by M. K. Hume
Through the throng of over twenty persons in the bower, servants moved in dark robes carrying plates of sweetmeats and confections, liberally sweetened with honey. The queen sat at the centre of the chattering crowd and sipped a cup of fruit juices laced with mead. Her face was frozen and blank.
Shortly afterwards, Balyn was summoned to attend the king in his private chambers.
Balan watched his brother leave the rose arbor with sick dread. He feared Balyn’s state of mind would lead him to alienate the king.
Previous experiences heralded an imminent brainstorm.
Heavy roses filled the bower with a scent so sickly that Balan could almost see the perfume clog the air. A trace of corruption lurked under the ripe, sweet smell.
Wenhaver smiled at Balan and the young man felt a tug under his ribs.
The queen is foolish and stupid - and she’s dangerous, Balan decided. How could the king have allied himself with such a difficult woman?
Balan observed the full-blown roses, the imported glassware and the finely woven cloth that adorned the ladies, and his common sense told him that the graciousness of older civilizations was aped in this bower, in this palace and throughout the kingdom.
‘Rome is dead, just as Artor’s kingdom is beginning to die,’ Balan murmured to no one in particular as he massaged the insistent ache under his ribs.
‘There you are,’ Artor greeted Balyn as he crossed his threshold. ‘You seem to be a little pale today, my boy.’ He smiled into Balyn’s dull eyes. ‘You may have a glass of wine if you wish, or water if you prefer. Make yourself comfortable, for I have a problematic mission that I need to discuss with you.’
Balyn flushed with pleasure and his eyes became more animated.
Artor saw a boy who was so physically like his youthful self, it was uncanny. He noted the woollen tunic, the leather trews and a simple gold chain around his neck with his father’s emblem stamped upon it. The boy had a pleasing appearance.
‘I will successfully complete whatever duty you ask of me, Your Majesty.’
Artor laughed and shook his head. ‘You should never agree to a challenge until you know what it entails, boy. You might find that my orders aren’t to your taste.’
Balyn looked surprised. ‘How could I possibly refuse you, my lord? Celts should be honoured to serve the king.’
‘Your words are admirable, Balyn, but you should listen to what I say before you agree with me,’ Artor stated. ‘I want you to travel to Glastonbury and give my best wishes to Bishop Otha. Demand from him the staff that was used to kill Bishop Aethelthred and then return to Cadbury and present it to me.’
Balyn nodded and would have risen to obey immediately, but Artor gestured for him to remain seated.
‘The task is not as easy as it sounds, Balyn,’ he continued. ‘Otha Redbeard’s loyalties are in doubt and because this order comes from me, he may refuse to hand over the staff. Your task is to convince him to accede to my demands.’
‘By any means, my king?’
‘By any means necessary, Balyn, but you should try diplomacy first. I value the prayers of Glastonbury and don’t wish to offend the churchmen who reside there.’
‘Then I’ll take my leave, my lord, so I can be about your business.’
‘Take care, Balyn. You are direct kin, and that means you are precious to me. I’m anxious to remove this staff from the hands of Bishop Botha. I don’t trust the man so it could be a perilous mission, despite its apparent simplicity.’
Artor pulled the large pearl ring from his thumb. ‘You will take this bauble as proof of your status as my emissary. Wear it with pride, for all men know that this ring belongs to Artor, High King of the Britons.’
Balyn felt tears prickle behind his eyes. His emotions were so confused that he almost leaned his head upon the High King’s shoulder to weep in gratitude.
‘I serve the west, my lord. That is sufficient reason to obey your orders and ride to Glastonbury. Thank you for the confidence you have placed in me.’
‘Don’t thank me. Sometimes men die when I give orders, good men who do their best with what they have to give.’
‘But, lord, nothing you ask could possibly—’
‘Please, lad, don’t interrupt me when I speak. I have learned that being a king means I have to put aside love and family duty for the larger needs of the country. Do you understand, Balyn?’
Balyn looked at Artor with wide, wondering eyes. ‘Yes, I understand, but—’
‘I’m sending you to Glastonbury on a delicate mission, Balyn. The repercussions of failure could be very awkward so you will need to keep a cool head and have your wits about you.’ Artor patted Balyn’s shoulder affectionately.
