by M. K. Hume
‘Do you think so, Modred?’ Wenhaver cooed, her expression completely unreadable. ‘My husband won some stunning battles just this last summer.’
‘Yes, I do think so, dear lady. Consider how unpredictable his temper has become in recent months, and how he distrusts everyone around him, even those closest to him. Perhaps my uncle has become a little soft in the head.’
Wenhaver had smiled at the Brigante’s words, but the young guardsman who was serving wine was offended and took matters into his own hands. He spilled the full jug directly into Modred’s lap.
Modred’s fury was icy and controlled. He would have had the young guardsman flogged, but he realized that Artor would consider an attack on his servants to be an attack on himself.
While Wenhaver drifted off to sleep with a smile of satisfaction at Modred’s humiliation, Modred himself tossed unhappily in his sumptuous bed, dreaming of retribution. But most of the population within the palace of the High King slept well that night, although Galahad did not sleep at all. Instead, he prayed away the hours until he could begin what he believed would be his life’s achievement. The Cup had refocused his life, and driven the irritants of family from his mind. ‘Even the blasphemous Bedwyr has no lasting importance, although he insults the Cup by his role in its salvation. It’s the Cup that matters. I’ll find it, and I’ll hold it, even if Hades stands in my way.’
Delusion can be a pleasant self-deception, no matter who practises it.
Bedwyr arrived at Cadbury Tor a week later.
‘What’s gnawing at the vitals of Galahad, Your Majesty?’ he asked as soon as he saw the king. ‘He seems taciturn to the point of rudeness. And the look he gave me just now would curdle new milk.’
Bedwyr realized he hadn’t bothered with the normal courtesies and flushed under his tan.
‘I trust you are well, my liege,’ he added pleasantly. ‘How may I serve the king?’
‘Playing the courtier doesn’t suit you, Bedwyr,’ Artor responded with a smile.
Bedwyr grinned. ‘Am I here at Galahad’s urging, my lord? Even before I had time to dismount from my horse, he insisted that I should attend on you immediately to receive my orders. He left me in no doubt that I was to make haste.’
‘My kin have always lacked tact,’ Artor countered.
‘Don’t expect me to deny it. I set the forts ahumming when I made my arrangements to return to Cadbury, but you can trust that my warriors are in good hands. Pelles Minor is in command during my absence - and he’s near as clever as his father was.’ He smiled contentedly at Artor. ‘But I’m curious to know why I must be here at such short notice. And why is Galahad so anxious to see me? He’s never bothered to acknowledge my existence before, except as a pagan curiosity.’
‘Unhappily, I’m forced to ask you to undertake a duty that could be the death of you, Bedwyr. I require you to carry out a mission with Galahad and Percivale. The task is of great importance to the welfare of the kingdom.’
‘If you don’t mind, Artor, and if you will forgive the presumption, before you give me the details, I would beg your leave to find the kitchens so I can hunt up some wine and a quick meal of bread and cheese. I rode here in haste, without rest, and I’m very tired, not to mention famished, my lord.’
‘Assuredly, my friend.’ Artor sighed. ‘I fail in courtesy. Sit here and talk to me while Odin finds something for my Arden Knife to eat and drink. I’ll tell you an astonishing tale.’
Having spent years as a Saxon captive, and having experienced the caprices of a cruel master, Bedwyr knew how to listen. He sat in silence as the king explained the details of Galahad’s report. Meanwhile, Odin produced a simple repast with a deft flourish that was rewarded with Bedwyr’s customary smile of gratitude.
‘Your story goes far beyond any rumours that are afloat, my lord. There have been whispers that the hag, Ceridwen, is abroad. The existence of such artefacts would set the west afire if their origins become widely known and accepted.’
‘I don’t believe for a moment that the cup is the Bloody Cup of Christ or Ceridwen’s cursed cauldron,’ Artor stated flatly.
‘I agree, but you can’t afford to take the risk, can you?’
Bedwyr always seemed to find the heart of any problem. Artor had surrounded himself with such honest men, prizing unvarnished truth above sycophantic agreement. Now, in his quiet apartments, an older Artor almost wished for lying platitudes.
