by M. K. Hume
‘Killing can weaken us,’ Targo had said, his face sombre. ‘Good soldiers kill on demand, without any thought or guilt. They act on orders, like trained animals, and their consciences aren’t troubled by the deaths.’
Artor remembered the shadow of the alder tree and how it barred his tutor’s face and hid his expression.
‘But there seems to be a point where the taking of a human life becomes so familiar that it resolves any problem. I need a horse! He has one! So I’ll kill him for his animal! You see, boy? Our morals become stretched out of shape by hard use and, somehow, we become animals ourselves.’
‘I won’t, will I?’ the youthful Artorex had asked nervously.
‘Since you’re not a soldier, I don’t see how,’ Targo had answered.
But Artor, king and warrior, had felt the danger of becoming exactly what Targo had described.
Artor and Balan walked side by side on the tooth of rock that was Cadbury Tor, one old and one young, both so alike in many ways. The shadows lengthened around them.
‘You must go on the morrow, Balan, although I would prefer to send another warrior in your place. I am too old and too tired to wish to risk a kinsman on a task that gives me cause to worry. It’s a sad truth that men such as Modred always sit safely at the hearth while better warriors keep him and his warm and secure. Go with your god, my boy.’
‘Thank you, Your Majesty.’ Balan grinned engagingly. ‘I’ll be glad to be doing something useful while I await word of my brother. The concern I feel for him itches at the back of my mind, and if I can’t scratch my itch, then I’d lief be about service to the village of Slowwater.’
The High King and his kinsman stood for a long time in their separate silences and watched the far, visible edges of the land turn red and then purple as the sun slipped away.
CHAPTER XV
THE BEGINNING OF THE END
As the days shortened with the advance of another autumn, Artor remained within the halls of his palace and kept alone, weighed down by matters of state and the ominous silence from his warriors in the north of the kingdom. To add to his woes, the intransigence of Bishop Otha at Glastonbury was causing Artor to endure many sleepless nights, for no word had come from Balyn since his departure. Coupled with these worries, Gronw was an oozing sore in the north where his putrid influence was spreading damaging rumours and talk of insurrection.
And always, above mere personal threats and difficulties, the Saxons hovered on his borders as they sought to gain further toeholds in the west. They didn’t attack, but like the ravens and the crows that lived deep in the woods, they waited for carrion.
Artor kept to himself and tried to maintain a commanding, untroubled presence. Nowhere was safe and nothing was certain. Even in Cadbury, his citadel and stronghold, the king’s enemies waited patiently for any sign of weakness in its ageing king.
Artor knew he spent too much time alone, but the two men who might have provided company had ridden out with Balan to slay a human monster. Gruffydd had accompanied Balan on the orders of Artor, but Taliesin had volunteered to join them in their quest. The harpist was partly motivated by curiosity and partly by the overwhelming horror of Grawryd’s tale.
As for Elayne, Artor could hardly bear the physical and emotional pain that her presence caused him, for he was forced to face anew his loveless existence and the nauseating self-pity that this prompted in him. And Bedwyr deserved his loyalty. Wenhaver’s sullen features promised tantrums and held no appeal. Moreover, her company would bring him into the orbit of Modred’s sniping, as well as the sweet, tempting presence of Elayne. Artor longed to banish Modred, or to slit his throat, but neither action was politic in such restless times.
Two weeks had passed since Balan had left with Gruffydd, Taliesin and the shepherd boy. The two weeks brought nothing but silence and a sense of numbing hopelessness. Who could say when Cadbury would see his grandsons again? In quiet moments, Artor would wonder whether staff and spear were one and the same, and if he should have warned Balyn of the significance of the staff. Forewarned was forearmed; his duplicity haunted the king.
Artor was already sunk in gloom when he went to Cadbury’s gates to view a slow and doleful party climbing upwards towards the fortress. Gruffydd and Taliesin rode together and two horses with wrapped, man-shaped bundles tied across their backs plodded after them.
Tears appeared in Artor’s eyes. Those leather-bound shapes were unmistakable.
