by M. K. Hume
‘No. I’ll not rob Anna of her last son. It’s essential that Anna and Bran remain safe after I am dead. While I live, they’re vulnerable to predatory claimants to my throne, but this would be as nothing compared with the dangers they’ll face once I’ve gone to the shades.’
Artor sank back into silence, clenching and unclenching his aching knife hand.
Odin looked speculatively at his king, his head cocked to one side. As he aged, he seemed to look more and more like a disreputable bear.
‘The winds tell me that you will have another son soon, Lord Artor,’ the Jutlander said suddenly. His eyes were veiled and he seemed to be struggling to breach the void that exists between silence and speech.
‘I’ve sired many sons, but they’ve been born of women whom the tribal kings would never accept. They’re good boys, but none of them has the qualities needed to rule our people.’
‘Lady Elayne quickens with child,’ Odin stated. ‘Her maidservant tells me she vomits every morning, and that she’s careful with her choice of food.’
The silence that fell was deep and absolute.
‘Her maid also informed me, with a little encouragement, that Lady Elayne has not had the moon blood for four months. The lady quickens, as I have said.’
Artor stared at the huge Jutlander with growing horror in his eyes.
‘The world will know her to be a faithless wife,’ Gareth said regretfully. ‘The maids already whisper their suspicions, and it would be foolish to protest that the world will not know the child was sired by the king. Bedwyr has been absent from court for six months and who else would dare to touch Lady Elayne other than the king, given that they were together during a blizzard at the time the child was conceived. The courtiers of Cadbury can count.’
‘May the gods save us,’ Artor moaned. ‘Bedwyr will demand a blood price for his lost honour. And I? I deserve to pay it. But Lady Elayne is without blame in her predicament, and I’ll not permit her to become the butt of cruel rumour.’
Odin cleared his throat.
‘I say she’s without blame,’ Artor repeated roughly. ‘I am the High King, and my word is law!’
‘Should Wenhaver hear any rumour concerning Elayne, the lady will be ruined. Losing your temper won’t change her fate.’ Gareth’s bluntness cut through Artor’s rage like a cold knife. The king visibly deflated.
‘You’re right, Gareth,’ Artor said. ‘As always, you speak the unadorned truth while I bluster.’
The king became silent as he considered what action he could take. Finally, he turned to Odin.
‘Fetch Taliesin. But quietly, understand?’
‘Now, Artor?’
The High King nodded distractedly.
Odin found Taliesin quickly, and the harpist soon accompanied the Jutlander into the king’s spartan chamber. Artor gave the young man a terse explanation.
‘As soon as King Mark has departed from Cadbury, you will accompany Lady Elayne home to Arden. She is in danger here, and I must protect her as best I may.’
Taliesin merely bowed his head in agreement. As a man of medicine, he had already noticed Lady Elayne’s flushed cheeks and her loss of appetite. This order simply confirmed his suspicions and concern.
The next evening, Artor and Wenhaver presided over a grand feast in honour of King Mark’s visit. The queen had driven the servants almost to madness in her determination that Mark would be struck dumb by the magnificence of Cadbury Tor.
In the halls, perfumed oils burned in flaming sconces and scented the air, while the best golden platters were laid out ready for the guest’s use. The cups were of glass that had come from across the great, inner sea, while amphora and jugs of wine of the best quality were on hand to tempt the most discerning palates.
Wenhaver looked magnificent in cloth of gold and fur. In the secret way of women, her hair was still vivid and any plumpness in her figure was well hidden under her heavy robes. She welcomed her guest graciously and introduced King Mark to the court with natural charm. In such situations, Wenhaver shone. Her performance gave Artor a small, but heartfelt, thrill of pride.
Artor arrived late at his own feast, a slight that forced his guests to cool their heels in small talk and their throats with chilled wine from Gaul. Under his robes, Artor’s right leg ached fiercely from an old injury and he would have preferred to read or snooze by his own fire. Instead, he dressed with care and entered the great hall, flanked by Odin and Gareth. Desperately, he tried not to wince or to limp as he strode across the uneven floor.
