by M. K. Hume
Even though he was angry and heartsick at Percivale’s death, Bedwyr felt a shiver of pity for the Brigante warrior.
‘You always had a choice,’ Bedwyr stated baldly. ‘The strongest of oaths is secondary to the laws of the gods and of the land, but you allowed your vanity to bring you to this pass.’
Bedwyr left Pebr and returned once more to Percivale’s corpse, even though reason told him that he should depart at once and go after Galahad. But he couldn’t leave Percivale’s mortal remains for the scavengers to feed on. He spent a precious hour stitching the corpse into a hide shroud, and still more precious energy collecting the two horses from the woods.
More time and further depletion of his strength was expended as he lashed the man-sized bundle across the back of one horse. Then, with his ribs screaming in protest at every stride, Bedwyr mounted his own horse to follow Galahad’s tracks through the churned snow.
The crippled Pebr screamed at Bedwyr as the horses moved past him. ‘You can’t leave me like this. I’ll be eaten alive! Artor has determined many times that even the worst of monsters should be granted a clean death.’ Pebr’s voice was hoarse with terror.
Bedwyr drew Pebr’s own knife from his belt and cast it into the snow, just within reach of the tethered figure.
‘You’re right. Artor would grant you a speedy death with his sword.’
Pebr gritted his teeth.
‘But I’m not Artor, and I live by the rules I have been taught. Since you are Celt, I’ll allow you a frail chance at survival, for to be devoured by wolves while still living is not a fit death for any true warrior. The knife is within reach of your hand, if you care to strive for it. You can cut yourself free, or defend yourself from the wolves, or slit your own throat. Do as you choose, Pebr. You might even call for Modred, but I doubt he’ll hear you. But be sure to disappear, Pebr, for the west can no longer support the touch of your feet on this land - assuming they ever walk again.’
Bedwyr kicked his steed’s flanks and rode off through the gloom, his spare horse following docilely behind him with its gruesome burden.
He could still hear Pebr’s screams long after the ruined village disappeared from sight, but Bedwyr consigned his piteous cries to the winds and the cruelty of the times.
CHAPTER XX
THE WIDOW MAKER
Gronw was no woodsman and Galahad was scarcely better, although he could ride for days without tiring. Both men were many hours ahead of Bedwyr and the Cornovii knew that he had no chance of catching them.
But Bedwyr was familiar with the land, so he knew that Bremetennacum was situated on the banks of a swift river. Instead of following the tracks of Gronw and Galahad through the wilds, he headed south towards the river itself.
Luck favoured him, or the blessings of the gods were still with him.
At best speed, he made his way to the riverbank and, by chance, to a small hamlet downstream from the town. Three brothers and their families dwelt there in a cluster of conical huts at a place where the current was slowed by a long bend in the river. One of the men farmed the river fields, another worked as a smith, while a third brother netted fish and salted them for sale in Bremetennacum.
‘Your river is fast-flowing,’ Bedwyr observed to the fisherman, who was gutting his catch from the previous night before spitting them on to a timber frame for smoking.
‘Aye,’ the fisherman replied warily as he cautiously eyed Bedwyr’s body armour, the hide-wrapped corpse and the two huge horses.
‘It moves faster than a horse can gallop.’
‘Aye, my lord,’ the fisherman muttered. ‘A horse needs rest. The river doesn’t need to sleep, and she’s always busy, whether it’s the flood tide or the ebb tide.’
‘So your coracle could take me downstream to the mouth of the river very quickly?’
‘Aye, if I was foolish enough to give it to you.’
Bedwyr stripped a golden ring from his finger.
The fisherman’s eyes opened wide. ‘I can’t eat gold. I need my coracle to fish.’
Frustrated, Bedwyr hunted through Percivale’s purse and found one gold coin, two of silver, and a handful of base metal scraps.
‘I wish to use your coracle for a short time only. If we can make an agreement that meets your approval, I’ll leave my horses with you until I return. I can pay for the use of your vessel.’ He thrust Percivale’s coins into the hands of the fisherman.
The fisherman grinned and exposed two brown fangs and a gaping hole where his front teeth should have been. He could make another coracle in a day, as any fisherman knew. The great ones could be very strange, but if they gave him buttery, yellow gold for very little, they could be as mad as they chose.
