The Bloody Cup (12 page)

Wenhaver gasped. She shook off her husband’s weight and tumbled to the floor. Her husband’s eyes were stark and emotionless, and she felt a cold finger of alarm slither down her spine.

‘I’ve warned you in the past that you’re expendable, but you’ve paid little heed to my warnings. Even your brother, Wynfael, has been embarrassed by your behaviour. Your beauty is fading daily and you’re forced to paint yourself into a grotesque parody of a real woman.’ Artor made an exclamation of disgust. ‘You’ve one item of luck in your favour. I won’t consider taking Elayne over your dead body, much as that option appeals to me. For I would then be forced to kill my friend, Bedwyr, and he is of much greater value to me than any woman, especially you, my very own drab.’

Against her will, Wenhaver shivered. The king’s demeanour was so cold that her pretensions died instantly, to be replaced by an all-encompassing terror. She felt as if her bladder would empty if Artor continued to drill her with his unforgiving eyes.

‘And so, Wenhaver, you’re going to be very, very dutiful in public from now on. You’ll not compromise Gawayne further, nor will you seduce his son or any other guest who dwells under my roof. I’m sick to the death of you, Wenhaver! I’m tired of your pouting, of your rages and your endless, stupid vanity. I demand that you be silent, or I’ll have your mouth stopped permanently. This isn’t a threat, it’s a promise!’

‘You wouldn’t dare to kill me,’ Wenhaver wailed, but her voice lacked conviction. She began to shiver in fear as thoughts of poison, accidental falls and even the assassin’s knife began to crowd her suddenly imaginative brain.

‘Wouldn’t I?’ Artor replied silkily. ‘You give me no pleasure at all, either as a wife or as a woman. Most of Cadbury would rejoice if you vanished.’

Wenhaver gagged as her stomach threatened to empty itself on to Artor’s wooden floor. She had been capricious and wilful for so long. She had flaunted her vices in his face to provoke some sort of reaction that would prove she still existed. Some part of her inner self, the part that still hoped for love and the comfort of family, began to cry softly with her loss, all to no purpose. When she was a foolish girl-child and unaware of the seriousness of her actions, she had caused her husband to reject her. Now, as she flinched away from a man beyond her control, she recalled the excesses and cruel reputations of his father and his sisters.

Wenhaver lapsed into a shocked silence and curled herself into as small a target as possible.

The terrified expression on Wenhaver’s face caused the king to feel a genuine pang of shame. Yes, his wife was a disgrace. Yes, her lust had compromised his firm hand over his subjects since she was a girl. But had he ever given her a chance? Had the loss of Gallia been so all-consuming that no woman could have filled her place in his heart?

The answers rolled through his brain.

Yes! Yes!

Had he turned a blind eye to her excesses because he cared less for her than for his most useless hound? And had he demonstrated plainly to his wife just how little she really mattered?

Yes! Yes!

Then Artor realized that his threats to Wenhaver’s life were as pointless and as wicked as any duplicity that she had inflicted on him. His father, Uther Pendragon, had responded with cruelty on those occasions when he was hurt, insulted or threatened, and Artor had struggled, lifelong, to avoid Uther’s errors.

But his personal dignity hung in the balance. Artor looked down at his terrified wife. She may have been venal, and had earned every spiteful description that he had hurled at her, but Wenhaver could, so easily, have grown to be a true queen and a generous wife. She had been married to him for longer than she had lived under the idle, vain influence of her father. With patience, she might have been deflected from the worst aspects of her character, and cajoled and flattered into following more benign paths.

What could have been! Such a pathetic excuse for self-pity.

Artor could play that particular game no more, but neither could he inflict harm on his wife. She was incapable of change, and that was his fault. He must live with what he had made.

Artor reached out one hand to grasp her pale arm and help her to stand upright. For a second, he almost assisted her to straighten her robe, but this small consideration was more than he could offer, for the gesture would require him to touch her with some compassion.

He resisted the impulse, and hated himself at that moment - almost as much as he hated Wenhaver.

The queen hiccuped with the start of desperate tears.

‘Who was Claudius?’ she asked her husband unexpectedly, her fragmented thoughts grasping at a single idea that was, as always, vain and irrelevant.

