The Bloody Cup (36 page)

The twins provided the only simple solution. Artor had tested them in battle throughout the Saxon summer, searching to discover which of the boys had the capacity to rule in his stead. When the quest for the Cup began, Artor still wavered, knowing that his choice would change the lives of the boys, as well as of their mother, their elder brother, Bran, and the people of the Ordovice tribe.

The decision of choosing an heir from the twins was fraught with problems. Could Bran serve under a younger brother? Could one brother forsake the other, without meddling in the affairs of the kingdom? And would Anna ever forgive him for her fatherless childhood if he publicly acknowledged that she was his daughter? Any of the boys would then be eligible for the kingship.

Unfortunately, women couldn’t rule unless, like Boedicca, they were warrior queens.

So the twins remained an edge that Artor tucked away for some future usage. The need for an heir could be solved, but which twin should he choose if he had to select one man?

Balan was Artor’s natural preference, for the lad was most like himself in temperament. But Balan was kind by nature and, given the choice, Artor would not subject this particular grandson to the fate that he had been forced to endure. Could Balan endure the loss of self - his softer nature, his kindness, his consideration and his gentleness - that the throne of the High King demanded?

Beautiful Balyn was an enigma that Artor could not truly fathom. His excellence in battle made him a formidable opponent, but Balan led the way in intellect. Did Balyn have the prudence and the guile to rule? His pride could be a curse, and impulse ruled his actions; his enthusiasms were passionate and quickly adopted - and as quickly dropped. Moreover, Odin didn’t like the boy and Artor always respected Odin’s instincts. The time had come to confront Balyn with a real problem and, perhaps, secure an heir to the throne.

‘But I can wait a little longer to make up my mind,’ Artor murmured to the still air in his room. ‘If I choose hastily, I might foist another Uther on my people!’

With a mental shrug, Artor stripped off his tunic and buried himself in his sleeping furs. The warmth eased the aches in muscle and bone that old men feel when death begins to tap their shoulders and remind them that their time is almost over.

Gruffydd had been charged with the task of investigating Otha Redbeard, the newly appointed Bishop of Glastonbury. What Gruffydd discovered gave neither king nor spymaster any reason for complacency, but he found no concrete answers either.

The spymaster returned as spring pushed new growth through the damp, rich soil. He had only been gone three weeks, and Artor marvelled at the arthritic old man’s ability to sit in the corners of an inn, ask a few idle questions and milk every gossiper dry of their knowledge, all without stirring his creaking old bones.

‘If his brother priests in Venta Belgarum are to be believed, the bishop is a boastful buffoon with little talent and less piety,’ Gruffydd reported back to Artor. ‘Unfortunately, the man has many supporters, for he is the scion of a wealthy clan in Bremetennacum that is closely connected to the Brigante ruling class. He shamelessly courts approval from persons of influence and has gained many priestly votes for his new position within the Church. However, one of my agents was told by a reliable source that the ancestors of the bishop’s father were originally Coritani and they drifted to Bremetennacum from Lindum in the east when the Saxons drove out the last of the Celts. This rumour doesn’t necessarily make him false in his oaths towards your kingdom, but the general details of the man’s background leave a nasty feeling in my water.’

Artor looked exasperated. ‘Do I smell the influence of Modred in this appointment? Or, worse still, the Brigante aristocracy who resent the tribute I demand of them? Or the Saxons from Lindum? Or even both? Modred has the Brigante connections, but the Brigante were unsettled before Modred’s reign, and will remain so until I clean out the whole rats’ nest of the aristocracy. I can’t believe that Modred would attempt to use a man so guaranteed to antagonize my allies. I’d discover the link immediately. I may overestimate my nephew, but I’d have expected something more subtle from Modred.’

‘We shouldn’t discount the Saxon connection, my lord. But whatever Otha’s motives and allegiances might be, I can assure you that he only entered the priesthood for the prestige, the power and the opportunity to feather his own nest. Glastonbury will provide him with years of sanctioned pillage, and I wouldn’t trust the man as far as I could throw him.’

‘By all reports, Otha’s a tub of lard and couldn’t be thrown far by anyone,’ Artor responded. ‘I’ll send Balyn on a pilgrimage to Glastonbury and, in the process, we’ll discover if the boy’s golden tongue can talk Otha Redbeard around in circles.’