‘I will do nothing to bring shame to the kingdom, or to you,’ Balyn swore solemnly. ‘I will return with the staff as soon as I can.’
As Balyn bowed to his king and backed out of the room, Artor felt a tug of anxiety. Almost any one of Artor’s retinue could have conveyed this request to the bishop, but Artor must find an heir, so Balyn needed to show his mettle. He was ignorant of Wenhaver’s fall from Balyn’s pedestal, and had no idea that the boy was a volcano of churning emotions, but something in Balyn’s eyes had given Artor cause for concern regarding his grandson’s balance.
Balyn bounded through the confusing hive of the citadel to the tiny cell he shared with his sibling. When Balan entered shortly afterwards, he found his brother hurriedly throwing spare tunics into a travel bag, his eyes sparkling with excitement.
‘Where are you going, brother? Why the haste? I thought we were off hunting once we could escape the queen’s bower.’
Balyn continued to ram items into his leather bags. He paused only to hold out one hand in triumph, to show Balan the thumb where the pearl ring shone dully.
‘The King is sending me to Glastonbury on a mission. Me! And he has given me his own thumb ring as proof of my legitimacy. All praise to King Artor. I need not endure the likes of Wenhaver or Modred any longer.’
Balan stared into his brother’s earnest face and the excitement that animated his eyes. A niggling sense of alarm gnawed at Balan’s vitals.
‘Why the haste, Balyn? Let’s talk and discover the best way for you to complete your mission.’
‘I have no need to talk to you or listen to your advice,’ Balyn said loftily. ‘I can complete this task alone, thank you.’
‘But we’ve always thrashed out important matters in the past.’
‘Not this time. Artor has placed his trust in me. In me, not you.’
For one sick moment, Balyn’s face was wolfish, and Balan stepped back from the sudden savagery he saw in the eyes of his twin.
‘What have I done to offend you, Balyn, that you should be so angry with me?’
Had Balyn paused for reflection, if he hadn’t been hurt by his discovery of Wenhaver’s true character, if he hadn’t been given to fits of intense hero-worship, he might have stayed his tongue. But Balyn remembered the thousand times when Balan had offered sage advice that had later proved to be correct, and he felt a sting of jealousy so hot and sharp that his gorge almost choked him.
Without thinking, he burst into impassioned speech.
‘Everybody knows that Balan is the cleverest brother of the twins. Everybody knows that Balan takes care of his elder brother. Well, I’m sick of it! I’m a grown man and the High King has entrusted me with a mission. Not you! So this time you can keep your suggestions to yourself. ’
Balan raised both hands in surrender. ‘As you wish, brother. Go with God and travel with my best wishes. I’ll be here when you return.’
Trying desperately to maintain his anger in the face of his brother’s obvious hurt, Balyn buckled his bags and stomped from the room. His back was arrow straight and he resisted the impulse to look back.
Balan watched from a vantage point on the tor as Balyn mounted his horse. He continued to watch as his twin made the circuitous ride through the spiral fortifications. Long after Balyn
had vanished on the road to Glastonbury, Balyn continued to stare towards the north-west with eyes that were chill with anxiety.
Balyn had travelled widely since he had sworn himself to the service of the High King. He had seen the Giant’s Dance that leered over the flat, green sward with a hovering sense of menace. He had stood on the Heel Stone of the Dance and wondered at its ancient, arcane purpose. He had viewed the wonders of Venta Belgarum, including the square before the king’s hall. There, Artor had once battled Uther Pendragon’s champion for his life, while Myrddion had plotted to force the Pendragon to accept his unacknowledged son as his heir. But it was Glastonbury, with its fields, its shining expanses of water, and its willing and able workers, that pulled him with its promise of endless peace. To return to the religious enclave was a blessing when his heart was so burdened with disillusion.