‘Do you know how to steer a coracle?’ the fisherman asked. He removed his nets from the circular vessel and carried it towards the river, upside down and above his head.
‘I’ll soon learn.’
In truth, Bedwyr hated the water, and the thought of spinning out of control in a tiny, hide-covered construction of bent branches made him feel ill.
The fisherman gave him a cursory explanation of how to control the small boat and showed him how a flattened paddle could be used as a makeshift rudder.
Cursing vilely to hide his terror, Bedwyr splashed into the craft, which spun wildly as if with a mind of its own. Clutching his paddle in both hands, he struggled to control the contents of his stomach.
‘What if you don’t come back?’ the fisherman yelled as Bedwyr pushed away from the riverbank.
‘Keep the horses, and send the body of my friend to his ancestors,’ Bedwyr bellowed in reply over the rush of the water.
The current soon had the coracle in its powerful grip, and the boat was swept away downstream. Straining his muscles to hold the coracle level, and gasping with pain from his broken ribs, Bedwyr managed to keep the coracle in the main channel. Small villages and single huts rushed by him at a dizzying speed. Nausea threatened to overcome him, but he managed to defeat the motion sickness by concentrating on the horizon and maintaining a small semblance of control over the boat.
At breakneck speed, the coracle spun and twisted through the water, zigzagging from bank to bank in a drunken reel. Bedwyr and his craft eventually reached the mouth of the river where the broad, slower waters pumped into the grey sea. Wet, cold and miserable, he came to journey’s end on a broad sandbank that allowed him to wade through knee-high water to dry land, lugging his craft with him.
Bedwyr had lost all track of time in his madcap voyage down the stream. Two hours or five could easily have passed. The stars wheeled above him and the white water of the river had a ghostly gleam to his tired eyes. He found a small tangle of stunted bushes, wrapped his worn cloak around his chilled body and slept on the bare, sandy ground.
Early morning came dimly with a wintry sun. Angry gulls wheeled and fought as they snatched shells from the pebbled beach before dropping them, again and again, until the flesh inside the molluscs was exposed.
Even the birds are killers, Bedwyr thought. He had never tortured a man before and the sound of the gulls calling on the wind echoed the screams of the doomed Pebr.
The beach was empty and unmarked by the tracks of either men or beasts. The old Roman road crossed a narrow section of the river where sandbanks created a series of shallows, and only a few narrow channels of deeper water led towards the grey sea to the west. A bridge had once spanned the deeper channels and the ruins still remained, but a horse could easily swim across, especially on the ebb tide. From the river, the road ran north, skirting hills and small forests before heading directly to Bravoniacum.
After retrieving the coracle from the riverbank and carrying it to higher ground beside the derelict Roman bridge, Bedwyr settled down to rest and wait, still marvelling that he had managed to outstrip two men on strong horses who had a head start of almost a full day.
In fact, Gronw had arrived during the night. The Druid had found the place where the promised guides would
meet him, and he had built a telltale fire. Bedwyr saw the thin plume of smoke as it rose against the greyer sky, upstream from where he waited.
Gronw may have caused much trouble for Artor, but the man’s a fool, Bedwyr thought incredulously. Only an idiot would light a fire when he’s being hunted.
On the silent feet of a born predator, Bedwyr moved further upstream and scouted around Gronw’s camp in an effort to find Galahad. If they were to capture Gronw and obtain possession of the Cup, the Pict must be taken before his guides arrived to protect him.
A twig snapped ahead of him, and Bedwyr fell into a fighting crouch.
‘Lord blight him, where is he?’ a voice growled huskily, and Bedwyr realized that Galahad had managed to track Gronw through the wilds successfully, more proof that Gronw was inept in the woods.
Bedwyr was beside Galahad before the prince was aware of his presence. Galahad’s first inklings of danger occurred when a shadow became solid at the same instant that invisible fingers were clamped over his mouth.
‘It’s only me, Galahad,’ Bedwyr hissed into his ear. ‘You couldn’t possibly make any more noise than you’re already doing. Gronw is camped only one hundred yards away, and the noise of your stumbling about will carry to him.’
