The Bloody Cup (37 page)

Balyn felt sickened by the malice that thickened the early morning air.

‘Your husband could have had you killed years ago and no one would have cared. In fact, most of the nobility would be overjoyed at your death.’

Balyn heard the sounds of a scuffle and then a thin cry of pain from the queen as Gawayne forced his way past her.

‘I hate you,’ she hissed. ‘How dare you touch the person of the queen?’

Balyn’s flowers lay, forgotten, on the flagged floor. Before the queen could see him, he took to his heels, back to the small room he shared with his brother, who was curled up under a fur rug.

‘You’re back,’ Balan muttered and tried to cover his head.

Balyn ignored his twin and threw himself on to their shared pallet. He wanted to sob, to scream or even to kill something. A small moan escaped his lips, causing Balan to open his eyes and look at his brother’s tightly curled body with concern.

Balyn sighed brokenly.

‘What’s happened, brother?’ Balan asked. ‘And don’t try to fob me off. ’

‘Nothing!’ The fur coverlet muffled Balyn’s vehement reply.

‘Bonehead!’ Balan said affectionately. ‘I don’t care what you’ve done. You’re noise and I’m silence. You’re heart and I’m mind. We’re one, brother. Our mother explained that to us long ago.’

‘You don’t understand!’ Balyn choked back a sob.

‘Try me. I won’t laugh or fuss at you.’

Balyn surged up from the pallet, and Balan felt a physical, visceral spasm as he looked into his brother’s white face and haunted eyes.

‘The queen is false,’ Balyn sobbed. ‘Everything you said was true. I heard her try to seduce Gawayne - just so she could reject him! They’re lovers of long standing!’

Balyn turned his face to the wall.

‘But she didn’t actually betray Lord Artor, did she?’

‘Of course she did! She spoke of it shamelessly, and then Lord Gawayne told her that their liaison was over.’

Balyn was beginning to shout as his self-control unravelled, and Balan clapped a hand over his brother’s mouth.

Balyn pulled the hand away. ‘She was half-naked! She fawned all over the Lord of the North until he ran away from her. Such insinuations! I felt sick! Are all men and women bare-faced liars in this place?’

Balan struggled to hide his exasperation. ‘Most people lie out of laziness, or because of fear of consequences - or even of being disliked. Unfortunately, you haven’t learned to dissemble as they have. In any place other than Cadbury, such a virtue would be praised. But here, it’s the mark of a fool, which you’re surely not.’

‘I
am
a fool, for I’ve danced attendance on a strumpet. How can I face her, brother? How can I pretend I didn’t eavesdrop on her?’

‘There’s no need to lie to her, Balyn. Simply be distant, then you won’t be forced to pretend.’

Balyn’s face lightened. ‘Yes, King Artor is the wounded party here, and I’ve done nothing of which I should be ashamed.’

Balan sighed. Ever at the whims of his emotions, Balyn must cleave wholly to one side or another, when a cooler head would weigh his allegiances more objectively. Having been exposed to Wenhaver’s feet of clay so brutally, Balyn must now turn his ardent, uncritical heart towards her enemy and lay his whole faith and devotion at the feet of the king.

‘You must understand that our king is also flawed, despite being the greatest man of his age’, Balan said softly. ‘He can’t fill the over-large shoes that you would thrust on him. When will you learn?’

But Balyn refused to listen.

Later in the day, Wenhaver chose to summon the twins to her bower. Her invitation was unwelcome; the young men had planned a hunt to allow Balyn’s raw and lacerated pride to form a scab and heal a little. But Wenhaver was insistent; her self-esteem had been shaken and her vanity required the balm of Balyn’s uncritical adoration.

‘Why are you so silent, Lord Balyn?’ Modred asked the young man. ‘I’d swear you’ve changed places with your brother. Balan is positively verbose today, while you seem uncomfortable.’ Modred’s sharp eyes had missed nothing.

‘I have had a sick headache all day long, King Modred, and I’m not inclined to converse with anyone at all.’ Balyn stared into the distance and made no effort to hide his distaste for the Brigante king.

‘You don’t fail
me
, my boy, but the queen is looking decidedly put out. She enjoys those pretty flatteries that fall so easily from your tongue.’

‘She’ll receive them no more!’ Balyn retorted unwisely and wandered off to engage Lady Elayne in conversation.

Wenhaver’s eyes followed the young man with a mingled expression of bafflement and resentment.