Balyn rejoiced in Glastonbury’s sense of holiness. Something older than the Christian god seemed to have taken root in these quiet fields. So Glastonbury flourished because it was the heart of Britain. Wiser heads could have told Balyn that many races had come to these isles in search of tin, copper and other commodities over the centuries and these strangers had left behind them layers of culture on which the Celts and the Saxons had built.
Balyn didn’t care. His heart sang, the invisible birds warbled in the fruitful trees and the sun shone softly on his tanned face. He was about his king’s business: what more could a loyal Celt desire?
The simplicity of the dormitories at Glastonbury, the work-shops and even the small wooden church reminded him of his home. The fields were so lovingly tended that he recalled the bone-deep love of the earth that his mother had taught him. Glastonbury eased Balyn’s tortured and poetic soul. A youth showed him to a simple room above the stables and with pleasure Balyn entered. He washed himself clean of the dust of his journey and dressed as befitted an Ordovice prince. Then he went to meet the master of the enclave.
Among the peace and harmony, Bishop Otha was an unwelcome contrast. Dressed in magnificent robes and with his fingers encrusted with golden rings, Otha slouched on a heavily carved bench and grunted at his young visitor without raising his head from his meal. His only acknowledgement was to raise his ring to be kissed. Of necessity, Balyn must kneel to perform this mark of respect, and the young man had an uninterrupted view of Otha’s greasy face.
‘Wine, Master Balyn?’ Otha offered disinterestedly as he poured himself a cup.
‘Water will adequately slake my thirst, Bishop Otha,’ the young man answered easily. ‘I have been told that the springs of Glastonbury produce water that is almost perfect.’
‘Suit yourself. ’
Otha raised his golden cup to his lips and drank daintily, before gesturing to a bench seat opposite his place at the table.
Balyn took the proffered seat.
The bishop sat at a table that could easily have seated half a dozen priests, but he kept himself in isolation, facing other long tables that were crowded with lay brothers and other men of God. The rough, wooden planks were spread with simple ewers and beakers of brown, glossy pottery filled with water. Platters held loaves of coarse, brown bread, fresh yellow butter, slabs of hard cheese and fruit from the orchards. A heavy iron pot of rich vegetable stew sat in the centre of each table, with a long-handled wooden ladle for serving.
The bishop’s table could hardly have been more different. Golden platters, a goblet of heavy gold and a real silver spoon were on display. The food, too, was more elaborate. Chunks of meat swam in the bishop’s stew, along with greasy slabs of bacon that were sopped up with bread so fluffy that only finely ground flour could have been used in its preparation. Even his eating knife was rich and ostentatious; no priestly poverty or vow of humility were evident in Otha or his meal.
But the bishop was no mincing epicure; his intelligence ranged beyond the circumference of his belly and his desire for comfort. He gazed narrowly at the face of his young visitor.
‘So, what do you desire of me, Master Balyn?’
Balyn took his time drinking the cool spring water brought to him by a soft-footed novice. The young man thought the bishop vastly unpleasant and patronizing to one who was a prince of the Ordovice tribe and an envoy of the High King of the Britons.
‘The High King offers his felicitations and his thanks for the courtesies that were offered to him when last he visited this sanctuary.’ Balyn spoke in his most measured, artless voice. ‘He seeks assurance that all is well within Glastonbury, and asks whether the monastery has needs that he could help to fulfil.’ Balyn was thinking on his feet to the very best of his ability.
Otha pursed his thick, moist lips. Balyn felt sure the bishop didn’t believe a word of his greeting.
‘I thank the High King for his concern, but I can see no reason why he should believe that Glastonbury would be other than well. Care of Glastonbury is invested in Holy Mother Church and is not subject to the reach of King Artor.’
‘Excellent news, my lord,’ Balyn responded, fighting to hold his temper. ‘I shall relay the felicity that my own eyes have seen.’
‘Is there anything else, young man?’ Otha asked negligently, helping himself to more stew.
‘There is one other minor matter, my lord bishop. King Artor has received information that reveals the identity of Aethelthred’s murderer, who is also believed to be responsible for a number of other crimes against the Church. King Artor believes the criminal is a rogue called Gronw who is passing himself off as a Druid. The High King requests that the murder weapon, the staff, be loaned to the crown as evidence of this man’s criminal activities.’