‘Galahad is a young man who is ablaze with religious fervour. He’s ambitious. If the task is possible, he’ll find Gronw and the Cup out of fanatical bloody-mindedness, and will rid me of a great peril at the same time. My only reservation about him is that he may decide to keep the Cup for Mother Church. The prelates are nearly as ambitious as the princelings and kinglets who cluster around the thrones of the west. The Church creates kings, as Lucius made me, and it then unmakes them if they don’t further the interests of Rome.’
‘Perhaps Galahad may get himself killed in pursuit of his quest.’
Artor’s laughter rasped. ‘Perhaps.’
Bedwyr’s dry amusement vanished and he sobered immediately. The time for banter was over.
‘Percivale is a good choice,’ he stated. ‘I suppose that faith in his religion spurs him as sharply as it does Galahad, but Percivale is nobody’s fool. He’ll not form a belief without a strong basis in fact, and he’s accustomed to following your orders. On the other hand, Galahad has indulged his personal whims and desires all his life.’
‘Indeed. Percivale has his own doubts about the sanctity of the Cup, and he recognizes that such an object would be dangerous to the kingdom if it fell into the wrong hands.’ Artor smiled ruefully at Bedwyr. ‘At least we can be sure that Percivale is a Celt before he’s a Christian.’
Bedwyr nodded in agreement. ‘He spent too many years working with Targo to be easily duped. Nor will he react recklessly.’
‘I’ve decided that all three members of this troop shall be equal. Your personal task is to ensure that Galahad doesn’t take the bit between his teeth, or you’ll be trying to ride the whirlwind. Your personal instructions are to execute Gronw, take back the Cup and bring it to me. If such an outcome is impossible, destroy the sodding thing!’ Artor rarely used profanity and his words betrayed the depth of his concern.
‘I may have to kill Galahad to obey your instructions,’ Bedwyr said soberly. ‘Have you considered this possibility? Can I expect your exoneration from blame if this should become necessary?’
Artor nodded his head. ‘I don’t like your chances if you confront him, Bedwyr. He’s better at weaponry than I was, even before age weakened my arm and slowed my body. You know, better than most, that I still win battles because I think before I act. Galahad doesn’t reason, he’s all instinct and passion. His rashness and religious zealotry are weaknesses for him and advantages for you, and you must use them to resolve any dispute that might arise.’
‘I will carry out your orders to the death, King Artor.’
Impulsively, Artor embraced the younger man. ‘You have proved your loyalty over many years, and I honour you for your trust, my Arden Knife. I know what I’m asking, and I deplore the circumstances that demand it. But I’ll have no option if Galahad chooses his church over his king.’
Bedwyr knelt and placed Artor’s foot upon his neck, just as slaves were forced to do in Saxon households.
Artor was moved beyond words at the significance of this action.
‘Protect Elayne during my absence, Artor. She is an old man’s last cast of the dice at happiness. She is the future - my future - and I must believe that she is safe before I dare to risk my own life.’
A flush of guilt slid across Artor’s cheekbones. Were his private conversations with Elayne really so inappropriate? Of course they were. Would he give up his friendship with her?
‘She will be kept as safe as my dearest possession,’ Artor vowed.
‘Thank you, Artor,’ Bedwyr replied, his gratitude showing clearly on his o
pen face. ‘This mission will begin in two days then, my lord. There’ll be less chance of talk if we leave at different times and travel in different directions before meeting in Sorviodunum. Perhaps Galahad could leave today, Percivale tomorrow, and myself in two days’ time. I’m being selfish, but I long to spend a little time with my wife before I take my leave.’
Artor nodded his approval and they parted, both comforted by their mutual trust.
Later, in any number of places where Modred’s spies could eavesdrop if they chose to listen, Artor publicly ordered Galahad to return to Salinae Minor where he would resume his normal duties.
Galahad departed that same night with a noisy flurry of preparation, and the next afternoon Percivale left too.
Bedwyr spent two nights with his wife before leaving the precincts of the court as unobtrusively as he had arrived.
