by M. K. Hume
‘Balyn was still alive when we found them. He had gathered his twin into his arms and was rocking his brother’s dead body as if his caresses could make the cloven heart whole. The eyes that Balyn raised to me were sane, but they were blinded by his loss. Taliesin tried to stop Balyn’s blood flow, but I could tell that his labour was pointless, and Taliesin swears that, even if he had survived the night, your grandson would have rotted away from within. Balyn told me that he had killed his brother and I could only nod, like a fool. How could I find words of comfort for him? Then he told me that he did not wish to live, for he had done things that had shamed his mother and father for all time. Again, I could only nod in response, my lord. I didn’t know how to offer any comfort.
‘I should have known what he would do, my king, for I saw that shame had replaced the guilt and madness in his eyes. Balyn knew of your relationship with him. He asked me to tell you, his grandfather, that at the very last, he died like a man. Then, without fear, he cut his own throat.’
The burning of the twins took place with much panoply and mourning. Even Wenhaver wept real tears at the thought of such youth and beauty perishing forever on the funeral pyre. Perhaps she felt the first shivers of her own mortality as, clothed in hastily dyed black, she watched her husband consign those glorious young men to the flames.
Artor retreated behind a frozen mask of inscrutability. If Artor felt sorrow, only his intimates knew. The iron doors of duty clanged shut around the High King, and no one was permitted behind the walls of his public face. Even Modred knew better than to foment discord at such a time.
Anna was too far removed from Cadbury to be present for the funeral of her sons, so their ashes were sent to the grieving mother in an urn of golden magnificence, the best that Artor could purchase. Taliesin was dispatched to the north with the reliquary and their swords. In his humility, Artor offered his unacknowledged daughter the greatest boon that he could give, and expressed his fervent desire that they should be laid to rest in Gallia’s Garden.
Taliesin performed a song for the mother that was so fair and so tragic that many Ordovice warriors wept as they heard the tale of the doomed twins. Anna remained tearless, for she had been raised in a Roman household and scorned to dishonour their memory with a woman’s weakness. After days of funeral celebrations, she took the ashes of her boys to Gallia’s Garden where she had grown to womanhood, then returned to her kingdom to begin the task of rebuilding her life.
On her return, King Bran rode south to learn for himself the reasons for his brothers’ deaths. He travelled fast and hard, sparing neither himself nor his horses, until he reached Cadbury at the head of his Ordovice guard.
Even then, with his only grandson standing before him, Artor couldn’t reveal the whole truth, although he longed to share the pain he felt with the tall, strong man who resembled his mother so uncannily. Artor told himself that it would be unkind to tell this new and able king that he was now the heir to the dragon throne.
‘They killed each other by accident, Bran, and neither could live with the knowledge of what they had done. Cruel chance was responsible for their deaths, but you may be very sure that I’ll learn how Balyn came to be at Slowwater in such a condition.’
‘Aye, my lord, I’ll trust you to sort out the whole, tragic mess. You were forced to sweeten and soften the circumstances of Balyn’s crimes for my mother’s sake, but I want the unvarnished truth. I ask that you respect me by keeping me informed of what you discover.’
Artor swallowed, and vowed to do as Bran asked. Of course, the High King had no intention of shattering his grandson’s memory of Balyn with the exact truth.
Artor marvelled at Bran’s height, his glossy brown hair, kept tidy in warrior’s plaits, and a face that was comely, masculine and sensitive. The cares of having become King of the Ordovice while still in his teens showed in the furrows that were already carved on his brow and in the air of gravity and purpose that infused his stance and his voice.
Artor felt a stir of pride when he looked up at his grandson as he mounted his horse to depart from Cadbury. Bran’s mouth and eyes were vulnerable with sorrow, while care wrapped him in a cloak of unspoken pain. His duty to his people called, so he must put aside personal grief to serve their needs. For such was the Roman way. Anna, her father and her son knew no other way to survive their grief.