Otha’s eyes were suddenly watchful.
‘The staff? Artor requires the staff?’
‘That is correct, my lord bishop. I trust you have no objections to assisting in bringing the murderer of your predecessor to justice. He is pagan, and a sworn enemy of Mother Church.’
‘No. Not at all. But I should point out that the staff has become something of a holy relic to our community, and you should understand that we would be reluctant to lose it.’
‘How could the staff be lost if it is kept in the safe hands of the High King of the Britons?’ Balyn countered smoothly. ‘Perhaps a trusted brother could accompany the staff to Cadbury to ensure that it is treated with the reverence it deserves.’
Otha was irritating at any time, but he was especially unattractive when he was seeking personal advantage.
He gazed speculatively at his young visitor, his wrinkled brow indicating how little credence he gave to Balyn’s assurances.
‘That’s true. Well . . . something might be arranged.’ Otha was on his guard, and his agile mind searched for Artor’s purpose. ‘You shall eat with me this evening, at which time we will discuss this matter further. In the meantime, you may enjoy the felicity of Glastonbury.’
Otha knew the value of delaying tactics when he suspected he was being manipulated. Balyn realized that he was caught at Glastonbury, at the mercy of Otha’s ennui. He wanted to grab the priest by his pudgy shoulders and shake him vigorously. Otha was determined to make Artor’s envoy await his pleasure, for no better reason than to indulge his sense of his own consequence. For days Balyn was forced to kick his heels. He tried hard to find that calm centre that Balan had always helped him reach - he now bitterly regretted every word he had thrown at his brother with such venomous thoughtlessness. Otha’s casual contrariness was insufferable. Like a lidded pot heating over a fire, Balyn’s temper rose steadily and began to simmer, until finally it boiled over.
Night after night, the young man ate with the Bishop who believed that his consequence separated him from every other penitent in Glastonbury. Where generations of pious bishops had dined frugally at a common eating table with their fellows, Otha preferred to dine at a separate table with a novice to serve him.
Balyn was soon offended by Otha’s pretensions and was irked by his enforced inactivity.
Under a thick layer of cloying concern,
Otha was being particularly offensive.
‘You must long for the grand halls of Cadbury after our simple fare, Balyn, although I’ve heard that the king is a difficult, gruff host.’
The other priests ate hurriedly, as if they were uncomfortable in the bishop’s presence. Brother Simon grimaced sourly from a dark corner where he was out of the bishop’s vision, and wished that he could plead illness and depart.
Balyn eyed Otha’s ostentatious cup and plate distastefully; for all its lavish decoration, the bishop’s tableware did not improve his eating habits. His fine wool habit was liberally spotted with grease and food stains.
‘Those of us who love the west and value the High King are perfectly comfortable in his presence,’ Balyn answered blandly.
Two spots of scarlet appeared on Otha’s plump cheeks. His lips pursed.
‘I am touched by your loyalties, young sir, but Artor seems to me to be a dour man, one who is lacking in grace or conversation. I speak as an outsider, of course, one who has no personal knowledge of life at court, so I must make allowances for the fact that he has the onerous duties of a relatively small kingdom to plague him. I understand that he is old and well into his dotage.’
Balyn felt his shoulders square. The unnatural pallor of his face was a clear indication of his emotions, but the muscles in his jaw revealed the effort he expended to remain calm.
‘King Artor may be old in years, my lord, but his strength and vigour remain, and he is in full control of his kingdom. He is not a dour man, he is simply focused on his duties to his people. His responsibilities leave little room for frivolity, or feasts.’
Ignoring the barb, Otha shrugged indifferently and changed the direction of his probes.
‘I have also heard that King Artor follows the path of his cruel father by guarding his throne jealously from any pretender who seeks to weaken his position. I mean no disrespect, but I’m simply repeating rumours that I’ve heard. If he is truly devoted to his duties, don’t you think that he should name an heir?’ Otha smiled at the anger that flooded Balyn’s face. ‘I mean no slight, young man, but King Artor has had a reputation for violence since his youth.’