The Bloody Cup (22 page)

‘But she wasn’t the person who tried to drown you, sire, and I doubt she struck you either. Those sins may be laid at the door of the man dressed in black.’

‘Galahad told me I was unconscious and you saved my life by dragging me from the bath. He insists that I would be dead were it not for your intervention. I think you for your courage.’

Percivale re-entered the chamber with Taliesin’s light pack in his hands. Taliesin fished out a leather bag and withdrew items of medical equipment.

‘We each serve as best we can, my lord,’ he replied awkwardly. He found a needle and a length of thin gut inside his pack. Oblivious to the shocked stares of Artor and Gawayne, who had just entered the room, Taliesin began to stitch together the gaping wound in his arm.

‘Do you have to do your needlework right now, Taliesin?’ Gawayne complained testily. ‘My stomach and my head are quite queasy enough without such a sight this early in the day. Why are we all awake anyway? And why are the guards in from the stables? What’s going on?’

‘I don’t know how you’ve managed to sleep through all the fuss and noise, Gawayne,’ Artor said ruefully. ‘There has been an attempt to assassinate me. Galahad was right when he said that this place was poisonous.’

‘Don’t be ridiculous!’ Gawayne retorted, only half awake. ‘Lady Miryll can hardly be the black warrior.’

Galahad returned in time to hear his father’s last comments. He gave an expressive shrug.

‘What?’ Gawayne asked. ‘What’s the matter?’

Gareth entered the room considerably paler than when he had left it, but now he was almost alert.

‘You look like a sickening cat! What’s wrong with you?’ Gawayne aimed his frustration squarely at Gareth, who simply managed to look miserable.

‘Gareth and Odin have both been drugged, Gawayne, and an attempt has been made to drown me,’ Artor explained. ‘Lady Miryll appears to be implicated, but it’s equally possible that she was simply the tasty bait in a honey trap set by conspirators.’

Gawayne gaped.

Odin stepped silently into the room.

‘So, Odin, what have you discovered?’ Artor asked.

‘We found Lady Miryll as she was about to board a skiff to leave the island. A few more moments and both she and her maid would have been gone. They would have escaped easily, but she delayed herself by pausing to collect jewels and clothing that she’d packed beforehand. Greed and vanity have caught more men and women than hatred,’ Odin intoned. ‘And you’ll be interested to know that the lady has a fresh bruise on her breastbone.’

Artor’s lips set like stone. So he must have struck the lady in the bathing room during the assassination attempt. Miryll wasn’t simply a honey trap, she was an assassin.

‘Where are they now?’

‘As you instructed, the captives are under guard in the atrium,’ Odin replied with a satisfied grin. Within the tangle of his reddish beard, his brown and crooked canines seemed even more predatory than usual. ‘The mistress of Salinae Minor has a foul tongue, my lord,’ he added conversationally.

‘Your information does not surprise me, Odin. The lady is not a lady.’ Artor turned his attention back to Taliesin. ‘Are you finished your sewing yet, song-master? If I’m to think clearly and pursue some reasonable explanation from Lady Miryll, I’ll need to have my head wound examined and have my wits about me.’

Taliesin snipped off the last piece of gut with his sharp knife and climbed to his feet.

‘Aye, my lord, I’ve finished treating my wound.’

He found a tunic in his pack and pulled it over his head.

‘Now, my lord.’ He grinned at Artor. ‘How many fingers do you see when I hold my hand before your eyes?’

Artor allowed the nervous imaginations of Miryll and her servants to stretch out painfully while they were held in the atrium. For Artor, an hour or two meant a light doze and physical renewal. For the captives, it was a period of increasing tension as they contemplated their separate fates.

The king finally entered the atrium, sipping a cup of hot water with a little honey spooned in for warmth. Even with salve smeared on his forehead, the king still looked rested and physically strong. Behind him, his bodyguard and the lords of his retinue seemed far more worn and queasy.

Artor seated himself negligently on a conveniently placed marble bench where he could watch both the fountain and Lady Miryll. He noticed immediately that the neckline of her gown was sagging open, revealing the edges of a growing bruise. Her eyes were furtive and frightened, although she attempted to appear calm and regal.

‘I bid you a fair morning, Lady Miryll,’ he greeted her conversationally. ‘How old do you think I am?’

The lady’s brown eyes became muddy with dislike, and her hands pressed together with such force that her knuckles shone whitely.