In time, when Glastonbury was put to rights, Brother Mark walked up the spiral ramps of Cadbury Tor to tell the tale of Balyn and Otha to the High King in person. Artor heard him out and soundlessly cursed the need for secrecy that had destroyed his grandson’s faith. Mark revealed every detail of the death of Bishop Otha, including the priest’s confession of his fealty to Modred. Artor raged inwardly that Otha had attacked his grandson through his blood ties with the High King.
For the first time in his long life, Artor bent his knee to a man of God.
‘I beg you to hear me, Brother Mark, for I have never confessed my sins. I don’t know if your god is real, but something must guide the stars in their long dance through the heavens. I’m an old man and I’ll soon know all the secrets of death.’
Brother Mark coloured and then smiled slightly. ‘You come to God out of fear of damnation, King Artor.’
‘Perhaps I do, I don’t know. I believe that something of the soul goes on, the good as well as the bad. I also believe there will be judgement in this life and in the next. Perhaps a long life has simply taught me that what we struggle for in this world of flesh is less than nothing in the face of eternity, a concept that I choose to call God. But you may deny confession to me if you wish, and I’ll not punish you for it.’
‘No, lord, I would not deny you,’ the priest replied.
Artor bared his whole life before this humble man of God. What Mark thought of Artor’s disclosures is impossible to imagine, for he did not betray his king to a single, living soul.
‘I have one more request, Mark of Glastonbury.’ Artor pointed to the source of so much bloodletting and suffering, where it was standing upright in the corner of his chambers. The short Roman spear had been removed from the staff that had concealed it for centuries. It was a plain, utilitarian thing with neither beauty nor grace, and Mark shuddered at the blood it had shed.
‘Many of our flock have come to believe it is the weapon that pierced the side of Christ at Golgotha,’ he said. ‘The common belief is that Joseph of Arimathea brought it to Glastonbury, but he feared its reputation, so he sealed it away in an ancient tower on an island so that it would be safe from the hands of mortal men.’
‘Aye, I’m aware of the Christian belief that a Roman soldier used this weapon to wound your Christ. Well, this Roman-raised Celt won’t touch such a relic. The weapon is tainted with the blood of my kin and is now cursed by me forever. I beg that you take the Spear and do with it what you will, for it belongs in the hands of Mother Church where it can do no further harm.’
‘But didn’t you insist that Otha return the relic to you?’ Mark asked.
‘Yes, I did. And all the deaths that followed were the result of my selfish desire to secure my reign over my people. I have come to realize that the Spear should be in safe hands. Should the relic come into the possession of my enemy, then so be it. I won’t risk the lives of more innocents for the sake of a symbol.’
‘I mightn’t be able to keep it safe from the hands of impious men,’ Mark said. ‘Perhaps another Otha will be sent to Glastonbury.’
‘Perhaps. But I have made my decision. I wouldn’t trust Galahad with it, so it’s best if it remains among the treasures of Mother Church. I don’t care any more.’
At that moment, Artor meant what he said. The twins were dead, Otha had perished and Modred was exposed as having used his influence to force his man into power at Glastonbury. Otha had acquitted Modred of any guilt in the murder of Bishop Aethelthred and the stealing of Lucius’s Cup, but Artor now knew beyond doubt that Modred sought a means to steal the throne by stealth. Had Otha remained Bishop of Glastonbury, he cou
ld have thrown his considerable influence behind the Brigante king in the event of Artor’s death.
Modred must be watched, Artor thought savagely.
Brother Mark saw the sudden menace in the High King’s grey eyes. I don’t trust you, he thought uneasily. If the safety of your kingdom was at stake, you’d use the Spear just as ruthlessly as any of your enemies, and you’d never count the cost in human life. Now, in your guilt after the death of your grandsons, you want temptation removed from your grasp. But your mood will change soon enough, and then you will call for the Spear once again. Like Otha before me, I’ll be forced to refuse you, for motives far removed from Redbeard’s foolish dreams of power.
He came to a decision. The Spear must pass out of Artor’s reach forever. It must vanish so that men would never again be tempted by its promise. Come not to me again, Lord Artor, Dragon of the Celts, for I’ll never give it back to you, Mark vowed.
He didn’t voice his thoughts aloud; he simply nodded, and bowed his head low in obeisance to his king.
When he left Artor’s presence, he prayed that he would never see the High King again.