‘I need only to learn how they died,’ he whispered brokenly, then squared his shoulders and marched to the gate.
Gruffydd and Taliesin bowed low when they had passed through the final gate and entered the citadel. Taliesin raised his head and his eyes expressed such misery and pity that Artor wanted to run and hide in his private rooms to delay the inevitable news. But, such courage as he still possessed forced him to stand his ground, even when the wrapped bundles were placed on the flagged forecourt at his feet.
‘I am heavy of heart, my lord,’ Taliesin began.
‘I guess at your news’, Artor muttered, his head low. ‘These bundles are the mortal remains of my grandsons, Balyn and Balan.’
‘Aye, Artor,’ Gruffydd replied. His eyes were sombre and direct.
‘Let me see them’, the king ordered, drawing himself to his full height. ‘I sent them to their deaths, so I should see what I have done with my own eyes.’
Two guards cut the rawhide thongs that bound the wrappings in place, and then lifted away the coarse wool and greasy hide that had covered their bodies.
Balan appeared to be asleep, despite the extreme pallor of his face. His well-shaped lips smiled and his dress wasn’t disturbed; the wound in his breast seemed little more than a narrow tear in his leather cuirass. His weapon had been cleansed and placed on his breast where his stiffened fingers gripped it firmly, even though the rigid seizures of death had long passed.
‘Balan, my boy, what mischance has killed you?’ Artor choked, his eyes shining with unshed tears. He turned to his guards. ‘Take him to the chapel, cleanse his body and begin the prayers for his soul.’
As the guards carried away the body of one twin, Balyn’s snarling lips were exposed to the harsh morning light.
Balyn’s beauty had fled under a thin shroud of caked dirt and dried crusts of blood; his once golden skin had faded to the colour and insubstantiality of ashes. Like his brother, Balyn’s hands also gripped his sword hilt, but his sensitive fingers were cut, scarred and fouled with dried blood.
Artor’s pearl ring winked derisively at the king from Balyn’s thumb.
‘Balyn, my grandson, what brought you to this pass?’ Artor whispered. ‘What curse drove you into madness?’
The young man’s clothes had been reduced to bloody rags through which his skin should have shone whitely, had it not been so bruised and bloody. His flesh was covered with cuts, slash wounds and injuries that almost seemed self-inflicted, but he had died from a knife thrust in the belly and another to the throat. He had bled freely and fatally from both gashes. The beautiful young man, so much like the young Artor when he first rode into Cadbury, was now an effigy bathed in blood, or some grotesque sacrifice to a cruel god.
‘Serve the same offices to Lord Balyn as to his brother. These warriors were precious to me, so prepare them carefully for the fire.’
A hand touched Artor’s elbow from behind.
‘I will see to them myself, my king,’ Lady Elayne murmured, and Artor felt the tears rising in his eyes until he could no longer stop their flow. Nor could he turn to face her, for he could not bear to gaze on her wise, quiet face filled with the pity that he heard in her voice.
Artor strode away, his jaw set and his shoulders squared, but both Gruffydd and Taliesin recognized the stiff gait and rigid muscles of a man who has been pushed to breaking point. They hastened to follow their damaged king.
Behind them, Elayne looked down at the mortal remains of Balyn. She had dressed for the open with haste, and her hair still hung
in long plaits below her waist while her face was flushed and her cloak hadn’t been pinned in place. With one hand, she clutched its folds together, while the other gripped the skirts of her robes. The shell of Balyn’s ruined beauty tugged at her heart so fiercely that she wept unashamedly.
In death, Balyn’s face had aged and mirrored Artor’s; Elayne could all too easily imagine that Artor lay there, fresh from some terrible battle, and dead from a multitude of gaping wounds. Her heartbeat faltered, and she realized that more than loyalty lay behind her sorrow; the king had captured part of her heart.
This attachment cannot be, it will not be, she thought fiercely as she walked protectively beside Balyn’s corpse as it was moved to the small church at the apex of Cadbury Tor.
Artor would have locked himself in his rooms, but Odin used his body weight to hold the heavy door open and allowed Taliesin and Gruffydd to enter.
