by M. K. Hume
‘King Artor rules a vast kingdom and, at times, all kings are forced to sweep away those who show themselves as enemies.’ Balyn smiled thinly at the bishop. ‘Your words are unwise as well as offensive.’ Balyn’s eyes were dangerously flat but Otha was oblivious; he possessed the self-satisfaction of a well-fed hog wallowing in its own mud pit.
‘It’s common knowledge throughout the land that the king executed a pregnant woman a brief six months ago, and I believe that such actions are an indication of the violence that exists within King Artor’s nature.’
Balyn gritted his teeth and threw away his polite words. ‘Beware, priest, for you are condoning lies. I was present at the death of the Lady of Salinae Minor and I saw her attack the king with a weapon, as did all those warriors present. The High King did not order her death, his personal guard cut her down as she tried to murder Artor. She had already made one attempt to kill the High King in the early hours of the morning, and her servant was directly responsible for the death of your predecessor.’ He paused to allow his words to sink in.
‘Bishop Aethelthred was butchered at his altar by a man you appear unwilling to see brought to justice. The pagan who committed this crime was Lady Miryll’s servant and co-conspirator.’ Balyn spun his delicate eating blade between his fingers. Against his will, Otha watched the small knife flash hypnotically in the light.
‘We must agree to differ then, young Balyn.’
‘We agree to nothing, Bishop, for your words are lies. You keep me waiting here while you slowly decide if you will obey a legitimate request from the High King. I order you to give me the staff and permit me to be on my way before words are uttered that will offend the king when I repeat them to him on my return to Cadbury.’
Otha was angry, but he attempted to hold his temper in check by saying nothing.
‘I don’t intend to ask again,’ Balyn warned.
‘You aren’t asking,’ Otha snapped. ‘You are demanding.’
The other priests in the room, seated at their long benches, flinched at the raised voices at the bishop’s table. The novice behind Otha’s chair grew pale and recoiled visibly.
‘I am demanding in the name of the High King of the Britons! You may refuse if you place no value on your life.’
Still Otha restrained himself from refusing outright.
Balyn rose to his feet and turned to the novice behind his chair.
‘You.’ Balyn pointed his forefinger at the boy. ‘Where is the staff?’
‘I don’t know, my lord,’ he stammered.
‘Brother Mark, where is the staff?’
Brother Mark lurched to his feet.
‘Do not answer if you value your mortal soul!’ Otha roared, his face beet-red with fury.
Brother Mark opened and closed his mouth several times, appalled by the ugly confrontation.
Balyn held up his clenched fist. The distinctive pearl thumb ring was clearly visible to the brothers who sat below the high table.
‘I speak for the High King himself! You will bring me the staff!’
Brother Mark fled towards the church, ignoring Otha’s shouted threats.
Bearing arms in holy Glastonbury had long been deemed blasphemous, so Balyn had left his weapons in the stable, with his horse. But he had retained the slim-bladed dagger with which he ate in the courtly manner of Cadbury. He gripped the small weapon in his left hand and even Otha realized that Balyn would use it if he was forced to. The bishop subsided into an ominous silence.
Mark’s running footsteps could be heard returning to the refectory.
‘My lord,’ the priest panted as he approached Balyn. ‘Here is the staff. ’
Balyn took the smooth shaft of aged wood with its ugly satyr carved at the end. He could see a nasty split in the carving, probably a result of the fierce blows that had rained down on Aethelthred’s innocent head.
‘You’ll regret this insult, you pagan upstart!’ Otha spat furiously. ‘You’re the envoy of a bloodstained, murderous despot and his whore of a wife! Artor is a cuckold who takes his spite out upon anyone who dares to thwart his wishes. Only cowards kill innocent women such as Lady Miryll. He doesn’t exact the same vengeance on men who lie with his slut of a wife.’
Balyn rounded on the bishop. ‘Traitor! Cur! Artor is the greatest man in Britain, and the church at Glastonbury only exists because of his leadership and courage against our enemies.’
Otha sprang towards Balyn and gripped the head of the staff as if he would wrench the wooden relic out of Balyn’s grip.
