by M. K. Hume
The sun revealed the dust motes that danced through the shafts of light stealing through the shutters. Bedwyr watched the light, his eyes still cloudy with sleep.
Instantly, Glynn was beside his bed.
This whole family seems able to materialize at will, Bedwyr thought remotely, his mental processes slow and heavy. She drugged my wine, I suppose, for I have slept far too long.
He found that his feet were so swollen that they could barely support his weight, but a short staff stood beside his pallet and Nimue’s son helped him to his feet and supported him, until he could bear the pain of hobbling.
‘Mother has laid Percivale out in our drying room. She has washed his body and has dressed him in fine clothes. Would you like to see him one last time before the burning?’
Bedwyr looked up into the eyes of the tall young man. ‘Yes. I would like to see Percivale once more. Your mother must be made of stern stuff, for he was two weeks dead at least when I arrived at your home. I’ve lost all track of time, but corruption must have ruined his face and body, even though he was near frozen.’
The boy smiled. ‘You will come to know that Mother is a remarkable woman. The hill people will also attend the burning of Lord Percivale out of their love for her. Those lucky persons who are loved by the Lady of the Lake are considered near to sacred in these mountains.’
As they talked, Bedwyr found himself being led out of the strange, sprawling building and into a low, stone outhouse where herbs, smoked meat and dried fish hung from the ceiling in a miracle of good housekeeping.
A low bier had been hastily constructed from timber and placed in the centre of the room. On it, like the marble effigy of a warrior, Percivale lay in state.
Nimue rose from Percivale’s side as Bedwyr entered the room.
In death, Percivale appeared grimly pale. His lips were livid, but were parted slightly as if he was about to speak, while his closed eyes, sunken and purpled as they were, still retained their long lashes. Percivale’s hair had been washed thoroughly and lay, unplaited, around his shoulders. He had been dressed in a white woollen robe that was a little too long for him, and Bedwyr guessed that from beyond the grave, Myrddion Merlinus had provided this last gift to a brave old friend.
Unassisted, Bedwyr hobbled forward and caressed the sweet-smelling, silken hair.
‘It feels alive,’ he whispered, forcing back his tears.
Nimue touched Bedwyr’s outstretched hand respectfully.
‘I choose to believe that nothing that has lived is ever truly dead. We change, as Myrddion would have said. Our bodies transmute into ashes or earth, and then enrich other living things. Perhaps the flowers themselves are really the faces of the long dead and the tall grasses are their hair.’
Bedwyr swallowed. ‘Such a pretty concept, my lady, and one that gives comfort to those of us who remain. But this shell is not Percivale - not to me, anyhow. His essence fled on a long journey and he now dwells in a place that is beyond our comprehension. I hope he’s found his heaven.’
Nimue smiled and the little room seemed warmer.
‘If anyone could be assured of immortality, it would be Percivale.’ She looked with love at the body of the departed man. ‘Dearest Perce, you were truly my brother.’
Then she did what Bedwyr could never have done, for she kissed the open mouth of the corpse with lingering sweetness. She stroked Percivale’s hand one last time and then led Bedwyr out into the clear morning sunshine.
‘My sons are gathering the wood for Percivale’s pyre and, at sunset, we’ll set the mountains aflame as we speed his soul towards his heaven. But, while we wait, you must tell me how my Perce died.’
Bedwyr explained the history of the Cup, what was known of its enigmatic journey to Britain and the bloody carnage that had followed its theft from the tomb of Bishop Lucius. He described how Percivale had perished and the role that the Cup had played in his wasted death. When he had nothing further to say, Nimue gazed at him, her head on one side like a neat grey bird, and considered what she had heard.
‘Whenever a symbol is turned into something more important than reality, it becomes dangerous. Percivale’s momentary obsession killed him, and the same flaw mortally wounded Galahad. If he has died as he sailed across the sea, then let us pray that the Cup lies in deep water where men cannot search it out.’
‘Whenever I held the relic, I always saw an old, battered cup, and nothing else,’ Bedwyr said reflectively. ‘It meant nothing to me.’
