King Arthur: The Bloody Cup: Book Three

by M. K. Hume

  Once she had climbed on to her horse with her back to the wind, Elayne felt more confident. But after fifteen minutes of riding, the ceiling of snow cloud began to lower, the darkness deepened and Elayne realized that she had no idea where she was.

  The cold bit through her furs and made her skin burn. She was totally lost. She was still close to the hut but she knew she’d never find it again in these conditions. All she could do was set her mare’s head forward and hope that the horse would find her way home to Cadbury.

  Artor and the other hunters arrived at Cadbury as the snowstorm gathered strength. The High King guessed correctly that Wenhaver would have deserted her vantage point as soon as the weather became nasty, so the hunters returned directly to Cadbury and were soon safely ensconced in the citadel.

  When he had bathed, Artor joined his wife to eat a simple evening meal. He was famished, but had barely seated himself when he noticed the empty chair.

  ‘Where’s Lady Elayne? I expect she’s tired and cold from our little expedition.’

  ‘Wasn’t she at the hut?’ Wenhaver asked carelessly. ‘She wanted to wait for you so you wouldn’t be concerned at our absence.’

  Artor stared at his wife in disbelief. ‘Are you telling me that you left her in that useless little hut? How could you be so uncaring and irresponsible as to abandon anyone in a place like that? You knew we would head straight for the tor if the weather worsened, for that was the arrangement made with your guards.’

  ‘Don’t speak to me like that! It’s not my fault! She didn’t have to remain there!’

  Cursing vilely, Artor rose and ordered Odin and Gareth to attend to him.

  ‘Where are you going?’ Wenhaver sobbed. ‘You’ll become lost and die, and then where will I be?’

  ‘You’ll stay safe, wife, for it’s what you do best,’ he snarled at her.

  Artor led a hastily arranged search party to the hut. There was no sign of life there, so the men began scouring the area close to the hut, but the snow had covered all trace of hoof prints.

  ‘She’ll not last long in this weather, regardless of her woodcraft,’ Artor shouted over the howling wind. He split his men into smaller groups to intensify the search. ‘If you find her, return straight to the tor and then send a message back to the search party. If you find no trace of her, we’ll meet back at the hut in an hour.’

  The king’s guards raised their gloved hands in acknowledgement and plunged off into the falling snow.

  Time dragged by and Elayne remained lost. Artor feared that she would not be found alive. His conscience and his love were twin whips that drove him on, but the horses began to show inevitable signs of exhaustion so, reluctantly, Artor ordered his men to return to Cadbury and the safety of the tor.

  ‘I’ll check the hut one last time, then join you as soon as I can,’ he shouted to his men.

  When Artor found the hut, it was more by accident than design. The flapping of the frozen hide door led him to a snow-swept space that was scarcely recognizable as the cheerful little hut that had been erected earlier in the day.

  Snow had blown through the open door and banked against the inner walls. The hut looked as deserted as it had been throughout the long search.

  ‘She’s not here. God help me!’

  Suddenly, he heard a low-pitched sound. The sound came again, barely more than an exhalation of air, but decidedly human, and it came from within the hut.

  Artor discovered Elayne in the corner furthest from the doorway. She had become a human snowdrift, having found her way back to the hut where she had instinctively huddled inside the furs abandoned by Wenhaver’s party. She was hovering on the brink of that final, gentle sleep that precedes death from exposure.

  Artor knew exactly what must be done. He left Elayne to find his horse. Nothing but snow flurries greeted his gaze and a quick search showed rapidly filling hoof prints leading off into the darkness. No better proof existed that this storm was a killer, for his horse had headed for the shelter of its stables at Cadbury with the inbuilt survival instincts of its kind.

  Artor returned to the hut and used his sword and knife to weigh down the hide door.

  Then he shook Elayne brutally. When her eyelids lifted a little and he could see slivers of her green-gold eyes, he slapped her hard until they began to open.

  ‘You can’t go back to sleep! You’ll die! Do you hear me? You’ll die! Don’t go to sleep!’

  ‘Cold!’ she whispered. ‘I’m so cold!’