‘You have no right to take what belongs to Glastonbury,’ he screamed. ‘You rob Mother Church of her rightful possession.’
‘This cursed weapon killed your bishop,’ Balyn yelled back. ‘It doesn’t belong to you, but to some assassin who is bent on destroying your Church.’ He pulled backwards on the staff with all his strength.
The cracking of wood was loud in the ears of the shocked and silent company as the head of the staff broke away, revealing a length of leaf-shaped iron. The priests gasped in horror as they saw the ugly staff transformed into the head of a short, Roman stabbing spear.
Otha cried out as the ancient blade sliced through his clenched fingers. As Balyn’s eyes dropped and he saw the wicked spearhead stained with Otha’s blood, his grip on the shaft slackened momentarily and Otha’s considerable weight pulled the spear out of the young man’s hands. With a hungry little hiss, the blade impaled itself in Otha Redbeard’s soft, round gut.
Balyn dropped his hands, his face white with shock. The bishop reeled backwards until he struck the sod wall where he hung, his bleeding hands still clutching the end of the iron spear that had shallowly pierced his gut.
‘What have you done to me?’ Otha asked blankly, his eyes fixed on the wound in the soft flesh of his belly. Even then, Otha’s wound was not mortal, for the spear point had not bitten past deep layers of fat. ‘I’m bleeding!’ He squealed like a man surprised by some terrible wonder.
Then, he fainted.
His heavy body fell forward and the shaft of the spear skidded along the flagging until it became wedged against the base of the table. Otha’s weight drove his body down on to the blade until he hung obscenely over the golden dish and goblet, greasy from his meal. His mouth opened and blood and vomit gushed out of his throat and nose.
The shaft twisted under his considerable weight, and Otha and the spear fell awkwardly sideways on to the sod floor. The bishop, now mortally wounded, mewed in surprise.
Transfixed, Balyn’s shocked gaze was riveted on the spear protruding from the bishop’s body. The pool of blood at his feet continued to spread. With a short, unpriestly curse, Mark leapt forward, followed by two other brothers who had retained their wits. Carefully, they straightened the body of the bishop until he lay on his back on the floor.
‘Dear God,’ Mark breathed. ‘The bishop dies!’
As Balyn overcame his shock and reached forward to draw out the spear, Brother Mark gripped his right forearm.
‘No, my lord! If you remove the spear, the bishop will bleed to death in moments. First, he must be shrived.’
‘He bleeds internally,’ another brother whispered. ‘See? Blood gushes from his mouth. Otha cannot survive these wounds.’
A number of priests hurried to find clean cloth, a soft pillow for the bishop’s head, and a golden cross for the bishop to grip while he received extreme unction.
Balyn knelt beside the priests, his eyes blank and his thoughts in tatters.
When Otha’s eyes flickered open for a few seconds, he saw Balyn’s face hovering above him. He flinched and howled, his bleeding fingers clutching the spear shaft.
‘Keep him away from me,’ he whispered, his voice full of hate to the very end. ‘This man is a murderer, an assassin sent by Artor to remove me from Glastonbury.’
Otha’s voice was silenced by bloody coughing.
‘My bishop, you must make your confession and ensure that your soul is purified in the eyes of God,
’ Brother Mark whispered in Otha’s ear.
Otha’s eyes widened with horror. ‘I cannot die! I’m the bishop, appointed by the Archbishop of Venta Belgarum. No man of God can be killed by such an unholy weapon as this.’
To Balyn, the drama began to verge on farce.
‘Jesus died with such a weapon in his side,’ he said glibly. ‘Why should you fare better than your god?’
Brother Mark rose and slapped Balyn across the face, shocking the young man into silence. ‘My apologies, Lord Balyn, but your words are unworthy of you. You will be silent!’
Mark turned his attention to the novice, who was weeping hysterically.
‘Fetch water, boy, and hurry, for the bishop doesn’t have time to waste.’
The novice fled and returned with a bowl of water.
Mark thrust his bloody hands into the bowl and scrubbed them briefly. Another priest brought a white woollen surplice that Mark put on over his plain robe. He picked up the golden cross from Otha’s belly.