Gruffydd pushed back his tangled hair, which had never been quite controllable, even in his youth. His weathered and lined face had the drooping folds and the lugubrious expression of a good hound. Only his eyes were still young and vivid within the deep pouches that surrounded their sockets. He had a horde of grand - children and great-grandchildren, but his days were fast blurring as his life accelerated into the decay of great old age.

‘It’s near time I retired, my lord. I’ve lived for twenty years beyond my allotted lifespan and there’s not much more I can give you. My grandson, Trystan, has developed his own spy network out of Kernyu in the north-east of Cymru. I want him away from Cymru, because the damned fool is involved with a married woman, a friendship that could easily catapult him to a premature death. The woman is Queen Issyelt, who’s married to Mark, the local king. The king is no friend of yours, so Trystan’s kinship with me will only harm him further.’

Artor snorted.

‘Kernyu is a very small kingdom, lord. It’s largely Deceangli in tribal settlement, but some Demetae headed north to settle there in Vortigern’s time, and you know what their tempers are like.’ Gruffydd paused. ‘What I’m asking, Artor, is that Trystan take my place as your spymaster. I’ll continue as your adviser in all such matters until the boy is fully settled in but, as I don’t want to die on the job, as it were, I wish to leave your employ sooner rather than later. I believe the control of the spy network will probably save Trystan from the revenge of King Mark, as well as providing you with a capable and trustworthy replacement.’

‘Mark is a sycophantic, treasonous cur,’ Artor grumbled. ‘I cannot trust him.’

‘Then don’t. He’s another tribal king who whines continuously about tribute and the cost of maintaining an army. My grandson may be prejudiced against the man, but he has been warning me to beware of Mark for years.’

‘I assume Trystan’s already on his way to Cadbury, so I’ll soon meet this young man whom you obviously admire. Don’t blush, Gruffydd. I’ve known you for near on forty years, and I’ll always remember how you first brought Nimue to my court and demanded that I mete out justice on her mother’s murderer.’

Gruffydd smiled. ‘Yes, I expected that you would approve my choice and the boy is already on his way to Cadbury. I told him that if he is to undertake this duty for you, he should use Caerleon as the centre of his operations. He loves the north, and would be effective in such a place.’

Artor was happy to grant Gruffydd’s request; it was the least he could do for a friend who had filled the shoes of Myrddion Merlinus so admirably and who had never asked for favour or reward.

The king smiled reflectively and companionably at his old friend as they toasted their chilled feet before Artor’s open fire.

‘He’s my Ellyn’s son - my eldest boy’s daughter.’ Gruffydd grinned with pride through his bristling white beard. ‘And he’s wondrously handsome, considering his sire.’

‘Didn’t I give Ellyn to a Deceangli chieftain out of . . .’

‘Castellum Guinion,’ Gruffydd reminded his king.

‘Yes, that was the place,’ Artor said. ‘I’ve an old man’s memory, Gruffydd. I’m fading fast.’

‘You’re twenty years younger than me, young man. Think of the good things that can still be done in the years remaining to you.’

‘I doubt I’ll have the opportunity, Gruffydd. The wolves are gathering to pull me down, for I’m the stag with antlers so heavy that I can barely lift my head to flee. Still, you have my permission to return to Venta Silurum. Right now, if you should so wish. You’ve earned a quiet life and one of us should survive the bad years that lie ahead.’

‘I’ve decided to visit Coed Celyddon. I yearn to see those deep woods once more before I die, so I’ll go to the mountains nearby and visit Nimue while I’m there. I loved that babe more than my own children, Artor. She wound her fingers around my heart when she was only a day old. And perhaps I’ll visit Myrddion’s resting place before I die. Your harpist has described the route.’

Silence fell, and in the peace and warmth, Gruffydd dozed off and snored shallowly, while his king watched over him through the night.

CHAPTER XIII

BALYN’S BANE

Balyn was confused. The queen was as gracious to him as ever, so much so that the young man was completely enslaved. To be given tokens of her esteem, such as a rose or a length of fine perfumed wool that she had carried in her sleeve, made his heart tighten with a painful joy.