Mark hid the Spear where it would never be found and told no one, not even his archbishop, for all men have their price and even a man of God can be corrupted by his own good intentions.
And so a great danger passed out of the ken of the west. The twins became legend before the ashes of their pyre were even cold and Taliesin’s song sped them on their way to peace, with a warning and a prayer. In his extremity, Artor thought to cast his body from the tor, anything to ease the mortal hurt that he had suffered. The ghosts of his past reproached him then, and Artor understood that suicide in the face of his enemy was a solace and a cowardice that he could never embrace. No betrayal could harm the west more deeply than his flight into death.
The ravens returned to Cadbury in the autumn. Their shiny, malevolent eyes watched from the fruit trees as Artor faced the coming darkness.
CHAPTER XVI
SEARCHING
‘Shite! Shite! Shite!’
Bedwyr was irritated and, like all men of passion who have kept their frustrations in check for months, he was close to exploding with rage.
‘What burr has got into your trews?’ Galahad snapped, shaking his sodden hair like an angry dog. The prince was supremely indifferent to the fact that he was dripping all over Bedwyr and extinguishing the feeble fire that he had so carefully coaxed into life.
‘You’re my burr, Galahad. In the name of the gods, stop pissing on the fire. At this rate, we’ll freeze before the wood catches properly.’
Galahad moved sullenly further into the leaking shepherd’s hut.
‘Can’t you speak without cursing? We’re all wet and tired, but Percivale never whines.’
Bedwyr snarled like his own wolfhound. ‘That’s because you never piss on him! And if I want to curse, I’ll sodding well do it. You’d try the patience of your own Jesus.’
Galahad grunted and turned his back on Bedwyr, behaviour guaranteed to enrage his companion even further.
‘You’ve dragged us from one place to another, regardless of what Artor’s intelligence network tells us. We’ve chased down every foolish rumour until my arse is sore from hours on my horse for no good sodding reason. You don’t listen. In fact, you don’t even under - stand the language. My informants tell us where Gronw is likely to be and where he’s been seen recently. Do you take any notice? No! You’re too busy saying your prayers.’
Galahad rounded on Bedwyr, his perfect mouth twisted with contempt. ‘I cannot imagine why my great-uncle sent me on this mission in the company of a pagan misfit with an exaggerated opinion of his own abilities.’
Bedwyr half rose and Percivale recognized the stance of a man who was about to lose his temper. Hurriedly, he stepped between the two angry men.
‘Bedwyr! Galahad! How can we hope to succeed against Gronw and his followers when we can’t pull together ourselves? We’re doomed to certain failure unless you settle your differences and behave.’
‘My thanks, Percivale. Even you can see how ignorant this pagan is.’
Percivale flushed at the unconscious insult. ‘I am not taking sides, Galahad, but if I had to, I’d say Bedwyr had the right of the argument. You’ve been high-handed and unchristian!’
‘When have I been unchristian?’ Galahad demanded, his chin jutting aggressively.
‘Right now! Bedwyr is right. He’s been trying to start a fire for the best part of an hour while you blithely undo his efforts. Artor sent Bedwyr with us for a reason, and if I have to return to Cadbury to tell the king the cause of the failure of this mission, he won’t be amused.’
Sullenly, Galahad retreated to a mouldy pallet of straw in the corner that he suspected had once been the home of a nest of mice, judging by the smell.
‘Since I’m responsible for getting our campaign off on the wrong foot, how would you set us to rights, Bedwyr?’ he asked pugnaciously.
‘Will you listen?’ Bedwyr demanded.
‘Yes,’ Galahad hissed.
‘Really listen? If not, I may as well save my breath.’
‘I told you so, didn’t I?’
‘Bedwyr!’ Percivale warned.
‘Very well then,’ Bedwyr said more reasonably. ‘Have you heard of a settlement called Bremetennacum?’
‘Yes.’ Galahad nodded. ‘It’s a godforsaken fleapit on the edge of Brigante country.’
‘We need to detour to that fleapit and frequent the inns for a few days. Mamucium is another possible place where news of Gronw might be found.’
