King Arthur: The Bloody Cup: Book Three

by M. K. Hume

  ‘Where?’ the standing man snapped.

  ‘Don’t be stupid. This isn’t the place to talk about it. The walls in this fleapit have ears.’

  The seated man gave Bedwyr a nudge in the side. He grunted and cursed drunkenly.

  ‘You can ask for the Cup at the Lady,’ the smooth-voiced man hissed. ‘But I should tell you that if we don’t think that you’re with us, then you’re against us!’

  The bench groaned as the heavy man moved from the seat alongside him. Bedwyr peeked through one cautiously opened eye.

  He saw two retreating backs.

  Where’s the third man? he thought to himself.

  Then the standing man eased his whipcord body away from the wall.

  ‘Did you hear all that, Lord Bedwyr?’ a soft voice whispered in the Saxon language. The standing man appeared to be speaking softly to the empty air.

  Bedwyr opened both eyes but kept silent.

  The man who stood to his right was lean, dark and sun-browned. His black eyes were alert with intelligence.

  ‘Are you Trystan’s man?’ Bedwyr asked softly. He felt a sudden clasp of strong fingers on his wrist.

  Bedwyr nodded his comprehension. He had never met Gruffydd’s kin but he knew that Trystan was second-in-command in Artor’s spy network.

  ‘Sit! I’m getting a crick in my neck from looking up at you.’

  The bench seat moved slightly as the spy slouched down next to Bedwyr. He leaned his back against the wall like any sensible man in such a den of iniquity.

  Bedwyr pretended to waken slowly.

  He stretched his arms and yawned and, by accident, managed to slap his companion across the face.

  He apologized oafishly and shuffled to his feet to buy his companion a mug of vile-tasting cider in atonement.

  Once reseated, Bedwyr leaned back against the wall and mimed drinking deeply, although his companion could see that the level of cider didn’t seem to be lowering in his rough pottery jar.

  ‘Who are these maniacs?’ Bedwyr whispered, although the noise in the small room was deafening.

  The spy shrugged. ‘Most of those who find their way to the Cup seem to be malcontents. From what I can gather, the Druid preaches revolution and attempts to convince his converts that even Saxons are a better alternative than a southern king who doesn’t care about the north. There are other forces at work in this game but, as yet, I can’t work out what they are.’

  ‘Humpff!’ Bedwyr gave the appearance of sinking into gloom and drink.

  ‘Several of our spies have vanished from the area, which is the reason I’ve been sent here from Deva. We’re playing a dangerous game, Bedwyr, with invisible men who take care that only stupid pawns are exposed.’

  ‘Where is this lady of whom they spoke?’ Bedwyr asked quietly.

  ‘It’s an inn called the Blue Lady,’ the tall man answered softly. ‘It’s near the abandoned forum. By all accounts, it’s a den for thieves, lowlifes and outlaws, so I’m not surprised the Fellowship of the Cup uses it as a rallying point.’

  ‘Then it seems I must go drinking at the Lady. I’ve always considered blue to be a lucky colour.’

  The tall man gripped Bedwyr’s forearm painfully.

  ‘Don’t be as daft as these cattle. You’ve been seen, you’ve come to their notice and you haven’t been invited to their little get-together. My presence won’t alarm the natives, so I’ll go. Meet me by the old stile at the crossroads two nights from now. I’ll be there at dusk and I’ll pass on to you whatever I discover. For the sake of the gods, don’t expose me by blundering into a place where you’ll stand out like dog’s balls.’

  Then, as slippery as any eel, the spy rose to his feet and vanished into the press of malodorous men.

  Bedwyr spent two miserable days scratching at bedbug bites and cursing the filth of this northern city. The icy weather made the cobblestones treacherous to walk on and the days were so dark and miserable that Bedwyr huddled in his stinking furs and snuffled like an old man.

  He had caught a head cold, but he comforted himself that he’d not been infected with anything worse. For all that it was still a trade town, Mamucium had decayed after the Romans had abandoned the isles. Inertia, or lack of a firm hand, had caused the town to degenerate physically since Luka’s benevolent despotism as tribal chief, but now it hunkered down in its rotting, wooden buildings. Remnants of glory lingered in an ordure-stained stone forum and the slimy and chipped mosaics of the abandoned baths, but Mamucium had seen too many armies come and go, while it festered from within.