‘What are you doing here? Where’s Percivale?’ Galahad hissed.
‘Percivale’s dead. He was slain by Gronw, stabbed in the back when he took the Cup. Your grandparents are also dead. They were both assassinated on the orders of Modred, and we now have proof that he’s the guiding force behind Artor’s troubles.’
Galahad’s eyes narrowed with emotion.
‘Keep quiet, please,’ Bedwyr ordered before the prince could speak. ‘I’ll circle round behind Gronw’s fire and we can approach him from two sides. I’ll gain his attention first, then you enter his camp.’
Without waiting for Galahad’s agreement, and taking shameless advantage of the tragic tidings dumped unceremoniously on the prince, Bedwyr slid away into the sparse cover.
Galahad swore under his breath and tried to make his way silently towards the plume of smoke. He pushed all thoughts of the murder of his grandparents and Percivale’s sad death to one side and focused on his vision of the Cup. Soon he would earn his place in history. He realized that his feet were numb with cold within his damp boots, but he cared nothing for personal discomfort. If this path led to his heart’s desire, he would gladly walk through freezing water for hours.
Quickly he reached a small clearing. Within it, the figure of Gronw hunched like a miserable black lump that blocked Galahad’s view of the fire. His horse was tethered to one side. If the jumble of soft sounds was any indication, the fugitive was talking to himself and rubbing his tattooed hands together.
Gronw thrust his hand into his robe and drew out something that glinted in the early morning sunlight.
‘The Cup!’ Galahad breathed.
Blinded by the sight of the vessel and deaf to the orders given by Bedwyr, Galahad drew his sword and strode into the clearing. Gronw’s eyes widened and then darted from side to side as he sought a means of escape.
Then Bedwyr stepped into the clearing behind Gronw. The Pict turned in alarm, and his face twisted with a fury and loathing so intense that Bedwyr almost stepped back. A wall of malevolent hatred flowed out from the troll-like form.
‘You’re both dead men . . . and your master will soon follow you!’
Gronw moved sideways in an attempt to keep his enemies in view.
‘As is that other thief who tried to steal Ceridwen’s Cup from me. Nothing you can say, or do, will save you from the fate that is soon to befall you, for you still can’t smell the scent of innocent blood upon your hands. Ceridwen will have her revenge, and she’ll devour your souls.’
‘Keep back, Galahad,’ Bedwyr warned. ‘This charlatan carries at least one knife, and its blade is still stained with Percivale’s blood.’
‘You think to steal Ceridwen’s Cup,’ Gronw hissed. ‘Never! Ceridwen will strike you dead, just as she destroyed your comrade.’
With an oath, Galahad raised his sword, but Bedwyr shouted for the prince to halt.
‘He’s baiting you, Galahad! He’s trying to draw you towards him. This Pictish dog is incapable of fighting a man face to face unless his opponent is old and unarmed.’
Bedwyr moved closer, his right hand holding his sword loosely before his body in the warrior’s fighting crouch, the Arden knife in his left hand, tucked in close against his body.
Outnumbered and cornered, Gronw struck like the serpent he was. One hand darted out, gripped the pannikin heating over the open fire and threw the boiling water over Galahad. The other hand hurled a blazing log at Bedwyr.
Galahad cursed loudly as hot water scalded his left hand and forearm. Bedwyr was more fortunate, and was able to deflect the log with his forearm.
Seeing his chance, Gronw made a desperate break towards freedom, but Bedwyr had anticipated his movement and took a single step towards him, slicing at the knees of his quarry. Gronw howled and dodged, thrusting out his staff so that it caught Bedwyr across his wounded ribs, momentarily blinding his vision with pain.
Galahad ignored the throbbing agony in his burned flesh and moved faster than Gawayne had ever managed, even in his prime. One moment, Gronw was beginning to run; the next instant, his head leapt from his shoulders. His torso staggered on nerveless legs for half a step and then fell, spraying blood over Bedwyr’s legs and feet.
‘Shite!’ Bedwyr swore.
Galahad bent over the headless body and ripped the Cup out of Gronw’s robe, his face transfigured with evanescent joy.
