The Bloody Cup (29 page)

Gronw giggled again, but louder, and the sound was manic and teetering on hysteria as it filled the bare, wooden room.

‘Vortigern fell prey to Ceridwen. His wife, Rowena, was an adherent of the goddess, for all that she was Saxon. Those barbarians accept Her influence as well, although they prefer their gods of thunder and discord. Poor foolish Vortigern was old and frightened of his sons, so he invited Rowena’s kin to enter his kingdom.’

Gronw snorted mirthlessly.

‘Imagine, mistress, an old grey rat who is frightened of the sleek sons he had spawned. He welcomed in the cats to protect him - and the kin of Vortigern, High King of nothing, have been trying to get rid of them ever since. Vortigern was a Celtic fool, so Uther and his son have wasted Celtic lives to root out the Saxons the old man invited into the land. Good! Fewer for me to kill! But Vortigern left a legacy of hatred which we can use, mistress, as Ceridwen used Miryll in our holy cause. Miryll’s death has served a great purpose. The people, great and small, will listen to the story of her death and weep for her lost love for Gawayne. It doesn’t matter that there was no love on either side. The story is pretty, and they can weep over her innocence and her loveliness.’

Gronw was right. Legends achieve a life of their own. Miryll’s tower, her weavings and her liaison with Gawayne had developed a distinctly sentimental tone. Even the tale of her watery burial had been adapted so that the lady sang her own burial song.

‘Men are such fools, mistress. You’d smile to see how easily the Celts can be manipulated.’

Gronw never spoke to Miryll’s shade. Her spirit did not choose to visit him, although he had been present at her birth and had acted as her foster-father for most of her short life. Gronw still served the raven-haired Gernyr, Miryll’s mother, who had been his secret lover before her husband, Rufus Miletus, exercised his rights as paterfamilias. Even the passage of nineteen years had not dulled Gronw’s deep hatred for all things Romano-Celtic, or for those people who preserved that hateful regime.

Gernyr and her servant, Gronw, had been the spoils of a skirmish beyond the Wall when she was little more than a child. They were captured on a rutted horse trail overlooking the soft landscape above Ituna Aest by Rufus Miletus, a prominent man in Salinae who had been visiting King Lot with his father, Miletus Magnus. At that time, hunting barbarians was a popular Celtic sport and ten-year-old Gernyr had been a valuable catch, had any of her rapists chosen to discover that her father was a Prydyn king. Ignorant of her status, Miletus Magnus had made the little girl a slave in his household.

Gernyr had hated secretly and with utter concentration for her whole youth. She did not soften even after Rufus Miletus had become so captivated by her beauty and spirit that he had taken her as his wife, and she had used her woman’s knowledge, and Gronw’s aid, to ensure that she never fell pregnant to the man she loathed. Miletus had not been cruel, and he had endured harsh censure from his dying father when he entered into marriage with a freed slave, so her coldness, promiscuity and visible dislike was an unbearable insult.

Over time, she had eagerly taken Gronw, or any other man of influence, into her bed so she could revenge herself on her husband for stealing her away from her homeland. That her daughter, Miryll, was born at all was a small miracle, and Gernyr was unsure who had fathered the babe that she had initially attempted to abort. Ultimately, the child had become just another tool of revenge that Gernyr used against the hapless Miletus, who could never be sure if he cherished another man’s child. To his shame, the Celts of Salinae enjoyed gossiping about his disgraceful wife until he had no choice but to take action against her.

Gronw remembered the last, terrible battle of words that had resulted in Rufus Miletus striking off Gernyr’s head. Since that dreadful, blood-soaked moment, Gronw’s life had ceased to have meaning, and only his taste for revenge gave his life a semblance of reality. Rufus Miletus had been banished and had died peacefully at Salinae Minor. Who was left to hate but all Celts, and the High King in particular, whose laws perpetuated the enslavement of the Picts, the proud Prydyn?