‘You’re far too
old
,’ she retorted unpleasantly. ‘Ugly, disgusting, arrogant and
old
!’

Artor smiled with such convincing sincerity that Taliesin’s blood ran cold. He remembered his father, Myrddion Merlinus, speaking of Uther Pendragon’s last, bitter days; Artor showed no signs of degenerating into the violent monster his father had been, but perhaps he was becoming something worse.

‘I congratulate you on your self-control, woman.’ Artor’s tone hardened. ‘You seemed perfectly at ease in my presence last night when you were parading your body for my appreciation, yet I’ve come to realize that you must hate me and all I stand for. Am I correct, Lady Miryll? If such is truly your name.’

‘I am Ceridwen!’ she hissed. ‘I am the maid, the mother and the hag! You are nothing, and you have no legitimacy! Your reign is a sham!’

Indrawn breaths were the only response from the ring of men. Such arrogance and blasphemy was shocking.

Taliesin took an involuntary step forward. ‘You’re not my great-grandam! ’

The charged tension was released by Artor’s booming laughter. He explained to the gathered warriors that a legend persisted in the west that Myrddion Merlinus was a direct descendant of the goddess, which, if true, would make Taliesin her great-grandchild.

Artor looked at Miryll. ‘You may pretend to be whatever, or whoever, gives you comfort. I really don’t care, but Taliesin might object to your choice if you’re claiming him as your kin.’

Lady Miryll spat inaccurately towards Artor. Her face was twisted with hatred.

‘I’m disappointed.’ Artor spoke conversationally. ‘I’ve been searching for grand plots and conspiracies among my enemies, and what have I found? A foolish woman who thinks she’s a goddess. A stupid, ignorant woman who has been the tool of ruthless men who care so little for her that they have abandoned her to my justice.’

Lady Miryll spat again, her eyes wild.

‘You have a lovely face, my lady, but terrible manners. Didn’t your mother school you better?’

Miryll whitened at the mention of her dead mother.

‘If your plan was to kill me, then it has failed, but only through the keen reactions of Taliesin, son of Myrddion of blessed memory, and because of the ineptitude of your accomplices. Still, failure is the greatest and the most damaging of faults, don’t you agree?’

The lady’s face contorted into such ugly lines of loathing that Gawayne was amazed that he’d ever considered her to be beautiful.

‘Come, answer me, woman, for it’s only my curiosity that’s keeping you alive.’

‘You are the fraud!’ Miryll screamed out at last. ‘There’s no Roman blood flowing through
your
veins, but I’m descended from Augustus and, through him, back to the Caesar himself.’

‘Not that old, tired refrain again.’ Artor shook his head. ‘I’m very disappointed in you, Lady Miryll. Are you just another moon-mad claimant to the throne of the west, or do you have some deluded desire to restore the Roman Empire? Or, crazier still, do you truly think you’re a goddess?

‘My father, the Pendragon, was the son of Constantine II and the grandson of the great Maximus. No Roman blood, Miryll? But, I am proud of my mixed heritage, for I am Briton first and last.’

Artor gazed sorrowfully into Miryll’s eyes as if she were a child, caught stealing by a concerned parent. The mock affection on his face was more shocking than a stinging slap.

‘Gawayne, my nephew, has a far more worthy heritage than you, Miryll. And Galahad has a legitimate claim. In addition, he is a Christian, which would serve him well in any dispute in the south about his succession to the throne. I assume your father convinced you that your bloodline comes from some bastard son of Augustus. If so, he was misguided or deranged, for such a bloodline would be worth nothing in the west after all this time, even if it were true. The Rome of the Caesars is dead. In these isles, succession is always followed from the present king to the next person in line. I can’t imagine the Celts accepting Julius Caesar himself, even if he could manage to escape from Hades.’

‘The Bloody Cup will see you dead, Artor.’ Miryll spat the words out. ‘And that same Bloody Cup will christen my son and will drive all your followers into the sea. I follow the old ways and our cause will prevail.’

Miryll’s speech had wiped the merriment out of Artor’s eyes, a change that none of the warriors present considered propitious for the lady’s health.

