King Arthur: The Bloody Cup: Book Three

by M. K. Hume

  Uncharacteristically, Percivale swore at the Otadini prince.

  ‘Enough of your shite, Galahad! You’ve skived away from all menial tasks since we first rode together. I’m no longer a kitchen boy, I’m a warrior in the service of King Artor. I’ve earned my rank, I wasn’t born into wealth and power as you were.’

  Galahad’s mouth closed with a snap and he made a great show of toying with the straw, a token effort that only served to fill the air with dust.

  ‘Stop it, Galahad! Even this simple task is too difficult for you, so please go outside and kill something.’

  And so, when Bedwyr arrived, he found Percivale alone. The warrior had lit a new fire and was preparing a small round pot for cooking whatever delicacy Galahad managed to flush from cover.

  ‘Oh, it’s you,’ Percivale muttered sullenly.

  ‘I love you too, friend. What’s roughened your fur?’

  Percivale smiled apologetically at his friend. ‘Don’t mind me, Bedwyr. I’m homesick and bored. This hut is a malodorous, dreary hole and I’d feign be on our way somewhere, anywhere, rather than remain in this dung heap for one more day.’

  Bedwyr watched as Percivale snapped wild parsnips and carrots with his strong fingers.

  ‘I assume that Galahad has been his usual charming self.’

  ‘Don’t go down that path,’ Percivale warned grimly as he tore leafy greens into strips. ‘He never speaks; he preaches! I know I’m uncharitable to complain about our companion, but I’ve been driven to distraction in the weeks we’ve been camped here. I hope you’ve found the Cup, Bedwyr, so we can leave this pestilential place.’

  ‘I’ve discovered where Gronw is hiding, but we’ll need to ride hard and fast to catch him before he moves on to his next hiding hole.’

  At this auspicious moment, Galahad pushed through the door, shaking snow all over the threshold and letting in a frigid draught of air. He was carrying two rabbits, gutted and skinned, and he seemed very pleased with himself.

  ‘You’re back! Where’s Gronw?’

  ‘No one ever thinks to ask after my health,’ Bedwyr joked, but Galahad took him literally and inspected his person from head to foot. ‘You look fit and well to me, if a little travel-stained,’ he pronounced. ‘So, where’s Gronw?’

  ‘I’ve discovered a group of particularly nasty individuals called the Fellowship of the Cup. They’ve murdered at least three of Artor’s servants who stumbled on to news of their foolishness. We’re talking revolution here, masters, one that’s obviously being funded by someone with a very heavy purse. Gronw, to answer your question, is currently at a deserted village south of Bremetennacum.’

  Galahad dropped the rabbits in the straw and began to gather together his tackle and possessions.

  ‘We ride immediately,’ he ordered grandly.

  Percivale and Bedwyr looked at each other.

  ‘Come on,’ Galahad urged. ‘Gronw might get away while we’re sitting on our backsides, stuffing ourselves with rabbit stew.’

  Percivale bent to pick up the rabbits.

  ‘I’ve just completed a two-day ride, Galahad,’ Bedwyr explained patiently. ‘My horse will drop dead without food, water and rest. I’m not feeling so alert myself and the thought of rabbit stew sounds tempting to me. Besides, it’s getting dark outside, and it’s snowing.’

  Both companions observed Galahad’s internal battle between impatience and practicality and, for once, the latter won.

  ‘Suit yourselves,’ he eventually conceded. Then he looked towards Bedwyr’s feet. ‘Where’s your bitch?’

  ‘She’s dead,’ Bedwyr replied gruffly. He missed his hound; he had hand-raised her from the time she was whelped and he felt incomplete without her.

  ‘I’m sorry to hear it,’ Galahad said. ‘Shall we leave at first light?’

  ‘Agreed,’ Bedwyr said curtly. ‘And I suggest we avoid the roads.’

  The stew was acceptable and the three men devoured every greasy morsel, using their fingers and then cleansing themselves with fresh snow. Percivale scrubbed the pot with more snow while Galahad and Bedwyr fell asleep on the straw, leaving Artor’s man to wonder why he had been sent on this unpleasant journey.