Balyn continued to kneel beside the man he had inadvertently wounded, while Mark joined him on his knees and began to speak rapidly in Latin. For a brief moment, Balyn’s spirit was soothed by the ancient sounds, but when Bishop Otha opened his eyes once again, Balyn flinched away from the malice and terror that sustained the last thread of life in the churchman.
‘I will make my confession,’ Otha gasped between bouts of bleeding that threatened to choke him.
Two of the brothers raised his torso to ease his struggling lungs, while another wiped his contorted, bloody mouth.
‘I affirm that the Lord God is my heavenly master, the Bishop of Venta Belgarum is my spiritual guide, and King Modred of the Brigante is my temporal lord. I have endeavoured to free the west of the pestilential presence of Artor and his slut of a queen so that a true heir, derived from Ygerne of blessed memory might assume the dragon throne and cleanse us all.’
Brother Mark flinched, and seemed to deflate within his white robe, but the ancient words of forgiveness continued to pour from his lips.
‘Do you repent that you placed earthly power above the might of God?’ Mark asked in the Latin language of the Church.
‘Yes, if I must die without seeing my king on the throne.’
Mark made the sign of the cross over the bishop’s flaccid body.
‘I confess that I was aware that the murder of Bishop Aethelthred was a plot aimed at Artor. I swear that neither I nor my master had any part in its execution. Nevertheless, I welcomed it—’ A fit of coughing choked off the treasonous words.
Mark continued to intone the prayers and signs of forgiveness.
‘I confess also that I have plotted against the High King while searching for some weakness in his armour.’
A thick burst of half-clotted blood blunted his words once again, and he panted with the exertion of speaking. Otha Redbeard’s eyes were black with malice and ill will.
‘I discovered an ancient woman who had worked at the Villa Poppinidii. I am aware that Artor has a daughter and three grandsons - kin that, in his wickedness, he denies. The old woman thought that her confession was protected by extreme unction, but God demands that a Christian should rule, not a soulless demon who worships his Roman gods. I carried out my labours in the name of Mother Church.’
‘Who are the grandsons?’ Balyn whispered. His eyes were alive once more.
Otha smiled, almost sweetly, as his eyelids drooped. ‘You and Balan, your twin brother. Didn’t you know? Bran, the King of the Ordovice, is also a grandson. All three are the fruit of a poisoned tree. You are an heir to the kingdom of the devil!’
Balyn recoiled from Otha’s poison. The bishop’s words burned into his brain.
‘Do you confess to all your sins, great and small, that burden your soul, Bishop Otha?’ Mark asked solemnly.
Otha’s eyes were smudged black within his white face, as if the fire in them would scorch his skin to ashes. His eyes rounded as he struggled to draw a breath and then rolled back into his head until only the whites showed. A half-breath raised the mountainous belly . . . faltered . . . and then all life stopped.
The priests and novices fell to their knees, and the room was soon thick with the hum of prayer. Balyn’s eyes darted from one bowed head to another, but nowhere could he find eyes that would meet his. He imagined that the hunched shoulders and bent backs were reproaches for his actions. His head ached with guilt for what had taken place in this most holy of holy places.
A faint moan escaped his tight lips.
Mark turned towards him and saw the glitter of hysteria in his flat, grey eyes.
‘Come, boy, let me find you a glass of apricot brandy. Your hands tremble and you are very pale.’
‘The staff. My master has ordered me to bring the spear to Cadbury,’ Balyn mumbled, as if trying to retrieve a fragment of reason from his crumbling existence. ‘Artor demands that I return to Cadbury with it.’
‘Come with me, lord, so I might ease your nerves and help you to sleep,’ the priest murmured softly. ‘The High King wouldn’t ask you to travel in your unwashed and weary state.’
Balyn’s eyes darted from Mark’s concerned gaze to the body of Otha Redbeard.
