly killed us in his haste to reach Cadbury and I was terrified that the High King’s peace would be broken when he took horses from pilgrims without any explanation or payment. He’s mad, my queen, and I’d lief not ride with him again.’
Percivale had listened to Artor’s strategies often enough to know that a man may tell the truth and yet lie through his teeth. With an internal prayer for forgiveness, he sidestepped Wenhaver’s insistent questioning with much eye-rolling and waving of his hands, and the burred syllables of the countryman he was.
The queen’s bower was a sweet-smelling, warm cocoon attached to the lower level of the High King’s palace. Solid wooden shutters sealed out the cold winds and hid the garden from view, but bowls of petals, flower heads and dried herbs provided a memory of warmer summer days. The stone floors were softened with woven banks of brightly dyed wool and the walls were warmed with more woollen hangings in rich colours that reminded Percivale of roses.
The queen was dressed warmly in a robe of a soft pink-red that was mostly covered with a rich lap rug of thick, pale fur that was lined with more rose-coloured wool. Around her, Wenhaver’s maids dressed in other flower shades such as pale yellow, soft yellow-green, ivory and even a pale woad blue. A few men added a splash of popinjay brilliance to the scene, except for Modred who wore his customary black enlivened by a cloak lined with a deep yellow-gold material. If Wenhaver had intended to create a human flower garden, she had been successful, but the queen’s court was a hive of sharp gossip and Percivale struggled to maintain his equanimity amongst the brilliant, stinging insects.
Modred examined Percivale through black, acute eyes that threatened to unleash uncomfortable questions and accusations. Modred was rarely fooled, and Percivale began to sweat in earnest. He realizes that I’m playing with words, he thought to himself uneasily.
But all servants learn to school their faces early in their careers, and Percivale kept his face open and puzzled, and his eyes guileless.
Wenhaver eventually accepted Percivale’s explanation with much petulance and a threat to take the skin off his back if he had lied to her. In her view, anyone who had spent his childhood in the kitchens of Venonae was bound to be stupid, venal and lacking in subtlety. She had never bothered to examine Percivale closely before, because she considered that he was too far beneath her station to rate her attention.
But Modred wasn’t so blinded by prejudice.
‘I don’t understand the need for such haste,’ he commented with feigned confusion. ‘Warriors such as Prince Galahad never risk men and horses for something trivial.’ He raised his mild glance to impale Percivale. The bodyguard felt cold sweat trickle down his back.
Hell’s master! He furiously tried to keep his mind clear, while his frightened glance darted from face to face. His panic was only partially feigned, for Modred’s eyes unnerved him.
‘I don’t know, my lord, and that’s the honest truth! Lord Galahad ordered me to ride, so we rode. Lord Galahad was obeying King Artor’s instructions and told me nothing. I don’t understand any of this, your lordship.’
Percivale’s careful language and accent had slipped badly under questioning.
‘Very well.’ Modred pursed his lips. ‘Leave us.’
Percivale fled from the rose bower and the accusing, observ
ant eyes of the queen and her friends as if he was escaping from the demons of chaos. So this is how good men learn to tell lies, he thought as he hurried back to the safety of the servants’ quarters. Perhaps the Cup has already begun to poison my mind and stretch the limits of my scruples - and I haven’t even seen it yet.
Percivale was beginning to understand that when honest men learn to parlay with scoundrels, no matter how just or holy their cause might be, the contagion of lies and trickery leaves them weakened. Percivale crossed himself and prayed to his god for strength.
CHAPTER XII
THOSE WHOM THE GODS WOULD DESTROY, THEY FIRST MAKE MAD
‘You speak in jest!’ the High King snarled, his logic affronted by the superstitious mish-mash of legend and fable that Galahad was thrusting at him with such crazed enthusiasm.
The hour was very advanced, the cold of late winter was absolute and King Artor was in a nasty temper. A week after Galahad’s summons, Artor had returned to Cadbury at the head of a small troop of tired warriors. When he spurred his horse through the gates of the citadel, he was in a towering black mood. Only Odin dared to order his master to sit and eat when they finally reached the shelter and privacy of Artor’s rooms - and now Galahad was insulting Artor’s intelligence with his wild ramblings.
In order to return to Cadbury, the royal troop had been forced to heave their way through deep snowdrifts, for the weather had worsened, as if the gods intended to keep the cursing and sweating king away from his own fortress. Consequently, Artor was exhausted, irritated by his physical weakness and irrationally angry with Galahad who had caused him to leave the comforts of Venta Belgarum in such inclement weather.
Nor did the High King have the satisfaction of even a small victory behind him to buoy his spirits. Stubbornly, the Saxons had stayed put in Anderida, sulking over their losses the previous summer and using the depths of winter to shore up their fortress. A month in Venta Belgarum, a town that had always set Artor’s nerves on edge with its tangible memories of Uther Pendragon, was more than enough to cause the High King to brood on a future that increasingly seemed inevitable and bleak.