‘Leave me be,’ Artor snarled, thrusting away Odin’s arm.
Taliesin scarcely recognized the twisted face of his king; only one man alive, Odin, had ever seen the face of sorrow and rage that Artor now wore.
‘I don’t want to know how they met their fate! Have mercy, and don’t burden me further! I sent them to their deaths, and can’t bear to know how they perished. I can’t listen! I can’t!’
Taliesin poured a goblet of strong, red wine while Odin forced his king to sit on his curule chair. They coaxed him to drink until colour slowly returned to his ashen cheeks.
Gruffydd sat on a stool to spare his damaged leg and wished that he had stayed at home rather than make this final, fatal visit to Cadbury. Come what may in the years ahead, he would always remember Artor as this shattered, desperate man.
‘Please don’t punish yourself, lord. You asked services of the twins - simple tasks that should have been quite safe. In truth, Artor, they unknowingly killed each other.’ Gruffydd spoke with such conviction and honesty that Artor was forced to listen. He raised his faded, leonine head.
‘You are talking nonsense, Gruffydd. The brothers were together all their lives, even in their mother’s womb. They knew each other more intimately than husband knows wife, or a mother knows her child. How could they have killed each other?’
Taliesin knelt at the feet of his king. Artor had not the energy to order the harpist to rise, and Taliesin would have refused to listen and remained on his knees.
‘Lord, you knew the bond that existed between those brothers. Such a skein of kinship is stronger than iron, even more vigorous than life itself, so that neither brother could resist its pull. Yet the strength of the tie was weakness, for neither brother would believe that he could ever be in a situation where he wouldn’t recognize his twin. And so, tragically, they slew each other.’
‘Have your way then.’ Artor bowed his head in unendurable weariness. ‘Tell me the complete tale. You know I have to ask eventually, Taliesin, so perhaps it’s best that I listen now while the wounds are fresh.’
‘I’ll ask Gruffydd to recount most of our experiences, lord,’ Taliesin said. ‘He proved to be far wiser than I, for it was he who tried to save Balan from his own innocence. Until the moment of his death, Balan wouldn’t believe that his brother was the beast of Slowwater. Gruffydd was the only one among us who guessed at the truth.’
‘You knew, old friend? How could you have anticipated their fate?’
Gruffydd eased his weight on his painful hips and began the dolorous tale.
‘When we arrived at Slowwater in the early evening, we found a village gripped by fear. Slowwater is only a small hamlet, my lord. Of the twenty souls who lived there, less than ten remained alive, and the survivors were too terrified to even draw water from the small well. When we came, the women were securing their huts for the night as if they were repelling a pack of starving wolves.
‘The headman was dead, but his wife and youthful son took us into their hut before the light was entirely gone. Neither mother nor son wanted us under their roof, but to leave us outside would have brought more carnage to a village that was already numbed with fear and shock. You have seen such terror, Artor. They were well nigh senseless with its madness, and perhaps they thought we would provide some protection.
‘The villagers told us that the wild man came every night, seeking food, and padding between the huts as he searched for a human scent. They told us that they were even more afraid when the wild man took to howling, because they felt that no man born of woman could make such a sound and still be fully human. At first, we thought they were simply superstitious simpletons, so we humoured them as if they were children. We were wrong.
‘The wife of the headman feared the scent of heat and fresh meat would draw the wild man to her door, so we ate bowls of cold porridge. Shortly afterwards, we heard an odd shuffling sound. Balan pressed his ear to the door frame, as did I. I could hear ragged breathing and muttering. The sounds were mixed with a nasal, snuffling sound, for all the world like a wild boar scenting for prey.
‘I heard the grunts and snarls as the beast fell on the food that the villagers had left out in the roadway to appease the evil spirit. No man ate out there, I could swear, for the most uncouth Saxon does not tear at half-rotten meat as this thing did. For the first time, I knew that Grawryd hadn’t lied. Slowwater was cursed with a wild man.