Artor began to laugh, causing Wenhaver’s face to colour with embarrassment, and she dropped her wounded, accusing eyes.

Artor’s mirth died abruptly. Wenhaver couldn’t understand because she’d been denied the education that he took for granted.

‘He was a Roman emperor whose wife was more lascivious than the meanest whore. I wronged you with such a comparison, for your behaviour could never be such a blight on the sensitivity of your subjects. Nor have you imperiled the throne, and I don’t believe that you would ever use your sexuality for treasonous purposes - at least not deliberately. I apologize for the comparison.’

‘I hate you, Artor,’ Wenhaver stated without any discernible emotion.

‘I often hate myself,’ Artor replied with a small grin.

Even now, after all these years, he could not fathom the nature of his relationship with his wife. But Artor was tired of mulling over problems and he longed for the saddle and action to once again give purpose to his life.

‘Just remember, my dear, the real truth behind my threats, even though I was cruel to speak to you in such a manner. You’ve no right to accuse me of infidelity, for I’ve never betrayed my marriage vows. Yes, I’ve used willing servants, but I haven’t loved them or done more for their children than to give them a measure of regard, considering their birth. Such admissions do me no credit, but I’m a man and I haven’t chosen to be celibate. But, Wenhaver, you’ve betrayed me with my own kin, which shames me to the heart. And you’ve been sufficiently indiscreet that I have been publicly humiliated, although no one has dared to speak openly about the matter.’

He gripped her chin and forced her to look at him.

‘I won’t do the same to you, I swear. I wouldn’t compromise any married woman of high birth, and I won’t harm my friends by abusing their trust. You and I have been caught in a continuing battle for years, but I’m bringing my requirements into the open now, along with the promises I am making to you. There will be no more unseemly affairs. No more dalliances with Gawayne. You frighten him, and he has no control over his sexual nature where you are concerned. I cannot censure your thoughts, nor prevent you from hating me, although I regret our bitter relationship. But don’t undermine me. If I am assassinated or stripped of my throne, then so are you.’

She had left him then, with a swirl of skirts and a final, darting glance that was nearly as flat and as emotionless as his own. Wenhaver had rarely left him with as much dignity as she did on this dreary afternoon.

Now, in the overheated feasting hall, as he surveyed the brilliant throng of guests and watched his wife engaging Balyn in quiet conversation, he was sunk in gloom. Then Percivale slid into the airless room, followed by a tall figure in a long, black cloak. A diversion, the king thought gratefully. Blessed Percivale.

‘Pray let me see your face, stranger, and give me your name.’

The younger generation attending the feast had never known Myrddion Merlinus, except through the many legends of sorcery, shape-changing and inhuman cleverness that had grown around his name, so they did not understand the gasp of surprise that swept the hall when the young man removed his cloak.

Artor whitened with shock. ‘What is this trick?’ His heart stuttered at the resemblance to Myrddion that was so vivid in the countenance of the young man.

Taliesin wore his best robe, woven and embroidered by his mother in intricate patterns of birds that edged the hem and the neckline. Silver thread glittered against the black wool and a single spike of electrum, inherited from his father and worn in one ear, was his only adornment - except for his long, flowing hair with its distinctive white streak.

‘I am Taliesin ap Myrddion, son of Myrddion Merlinus. I have been sent by my mother, the Lady of the Lake, to bring music to my king on this auspicious night.’

The room seethed and swelled with whispers. Here was a true Samhein marvel.

‘Is your father well?’ Artor managed to ask, his hand clutching a locket secreted beneath his robe.

Taliesin bowed his head. ‘My father has gone to the shadows, my king, but he loved you until the day of his death. My mother, Nimue, begs you to remember how deep were his feelings for you.’

‘You play music, Taliesin, son of Myrddion?’ Wenhaver asked courteously, her face as flushed as her husband’s was pale.

‘It is the only gift I possess that is fit to offer my king and his fair queen,’ Taliesin responded without a trace of boasting. Then, reverently, he freed his harp from its fleecy nest.

As Taliesin slowly drew his fingers across the strings, the entranced audience saw that his harp was an object of singular beauty with a carved woman forming the main structure of the instrument. Under his exquisite fingers, its mellow sound was coaxed into life.