  Artor stripped the ornamental furs off the walls and made a nest as near to the cold fire as possible. He picked up Elayne’s small form and bundled her securely in the furs.

  The king knew that fire was all that stood between them and death. The stools and other items of furniture splintered easily and a basket of cold victuals intended for the hunt party was emptied on to the floor so that the basket could be ripped apart and used for kindling.

  Using a flint to strike a fire took Artor far longer.

  His fingers were clumsy with cold and he had not been required to make a fire for decades. He was beginning to despair when a feeble flame finally sprang into life. He shielded the flicker with his hand until it finally spread to the split wood and leapt up in tongues of orange and yellow.

  A rudimentary search of the hut exposed a neat pile of logs in one corner - albeit covered with snow. A couple were thrust into the centre of the blaze that was quickly consuming the lighter wood and the wicker from the basket. As the blaze continued to grow, Artor could feel the heat beginning to emanate from the fire inside the confined space. Now he must pack snow tightly into gaps in the structure to stop draughts of wind, and then weigh down the inner hide walls with what stones he could discover.

  After he had sealed the hut as best he could, Artor turned his attention back to the half-frozen body under the furs.

  Elayne’s hands were icy, even within her damp mittens, so Artor thrust them inside his shirt. He eased his body down into the nest of fur and wound his body around her small, unresponsive form. Gently, he pulled the furs entirely over their heads so they were cocooned within a dark, soft world of slow breathing and slowly warming flesh.

  Artor dozed as the heat rose from the fire. With Elayne in the crook of his arm, a feeling of peace seduced his tired mind. He pressed her face to his breast, and began to knead feeling back into her frozen hands.

  He slept.

  During the night, Artor woke several times to add more logs to the fire. Each time, he found that Elayne was still deeply asleep, and with a sickening fear that she had ceased to live, he checked her breathing. Exhaustion had sucked her down into the healing darkness of sleep and the king was happy to follow her into its warm oblivion.

  When he finally awoke to a stillness that signified that the snowstorm had abated, the fire had become glowing coals in the simple hearth. Only one log remained, so he thrust it into the heart of the embers.

  In the furs, Elayne nestled into his arms and twined her legs around his. Her eyes were closed and small veins leapt and pulsed in her eyelids. Without counting the cost, Artor kissed her eyes and felt the first stirrings of an erection. With a great effort of will, he cradled her close to him and tried to banish any thought of her warm softness and the hands that held him under his shirt. She nestled even closer to him in her sleep until they lay breast to breast and thigh to thigh. The king tried to restrain his body with thoughts of Bedwyr but Elayne’s warm hands stroked his back and his ribs, until sheer pleasure caused him to groan.

  Elayne opened her eyes.

  ‘My lord,’ she said simply - and her hands stilled.

  ‘Forgive my familiarity, my lady, but you were half dead from exposure to the cold. I’ve no wish to compromise you.’

  Elayne’s eyes were sleepy and mysterious with those thoughts that lie at the heart of all women. His shoulder muffled her gentle laughter, while her free hand traced the outline of his shoulder muscles in the darkness of the furs.

  ‘I don’t
care what happens on this night, my lord, for I’ve already died and have arrived in paradise,’ she whispered, and he felt the warmth of her breath on his throat. ‘I’m no lady, Artor, I’m simply Elayne until such time as I return to life in the morning.’

  She freed one hand and gently smoothed the frown lines between his eyes. Then she pulled down his head so his mouth was on hers and Artor was lost in the lingering sweetness of her kiss.

  ‘No, my lady. No! Bedwyr is my friend . . .’ his voice trailed away as she closed his mouth with greater insistence.

  She stripped his lower clothing and deftly fitted her body to his. Artor felt himself buried in her body as if his sex had a life of its own and cared nothing for friendship, loyalty and honour. Although his reason cried out against the penetration of her body, he was lost in the warmth of her flanks and the silken body that drew him down into a memory of youth.

  Elayne was as wanton and needy as a servant girl, and Artor gave up all thoughts except of pleasure in her body. His hungry mouth roamed the unfamiliar terrain of her flesh and he luxuriated in simple sensation until both of them were spent.