‘You are fortunate that you don’t desire what the Cup promised to the others. You are a plain man, Bedwyr, and, at bottom, you believe in little beyond your forests and the people you love.’
‘How faithless I sound,’ Bedwyr replied ruefully.
‘Not faithless, Bedwyr. Your beliefs lie in the slow patterns of the seasons, in the beauty of the forests, in the wonder of the stars and in your loyalty to Artor, don’t they?’
‘Aye, they do. Forests and stars rarely betray us and if some god or gods reside in the spirits of the earth, then I am content to believe in them. I’ve not been Christian since Caer Fyrddin. I’m not even a pagan any more, so I suppose that makes me nothing.’
Nimue pressed his hand and captured his eyes with hers in a long gaze. Bedwyr felt her urgency.
‘You are very far from nothing, Bedwyr. You’ll be remembered down the centuries for your truthfulness and sincerity. In days to come, when your faith is tested, you must remember the pursuit of honour and the obsessions displayed by Galahad and Percivale. You’ll remember then how frail we are - and you must be kind.’
Bedwyr wondered what lay behind her words and the urgency that threaded them together.
‘My Percivale is the reason that we have met again,’ Nimue said, her tone lighter, ‘so I’m grateful to find some small grace on such a sad day.’
Bedwyr nodded in heartfelt agreement.
And so the warrior and the widow sat companionably in the sunshine, eating and drinking as they wished, while Nimue’s sons and several villagers raised Percivale’s pyre on the highest point of ground overlooking the valley.
At sunset, Nimue excused herself. When she returned, she was clad in a grey-green robe and she was wearing her electrum necklace, for she wished to honour Percivale as best she could. The corpse had been placed on top of the pyre, and the villagers gradually struggled up to the knoll to watch the ritual cremation. They were excited at this brief holiday from the tedium of their usual lives, and the women carried what little bounty in foliage and early buds that the terrain permitted.
Nimue’s son poured oil over the lower levels of the pyre and Nimue began to sing a strange, haunting song extolling the life and death of a brave warrior. Her voice was high and not overly strong, but because of the silence of the small crowd, her unaccompanied voice echoed over the knoll.
She sang of the farm where Percivale was born and of the kitchens where he worked, how he had braved the anger of a king to go to court, and his humility in service and sacrifice for his friends. When her song ended, many villagers wept without shame.
Bedwyr also wept when he showed the crowd the sword of Percivale, a plain but beautiful weapon that had been crafted by a master blacksmith. Then Nimue’s second son climbed the pyre and rested the sword hilt under Percivale’s folded hands.
Bedwyr lit the fire.
The flames rose high in the air from the oil-soaked branches, and the smoke melded into the grey of early evening. The women wailed as if they were professional mourners, but Bedwyr realized their cries were marks of respect given to a figure who was less a man than an effigy of valour who had come to them from another world.
So this is how gods and heroes are created, Bedwyr thought to himself.
Percivale’s ashes, mingled with the remains of the pyre, were permitted to disperse with the onset of the early spring rains. Only his sword was recovered, although the hilt was badly damaged by the heat of the flames. Nimue would have given it to Bedwyr, but he refused to
touch it.
‘No other hand but Percivale’s should care for his sword. Let your son, Rhys, turn the weapon into ploughshares, for such were Percivale’s beliefs. Or reforge it into another blade for some other good man who might have use of it.’
Nimue smiled sadly. ‘Not all men have Percivale’s purity of heart, and kings cannot always travel the straight roads that he chose.’
‘My lady?’ Bedwyr was still thinking about Percivale’s sword.
‘Tomorrow, and in the days to come, Percivale’s ashes will begin to enrich the earth. He will be gone and will be remembered only by those who knew him. Such a gentle fate is not permitted to all men. Remember, when you stand in your forest, that we are all fallible creatures who search for forgiveness.’
‘I’ll remember, even if I don’t understand,’ Bedwyr promised.
‘You will,’ she said and Nimue’s eyes were suddenly hard, like mountain stone.
