The Bloody Cup (19 page)

Artor’s retinue remounted and hastened to join the scout.

The copse of trees was twisted and gnarled by the force of the offshore winds that prevailed in these climes. Scudding over low cliffs that hunkered above the gravelled beaches, the wind swirled back to eddy over the lower river flats. A heavy grass cover grew around tortured trees that provided shade and shelter and there, beside a long-dead campfire, lay four corpses in contorted, unnatural positions. They had died violent deaths in hideous spasms of agony, yet none of the bodies bore a single wound.

‘Be careful, Taliesin!’ Artor warned from the back of his horse, but the harpist was already kneeling beside the nearest bloated body, his nose close to the convulsed, purple mouth. The other members of the hunting party looked away in revulsion.

Taliesin rose to his feet and dusted off his knees. ‘They’ve been poisoned, Artor. The black warrior obviously believes that dead men can’t tell tales.’

Taliesin picked up an iron cap from which two bedraggled raven feathers still dangled. After a few moments of searching, he discovered a coarse pottery bottle, sealed by a leather plug.

Artor shook his head slowly. He could imagine the proffered bottle, the unsuspecting servants drinking deeply, then the first burning pangs in the gut.

‘Shite!’ Gawayne swore. ‘The poor sods must have trusted whoever killed them.’ He looked away in revulsion. ‘Animals have been feeding on their bodies.’

‘All God’s creatures must feed, Father,’ Galahad responded piously, although Gawayne noticed that the young man’s complexion was very pale. Galahad leapt from his horse and approached the bodies. A couple of the victims had vomited and their twisted mouths were encrusted with a vile, yellow residue.

‘Forget them, Galahad,’ Artor ordered shortly. ‘They’ll rot where they lie. I’ll accord them the same respect that they gave to Bishop Aethelthred.’

The twins and Galahad looked shocked at Artor’s callousness, but Taliesin merely nodded in understanding.

‘We’ll ride on for a few miles and try to find some trace of the black warrior’, Artor’s body was rigid with controlled fury. ‘He’s managed to elude us so far, and he’s made sure that there are no live witnesses to betray him, but I intend to find him.’

Eventually, the hard ground revealed some telltale traces of passage. Both Taliesin and Bedwyr dismounted to examine a series of horse tracks that they found on patches of softer earth. Two horses had galloped off in one direction, heading back towards Glastonbury, while another set of tracks showed that one horse had cantered away on a path running parallel to the river.

‘Ignore the trail of the two horses,’ Bedwyr grunted. ‘You can see how much shallower the indentations are than the single hoof prints. Those two horses have no riders, and they’ve been set loose to lead any searchers astray. There’s a keen intelligence at work that devises diversionary tactics without knowing whether we are in pursuit.’

‘So we’ll follow the single track,’ Artor stated grimly.

The king’s retinue remained prudently silent.

Gawayne was uncharacteristically introspective as the troop returned along the riverbank.

Finally, when they were once more close to Salinae Minor, he approached the king and begged his pardon. Then, hesitantly, and with eyes that couldn’t meet those of his master, he explained his experiences at the strange island in the centre of the river.

Taliesin noticed that Gawayne took care to remain beyond the reach of Artor’s sword arm.

When Gawayne had finally run out of words, Artor pulled on the reins of his horse until he faced his nephew. He pushed his horse as close as possible to Gawayne’s beast, grimaced, and then struck Gawayne across the face with his gloved fist. Dumbstruck but little hurt, Gawayne was tumbled from his horse by the force of the blow and landed squarely on his plump backside.

‘Are you a complete cloth-head, Gawayne? No! Don’t bother to answer! We’ve wasted a day in the saddle while the black warrior has probably run to ground on this damned island of yours. Shite!’

Gawayne scrambled to his feet, his dignity in tatters. With a horseman’s ease, he leapt on to the back of his horse, taking care to remain beyond Artor’s reach. Artor turned his back on his nephew, leaving Gawayne looking unhappy and ashamed.

‘I was deceived, uncle. But when have I ever been able to resist the ladies?’

‘You have a grown son, Gawayne! You’re no longer a boy who smiles charmingly and expects to be forgiven for the most heinous of crimes. In this case, we rode right past a place that could harbour a murderer and what did you do? Nothing!’

‘I was embarrassed . . .’

‘Is that sufficient reason to send your king on a wild-goose chase?’