‘So. Now we finally have your version of the truth. Of which old ways do you speak, Lady Miryll? Do you believe in the Tuatha de Danaan? Do you submit yourself to the laws of the Druids and the justice of the wicker man? Are you dedicated to the Roman gods? Or is it something older still?’ The High King paused and gazed reflectively at the mermaid fountain. For a long moment, he seemed almost mesmerized by the steady, rhythmic flow of water. Then his grey, chill eyes turned back to Miryll, and Taliesin could read no pity in them.

‘Or are you following blindly behind the aspirations of another?’ Artor asked. ‘I admit to wondering about the manner of man who pulls the strings that control a beautiful woman such as yourself.’

‘You’ll not know the truth until it’s far too late to do anything about it.’ She huddled triumphantly in her black cloak, all her voluptuousness leached from her face and her muffled body.

‘So where is Gronw, Miryll? Where is your little priest?’

She started in surprise, but quickly recovered her self-control.

‘He’s not here’, she replied defiantly. ‘He returned to his people.’

‘The blue Picts from beyond the Wall?’ Galahad interrupted, his voice laced with contempt. ‘I thought the Celtic tribes had cleared those vermin out of civilized country, but it doesn’t surprise me that Gronw is a heathen, slimy Pict. He’s surely got the tattoos and the objectionable personality of the Picts. That lot are nothing but pagan scum for the Otadini to hunt down like mad dogs.’

Miryll’s face whipped towards Galahad like the head of a striking snake. ‘Even though you treat them like animals, you’ve failed to make them bend their knees to you. My mother was Gronw’s mistress, and she was a Pictish queen! You didn’t know
that
, did you? Her ancestors ruled these isles long before the Celts and the Romans came here. She led my vain father around like a bull with a ring through his nose.’

‘Then you have my sympathy,’ Galahad retorted. ‘It’s no wonder your father ultimately removed her head.’

Gawayne felt a moment’s pleasure in the cruel words of his son.

‘Enough!’ barked Artor. ‘Galahad, instead of exercising your prejudices on Miryll, who seems to have been spun a concoction of lies for most of her life, you will send a rider at speed towards Aquae Sulis with instructions that our warriors are to scour the wildest routes between here and the Wall for Gronw. You know what he looks like, so make sure that he is forced to run like a rabbit. Or the rat that he more closely resembles!’

‘That would be my pleasure, sire.’ Galahad left the atrium with much dignity and self-importance.

The High King turned back to Miryll. ‘Now that my impetuous young kinsman has gone, you might wish to tell me about your son. I’d like to know more about this infant who will take my place on the throne.’

‘He’s in a place where even you can’t touch him,’ she whispered and then placed her hands protectively over her belly. ‘He’s in here.’

‘Of course he is,’ Artor responded. ‘The babe was fathered by Gawayne, I presume.’ He did not wait for a response. ‘Did he provide his seed willingly? I thought he had children enough.’

The lady’s lips curled. ‘His body was eager, for all that it’s old. I had a preference for Galahad to sire my son, but that fool is drunk with his god. The father was much easier to manage and was very diligent in his task. I’m happy, for my child will be the end product of many royal bloodlines.’

‘Artor, I swear I didn’t intend to . . .’ Gawayne’s voice trailed off, his stomach churning with bile. ‘I know I was drugged, but I’ll admit that I was willing enough. I beg your forgiveness, my lord.’ Gawayne abased himself before his king. His eyes were filled with tears.

‘If I was angry on every occasion that you bedded a slut, Gawayne, I would have burst into flames years ago. This woman was just a tasty morsel for you to dine on. I attach no blame to you, so stand up and stare her down. She’s only a woman, and not a very clever one at that.’

Artor delivered his cruel taunt with such timing that his entire guard burst into raucous laughter. Every man present knew that Lord Gawayne chased anything that even pretended to be female. Taliesin winced at the contempt for women expressed in the men’s mirth.

‘My lord’, he said loudly, ‘does Gronw have the talent for such a complex plot? We have a dead bishop, a stolen campaign cup from the grave of another sanctified man, a servant who considers himself to be a Druid, the daughter of a Celt and a Pictish queen, who has been raised to believe that she is a reincarnation of Ceridwen, and these strands are so entangled, Lord Artor, that only a subtle brain could create any pattern in them. As fair and clever as Lady Miryll might be, she lacks the experience to put together such a conspiracy. Listen to her, my lord. She mouths what she has been taught like the child she is.’

‘Be silent, Taliesin!’ Artor ordered angrily. ‘I need no lessons in understanding from you.’