Modred was the only person on the tor who seemed even remotely curious about the separate destinations of the three warriors. The Brigante king asked casual questions and, if he distrusted the answers he was given, then his demeanour revealed nothing of his thoughts.
Winter gave way to a damp and cold spring. Elayne spent her days wearily in the queen’s bower, or else she cared for a small portion of land that Artor had decreed should service the needs of widows and orphans. Out in the open air with the other women, Elayne tilled and planted, watered and weeded, and tried to ignore her fears for Bedwyr’s safety.
‘Why do you work in the sun like a servant?’ Wenhaver asked Elayne some weeks after Bedwyr had come and gone so swiftly. ‘Your skin has become quite brown where you’ve been burned by the sun.’
‘Work makes time pass more quickly for me, my lady, and I’ve always liked to keep myself occupied. I’m poor at weaving and needlework, so I try to carry out those labours that are within my abilities.’
‘That a noblewoman should labour in the fields seems very odd to me, my dear,’ Wenhaver said with a feline smile. ‘But who am I to disagree if such tasks give you pleasure?’
The widows in the fields also found Elayne’s actions peculiar. At first they were inclined to be wary, for noblewomen neither looked nor acted like this russet-haired, brown-skinned woman. But her cheerfulness gradually charmed them, as did the gifts for their children that she brought in a woollen bag. Herbs and remedies for fevers, cuts and burns found their slow way into many poor dwellings, as did the occasional worn ladle or pot that had been purloined or discarded from the royal kitchens.
‘She’s a special woman,’ old Eda decided volubly. ‘She doesn’t make a body feel bad because she has nothing. And she works as hard as me, especially in the weeding and the watering.’
‘As if you’d know, Eda!’ the widow Hazel murmured. ‘You’re quick to take a rest to ease your bones when the sun’s high. Still, you’ve read Lady Elayne right. She’s like the Virgin must be, if you’ll pardon any offence I might give.’
‘None taken, Hazel,’ Eda replied. ‘I wish all the high ladies were like her, but I suppose we should be lucky there’s even one of her. She’s a pleasant little creature.’
And so Elayne’s reputation with the citizens of Cadbury gradually rose. Despite her homeland in that pagan forest in the wild north, her quality was recognized, and the highest and the lowest of the town curtseyed or tugged their forelocks in respect as she passed by. The older crones remembered the young Nimue and gossiped about her with affection.
‘The Maid of Wind and Water was like Lady Elayne in many ways. She was always out looking after the poor with Lord Myrddion’s simples and cures. I’d see her abroad finding all kinds of roots and leaves, even before the sun had risen. Lady Nimue was a rare one, just like our Lady Elayne. But the Maid of Wind and Water is long gone.’
The grandam who made this lengthy speech was selling seed potatoes at an open booth near the citadel gates. A portly tavern keeper was quick to agree with her.
‘A cook up there told me, private like, that the harpist is the son of Lady Nimue and Lord Myrddion. She told me that he is just as magical as his father, for he plays the harp like it’s alive. His harp is shaped like a woman and, when Lord Taliesin plays, her eyes open and the wooden lady sings.’
‘Magic has come back to Cadbury at last,’ the potato seller said happily. ‘The old days have returned.’
‘Don’t you believe it, auntie. King Artor grows old and there’s talk that Druids are out and about in the north. Our lord has no heir, so the kingdom is weak and like to fall.’ The warrior who spoke was short and dark, with an open, mobile face that bore no resemblance to his sardonic nature. ‘Who’s going to rule the Britons when the king dies?’
Through Gruffydd, Artor was fully aware of the people’s preoccupation with the absence of a suitable heir. He had been hearing this cry for years, but his own desire for continuity had never become so desperate that he considered elevating one of his bastard sons to the position of heir. Even Artor’s strength of character couldn’t force a nameless ruler upon the Celtic alliance, for the tribal kings would never accept a bastard.
Half the men who served in Artor’s personal guard had the ability and strength to be an effective king, but it would be unconscionably cruel if he raised hopes that could never be fulfilled. The High King’s mind worried at the problem constantly, while his eyes searched among his kin and courtiers for anyone capable of holding the west together after he journeyed to the shadows.