  They slept again.

  When Elayne finally awoke, the passion of the night seemed to be a strange, primal dream. Artor had left the warmth of the furs, dressed in the weak light and now stood beside the partly open door, staring out into the early morning.

  Elayne smiled at him contentedly and the day suddenly seemed brighter. Artor frowned and his eyes were hidden in a network of fine lines.

  ‘Don’t be troubled, my king. Any sins of the night aren’t yours, but mine, done willingly and with pleasure. Nor will I be sad that you have held me in your arms, for my dear Bedwyr would not begrudge me any comfort I could give to my king. You saved my life.’

  Artor returned to her side and knelt to kiss her fingers, now rosy and warm.

  ‘I wasn’t the High King under the furs during the night. I was just a frightened and lonely man who searched for comfort. I took advantage of you and of your gratitude, no matter how you try to dress my actions in a more charitable light.’

  ‘And I was not Elayne. I made the decision to lie with you, and I willingly put aside my wedding vows.’ Then her face dimmed. ‘But last night was all we had, because the morning has now come and our rescuers will soon be here. I must become the queen’s companion once again, until such time as my dear Bedwyr returns to claim me. And you must assume your mantle of kingship without any care for me. We are friends, not lovers, for circumstances rule our separate duties.’

  He lifted her up and cradled her in his arms.

  ‘I wish our lives were otherwise,’ Artor whispered, his face buried in her unbound hair.

  ‘Aye. So do I. But you are the High King, and I am the mistress of Arden. Our separate lives are predetermined. But if you ever need a friend, my lord, then I am yours until I die. You need never be lonely, for Elayne will always be yours to command - in all but this.’

  Artor smiled down into her eyes, then kissed her deeply, as a lover would, for the last time. When he pulled away from her, he pressed his fingers to his lips as if to retain the taste of her.

  Then he rose and bowed low to her. A thousand whispered endearments were compressed into that single moment. Lost in his lambent grey eyes, Elayne drank in a lifetime of companionship and refused to weep for what could never exist.

  ‘Arise now, my lady, for I hear the sound of horses. The time has come for us to resume our separate lives.’

  When they were taken back to Cadbury Tor by a detachment of Artor’s personal guard, the whole town rejoiced in the salvation of the king. Elayne stood at the fringes of a cheering crowd, smiling ruefully as she watched the king’s tall figure engulfed by the assembled warriors, nobles and citizens.

  When their lives returned to their even, preordained banalities and the thaw of winter began, Artor ordered that the small hut should be torn down and burned. Some memories are best kept in the heart rather than in the physical world where temptation always provides a keener edge to desire.

  The day of the hunt was a memory that Elayne hugged to her breast, although her eyes no longer followed the passage of the king.

  CHAPTER XVII

  THE TRACE

  Bedwyr lounged on a rough bench in a hole-in-the-wall inn at Mamucium. The reek of sour wine, vomit and urine permeated every board of the structure, while the filthy straw over the sod floor crawled with vermin.

  The cold bit deeply into Bedwyr’s bones, so he wrapped his fleece cloak around him more closely. The hide was untanned and smelled vile, and no one even glanced in his direction.

  Nursing a cup of very rough cider, Bedwyr sank his head low and watched his fellow drinkers.

  The Blue Boar had a motley clientele. Shepherds, layabouts, the odd carpenter and at least one scarred warrior stood or jostled for a bench seat in the fug of sweat, smelly clothes and stale stew. The floor of the small room was unnaturally warm and Bedwyr guessed that the old Roman baths, now slimy and disused, had a functioning hypocaust that someone had primed with wood to warm the premises. Bedwyr closed his eyes, with one hand gripping his cup and the other wrapped firmly around his purse.

  Someone jostled him, so he opened one eye and cursed fluently.

  A one-eyed farmer peered at Bedwyr suspiciously as he moved along the bench, grumbling in a half-drunken slur. He closed his eyes again as a heavy rump settled on the other end of the seat. A slouching figure leaned against the wall on his other side. Hemmed in, Bedwyr summoned up a phlegm-coarsened snore.