Mastery of feigned interest and the open, welcoming gaze of friendship is an absolute necessity for all politicians and kings. Artor employed all the hard-learned tricks of diplomacy to conceal his dislike of King Mark, who was resplendent in finely dyed wool, a golden torc, a huge brooch and even an ostentatious crown. Artor was preoccupied by the predicament facing Lady Elayne; as he smiled warmly towards Mark, his thoughts kept slipping away to the lady who was sitting demurely at the end of the table, well below the salt. With a pang of guilt, he realized that a shameful hope was beginning to surge through his ageing blood. Perhaps a son could still succeed him.
The feast began.
‘Your earthworks are impressive, Lord Artor. I’d heard of them, but I can see for myself that any siege of your citadel would be fruitless. I congratulate you on their design and construction.’
King Mark’s voice made a circuitous route through Artor’s ambivalent thoughts. With difficulty, the High King wrenched his mind back to the task at hand.
‘It wasn’t all my own doing, Mark. Before the Romans, Cadbury was an impregnable fortress, and then it fell into ruins. Myrddion Merlinus planned the new defences of Cadbury many, many years ago, while I merely built it. I might add that his son, Taliesin, is an excellent harpist and he will be singing for us tonight.’ Artor paused to skewer King Mark with his eyes. ‘Many of our citizens believe that Cadbury will never fall because it has been sanctified with young flesh over the ages.’
Mark surreptitiously made the sign that warded off evil.
Artor considered how small-minded King Mark was in every sense. The puffed-up blackbird, eager to pick at any old bones that came his way, was still frightened that the corpse on which he fed might cause him harm. And he was superstitious, which could be a useful weakness.
King Mark toyed with a piece of chicken on his plate using a jewelled knife. He stabbed at the plump flesh, tearing off thin strips that he impaled on his blade and popped neatly into his mouth.
Artor felt queasy.
‘I have heard Myrddion Merlinus is imprisoned in a hollow tree with Nimue, the enchantress. It’s said that she uses the same magic she learned from him to cast demonic spells over all those poor souls who come in contact with her.’ King Mark picked over what was left of the carcass on his plate and sucked the last of the succulent white meat off its bones. Then he threw the scraps on to the flagged floor like a northern savage.
Artor winced at the King’s barbarian manners, while a servant unobtrusively scooped up the mess and carried it away.
‘You’d best not speak slightingly of Lady Nimue to her son. He plays and sings like a godling, but he has a wicked knife arm and a slow but fiery temper. And there are many people in Cadbury who have cause to remember Lady Nimue with gratitude. My nephew there, Prince Gawayne, owes the life of his wife and his eldest son to the skills of the Maid of Wind and Water.’
‘I stand corrected, Artor,’ Mark countered smoothly. ‘Peaceful days breed fanciful stories and the marvels of Cadbury are among the most wonderful tales of all.’
‘Believe little of what you hear, Mark. Superstitious gossip can be useful to manipulate susceptible men.’
Mark flinched and paled visibly, although Artor had no idea what he had just said that had flustered the northern king. He determined to press home his advantage and smiled conspiratorially at his guest as if they shared a special secret.
Let him make what he chooses of that, Artor though
t to himself.
Mark fumbled with his eating knife and managed to drop it.
Taliesin sang his newest composition which related the deaths of Balyn and Balan. When the last chord died, the rapturous approval of the court and the copious tears of Queen Wenhaver washed through the hall.
Throughout Taliesin’s performance, in feigned boredom, King Mark continued to eat greedily.
‘Those poor, dear boys,’ Wenhaver sobbed. ‘Balyn was half in love with me, the pet, before his madness took him. It was such a tragic story. How their mother must feel!’
‘She has another son’, Mark replied baldly. ‘I’ve met him. He’s a large, curly-haired chieftain with grey eyes, and he lacks respect for his betters.’
Artor felt the blood thicken around his heart. Any pretty words he might have offered congealed in his throat. Uncharacteristically, he spat.