The twins provided the only simple solution. Artor had tested them in battle throughout the Saxon summer, searching to discover which of the boys had the capacity to rule in his stead. When the quest for the Cup began, Artor still wavered, knowing that his choice would change the lives of the boys, as well as of their mother, their elder brother, Bran, and the people of the Ordovice tribe.
The decision of choosing an heir from the twins was fraught with problems. Could Bran serve under a younger brother? Could one brother forsake the other, without meddling in the affairs of the kingdom? And would Anna ever forgive him for her fatherless childhood if he publicly acknowledged that she was his daughter? Any of the boys would then be eligible for the kingship.
Unfortunately, women couldn’t rule unless, like Boedicca, they were warrior queens.
So the twins remained an edge that Artor tucked away for some future usage. The need for an heir could be solved, but which twin should he choose if he had to select one man?
Balan was Artor’s natural preference, for the lad was most like himself in temperament. But Balan was kind by nature and, given the choice, Artor would not subject this particular grandson to the fate that he had been forced to endure. Could Balan endure the loss of self - his softer nature, his kindness, his consideration and his gentleness - that the throne of the High King demanded?
Beautiful Balyn was an enigma that Artor could not truly fathom. His excellence in battle made him a formidable opponent, but Balan led the way in intellect. Did Balyn have the prudence and the guile to rule? His pride could be a curse, and impulse ruled his actions; his enthusiasms were passionate and quickly adopted - and as quickly dropped. Moreover, Odin didn’t like the boy and Artor always respected Odin’s instincts. The time had come to confront Balyn with a real problem and, perhaps, secure an heir to the throne.
‘But I can wait a little longer to make up my mind,’ Artor murmured to the still air in his room. ‘If I choose hastily, I might foist another Uther on my people!’
With a mental shrug, Artor stripped off his tunic and buried himself in his sleeping furs. The warmth eased the aches in muscle and bone that old men feel when death begins to tap their shoulders and remind them that their time is almost over.
Gruffydd had been charged with the task of investigating Otha Redbeard, the newly appointed Bishop of Glastonbury. What Gruffydd discovered gave neither king nor spymaster any reason for complacency, but he found no concrete answers either.
The spymaster returned as spring pushed new growth through the damp, rich soil. He had only been gone three weeks,
and Artor marvelled at the arthritic old man’s ability to sit in the corners of an inn, ask a few idle questions and milk every gossiper dry of their knowledge, all without stirring his creaking old bones.
‘If his brother priests in Venta Belgarum are to be believed, the bishop is a boastful buffoon with little talent and less piety,’ Gruffydd reported back to Artor. ‘Unfortunately, the man has many supporters, for he is the scion of a wealthy clan in Bremetennacum that is closely connected to the Brigante ruling class. He shamelessly courts approval from persons of influence and has gained many priestly votes for his new position within the Church. However, one of my agents was told by a reliable source that the ancestors of the bishop’s father were originally Coritani and they drifted to Bremetennacum from Lindum in the east when the Saxons drove out the last of the Celts. This rumour doesn’t necessarily make him false in his oaths towards your kingdom, but the general details of the man’s background leave a nasty feeling in my water.’
Artor looked exasperated. ‘Do I smell the influence of Modred in this appointment? Or, worse still, the Brigante aristocracy who resent the tribute I demand of them? Or the Saxons from Lindum? Or even both? Modred has the Brigante connections, but the Brigante were unsettled before Modred’s reign, and will remain so until I clean out the whole rats’ nest of the aristocracy. I can’t believe that Modred would attempt to use a man so guaranteed to antagonize my allies. I’d discover the link immediately. I may overestimate my nephew, but I’d have expected something more subtle from Modred.’
‘We shouldn’t discount the Saxon connection, my lord. But whatever Otha’s motives and allegiances might be, I can assure you that he only entered the priesthood for the prestige, the power and the opportunity to feather his own nest. Glastonbury will provide him with years of sanctioned pillage, and I wouldn’t trust the man as far as I could throw him.’