When Bedwyr’s health was restored, he rode away from Caer Gai, taking nothing but provisions, a letter for Taliesin and a memory of quiet sweetness. In the war that was to come, the House of the Oak Tree was often in his thoughts when the rest of his world was filled with brutality, betrayal and pain.
CHAPTER XXI
COMRADES IN BLOOD
Mother,
I write in haste, south of Deva, as we head north to meet the Brigante and their allies in the field. An old hill man has promised to deliver this message in exchange for sanctuary, but I cannot predict if you will read my words before we meet the enemy.
Artor is in pain and I am afraid that he expects to die in the coming conflict. He refuses to speak of his fears, and has chosen the ground for the battle, just as if he believes his luck is unchanged. I tell him - whenever he will listen - that luck will not win him the field in this conflict. He has a need for better strategic planning and improved tactical ability from his commanders. More importantly, he needs to have belief in himself, a truth he knows in his heart. But he is very tired and sickened by guilt and grief for those who must die.
I intend to fight bravely if I am forced to do so, but I would prefer to use my skills to help the healers. I wish now that I had listened more carefully when Father tried to teach me his secrets, but my mind was full of music at the time.
However, if it is my fate to die, I must pass on a secret to someone who will not speak of it. That person is you, my mother.
Lady Elayne, wife of Bedwyr of Arden, has birthed Artor’s son. Lord Bedwyr knows, for Artor is too honest to tell falsehoods or to leave the lady to take any blame alone, but Bedwyr is angry and avoids the king. Should both Bedwyr and Artor fall in battle, I ask that you watch over their child. Elayne has birthed the boy in Arden, and the child would be a powerful prize for those kinglets who covet what Artor has won, for it may be that others will ferret out the truth from Bedwyr’s anger.
I know my messenger will not read this secret. Even now he scratches his head over my Latin and calls it ‘chicken tracks’. I chose him because he is illiterate and has developed the coughing disease, so his usefulness as an archer is finished. I have been ministering to his illness and his loyalty to me is beyond question. Care for him, Mother, and give him work.
I love you, as I also love my brothers.
Should I return, I will spend my life creating song and beauty. Should I die, I ask that you mourn me for a short time, and then live on as if I was coming home in the spring.
Taliesin
Taliesin sighed as his messenger slipped out into the night with his precious letter. Taliesin slept in a small leather tent with the other men who would soon tend to the wounded and the dying. The tent was crowded, so any movement disturbed the sleep of the other healers. Taliesin discovered he couldn’t rest inside the stuffy tent, even after completing his duty to his mother.
The past six months had been dreadful in the number of tragedies and disasters that had beset the court of King Artor. Even the most optimistic of his warriors felt the weight of suspicion and old enmities that seethed under the veneer of courtly manners. Change, when it finally shattered the stasis of Cadbury, was curiously welcome after months of anxious waiting.
Bedwyr had returned to Cadbury Tor to recount the loss of his companions and to reveal the scope of Modred’s treasonous ambition. Artor insisted that the whole court, even the servants, should gather to hear Bedwyr’s dolorous account of the quest for the Bloody Cup. In a quiet, measured voice, Bedwyr recounted the corrosive influence of the relic that some Christian warriors now called the Sangraal.
The loss of two heroes captured the public imagination and focused the hatred of the common people on the guilty head of the Brigante king. Their rage grew slowly, but at a time when peace seemed only a thin skin over the roiling ambitions of faithless men, their anger grew deeply and inexorably.
The death of Percivale was a crushing, personal blow to Artor, not least because he had insisted on his friend’s presence on the quest. In an effort to mitigate the loss of confidence that Galahad’s death would mean to his warriors, Artor asked Taliesin to weave a fanciful, heroic tale concerning the Cup and its capture by Gawayne’s son. In fact, Taliesin changed the heroic epic very little, for he had learned that fact becomes myth with the addition of only a few flourishes.
But Artor had more pressing problems than the death of a close friend or the loss of the Otadini prince. Knowing that Bedwyr would soon discover his king’s perfidy when he joined Elayne in Arden, Artor summoned him to his private apartments and confessed the truth to his vassal. White-faced, and shaking with anger, the Arden Knife left Cadbury at a mad gallop, without a word of explanation to anyone.