Galahad shook his head. ‘We’re somewhere east of Deva now, is that right?’
Bedwyr nodded.
‘And we’ve heard nothing of Gronw since we were at Magnis, so why should we continue to the north? Your proposal makes no sense to me.’
Bedwyr resisted the almost visceral urge to grip Galahad by the white column of his throat which was so tantalizingly close at hand. Percivale sighed deeply.
‘Everything we hear of Gronw leads us in a northerly direction,’ Bedwyr stated. ‘Is that true? Yes. It’s true. We know that Modred’s Brigante are no friends to Artor and his throne.’
Galahad nodded, albeit unwillingly.
‘If I were Gronw, I’d go to a place where I could find eager souls to give me shelter, not to mention credulous fools who might believe I was a Druid who has come to prophesy the fall of the High King. I’d choose a fleapit like Bremetennacum or a greasy hamlet like Mamucium on the Roman road that leads to the north.’
Galahad digested Bedwyr’s reasoning slowly but thoroughly.
‘Very well then. If we accept your reasoning, what should we do?’
‘A Druid preaching treason has to make some noise, so someone will have heard of Gronw. I’ve a talent for fitting into all types of company, so I’m certain to hear some news of him at the inns.’
Galahad chose to ignore Bedwyr’s reference to fitting in.
‘I am a reasonable man, Bedwyr, So if you’re happy about eavesdropping in inns, it might be best if you get started for Mamucium at first light. We’ll await word of Gronw here.’
‘Oh, joy’, Bedwyr snarled.
Galahad lay back on the pallet, wrapped his cloak about his long limbs and was soon asleep. Percivale had rarely felt so irritated by the prince’s high-handedness.
Bedwyr placed a small pot of water over the struggling fire. ‘I’m not going anywhere without food in my belly, regardless of the magnanimity of Lord Holy.’
‘Don’t antagonize him further, Bedwyr,’ Percivale begged. ‘He has made an enormous concession to his pride by agreeing with you, so please be content with a successful outcome.’
Bedwyr concentrated on thrusting a skinned, gutted and chopped coney into the pot with a handful of wilting vegetables and tender nettles that he’d collected the previous day. The aroma of cooking meat soon began to overpower the thick fug of wet wool, male sweat and blade oil.
Bedwyr st
ared out through the flimsy door into an evening made dim with driving rain. The whicker of horses, tethered in a lean-to beside the hut, was comforting and familiar.
‘I suppose Galahad can’t be blamed for his zeal. His whole family is crazy, except for Artor, and even the king has a fragile temper. But Galahad’s certainty in his own great destiny drives me demented with irritation.’
‘He’s an irritating man, but he’s a good one, at bottom,’ Percivale said, joining Bedwyr by the doorway.
‘Try to keep him here until I return, Percivale. Otherwise, I’ll never be able to find you again.’
‘I will do my best,’ Percivale promised.
Rabbit stew, though without salt, made a warming meal and even Galahad seemed happier with a full belly. Later, while his com - panions slept, Bedwyr considered their movements during the last months, while his hound nestled at his feet in the straw.
They had ridden far, in all kinds of weather and without the comforts of their station. Galahad was a hard taskmaster and the Cup lured him ever more strongly until he dreamed of its prosaic form whenever he closed his eyes. His zealous obsession made him difficult company.
They had lost Gronw at Farden and had searched the wild hills for days to no avail. Finally, they had followed the wide Roman road to Deva, trusting that this crossroad township would yield better results. They had been disappointed once again, and so now they found themselves in a shepherd’s bothie on an inhospitable hill somewhere between Aquae and Deva.
I wish Elayne was here, Bedwyr thought, and comforted himself by imagining her warm, brown body against his.
Before he had departed on this insane mission, they had spent two days in each other’s arms, and Bedwyr had come to realize that women are stronger than men and infinitely more patient. She had understood the need for secrecy that prevented him from telling her where or why he was travelling into the north. But Elayne had wept over his impending departure, knowing she would be lonely, although no complaint passed her lips. Her only thought was for his safety, although Bedwyr knew that she dwelled in a far more dangerous place than he - at court, and surrounded by enemies like Wenhaver and Modred.