‘I didn’t mean to kill him, I swear I didn’t!’ Balyn hiccuped with incipient hysteria. ‘He pulled the staff out of my hands. He should have obeyed Artor’s instructions and given me the staff willingly. I didn’t know it was a spear! How could I? Otha was a traitor, but now I have his blood on my hands.’ Balyn opened his palms where blood was already beginning to dry. ‘Why didn’t anyone tell me? Artor must have known. Why didn’t he explain? Otha was unarmed, and now my honour is dead forever.’
‘No, lad, no,’ Mark said urgently. ‘We’ll swear that no malice guided your hand. None of us suspected that the staff was a spear, not even Otha. You must come with me and rest.’
‘Lad? I’m no boy! I don’t know what I am. Did Artor lie? And did Mother lie as well? Everybody seems to know but me, and you’re all laughing at me!’
‘No. You must be calm, Balyn. The bishop brought his death upon himself by pulling on the spear. Perhaps he torments you with untruths.’
Brother Mark moved back as Balyn suddenly leapt forward in a peculiar, stiff-legged gait. He planted one foot on Otha’s belly and wrenched the spear free of its sheath of flesh. The wound made an ugly, sucking noise as if it was reluctant to relinquish its hold on the spearhead, and Balyn felt the weapon twist in his hands as if it was alive.
‘I must go,’ he repeated to no one in particular. Then he ran from the dining hall, his face set like stone and his limbs uncoordinated. The priests moved out of his path like dry brown leaves in the wind.
Shreds of thought drove Balyn to the stables, to his horse and out into the darkness. As the stars spiralled above his head in coruscations of light that matched the explosions in his brain, Balyn shook his bloody hand, waved the spear towards the uncaring skies and screamed a meaningless curse against the gods.
And he cursed his grandfather.
CHAPTER XIV
THE SKEIN OF BLOOD
Balan surged out of a nightmare like a fish rising towards the light. Dislocated images followed him into consciousness, and he could taste the metallic bitterness of blood in his mouth.
Sweet Jesus! Balan thought, half in curse and half in prayer. His body jittered with nervous tension as his breathing gradually returned to normal.
‘What dangers assail my brother?’ he asked himself aloud. Over the years, he had become accustomed to nightmares, phantom pangs and emotional chaos whenever his twin was in pain or experiencing turmoil. Balan had come to believe that this strange, symbiotic relationship was at the root of his own caution.
Balyn is reckless enough for both of us, Balan thought disjointedly. Why is it that I should feel his pain, but he never feels any discomfort when I’m in peril?
But Balan didn’t begrudge the fact that his twin was free from this particular inheritance of kinship.
The dreary, anxious day became increasingly painful for Balan; he found food tasteless, his head ached insistently and his nerves were stretched to breaking point. He sought relief in the open air, but no number of cooling breezes could soothe the dislocation in his head. He suffered but did not understand the cause of his illness.
The night that followed was full of dreams of blood and death, causing his mind’s eye to see the fragmented shapes of dying men and women through a mist of redness. The morning dawned cleanly, but Balan’s bloodshot eyes and trembling hands caused his manservant to fear that his master was gravely ill.
Inevitably, several days later, Artor was informed of Balan’s malady and the young man was summoned to the king’s chambers.
‘You’re ill, Balan,’ Artor began unceremoniously when he regis - tered Balan’s ashen complexion and sunken eyes. ‘What ails you?’
‘I don’t know, my lord,’ the young warrior replied. ‘But I miss my brother . . . and I fear for his safety.’
Artor poured Balan a goblet of wine with his own hand.
‘Drink, boy, or I swear you’ll collapse on my floor. Your mother will pursue me to Hades if I allow you to sicken.’
Balan drank the proffered wine and a little colour stained his high cheekbones. But his eyes remained downcast as he explained the connection between himself and his twin.
‘I’m certain that Balyn is in trouble,’ he finally admitted. ‘I’ve never missed him so acutely, nor felt the gulf between us to be so wide.’
Artor watched Balan with measuring eyes.
‘You possess a strange gift, but it shouldn’t be unwelcome, for you reap the benefit of true communion with another person. Few of us can know another soul so intimately.’
Balan shook his head ruefully and finished the wine in his cup.
‘Another?’ Artor asked economically.