  The men around Bedwyr talked and moaned about their lives. The winter was proving to be harsher than usual, their masters were unreasonable and one man had a brother who had been arrested by the town watch for rape. Their complaints were many and were mostly levelled at the town council and the local king. However, their ill feeling was also directed at King Artor because he was permitting Christianity to flourish within his realms.

  One man spat on the straw near Bedwyr’s booted foot and the spy barely managed to avoid flinching.

  ‘Them priests be a menace to all right thinking men,’ the man complained.

  ‘They spread their milky ways on every soul in sight,’ another agreed. ‘Who cares about heaven if here and now is so sodding awful?’

  ‘I’ll drink to that,’ a smoother, more educated voice agreed. ‘The sooner the Druids return, the happier I’ll be. It was fairer when the Druids gave the laws because they left a man alone, unless he killed or thieved.’

  One of the men disagreed, pointing out that Druid law was very similar to Christian dogma, but his friends howled his argument down. They seemed to have a rosy view of the justice meted out by the Druids, and Bedwyr took a brief moment to wonder how long these three idiots would prosper if the old days were to come back again.

  They’d most likely end up inside the wicker man, he thought.

  ‘At any road, a new order is coming to the west,’ the man next to Bedwyr said. ‘I heard there’s a movement starting up called Ceridwen’s Cup.’

  ‘That’s a stupid sodding name,’ the standing man replied laconically. ‘And you ought to be more careful what you say aloud in a place like this.’

  Casually, the standing man contrived to kick Bedwyr’s exposed ankle. Bedwyr snarled, swore and slumped even lower against the wall.

  ‘He’s drunk,’ the fat man next to Bedwyr said dismissively.

  ‘Ceridwen’s Cup was supposed to have brought knowledge and all good things to the people,’ the man with the smooth voice said. ‘Like the Horn of Plenty, it can’t be emptied.’

  Bedwyr snored, causing the three men to remain silent for a short moment.

  ‘It’s still a stupid sodding name,’ the standing man snapped. ‘But I’d like to find out what it’s all about. Life with the Cup couldn’t be worse than what we have, so how can I find out more?’

  The fat man drew in his breath with a sharp hiss, and Bedwyr felt the timbers of the seat shift as the man suddenly flex
ed his large buttocks.

  ‘All you need do to find other like-minded men is to mention the Cup in passing. They’ll know what you’re seeking,’ the first man murmured.

  ‘So what does the Cup stand for? I’ve only heard of it in whispers,’ the standing man asked, scepticism thick in his voice.

  ‘We’re of a mind that the people should decide what the laws are. King Artor is too far away to know how we live, if he even cared. Eating off gold plates won’t help him to know much about working people.’

  ‘You talk like a babe at times, Alwyn. Killing Saxons isn’t my idea of an easy life.’

  ‘Don’t use my name, you shit! Anyways, the Saxons don’t follow the Christian ways and they’re still true to their old traditions, which are much like ours used to be. Why are the Saxons our enemies? The sodding Romans saddled us with the Jewish god and what good ever came from that cursed race?’

  The man beside him stirred his fat rump again and spat.

  ‘I don’t know,’ the standing man muttered. ‘It seems to me that the Romans didn’t burn folks alive like the Saxons do. There’s nothing wrong with this nice warm floor that we have here and the Roman roads are good for moving sheep to market. Besides, the Romans went away, but there’s no sign the Saxons will ever leave.’

  The third man’s smooth voice interrupted the standing man’s recitation of practical Roman habits.

  ‘I’d be careful if I were you, or you’ll be judged by the Druid when the day of Ceridwen’s Cup comes to our lands. He’s got no patience with those Celts who don’t know where their future lies.’

  ‘Is that a threat?’ the standing man demanded belligerently and Bedwyr heard the grating of a knife as it was eased from its scabbard.

  ‘Why don’t you listen before you make up your mind?’ the seated man answered in a placatory voice. ‘There’s a meeting coming for all right thinking men.’