  Two days are a long time when inactivity is forced upon an active man. Bedwyr frequented the coarsest inns and his stomach turned sour from bad wine and worse beer. On the afternoon of the second day, he made his way to a stone monolith situated a little outside Mamucium and set at the centre of the crossroads, as if it marked some ancient, forgotten wrong. Bedwyr had brought his horse, his hound and a full pack, hoping to be on his way at speed once he had concluded his business with the tall spy.

  Waiting was tedious, so he sat in the lee of an old oak out of the worst of the wind, where he could watch the stone in comfort.

  Darkness came gradually and Bedwyr began to worry. The nameless spy seemed to be a clever man, but he trod a dangerous path and, if what he’d said could be trusted, several men had already perished because they had proved to be overly curious about Ceridwen’s Cup.

  When a figure came running, Bedwyr did not desert the shadows of the oak immediately. The runner could be anybody, muffled as he was in a long black cloak.

  Gradually, Bedwyr became aware of a flame bobbing along behind the fleeing figure. Within a few minutes, two shapes loomed out of the darkness, rimmed by the light of the flaming torch that one man carried high in his left hand. The men wore muffling hoods and the light revealed the glitter of their drawn knives.

  The man being followed gave a small cry and summoned up a final burst of speed to reach the ancient rock which he used to protect his back as he turned to face his pursuers. Bedwyr was moving to position himself behind the assailants when the two figures attacked the winded fugitive in deadly, silent combat.

  By the time Bedwyr and his dog joined the fray from behind the two attackers, their quarry had already fallen to his knees. Bedwyr closed the gap between them quickly and immediately fell into the stance of the knife-fighter, while his Arden knife hissed in its eagerness to taste blood. His hound leapt at the throat of one man, her great jaws closing over an extended arm. The man screamed and tried to shake the grim beast off him, but her sabre teeth were lodged deeply in his flesh and her jaw was locked. His knife flashed once, then again, and Bedwyr’s hound cried thinly like a child.

  Bedwyr knew his companion of the road was gone.

  The two assassins fought like animals, kicking and spitting to gain any advantage, and Bedwyr blessed his years as a warrior. He rolled and ducked, kicked and then struck from behind, just as they did, but he was a trained killer, and his experience told in the final result.

  The man with the wounded arm died quickly and Bedwyr felt a frisson of vengeance as he slashed the man’s foolishly exposed throat. His hound was avenged and she would run free in the Otherworld.

  The other man was slain ignominiously as he attempted to scramble away from Bedwyr with his hands upraised in supplication. Bedwyr ignored a shallow slash he had taken across his ribs, stepped inside the defences of the retreating man and rammed the Arden knife up through the throat and into the mouth and brain of his enemy.

  The night remained silent, except for two sets of lungs that strained to drag air through gaping mouths. Bedwyr retrieved his knife and pulled back the hoods over the heads of the assassins. He recognized neither man.

  Bedwyr’s hound was dead, her jaws bloodied and her muzzle still raised towards an enemy. With a pang of regret and pride, Bedwyr prayed that when his time came he would die with as much grace and courage as his companion had displayed.

  Trystan’s spy had c
ollapsed and now he lolled on the frozen ground with his back to the stone. As Bedwyr bent over him, he could see that the man was bleeding sluggishly from a deep knife thrust just below the heart. Bloody froth escaped from the man’s lips, and his eyes were half-closed like those of a tired child.

  ‘Bedwyr,’ the spy sighed. ‘My thanks for your aid, friend, but you’ve arrived too late to save me.’

  ‘What have you learned?’

  ‘Always on duty, Bedwyr?’ the man wheezed painfully. ‘I am Glynn ap Rathwyn. Do you remember me?’

  ‘I do, Glynn.’ Bedwyr smiled regretfully at the dying man. ‘You have little time, and I must have your information. What can you tell me?’

  ‘Gronw, the Druid, is set to move to a ruined and deserted village that sits to the north of Bremetennacum on the road to Olicana. You must be careful, for you will be deep in Brigante country and their king is no friend to Artor.’

  Bedwyr looked up and down the crossroads, but the night was silent and deserted.