Although the assassination attempt at Salinae Minor had failed, Gronw had discovered that Artor was assailable. The High King’s true and utterly faithful followers were growing old, while the king’s safety seemed rarely a matter of concern for the younger lords. Artor’s fighting skills were legendary and his aura of invincibility was so strong that few of the High King’s loyal servants could imagine that old age could dim his prowess. Complacency blinded Artor’s court, and even the High King had become careless of his own safety through many years of peace and prosperity. So great was Artor’s reputation that, in a few months, the vigilance born out of a narrow escape from death would begin to fade and he would once again become easy prey. Artor did not value his own life, although he would do nothing to end it. Gronw had no understanding of why the High King might welcome death, but he was happy to oblige if he had the opportunity.

In the meantime, the Cup was in his possession.

Although Gronw was a natural conspirator, he had few leadership skills. After Gernyr died, Gronw had been alone, raising Miryll in bitterness and lies - until his new master discovered him in the sterile solitude of Salinae Minor and his life regained its purpose and direction. His new role was to spread sedition and distrust against Artor, and if religion could help serve this avowed purpose, then it would be used.

Gronw extracted the Cup from its hiding place beneath a loose stone in the floor of the hut. It was such a plain, unassuming object, considering it wielded so much power over human imagination.

When Miryll had first seen it, newly recovered from the grave at Glastonbury, she had looked at it in wide-eyed amazement.

‘Why is the Cup so precious, Father Gronw? It’s only a metal drinking vessel.’

‘It’s not what it is that accounts for its worth, Miryll, but who owned it. This battered mug once hung at the girdle of Mother Ceridwen. And she used it to ladle out drops from the Cauldron of all Knowledge. If you drink from the vessel, and your lips touch the rim once handled by Ceridwen, your heart will gain all her knowledge.’

The poor little fool had believed both his promises and his lies about her kinship with Ceridwen. A small lump stuck in his throat, for he had valued her worth to him, but his habits of obedience ran too deeply to be swayed, even by love. His new master had told him to kill the bishop when he took the Cup, and he had enjoyed murdering the Christian prelate at his own altar, but Gronw had been mystified by the need to kill him. Aethelthred was too humble to be powerful, and his death was of no appreciable worth to their cause.

Gronw carried out his master’s wishes but master and servant had their own, separate goals. Gronw sought the destruction of every Christian Celt in the land, for nothing less than a river of impious blood would appease him. Let his master dream of power, but Gronw was at war, ultimately, with all things Celt - including his master.

Gronw’s lips twisted in fleeting pleasure. He knew he was a pawn, and at times like these, when he was cold and hungry, he railed against his fate. But next week, he would leave these uncomfortable lodgings and find a new refuge where he could spread his poison to a wider audience. He wouldn’t sleep soundly until all the Celts in the west were washed away and the shade of his mistress could finally rest. And then, perhaps, Gronw would no longer dream.

Galahad strode through the gardens of Salinae Minor, finally alone now that his father had taken up his duties in the north. Within the villa, Percivale slept in unguarded peace.

Before leaving Venonae, Galahad had sought out his king in a private audience.

‘Forgive my rudeness, my king, but I need your assistance. It’s imperative that I have someone I can trust to act as my second self at Salinae Minor during the search for Gronw. If we are to find the Cup, as you have ordered me to do, I’ll need someone who shares my beliefs and thinks as I do. Moreover, we cannot afford to alienate the priests of Glastonbury, so I’ll need a good Christian warrior as a companion.’

The High King chose to judge Galahad’s brusque manner as a personality trait caused by a fixed and obsessive nature, rather than intentional discourtesy. Galahad’s request made sense, although Artor doubted the prince’s clarity of purpose. Faced with a choice between his god and the Celtic cause, Galahad could well falter.

Gruffydd had informed Artor that rumours of Ceridwen’s Cup were circulating widely in the north. His spies could speak of little else, and solving the origins and location of the Cup was an urgent matter.

‘Would my bodyguard, Percivale, suit your needs?’ Artor asked. ‘I’ll be sorry to lose him, even for a short time. Percivale is more my friend than my servant, and I made a promise to Targo on his deathbed that I would keep Percivale by my side. However, this puzzle of the Cup is more important than my own needs, so I’ll temporarily relinquish him to you.’