‘No, but we did find the black warrior’s accomplices.’

Uncharacteristically, Artor spat on the stony ground in disgust and stared down along the banks of the river.

‘I disliked the place,’ Galahad interjected piously. ‘But Father found the lady to be particularly pleasant company.’

Both Gawayne and Artor stared at the young man’s complacent face with amazement, reproach and disgust.

‘Galahad!’ Gawayne warned.

‘And you failed to tell your king that she has a squat servant whose body is covered with woad tattoos,’ Galahad finished with a triumphant flourish. ‘I never trusted those pagans.’

Artor furiously kicked at his mount’s ribs, causing it to rear and whinny shrilly, while Gawayne stared at his horse’s mane as if the earth was about to swallow him.

‘You always think with what hangs between your legs, nephew,’ Artor admonished the prince. ‘You’re lucky I don’t knock you on your arse again.’

Galahad smirked at his father’s discomfiture, but he’d reckoned without Artor’s sense of fairness.

‘As for you, young Galahad,’ the king began, one lip curling derisively. ‘A son who tells tales on his father with such obvious pleasure has neither honour nor respect. I may chastise your father, for I am his liege lord. You are not! You, too, neglected to tell me of your visit to Salinae Minor, so take care that I don’t punish you for your failure towards me
and
towards your father.’

Galahad’s cheeks reddened, whether with shame or anger it was impossible to tell, but to Gawayne’s relief the boy chose to remain silent.

The king forced his lips to remain regal and firm, disguising his contempt; Artor had little time for sanctimony and hypocrisy, least of all in one who lacked respect towards his elders.

‘The lady’s servant is called Gronw,’ Gawayne said, as much to break the uncomfortable silence as to provide more detail. ‘He is an unpleasant creature but I doubt he’d risk returning to the island if he is the black warrior. But he does have tattoos . . . he’s pagan . . . and he’s very short and quite squat.’

Gawayne quailed under the king’s jaundiced expression.

‘It’s time I met this lady who’s been banished from her own home to set up house on my doorstep,’ Artor said decisively. ‘I’ll also enjoy meeting this Gronw person.’ He smiled as a more pleasant thought occurred to him. ‘Besides, if the villa has been built in the Roman fashion, it may have a bath. I’d kill for a chance to remove the grime from my body.’

Galahad sniffed. Like all good men beyond the Wall, he wasn’t entirely sure that daily bathing was either healthy or manly. However, he could hardly accuse the High King of being a sybarite.

Artor knew exactly what the young man was thinking, and he was quietly amused. He booted his horse into a gallop and his warriors were forced to hasten to catch up with him.

That’s torn it, Gawayne cursed mentally. Galahad will be the death of me, especially if Miryll tries her tricks with Artor.

Alerted by the message mirrors, a small flotilla of coracles and skiffs soon left the island of Salinae Minor and were rowed to the banks of the river where Artor and his party waited. To Gawayne’s heartfelt relief, Gronw was nowhere in sight. Against his inclination and his nature, the Otadini prince felt pangs of responsibility, an unfamiliar and unpleasant sensation that he had avoided for most of his adult life.

As the villa and its gardens came into view, Artor’s spirits lifted. If he ignored the looming tower, Salinae Minor could have been a pocket version of the Villa Poppinidii where he had grown to manhood. The High King realized that he was homesick.

‘I’m getting old, Odin,’ he remarked quietly to his bodyguard.

‘Yes,’ Odin replied in his calm, economical fashion.

‘Am I finished, Odin?’ Artor put one foot on the prow of the simple fishing craft and stared at his boot. His relaxed posture gave no hint of the sad nostalgia that coloured his thoughts.

‘Not yet, Artor. There’s still red work for us to do, and golden days like this one to enjoy.’

Artor laughed without mirth. ‘That’s your weird Jutlander instinct speaking, I suppose.’ He sighed. ‘Death never stops and the goddess of war is only taking a moment’s rest. I suppose I shall die like Caesar did, killed by friends for the good of the realm.’

‘This island has a bad smell, my lord,’ Odin warned.

The High King paid attention, for Odin’s instincts, Jute or otherwise, were rarely wrong.