  Feeling unappreciated and resentful, Percivale began his nightly prayers. For all his noisy piety, Galahad often forgot to have regular communion with God if he was tired and, uncharitably, Percivale allowed his reservoir of dissatisfaction to intrude between himself and his own devotions.

  As he curled into the musty straw and closed his eyes, his thoughts turned to the Cup. He had decided that he didn’t really care whether it was the Cup of the Last Supper or a simple utensil that had been passed from hand to hand by Roman warriors. The object had been blessed during the years it was held by the holy hands of Lucius of Glastonbury, and so it was a blasphemy for the relic to be in the possession of a criminal. That the Cup should be used against the interests of the High King was doubly unthinkable.

  Artor is more than a king, Percivale thought ardently. He is an idea, a man who sees beyond birth and status, and into the heart.

  Then Percivale considered the plight of the ordinary people whose lives were far removed from the court. One ruler was much like another to them. Artor or some Saxon king - would there be any difference? Wasn’t any king just another bubble in the vast river of human history?

  He decided that the peasants would regret Artor’s passing when he was eventually washed away by time. Goodness, honour, duty and courage all endure far longer in the common mind than in the hearts of kings. Percivale decided that if he must die, then he would perish for Artor rather than the Cup, no matter how seductively it called to him.

  At Cadbury, the weather was far milder than it was in the north and, on the day of the hunt, the spring thaw was already underway, so the earth under the horse’s hooves was soft and treacherous. In the crisp, pale glare of a watery sun, the hunters were black shapes outlined against the shrinking snow. Artor would have preferred to ease his bones before a fire, but hospitality demanded that he exert himself to amuse King Mark.

  The afternoon was largely uneventful. A doe in her winter coat blundered across their path, disturbed by the beaters who slogged through the snow.

  Out of courtesy, Artor permitted Mark to make the kill, and the northerner managed a grudging smile of enjoyment as his men dressed the beast where it fell, before slinging the carcass over a packhorse. Artor stared at the steaming entrails that were dumped in the bloody snow and thought of the beauty that had been wasted for something as meaningless as personal amusement.

  As the hunters rode back towards Cadbury and warm fires, a flock of large birds rose upwards from deep within a shadowy maze of gorse and trees. King Mark drew his bow and began to fire, followed almost immediately by all the other members of the hunting party. Soon, the air was filled with the hiss of arrows as they arced upwards towards the circling flock. The birds dropped like stones.

  Artor took no interest.

  Suddenly, something plucked at his cloak and he felt a narrow wire of pain across his side. Startled, he pulled on his horse’s mouth and the beast reared in panic. This time, Artor saw a solitary arrow curve past him and fall into a snow bank just five yards away from where he fought to control his excited mount.

  ‘To me! To me!’ he roared, throwing himself to the ground to use his horse as a shield.

  Within seconds, Artor’s bodyguards had surrounded their king.

  Odin checked the High King from head to toe before he found the tear in Artor’s red cloak. His eyes flared with panic as he swept the material away from Artor’s side.

  ‘Find those arrows,’ Odin shouted to Gareth, his voice suddenly devoid of its usual heavy accent. ‘And mark where they came from.’

  ‘It’s nothing but a scratch, Odin.’

  Regardless of Artor’s assurances that he had taken no hurt, his bodyguard escorted him away from his gaping guests, back to the safety of the tor.

  ‘You were fired on not onc
e, but twice, my lord. Most of the warriors and the nobles of the court, including King Mark’s servants, were at the rear, behind the hunters. It would have been easy to hide behind a tree or a snow bank and await the chance for a clear shot. No one would have noticed a brief absence by the assassin.

  Gareth joined them, pushing his horse up the last incline with ruthless haste. He carried two arrows in his left hand.

  ‘Not here,’ Artor hissed.

  He led his two personal guards into the hall and, from there, into his rooms.

  Before the king had a chance to speak, Odin found a bowl of clean water and forced his master to strip off his outer clothing to reveal a narrow gouge across Artor’s side.

  ‘You were lucky,’ Odin grunted, as he smeared one of his vile-smelling salves over the wound, before binding it with a strip of torn cloth.