Modred smiled inwardly with suppressed glee. Oh, Wenhaver. You’ll hand me the throne yet, you silly old cow!

Then he recalled the humiliating conversation he had had this morning with his most powerful kinsman, and the amusement in his eyes died.

The High King had been striding across the flagged forecourt when he spied Modred sitting in the early sun, looking over to the north and the distant blue tower on Glastonbury Tor.

‘Hoi, Modred!’ Artor shouted, deciding his ride could wait for a few minutes. ‘I meant to speak with you later, so I’ve saved myself some effort.’

Modred examined the king’s tall form, back-lit by the sun, and he felt a visceral stab of envy. Artor still retained a patina of youth well past his prime. The sun gave his grey hair the sheen of russet, and its shadows hid the lines upon his face and neck. Modred felt his spirits droop and wither.

‘How may I assist you, sire? I’m yours to command.’

Artor came straight to the point. ‘Do you plan to return to your own country at any time in the immediate future, nephew? You’re welcome to remain here, of course, but surely you must be concerned that your throne can be weakened during your absence?’

‘Not at all, Artor. As you know, the Brigante have run out of potential kings, and those members of the aristocracy who’d try to take what is not theirs tend to conspire against each other, rather than against me.’

Artor laughed, but there was very little humour in the sound. ‘And I suppose you and your supporters control the warriors.’

‘Of course, uncle. I’ve found it always pays to think ahead, and to ensure that the numbers are at my back.’

‘How true, Modred. Still, I do pine for my privacy, as should you.’

The High King turned on his heel and strode away, leaving his nephew to wonder if he had been dismissed from court.

Balyn’s head ached fiercely as he was forced to watch his hitherto ideal woman through eyes that were newly critical. He hungered to depart from the bower and ride out into the countryside where he could shake the mouldy, clinging comforts of Cadbury from his booted feet.

Elayne recognized the young man’s turmoil and placed a hand upon his forearm.

‘You must forgive me, Lord Balyn, but I believe you are developing a sick headache that is not caused entirely by the weather’, she began. ‘Will you take some advice from a woman old enough to be an elder sister?’

Balyn bowed distantly, but the pressure of Elayne’s fingers drew his eyes to meet her gaze.

‘The queen is a vain, foolish and irrelevant woman, my lord. She has no power to harm the kingdom, or you, unless you permit her to do so. Somehow, she has managed to put you out of temper and to hurt you deeply. But she acts without thought, and certainly doesn’t intend to damage you or to cause you pain. So you must emulate King Artor and treat her with courtesy but without serious con - sideration. I fear that you wear your heart on your sleeve, and there are those at this court who will pursue you if they believe that you care for her.’

Balyn’s forehead knitted with mingled disapproval of Elayne’s blunt words and his acknowledgement that she had correctly interpreted his feelings.

‘I’m grateful that you would think to spare me pain, Lady Elayne. But I fear your warning comes too late and perhaps would be misconstrued, if eavesdroppers heard our discussion of the queen’s character. Perhaps we should both be silent on this matter.’

With a neat, dismissive bow, Balyn excused himself, leaving Elayne with two spots of high colour on her cheekbones and a heart that was burdened with foreboding.

That young man can’t tell friend from foe, she thought sadly as she watched his tall form move through the press of courtiers. May the gods protect him.

Through the throng of over twenty persons in the bower, servants moved in dark robes carrying plates of sweetmeats and confections, liberally sweetened with honey. The queen sat at the centre of the chattering crowd and sipped a cup of fruit juices laced with mead. Her face was frozen and blank.

Shortly afterwards, Balyn was summoned to attend the king in his private chambers.

Balan watched his brother leave the rose arbor with sick dread. He feared Balyn’s state of mind would lead him to alienate the king.

Previous experiences heralded an imminent brainstorm.

Heavy roses filled the bower with a scent so sickly that Balan could almost see the perfume clog the air. A trace of corruption lurked under the ripe, sweet smell.

Wenhaver smiled at Balan and the young man felt a tug under his ribs.

The queen is foolish and stupid - and she’s dangerous, Balan decided. How could the king have allied himself with such a difficult woman?

Balan observed the full-blown roses, the imported glassware and the finely woven cloth that adorned the ladies, and his common sense told him that the graciousness of older civilizations was aped in this bower, in this palace and throughout the kingdom.