Wenhaver looked shocked and spoke hastily to cover her husband’s lapse in manners.
‘Men can’t really understand the loss of children,’ she said softly. ‘So I’ll forgive you for your ignorance on this subject.’
‘Bran is a loyal vassal of mine, Mark,’ Artor said pointedly.
‘Indeed. He’s able enough, but he rarely mixes with his equals and he’s unwilling to show the deference that is due to his elders. Still, he has a fine look about him . . . much like you, Artor.’
‘I’ve only met the man once, so you have an advantage over me. Of course, his mother Anna is distant kin of mine, but it’s many years since I last saw her.’
Wenhaver prattled of trivialities while her husband trod a perilous bridge of words, his mind inwardly seething at the lack of respect and good manners displayed by his visitor.
Displeased, and careless of who knew it, the High King finished his meal in silence. He listened to King Mark and Wenhaver converse aimlessly of inconsequential matters ranging from the inclement weather to the number of brigands abroad on the roads. When the servants poured more wine and placed great bowls of fruit, nuts and honey on the board, Artor took the initiative.
‘I doubt that gossip or good food has brought you to Cadbury, King Mark. We have diverted each other long enough with polite conversation, so it’s time you broached the purpose of your visit to my fortress in the depths of winter.’
With studied carelessness, Mark selected a walnut and smashed its shell between his fingers, before dropping the grit on to the floor. If he expected his small show of strength to impress Artor, he was mistaken.
‘I come to you because of your dog, Trystan,’ Mark said evenly. ‘I want him muzzled, and I demand that you keep him away from my wife. I expect your co-operation in this matter, King Artor, and have come to gain your assurances that you will act.’ Privately, Mark feared his queen would elope with Artor’s spymaster. The public humiliation he would suffer as a result didn’t bear thinking about.
‘My dog?’ Artor queried very quietly. ‘I wasn’t aware that Trystan was my creature to command. That wilful young man chooses his own path with no reference to me. Apart from carrying out certain basic duties for the throne from time to time, he’s master of his own actions. I have met Trystan on only one occasion and I have no particular liking for the young man.’
Mark’s thin lips almost disappeared as he chewed on his greying moustache.
‘In Trystan’s defence, however, I assure you that his loyalty to the Celtic cause is beyond reproach.’
‘So you refuse to keep that young seducer away from my queen?’
‘You misunderstand me, Mark. I will send a special courier immediately to order Trystan to avoid your wife, but I cannot guarantee that he will take the slightest notice of me. I’m not his kin, and he’ll likely tell me to mind my own business. However, it should be easy to take the young man in hand yourself. And perhaps you should keep Queen Iseult away from temptation. I’ve heard that she is young and impressionable, as well as beautiful.’
‘Before you offer marital advice to me, Artor,’ Mark snarled, ‘perhaps you should—’
‘Be very careful what you say in this public place,’ Artor interrupted icily. ‘Ill-chosen words can be dangerous.’
Mark rose abruptly to take his leave, causing his chair to topple backwards, with a loud clatter. The assembled guests fell silent, for very few visitors had ever acted so imprudently in the presence of the High King.
‘Then I will bid you a good night’s sleep, King Artor. I hope that all your days are safe and pleasant in the months to come.’
Wenhaver gasped at the threat beneath the words, but Artor seemed unperturbed.
‘Naturally, I wish the same future for you, Mark. Tomorrow we go hunting. Please join us, if you enjoy the chase.’
Mark bowed his head fractionally and stalked out of the hall.
Odin bent over to whisper in his master’s ear. ‘You’ve given him no reason to love you, Artor. It would be unwise to hunt with him tomorrow.’
The High King patted Odin’s arm affectionately. ‘You’ll be careful enough for both of us, my strong right arm.’
Modred had watched the exchange between the two kings with lively interest. Inwardly, he cursed Mark’s ineptitude. The Deceangli king was very foolish to show his hostility so openly, for Artor would now be on his guard.
Outside, the wind dropped and a still, white shroud of mist settled over Cadbury’s defences.