  ‘I’m sorry, Glynn ap Rathwyn, but I must leave you here while I move these carrion where they can’t be found. I must give myself a chance of escape so Gronw remains ignorant of our pursuit. I’ll not be any longer than I can help.’

  Glynn looked up at Bedwyr with pain-filled eyes. ‘You needn’t worry on my account, Bedwyr. I’ll be dead soon enough. Leave my body here and, if Gronw’s followers care to look for me, they’ll believe I’ve been eliminated. Take care, Bedwyr, and revenge yourself on Gronw for me.’

  The words were forced painfully from Glynn’s throat, and Bedwyr knew that some major part of the young man’s body had been breached. The blood that bubbled at his mouth was filled with air from collapsed and drowning lungs and the blue tinge that edged Glynn’s mouth was a sign that the spy was slowly choking on his own blood. Bedwyr knew no remedy that could save the dying man.

  ‘On your way, Bedwyr. You’ve much to do, and the friends of these mongrels might be curious about my fate.’

  When Bedwyr still paused, Glynn’s voice became rougher and stronger. ‘Get moving, damn you! I’m dying anyway, so don’t make it all for nothing.’

  The effort drained him, and his head slumped forward.

  Bedwyr trudged away, lugging one of the dead men with him across his broad back. He knew he left heavy tracks in the snow and slush, but trusted that the snowflakes now falling would hide his passage. He slung the body over his protesting horse.

  The second body was lighter and he soon had it lashed next to the first. Then he went back for the corpse of his hound who would lie, in death, with the creatures who killed her.

  Once more, Bedwyr ran back quickly to check on Glynn.

  The figure of the spy was already shrouded in a thin cloak of snow. Bedwyr shook the man’s shoulder and the spy unwillingly opened his eyes.

  ‘Do you have any messages for your kin?’ Bedwyr asked calmly, for he had seen the face of death so often that it held no dread for him.

  ‘I have no kin. But I ask that you bid Trystan farewell for me. Tell him . . . that no woman is worth his soul.’

  Bedwyr had no idea what Glynn ap Rathwyn meant, but he nodded and squeezed the hand of the dying man.

  ‘I feel cowardly for leaving you. Artor’s rule has always been that no friend should die alone in enemy hands.’

  ‘Make the killing stroke yourself, Bedwyr. I’d consider it a mercy from one warrior to another. You know what they will do to my body if they find me alive, so I ask that you strike hard and true. I assure you that my shade won’t return to haunt you.’

  Bedwyr pulled out his knife with its crust of blood along the blade from the bodies of the two assassins. The elaborate carving marked it as a special weapon, and Glynn’s eyes widened slightly when he saw it.

  ‘So this is the fabled Arden knife. It’s an honour to see it.’

  Bedwyr cleaned the blade in a handful of snow so that no impure blood would contaminate either the fine metal or the man who was about to die. Glynn’s eyes watched carefully and he grimaced with apprehension in spite of the honour that Bedwyr was about to pay him. Then he closed his eyes, so he couldn’t see the thrust that would extinguish his life.

  As Bedwyr led his laden horse away from the crossroads, he sighed to think of the waste that Gronw had brought to the west; many more good men would have to die to defeat the Druid and the cause that he espoused.

  Bedwyr tipped the two bodies into a sluggish river well outside the boundaries of Mamucium, trusting that they would be undiscovered until spring, if then. He buried his hound in deep snow in the exposed roots of an oak where it would rot in the spring and enrich the ground surrounding the huge tree. Finally, he cleaned the flanks and back of his horse with fresh snow to remove the blood that stained its hide.

  With a renewed sense of urgency, Bedwyr rode south at speed.

  Dreary days prevailed at Cadbury. The Samhein celebrations had come and gone, leaving Artor sunk in gloom at the absence of the twins. He felt like a straw king, clutching a tin crown with nerveless fingers, and his belief that civil war would burn everything he had striven to build began to turn him into a rudderless leader.

  Even the messenger who brought word of a royal visitor failed to rouse Artor from his torpor. King Mark from the west was coming from Segontium, and Cadbury was sent atwitter at the news.

  Wenhaver was as excited as a child.

  ‘I know this king is nothing much,’ she told Modred, who was still at Cadbury. ‘But it will be invigorating to have a new face here on the tor.’