‘Rome is dead, just as Artor’s kingdom is beginning to die,’ Balan murmured to no one in particular as he massaged the insistent ache under his ribs.

‘There you are,’ Artor greeted Balyn as he crossed his threshold. ‘You seem to be a little pale today, my boy.’ He smiled into Balyn’s dull eyes. ‘You may have a glass of wine if you wish, or water if you prefer. Make yourself comfortable, for I have a problematic mission that I need to discuss with you.’

Balyn flushed with pleasure and his eyes became more animated.

Artor saw a boy who was so physically like his youthful self, it was uncanny. He noted the woollen tunic, the leather trews and a simple gold chain around his neck with his father’s emblem stamped upon it. The boy had a pleasing appearance.

‘I will successfully complete whatever duty you ask of me, Your Majesty.’

Artor laughed and shook his head. ‘You should never agree to a challenge until you know what it entails, boy. You might find that my orders aren’t to your taste.’

Balyn looked surprised. ‘How could I possibly refuse you, my lord? Celts should be honoured to serve the king.’

‘Your words are admirable, Balyn, but you should listen to what I say before you agree with me,’ Artor stated. ‘I want you to travel to Glastonbury and give my best wishes to Bishop Otha. Demand from him the staff that was used to kill Bishop Aethelthred and then return to Cadbury and present it to me.’

Balyn nodded and would have risen to obey immediately, but Artor gestured for him to remain seated.

‘The task is not as easy as it sounds, Balyn,’ he continued. ‘Otha Redbeard’s loyalties are in doubt and because this order comes from me, he may refuse to hand over the staff. Your task is to convince him to accede to my demands.’

‘By any means, my king?’

‘By any means necessary, Balyn, but you should try diplomacy first. I value the prayers of Glastonbury and don’t wish to offend the churchmen who reside there.’

‘Then I’ll take my leave, my lord, so I can be about your business.’

‘Take care, Balyn. You are direct kin, and that means you are precious to me. I’m anxious to remove this staff from the hands of Bishop Botha. I don’t trust the man so it could be a perilous mission, despite its apparent simplicity.’

Artor pulled the large pearl ring from his thumb. ‘You will take this bauble as proof of your status as my emissary. Wear it with pride, for all men know that this ring belongs to Artor, High King of the Britons.’

Balyn felt tears prickle behind his eyes. His emotions were so confused that he almost leaned his head upon the High King’s shoulder to weep in gratitude.

‘I serve the west, my lord. That is sufficient reason to obey your orders and ride to Glastonbury. Thank you for the confidence you have placed in me.’

‘Don’t thank me. Sometimes men die when I give orders, good men who do their best with what they have to give.’

‘But, lord, nothing you ask could possibly—’

‘Please, lad, don’t interrupt me when I speak. I have learned that being a king means I have to put aside love and family duty for the larger needs of the country. Do you understand, Balyn?’

Balyn looked at Artor with wide, wondering eyes. ‘Yes, I understand, but—’

‘I’m sending you to Glastonbury on a delicate mission, Balyn. The repercussions of failure could be very awkward so you will need to keep a cool head and have your wits about you.’ Artor patted Balyn’s shoulder affectionately.

‘I will do nothing to bring shame to the kingdom, or to you,’ Balyn swore solemnly. ‘I will return with the staff as soon as I can.’

As Balyn bowed to his king and backed out of the room, Artor felt a tug of anxiety. Almost any one of Artor’s retinue could have conveyed this request to the bishop, but Artor must find an heir, so Balyn needed to show his mettle. He was ignorant of Wenhaver’s fall from Balyn’s pedestal, and had no idea that the boy was a volcano of churning emotions, but something in Balyn’s eyes had given Artor cause for concern regarding his grandson’s balance.

Balyn bounded through the confusing hive of the citadel to the tiny cell he shared with his sibling. When Balan entered shortly afterwards, he found his brother hurriedly throwing spare tunics into a travel bag, his eyes sparkling with excitement.

‘Where are you going, brother? Why the haste? I thought we were off hunting once we could escape the queen’s bower.’

Balyn continued to ram items into his leather bags. He paused only to hold out one hand in triumph, to show Balan the thumb where the pearl ring shone dully.

‘The King is sending me to Glastonbury on a mission. Me! And he has given me his own thumb ring as proof of my legitimacy. All praise to King Artor. I need not endure the likes of Wenhaver or Modred any longer.’