Artor hadn’t ridden to war for twenty years, but skirmishes occurred somewhere along his borders every year after the weather began to warm - when the ‘Saxon summers’ returned. It was inevitable when two civilizations rubbed against each other in such close proximity. Small sores were bound to form at points on the landscape where the two cultures were in direct conflict. Still, Artor pondered Odin’s promise of future battles. Out and out warfare was ugly and destructive, but then so was the toadying, deceitful game of words and jockeying that took place in politics.

At the small wooden dock, Lady Miryll waited with her servants, bearing trays of wine and sweetmeats. A house servant approached the king and his courtiers.

‘No one is permitted to carry arms on Salinae Minor, my lord,’ the slave said nervously.

Artor recognized the man’s status as a slave by the iron collar that was bolted round his throat, and the king was forced to smother a sharp exclamation of disgust. Artor had always detested slavery, partly for long-dead Frith’s sake, but mostly because it destroyed the soul of both master and servant. As if reading his master’s mind, Odin gently eased the servant out of Artor’s path.

‘The High King of the Britons and his guard always remain armed,’ Gareth replied gravely. ‘We are his bodyguard and we do not disarm for any person, friend or foe.’

‘And I do not relinquish the sword of the High King to any hand other than my sword bearer, Gruffydd, who remains at your village,’ Artor stated clearly so that the mistress could easily hear him. ‘I would consider any such demand an insult and a slur upon my honour.’

The servant scuttled back to the lady where he whispered Artor’s response.

Miryll’s face didn’t change, but remained as smooth and featureless as an egg. Then she smiled and Artor felt her glamour for the first time. His eyes became flat and wary.

He responded to Miryll’s deep obeisance with a courtly bow, and they exchanged words of welcome that were gracious, empty and elegant.

At Artor’s back, Odin’s expression was frozen.

As Miryll led the way to the villa through the terraced gardens, Artor drew pleasure from the Roman order that she had imposed on the British flora. Her gently swaying hips invited his attention, but the sense of geometry and peace that he found in the typical Roman garden brought him far greater satisfaction.

He said as much to Lady Miryll and she bowed her thanks.

As the villa came into view, Artor’s experienced eyes perceived subtle differences from Livinia Major’s style. The sculptures were sophisticated and depicted such violent, antique subjects as the rape of the Sabine women and imaginary scenes of Jupiter and his inamorata. Violent sexual activity was subtly celebrated, but overall there was a clutter of ostentation, too many fountains and too much colour in a display that wasn’t quite pleasing to the eye.

But Artor was inclined to be generous on this bright day, so he forgave Salinae Minor its slightly jarring imperfections and deter - mined to enjoy the good will and luxury that it offered.

The simple elegance of the villa’s atrium gave Artor great pleasure. The lady’s father must have enjoyed enormous wealth, for even the Villa Poppinidii with its vast resources had only a simple bronze fish to decorate its fountain. Miryll’s father had commissioned a large statue of an erotic half-fish, half-woman, with a tail and spiked fins along her spine. The figure was set amidst a profusion of fanciful shells that filled a large marble bowl.

‘Do you like our fountain, great lord?’ Miryll asked. ‘My father took pride in his Roman ancestry, so perhaps you’ll find our ways a little strange.’

Miryll was a practised flirt. Her full attention was aimed directly at the High King and her smile was as brilliant as the light reflecting from her enormous, doe-brown eyes. But Artor had been pursued by many of the most beautiful women in western Britain for decades, so he was more than equal to the arts of seduction. In fact, her shy glances and fluttering hands were a little too feminine and artless; Artor felt a need to count his fingers and toes to reassure himself they were still firmly attached to his body.

‘Not strange at all, Lady Miryll. I was raised by a Roman family and have always been thankful for the advantages I gained from my childhood. My home was a rural Roman estate outside Aquae Sulis. In fact, I have longed for a Roman bath for some time and I hoped you’d have your own hypocaust.’

A momentary shadow passed fleetingly over Lady Miryll’s features. She hadn’t expected Artor to be more Roman than herself.

Artor had been watchful all his life, and he noticed the widening of the pupils that revealed her discomfort.

‘Of course, Your Majesty. The baths are at your disposal. But surely your visit is for some more pressing reason than the luxuries of my villa?’ Then she coloured and covered her mouth with one hand, her eyes wide with embarrassment. ‘I beg your pardon, my lord. It’s not for a mere woman to question the intentions of the High King. You reign over the west, so you’re entitled to come and go as you please.’