After Bedwyr’s departure, Artor drank himself into a stupor in his rooms, safe from prying, speculative eyes.
Artor had barely recovered from the death of Percivale and the loss of Bedwyr when a courier from King Mark delivered the head of Trystan to Artor’s court. The dark warrior dropped the leaking, odorous bag at Artor’s feet in the Judgement Hall with arrogant disdain, and Odin would have killed the insolent messenger out of hand had Artor not stayed his servant’s hand. Mark’s envoy informed the High King that Queen Iseult had left her husband’s bed to cohabit with Artor’s spymaster, so her lover had finally paid the highest price for underestimating the consequences of betraying a king. When the warrior had finished smirking his way through Mark’s insulting message, Artor fixed his hard, grey stare on the young man until the Deceangli nobleman flushed, and dropped his gaze.
‘You may tell your king that we will meet again in some future place of my choosing. He may count himself fortunate that my friend Gruffydd is too old to exact a blood price from King Mark . . . although Gruffydd’s kin may have other ideas.’
Mark’s courier was dismissed with scant courtesy.
Artor felt no guilt over the execution of Trystan, for the young man had been clearly warned of the possible repercussions of his illicit love affair. But Artor’s network of spies had been seriously compromised. Even when Gruffydd answered his old master’s call to take up the reins once more, Artor’s captains suffered from a serious lack of good intelligence.
Cadbury settled down nervously, as the population waited on news from the north. Artor’s court didn’t have to wait over-long. Before the first summer winds had come, Modred and his Brigante horde poured out of the north and cut a deep swathe into Cornovii and Ordovice territory, smashing the old treaties under the marching feet of his warriors. The speed and ferocity of the attack was unexpected.
King Bran of the Ordovice rode at the head of his army to impede Modred’s advance into the fertile lands of the south. Bran knew that Modred’s horde was numerically superior, for the Brigante had ignored Artor’s levees of men for the border forts for a decade. Bran also understood that the warriors he would face were well trained and motivated by old resentments. Modred’s nobles had neither forgotten nor forgiven Artor’s revenge for the assassination of King Luka. As his grandfather would have done, Bran assesse
d his enemies with cold detachment, realized that he would need great luck and a good exit strategy, and then led his warriors into the north.
Artor learned of the gravity of the situation when an Ordovice courier arrived at Cadbury Tor four days after the attack. The young messenger had suffered a calf wound that had been hastily bandaged with a strip of dirty cloth. The dark brooch on his tunic proclaimed him as a warrior of the Viroconium Ordovice.
After a cursory obeisance, the warrior formally introduced Bran’s message. He had learned the words by heart, and Artor was cheered to hear the authentic sound of Bran’s vocabulary in the courier’s memorized speech. His grandson was still alive.
Greetings from Bran, King of the Ordovice, and from Anna, matriarch of the tribe.
The people need the help and the strong right arm of their High King, for treason has come in the night, like a thief or a scavenging dog, in the person of Modred, King of the Brigante, and his warlords. They have committed heinous crimes against the civilian population of Deva and must be called to account for their atrocities.
‘You may speak, friend. And welcome. I can tell that you bring serious tidings.’ Artor spoke with ceremonial gravity, although a corner of his mind rejoiced that the terrible waiting was over.
‘Lord, word came to my king that the port of Deva had been taken by force, late at night, by disguised Brigante warriors who had entered the township over several days. They captured the local magistrate and took his family hostage, then opened the gates and permitted Modred’s forces to enter the town. When the magistrate refused to hand over the chest of municipal gold, he and his family were killed and their bodies were nailed on the town gates to teach the townspeople the futility of resisting Modred’s orders. My lord, two little girls were left to hang alive until their eyes were attacked by ravens. The sight of their tiny, abused bodies will linger in my memory for the rest of my life.’ The courier’s voice broke and he gratefully accepted a mug of wine from a servant.