CHAPTER XVIII
A CURSE UNLEASHED
The early morning was sharp with frost. The tor was a monochrome of black, grey and pearl-white, but Artor’s palace beetled over Elayne like some threatening wooden creature out of legend. Her frightened thoughts created a horse head out of the mists or, seconds later, a leering wicker man writhed out of the low cloud and fog.
She shivered in her heavy furs.
An ostler assisted her to mount, but her horse skittered on the icy flagging. She thought that she might fall as the sky wheeled above her, but a strong arm steadied her shoulders until she was lifted into the saddle.
‘My lord!’ the ostler gasped, and bowed his head reverently.
‘Your Majesty.’ Elayne’s heart leaped to see him. ‘There is no need for you to farewell me. I shall soon be away, and I would be sad to think you had caught cold because of me.’
‘Do not fear for my health, my lady, for I don’t deserve a moment of your concern. Taliesin? I want you!’
The harpist appeared instantly out of the fog, his long hair beaded with moisture and his mare moving easily with only the pressure of her master’s knees.
‘Lord Artor, I live to serve.’
‘I hold you to your promise, Taliesin. This lady is precious to Lord Bedwyr - and to me. You will stay close to her until her forests fully protect her . . . as I cannot.’
Taliesin bowed his head briefly. ‘I have so sworn, my lord.’
Elayne felt a lump in her throat that was more painful than the small heaviness in her womb, or the fear that lay heavily on her heart.
‘Are there no messages for Arden, Lord Artor?’ she asked, although she knew she spoke unwisely. There were twenty mounted warriors close at hand who would act as her escort. If she wished for a message from Artor, he would be foolish to risk being overheard.
Artor swallowed and stood a little straighter, but he remained mute. He took Elayne’s gloved hand in both of his, peeled back the leather where it protected the narrow, blue veins on the inside of her wrist and then lingeringly kissed them. Her fingers trembled at his touch.
‘Farewell, my lady. There is nothing else to say.’
Elayne’s horse moved into the cavalcade of escorts, and her hand was torn from his grip.
‘Until later, my lord!’
‘Until later,’ he replied, and turned away so that no man could see his sadness.
Elayne soon lost sight of his tall figure in the mist. Still looking backwards at the tor, the lady reached the gates of the citadel and passed out of the ken of the west.
Bedwyr rode south with a nasty crosswind m
aking his passage over the icy roads even more difficult than usual. Barely pausing to rest his horse, he made good speed in the poor weather, for urgency provided a sharp spur to his journey.
Gronw had surfaced at last.
The relationship between Percivale and Galahad had not fared well during Bedwyr’s absence. Years spent working in the kitchens, followed by the long process of proving his worth to Artor, had inured Percivale to displays of petulance and impatience by courtiers such as Galahad, but the young man had tried Percivale’s patience to its limit.
The problem with Galahad, Percivale eventually decided, was that the young man was totally incapable of understanding the needs and feelings of any other person. The bountiful gifts of beauty, talent and good birth had resulted in the development of a personality that was as ignorant of the natural feelings of ordinary men as a dumb beast. In fact, animals were more sensitive than the Otadini prince, for they had empathy and Galahad had none. The prince never raised a finger in the preparation of a meal, or in the cleaning of their cramped quarters, and even stolid, good-natured Percivale had tired of being Galahad’s body servant and whipping boy.
‘I hate winter. I’m never quite warm and there’s too little to do,’ Galahad complained on the last day of their enforced inactivity.
‘Then perhaps you could make an attempt to turn over the straw. The stench is vile.’ Percivale’s tone was sharp with frustration, so any sensible man would have understood the dissatisfaction underlying Percivale’s complaint.
‘I don’t do cleaning. I only do things that amuse me.’
‘Then perhaps you can kill some defenceless animal that we can eat for our supper.’
Galahad finally realized that Percivale was cross.
‘I don’t see why you should be so irritable, Percivale. This mission must be a holiday for you, for you’d be at the king’s beck and call in Cadbury. I don’t ask much of you.’