  ‘Why would King Mark take such risks immediately after an open disagreement with me? I’d expect an assassin to be overly friendly if he planned to kill me. I don’t think Mark was involved in this plot.’ He turned to Gareth. ‘Where are the arrows, Gareth?’

  Gareth quickly produced the two arrows and handed them to his king, who began to inspect the shafts.

  ‘Perfectly ordinary, unmarked fletches with nothing to show who might have owned them. They tell us nothing, so we cannot make wild accusations against our guests. We’ll treat the attack as opportunistic - some ill-wisher could not resist chancing his luck.’

  ‘Lord, there’s more to this assassination attempt than we think,’ Gareth said. ‘I checked the flight of the arrows against the spot where they fell to earth. The assassin wasn’t behind you. He was hidden in a copse of trees ahead of us. He could be one of the beaters, a peasant or even a warrior who separated himself from the other hunters.’

  ‘Trust no one,’ Odin said grimly. ‘You could so easily be killed, Artor, if you don’t take care.’

  ‘I don’t intend to live in fear and cower on my stool beside the fire. I’ll die as I’ve lived and shall make no complaint.’ Artor grinned recklessly.

  He dressed briskly and left his chamber to greet the returning nobles who all wondered at the king’s sudden departure from the hunt.

  ‘Forgive me, honoured guests, for I suddenly became faint and my guard panicked.’ Artor explained. He smiled at those assembled. ‘Old age catches us all in the end.’

  Most of the nobles and servants appeared to accept his explanation, but both King Mark and Modred exchanged doubtful, confused glances.

  Artor moved among the lords, praising their prowess in the hunt and admiring the birds, snow foxes and, of course, King Mark’s deer. The knives are beginning to sharpen, Artor thought, even as he slapped backs and told jokes with guests who could be potential assassins. Someone is tired of waiting and wishes to hasten my departure for Hades. But I’m now forewarned and the reach of my arm is long.

  The three searchers slogged through snow-drowned forests, resting frequently to save the horses. They were forced to sleep in a lean-to made from cut branches and they scraped the earth bare of snow inside so a fire could be lit. All in all, Bedwyr had chosen a miserable route for the trio to travel.

  ‘Where are we?’ Galahad panted as he attempted to drag his horse out of a snowdrift.

  ‘Just a little to the south-west of Bremetennacum.’ Bedwyr helped to push Galahad’s steed from behind.

  Eventually, the horse escaped the clinging snow with an explosion of muscles, and Galahad and Bedwyr sprawled full length in the snow.

  Galahad rose laughing, and Bedwyr could almost forgive the obsessive selfishness that impelled the prince.

  ‘So where is this village of which you speak?’ Galahad asked. He carefully checked the legs of his animal.

  ‘From what I was told, it’s situated on the Roman road leading to the west. The road travels to the sea and then heads north to Bravoniacum, within reach of the Wall.’

  ‘So we sneak up on this village, do we? What about Gronw?’

  ‘It’s not likely we can sneak up on the place,’ Bedwyr replied laconically, dusting snow off his leather breeches. ‘But I don’t think we’ll miss the village. Gronw’s followers will leave tracks in the snow. He has quite a following now, so it’s becoming more and more difficult for him to conceal himself.’

  ‘We must exercise caution from now on,’ Percivale warned.

  ‘Yes,’ Bedwyr agreed. ‘We’ll have to be extremely careful when and where we break cover. The Roman road is just beyond the tree line, so we must choose a route where we can ride parallel to it. And we can’t light any more fires, so there’s no more hot food. Let’s not give Gronw any advance warning. I expect enough opposition as it is.’

  That night, the three men huddled together in the lee of an oak, while their horses were kept hobbled in places where their soft lips and sharp teeth could find a little dried grass or sweet bark to augment the grain they had been fed. The warriors were uncomfortable and slept little, although they needed healing rest. The Cup burned in each mind like a curse, although each of them desired it for a different reason.

  Crazed with dreams of glory, Gronw presided over a growing body of followers. Three times he had passed judgement on spies that had resulted in summary execution, and his decisions created spectacles that brought more potential adherents to his cause. The tattooed Pict gloated over the deaths of his enemies as he sat wrapped in dirty furs in the only sound building remaining among a cluster of four rotting huts.