Positioning himself to face the guests, he began to sing the tale of the crowning of the king. Beyond the shadows of time, the youthful Artorex came to life in song as he faced the vicious spectre of his father, Uther Pendragon. The long dead Lucius played with riddles at Glastonbury, so the heir could find his sword and crown and become the High King, as was his destiny. Taliesin sang of glorious battles, dead heroes and old loves and, when the tale reached its crescendo in the coronation of Artor, the strings soared, exulted and then were silent.

The room shook with applause as men pounded the tables and shouted praise at the power of the ballad. Even Wenhaver was moved to tears as she remembered the hopes and promise in her younger self.

‘Where came this song?’ Artor demanded, as memories of the lives and deaths of old friends surged back to haunt him through the magic of Taliesin’s harp.

‘I wrote the tale exactly as my father related it to me, my lord,’ Taliesin answered. ‘If my small skill pleases you, then I am content.’

‘You are a skilled song-master, Taliesin ap Myrddion, but I should have expected no less from the son of my oldest and wisest counsellor. Please continue to play.’

Under his inspired fingers, Taliesin sang songs that described the simple hill people and created flights of birds and hunting eagles. He filled the entire hall with joy and melody.

Towards the end of the recital, Taliesin sang of the Lady of the Lake and her aged lover, and the words caused Artor to weep unashamedly as he recalled the Myrddion of his youth. The young man then brought Nimue to life with such poetic inspiration that even those men who had never seen her great beauty loved her a little. Instinctively, the listeners knew that they were the poorer for her absence.

Then Taliesin’s song changed and became lilting and delicate as he described Wenhaver’s arrival at Cadbury. The golden tresses, cerulean eyes and full young mouth lived once again in hope, pride and passion.

It was now Wenhaver’s turn to weep bitterly. Every word of the argument of the afternoon struck her anew, and she felt deep and honest regret for the many mistakes she had made so blithely and thoughtlessly.

Taliesin paused and drank a goblet of spiced wine to ease his throat. During this short break, Artor’s quick eyes noted that the young man’s fingers were raw. His right index finger was bleeding sluggishly.

‘We have made you work hard for your supper, young man, and it’s now time to rest.’

Taliesin nodded his appreciation to his king.

‘Lord Artor, when my skill first came upon me, my father bade me write a special song for you as a gift, and as a reminder of your friendship. I will finish my entertainment with one last tale of the Garden of Gallia.’

Deep, slow and sweet were the notes conjured from the strings as Gallia was brought back to warm flesh in words. Taliesin’s tale recounted how she and Frith had died at the hands of Uther Pendragon’s warriors, and how they were mourned and honoured with living flowers. Once more the water trickled over the woman stone, that ancient monolith from the Old Forest, and filled the crooked cup that fed the roses and the herb gardens. Targo lived and died once again, to rest at last in the garden where Gallia also slept, drowsy with the hum of bees and the seductive perfume of flowers. And, over this scene of harmony and natural beauty, Ector presided and protected, in death, as he had in life.

The guests in the rich feasting hall, many of whom had never even seen the garden, were transfixed by Taliesin’s simple message of peace and beauty.

The sword, the distaff and the plough
are blunted by the ruin of the years.
Heroic deeds become as arid dust -
for enmity must always end in tears.
Crowns are lost. The finest blade must rust
and all man’s strength is measured by his fears.
How soon the petty powers of kings grow weak -
how swift they wither and their hopes are dead,
and women’s beauty ages as they seek
to clutch at shallow youth that soon is fled.
But flowers will bloom, an hour, a day, and more,
A thousand years in one eternal breath,
And Gallia’s Garden proves the sacred law
that love, alone, redeems us at our death.

A well of silence followed the final chord.

‘Mere sounds cannot hope to illustrate the god-given cleansing of love, my liege,’ Taliesin said into the silence. ‘My father told me often that the roots of the garden lie deep in the soil of this simple, all-encompassing truth. How can I hope to create words to do love justice?’

Artor stood and bowed low to Taliesin, as if their places in the world were reversed.

‘Only my old friend was wise enough to remind me how to be a king. Only my old friend’s son has the skill to remind me how to be a man.’