‘So that’s what all the fuss has been about,’ Bedwyr marvelled. ‘It’s not much, is it?’
Galahad simply cradled the Cup with awe.
‘May I hold it, Galahad?’ Bedwyr asked. ‘I’d like to know what it is about that thing that made Percivale believe was worth his life.’
‘No! Get back!’ Galahad snarled, his handsome face contorted in anger. ‘You’re pagan, you’ve no right to touch the Cup. Back away!’ He clutched the Cup to his heart with his reddened, blistering left hand, while his eyes glittered with manic suspicion. He swung his sword slowly until it pointed at Bedwyr’s chest.
‘I’m Bedwyr, Galahad. I’m not your enemy, and I don’t want your sodding cup.’
‘If you value your life, heathen, stand back. I, Galahad, have won the Cup, I have achieved Artor’s quest. The triumph is mine alone. Go back to your forests and your pagan Druids.’
Bedwyr held his open hands away from his body and slowly backed away from his companion.
‘Whatever you decide, Galahad. But what shall we do now?’
Galahad’s face was transfigured by religious ecstasy. Bedwyr had heard of the condition but he had never believed that a man’s reason could be lost over a religious experience. Yet what else explained Galahad’s behaviour?
Galahad began to walk towards the sea. ‘I’m going back to Cadbury. You can go your own way to your satan.’
Bedwyr looked at his companion’s retreating back in bemusement. ‘I’d rather stay with you, my friend. I need your protection.’ Bedwyr padded past the prince so he could face him. ‘How will we get to Cadbury? It’s many weeks of riding.’
Bedwyr realized that he was talking to the prince as if he was a small child.
Galahad continued to walk, clutching the Cup to his chest. Bedwyr was forced to jog beside him.
‘My horse is dead, so I must walk,’ the prince replied evenly.
‘You’re going the wrong way, Galahad. Let me show you the shortest route to Cadbury. We can use Gronw’s horse - it’s back in the clearing.’
Galahad took no notice.
‘Stop this nonsense.’ Bedwyr shouted, standing directly in Galahad’s path.
Galahad struck Bedwyr across the head with an absent-minded but numbing left-handed blow. The blistered skin on the prince’s hand broke open but, if he suffered any pain, he gave no sign.
>
Bedwyr fell and rolled away from Galahad’s dangerous feet.
He shook his head to clear it and then launched himself painfully at his companion’s knees, bringing Galahad down, face forward. The Cup flew out of Galahad’s hands and rolled on to a tussock.
‘So you want to steal the Cup?’ Galahad snarled, and threw himself at Bedwyr’s sprawled body with vicious, murderous intent. He clawed at Bedwyr’s eyes and sought to find his throat with his iron thumbs.
Bedwyr twisted and turned, punched at Galahad’s genitals and tore at his companion’s long braids, anything that would keep those powerful fingers from obtaining a death grip on his throat.
He fumbled for the Arden knife in its scabbard at his waist and managed to find the hilt of the weapon. Somehow, he contrived to drag the knife free and drove the keen blade up into Galahad’s body between the side lacings of his breastplate. Galahad didn’t loosen his grip on Bedwyr’s throat as the Arden knife pierced muscle and flesh, so Bedwyr twisted the blade.
Galahad’s body slumped and the prince rolled away as abruptly as he had commenced the attack.
What have I done? Bedwyr thought as he fought to drag air into his aching lungs.
What have I done? Galahad wondered, as he felt an almost peaceful weakness wash over him.
‘Sweet Jesus!’ Bedwyr swore when he had caught his breath. His broken ribs made him a gasp and his throat and neck pulsed with dull pain.
He used his elbows to slowly drag himself to Galahad’s side, the Arden knife ready for use in his hand.
‘Oh, Galahad!’ he moaned. ‘Why did you make me do this thing to you?’
‘I think I’ve been a little mad, Bedwyr,’ Galahad whispered painfully. ‘I’ve been obsessed with the Cup, for I can’t remember a night when it hasn’t been part of my dreams. I thought you intended to steal it from Mother Church.’
‘I’m so bitterly sorry to have harmed you, my lord,’ Bedwyr whispered. ‘We must search for a healer to mend your wound.’