Impressed by the speed of the king’s decision-making, Galahad nodded in agreement and Percivale was soon summoned into the king’s private presence.

Percivale was now forty-five and a seasoned warrior. His face was boyish, but his scarred body was muscular and fit.

‘I must ask you to leave the court and undertake a mission of great importance to the west,’ Artor told his aide. ‘If I had any choice in the matter, I wouldn’t ask this of you, but Galahad needs you in his quest to find the Bloody Cup, a religious relic that is being used to rally forces against me. This Cup must be found, and Glastonbury is the key to its origins. Someone there must know where Lucius first obtained it. After all, the Cup was in Glastonbury for at least seventy years. Your god dwells there among the priests, so you will fare better than I, or even Galahad, for that matter, for he comes from the pagan realms to the north. The priests are more likely to speak freely to you than to either of us.’

Percivale sighed, and a world of sadness dwelt in the sound.

‘I live to serve you, my lord,’ he responded. ‘If this task is the best way to do it, then I am prepared to take my leave from you and perform my duty.’

Artor clapped Percivale on the shoulder.

‘Good man. It’s unfortunate, but I can’t trust Galahad’s judgement. He’s mad with love for his god, so the interests of Christianity might not always be best for his king. I know that you’ll always be loyal and true to your conscience.’ Artor smiled at Percivale. ‘You have one further task. As well as finding the Cup of Lucius, I want you to discover who is behind its use in what I suspect is a conspiracy against me. I believe that Salinae Minor may still have secrets that might be of use to me. And while you’re in the area, visit Glastonbury and introduce yourself to the new bishop.’

Percivale nodded in agreement. He recalled Brother Simon’s cautious reticence when the king had questioned him about Lucius’s Cup; a courtesy call to the new bishop would provide an excellent opportunity to seek out the old Jew and question him further.

Percivale left for Salinae Minor in company with Galahad, but not before Odin had voiced his fears.

‘The trine is broken, Perce. How shall Gareth and Odin serve King Artor without you? Two is unlucky and a dangerous number.’

Odin looked so disconsolate that Percivale almost changed his mind. But Taliesin stepped forward and volunteered his services as the third bodyguard.

‘I know I’m a poor substitute for Percivale, Odin, but I have slain wolves and, on one occasion, I speared a cave bear. I’m not a weakkneed youth, else my mother wouldn’t have sent me to serve the king, so you can be sure that I’ll guard Artor’s back during Percivale’s absence.’

Odin rapidly revised his fears and found them resolved.

‘Myrddion’s son lowers himself to labour like a servant,’ Percivale answered slowly.

‘But Nimue’s son would never count the cost if there was any risk to the king,’ Taliesin responded earnestly. ‘If it was in my power, I would save him anyway. So what does livery matter? No badge of service harms my station if it raises my honour.’

Odin embraced Taliesin, and Percivale marvelled at the courage of the Jutlander, for some atavistic, superstitious part of Percivale’s soul still feared the intensity that lay behind the eyes of the harpist.

He gripped Taliesin’s sword hand and felt love and friendship replace the doubt in his heart.

‘Take care during my absence, friends, for I can sense that our world is changing. I catch odd looks and whispers behind corners. Danger is close to the High King, so you must sleep with one eye open and drink only water, if you value the High King’s safety.’

Both men laughed ruefully and embraced Percivale, who had only enough time to collect his few possessions and run to the stables. Characteristically, now that he had a purpose, Galahad was eager to brush the dust of Venonae from his boots.

The days were shortening and the grey skies of winter threatened sleet when Percivale turned his horse towards Glastonbury. He had visited the religious centre many times in the past, but on this occasion he had the leisure to notice that, even with the onset of winter, Glastonbury’s waters sprang cleanly out of the cold, aching earth and her sweeping, pale green slopes were still scattered with the last amber leaves of autumn. The soft, grey mists turned the skeletons of trees into dim and jewelled landscapes, and Percivale felt Glastonbury’s attraction anew. He was struck dumb by the beauty of God’s sanctified earth.