In his short life, he had never known a woman who was so completely feminine. His rational self recognized that the queen was pampered and idle, when compared with his indefatigable mother. But, in his innocence, Balyn thought that skin such as the queen’s could never face the rigours of full sunlight, for he believed that Wenhaver’s complexion of roses and cream must be real, like her golden hair. While other women aged, the queen remained eternally young. His brother, Balan, despaired of his twin’s ignorance of female deceit.

Balyn wasn’t a fool. He was simply young and ardent for the romance of love. Unlike his brother, Balan, who was practical to the point of being prosaic, Balyn had something of the poet’s imagination, and so the world of Artor’s court was the most graceful and brilliant dream that he had ever contemplated. Within this waking dream, the queen moved gracefully, her lips smiling sweetly and murmuring elegant compliments and witty repartee. If Balyn sometimes sensed deliberate cruelty behind Wenhaver’s saccharine words, then he forgave her instantly for what he decided were unconscious lapses.

Balyn had heard the sly whispers that the queen loved Prince Gawayne, and had compromised her honour by betraying her husband with him. But Balyn refused to countenance such slurs, preferring to believe the evidence of his eyes. In his seasons at court, he had seen nothing to suggest a breach of her marriage vows.

For such a youth, disillusion creates an abyss down which he can tumble to ruin. Because he was incapable of temperance, those who Balyn loved must be perfect, or else they were totally flawed. Where Balan expected men and women to be human, with real faults that they constantly tried to hide, Balyn refused to accept that his perfect queen, in this perfect court, was not as he believed her to be.

Early one morning, Balyn rose before dawn and ventured out into the meadows to pick wild flowers for his queen. Perhaps the dew-drenched blossoms were a little untidy, but he planned to present them to Wenhaver so he could bask in the warmth of her smile. When he returned from his small quest, the servants were about their tasks but few of the nobility had yet chosen to stir.

Nothing could have prepared him for what he overheard beyond the corner in a long corridor.

‘Gawayne, my love, do I frighten you?’ the voice of Wenhaver cooed. She had trapped the prince when he had ventured from his room to use the communal privy. ‘I thought you and I were intimates of long standing.’

Gawayne had not lain with Wenhaver for over eighteen months, having managed to avoid her tentacles by regularly escaping to Verterae and Segedunum, and Wenhaver had not forgotten Artor’s threat of execution if she did not change her slatternly ways. Between Gawayne’s absences and Wenhaver’s restraint, the relationship had been permitted to cool but, periodically, with cat-like indolence, Wenhaver strived to fan the dying coals of their illicit affair into at least a glimmer of life.

Boredom had persuaded the queen to wake at an early hour simply to waylay her one-time lover. She wished to make him regret their broken liaison so, knowing how susceptible Gawayne was to bare, ripe flesh, she had donned a flimsy robe that revealed the shape of her body.

‘This isn’t a suitable time for conversation, Wenhaver! If the servants see you dressed in this . . . thing, the tale will run through the citadel in minutes. Artor wouldn’t approve of this meeting, and I . . . well, I promised him.’

Gawayne was desperate to empty his full bladder. Besides, the early light illuminated the network of wrinkles around her eyes and Wenhaver’s thinning lips which, even now, pursed unattractively.

‘You’ve seen far more of me than this, Gawayne. On many occasions.’

‘I prefer to forget, my queen,’ Gawayne responded as sternly as he could. ‘The indiscretions of our youth should be left in the past. Please, Wenhaver, allow me to pass.’

As an unwilling eavesdropper, Balyn stood dumbstruck. The flowers, already beginning to wilt, fell from his numb fingers and he felt a sick, dizzying sensation in the pit of his stomach.

‘I am the queen, Gawayne, and I order you to explain why you’re avoiding me.’ Wenhaver’s voice was no longer the gentle, melodious invitation that Balyn knew. She sounded almost shrewish.

‘Artor is our liege lord, my lady,’ Gawayne explained stiffly. ‘He’s treated me with honour and respect, and overlooked the excesses of my obnoxious family. He’s also my uncle, and I know that I’m only half the man he is. You no longer tempt me, lady; my eyes are finally opened, and I’ll never again be your paramour. You’ve never loved me, and I’m tired of being a convenient means of hurting my king.’

Balyn heard the queen stamp her foot in frustration and then came the sharp sound of a slap as she struck Gawayne’s face.

‘You oaf! You were only ever a convenience to dishonour the bastard I married. He’d kill me, you know, if he thought he could get away with it.’