  The traitors had been burned for their sins and their blackened bodies left where they died as an object lesson to those fools who still followed the new ways and religions.

  Pebr, the phlegmatic, one-eyed warrior, had become Gronw’s guide and paymaster, and his link to their anonymous benefactor. Pebr was curt and monosyllabic, and Gronw doubted that this saturnine man believed one word of his injunctions to the people. Not that Gronw blamed him for his doubts, he didn’t believe his rantings himself. But any lie that brought harm to either Roman or Celt was acceptable. Revenge had a special taste, like dried blood mixed with salty tears, and Gronw fed on it addictively.

  His eyes strayed to the rafter in the corner of the room where he had hidden the Cup. He could feel its power drawing him, even now when he could not physically see it. With his habitual suspicion, he had taken great pains to hide the Cup from Pebr, for Gronw trusted nobody.

  Tonight, he would speak of rebellion. He would warn the curious and the true believers alike of the war to come, when Christianity would be cast out and the land would be cleansed of Artor and his kind. Then, tomorrow, he would move further north, to a new location that Pebr had prepared.

  Word had spread and messages were passed from mouth to mouth.

  Outside, in the forest that encroached upon the ruined village, the three searchers had located Gronw’s lair; it was clearly signposted by a wisp of smoke escaping from the conical roof of the hut. They could also smell the remains of the three executed spies. Bedwyr had been the first to recognize the smell of death, that sweet scent that no man or woman can forget once they have experienced it. He wanted to gag.

  ‘Dismount,’ he whispered. ‘Tether the horses so that they don’t shy away from the stink of corpses. Be careful where you put your feet and where you leave tracks in the snow, for we are in danger in this place.’

  For once, Galahad did not argue.

  Ever cautious, Bedwyr made them crawl through the snow. When they suddenly came upon three bodies, the first thing they saw was the remains of roasted feet.

  The executed men, probably Trystan’s spies, had been tied to young oak trees that were little more than saplings, but strong enough to resist the frantic struggles of the victims. Oil-soaked wood had been piled around their feet and set alight, so only chalky bones remained of their legs, at least in those places where the animals had left the corpses in peace.

  The blackened bellies of the bodies had split open, revealing how the birds, foxes and other carnivores had feasted on the cook
ed flesh. Even Bedwyr, who had seen the cruelties of the Saxons as well as the carnage of battle, was forced to turn away from this grisly sight. Now that the bodies had frozen solid, the scavengers came no more and the dead men hung stiffly.

  ‘Many feet have packed the snow down hard here around the bodies, and not just when these poor devils were put to death. See? Many gawpers have come, again and again, to view these remains.’ Bedwyr spat on to the packed snow.

  ‘That thought is more loathsome than their execution,’ Percivale muttered. His face was as white as the snow, except for his boyish freckles that stood out starkly against his pallor.

  ‘Gronw is near, and I’ll enjoy killing him,’ Galahad snarled. ‘These men died hard.’ His face showed no revulsion, but anger clenched his jaw.

  ‘Should we bury them?’ Percivale asked quietly.

  Bedwyr watched as Percivale’s fingers traced the sign of the Cross.

  ‘No. I hate to leave the remains of good men to be desecrated, but nothing would advertise our presence more clearly. We must be invisible until we complete our task, and then we can consider the remains of these men.’

  By a circuitous route, the three searchers contrived to crawl to the top of a low ridge line from where they could observe the ruined building which was still emitting smoke through the conical roof. They burrowed into the snow to await darkness.

  At dusk, the malcontents began to gather. At first, they came in pairs, and their ragged clothes and filthy, cloth-wrapped hands and feet marked them as farm labourers or layabouts. As the gloom deepened, men began to arrive on horses, their armour clinking in the stillness. Still other men and women wore fur cloaks to conceal their fine woven robes that marked them as wealthy landowners. At least one hundred citizens had gathered by the time a tall, one-eyed warrior left the hut and set alight a large bonfire. The flames rose and danced, washing the faces of the crowd with blood-red colour.

  Quiet descended over the assembled group of rebels.