  ‘Mark isn’t a very cheerful man,’ Modred replied laconically. ‘Nor does he travel very willingly. I wonder what he wants?’

  Wenhaver smacked Modred’s shoulder playfully. ‘Perhaps he’s bored too, and is seeking pleasure in the larger world. You always think the very worst of people, Modred.’

  ‘And I’m very often right,’ Modred muttered.

  King Mark had never pretended to approve of Artor as High King of the Britons and had, many years earlier, raised his objections publicly on the occasion of Artor’s crowning. The Deceangli were small, dour and argumentative, and they had taken in those disaffected Demetae tribesmen who chose to reject Artor’s division of tribal lands after the battle of Mori Saxonicus. Neither King Mark nor his vassals could be easily appeased by patriotic appeals from Artor’s emissaries, for their neighbours were the Ordovice tribe, warriors who enjoyed the sunshine of Artor’s approval - and were now their natural enemies.

  Eventually, King Mark made his triumphant entrance into Cadbury Town like a conqueror, complete with a retinue of sixty mounted warriors who were armed to the teeth. Although his guards were short and very dark, their black eyes were bright with malice and dislike for Cadbury.

  Artor met King Mark at the foot of the tor with his own fully armed retinue chosen from the most impressive men in his bodyguard. Ceremonial gold torcs encircled their throats and the hilts of their weapons were massy with cabochon gems.

  Artor, in contrast, had dressed in wintry grey. His eyes, his hair and his rich clothes were sombre, but the gold on his fingers, sword hilt and knife allayed any suggestion of asceticism. As a penance, Artor wore Uther’s pearl upon his thumb, having reluctantly accepted the jewel from Elayne’s hands, after she had taken it from Balyn’s body.

  ‘Welcome to Cadbury, King Mark. I’m honoured to meet you again, and I commiserate with you on the rigours of your journey. Arrangements have been made to accommodate you and four personal servants in state, on the tor itself. Provision has been made for quartering the remainder of your guard in the lower garrison.’

  No sensible king would welcome sixty armed men into his fortress.

  ‘My thanks, lord,’ Mark responded. ‘I’ve ridden far to meet you, for I need to transact some business with you that I hope will not be unwelcome. But I’d prefer to speak of my requirements later, after I’ve rested.’

  Artor’s lips tightened slightly at Mark’s presumption.

  ‘You’ve g
ained my attention, Mark,’ the High King replied silkily. ‘I await our discussion with anticipation. As always, I am at the disposal of any petitioner,’ Artor continued urbanely. ‘But for now you must allow me to conduct you to the tor and to your quarters.’

  King Mark was an angular, ageing man whose hair was almost wholly silver at the brow but still black elsewhere. He wore his hair chopped off at the shoulders, and the contrasting locks made him resemble a blackbird with white facial markings. His nose emphasized the avian image, because it was sharply hooked and narrow across the bridge. His lips were thin and colourless, while his black eyes were beady and acquisitive.

  Once Mark was ensconced in the best rooms in the citadel, Artor asked Odin and Gareth to join him in his bedchamber.

  Artor motioned the two men on to stools and then poured wine for them.

  He looked at Odin. ‘What do you make of King Mark, old friend?’

  ‘He has a hungry and a busy eye, Artor.’

  ‘What should I know about the man?’

  Odin put his large, sandalled feet on Artor’s table and drained the wine cup in one long swallow. ‘Mark missed nothing of the defences as we climbed the tor. That isn’t surprising because all strangers to Cadbury gawp when they see our fortifications for the first time. But I noticed that he made one mistake. He avoided meeting Modred’s eyes when he entered our hall, and Modred avoided meeting the eyes of Mark. As Targo would have said, I can smell a large rat in our straw. The Brigante stoat is a near neighbour to King Mark, so they must be acquainted.’

  ‘Mark has never shown any desire to visit us before. Why now? Why would he come in winter? He looks like a person who enjoys comfortable surroundings.’

  The three men sank into companionable silence.

  ‘I wish Balan was still here,’ Artor muttered sadly. ‘He would have had insights into the man. He was a good listener, he had a capacity for stillness.’

  ‘Your Bran is alive . . . and he’s a suitable heir, Artor,’ Gareth reminded the king. ‘He’s healthy, he’s fully grown into manhood and he’s already fathered a successor to follow him.’