‘After an hour or so, I believed that the worst was over, but for the rest of that endless night, the beast went from door to door, knocking and scratching at the wood and then howling in mingled sorrow and rage. The sound of the crying was worse than anything I have ever heard, Artor. And if that eerie sound was the voice of Prince Balyn, he had cast off his humanity weeks before we came to Slowwater. Balan didn’t recognize the voice behind the terrible sounds. None of us did. Nor could we see it, for the headman’s son had nailed logs, worn-out tools, and pieces of metal over every aperture of the hut, even the hole in the roof where the smoke from the fire escaped. So, lightless, we cowered in the darkness - and we could not sleep for horror.
‘But I smelt our enemy, as did Taliesin, who learned his woodcraft from the hill people and his mother. The creature stank of dried blood, vomit and shit - a reek that sickened me to the gut, for even beasts don’t allow their bodies to be so fouled. I smelled a rottenness, and my fear grew.
‘The creature was gone by dawn without any attempt to disguise its spoor. We could see the footprints clearly in the dust, knitting the village huts together as if the wild man had paced backwards and forwards in its search for something to kill.
‘He eventually found some prey. The wild man caught a stray dog and managed to flush a rabbit out from the undergrowth near the vegetable patch. He left their pathetic remains on our doorsteps, and we discovered that he had torn the poor animals apart while they still lived.
‘We hunted him for days but, like any wild beast, he was cunning. At night, we slept in trees where we couldn’t be taken by surprise. He led us far, in a wide circle, but eventually the tracks returned to where they had started, the forests near Slowwater, and they led us to his lair. It was as if he had led us to it deliberately and wished to be saved from his madness. He had been sleeping in a nest of branches and dried grass not six feet from the bloated, rotting carcass of his horse. Most horribly, he had carved hunks of meat from that corpse, and I nearly gagged to imagine such food.
‘The horse had been richly caparisoned, and a spear was still bound to the horse straps. This convinced me that the wild man was no crazed brigand, or a deserter driven to lunacy by old wounds. I tried to persuade Balan, who ought to have recognized Balyn’s possessions. God only knows why he didn’t do so, but the lad wouldn’t listen. Perhaps Balan thought his brother’s horse had been stolen. Perhaps he feared that Balyn was the wild man’s first victim, for Balan was certainly angry and eager to face the brute. But he could not believe that Balyn could be so lost to reason that he would descend into such bloodlust.
‘I began to wonder, too, at Balyn’s long absence from court, and when I sp
oke my thinking aloud, Balan again dismissed my words. He told me, again and again, that he would know if his brother was unhinged. He was insulted by the suggestion, and forbade me from speaking any further on the matter.
‘Balan suffered greatly, my lord. When he tried to eat, he was nauseous and could only swallow some stale and mouldy bread. The smell of dried meat caused him to vomit, and he swore that, somewhere, his brother was suffering from a stomach ailment. He made light of his illness, but I could tell that your grandson was deeply troubled during the hunt.
‘Having found the lair, we decided to lie in wait for the wild man. Balan told us to hide in the approaches, and he would wait near the lair.’
Gruffydd gazed into the suffering eyes of his king.
‘We should have stayed with your grandson, my lord, but he insisted that we obey him. Balan wanted to be alone.
‘The night was full of small sounds of violence and looming shadows, so that I saw a monster behind every bush. When I heard shouts from Balan and the screams of rage from his quarry, I was terrified, because I knew I was too old to be of much use to my companions. Still, Taliesin and I returned to the corpse of the dead horse. We could hear the sound of sword blades clashing against each other. I heard Balan cry out his brother’s name, just once, and then silence blanketed the woods like a heavy, black shroud. I cursed my bad leg then, for I was slow and feeble, and Taliesin dared not leave me to run ahead in case the wild man came upon me when I was alone.
‘Balan had cornered his brother against a rocky outcrop, and Balyn was bleeding heavily from his belly wound. Balyn must have been in agony, but he transcended his pain to stand and fight. At some part of their struggle, Balan either recognized his brother by sight or through the shared pain of Balyn’s mortal wound, for he lowered his sword. Then Balyn drove his blade through his brother’s breast.