The Bloody Cup (44 page)

He had bent down and picked her up bodily with one arm.

After kissing her, he had buried his face in her loosened hair and drunk in the scent of fresh grass and flowers that was trapped in her tresses. Leaving her had been so difficult that he had spurred his horse into a fast trot to avoid seeing the tears that filled her eyes.

Remembering the perfume of Elayne’s hair, Bedwyr smiled as he fell asleep in the straw.

Having spent his youth as a Saxon slave where he was forced to obey the orders of brutes, inexorably bound to the will of others, Bedwyr was essentially a man of action. Consequently, by first light, he had reheated the remains of the stew and had packed his tackle for departure.

‘I’ll return in fourteen days, if the gods so will it,’ he told his companions. ‘I suggest you stay put and forage for food to eke out our store of barley but, if you do decide to venture forth, it would be wise to wear unobtrusive clothing.’

‘We understand, Bedwyr,’ Percivale agreed, eyeing Galahad carefully as the young prince filled a wooden bowl with leftover stew.

‘And don’t wear your swords. They betray you as warriors and they’ll silence any good sources of information you may meet. It’s probably best to carry knives like all the commoners.’

‘Aye, those are sensible suggestions,’ Galahad replied, without looking up from his meal. ‘But what if you don’t return?’

‘You can come after me if I haven’t returned within fourteen days, although I’ll probably be dead by the time you arrive.’ Bedwyr grinned and called his dog to heel. His eagerness to leave the hut made his step light, and he leapt into the saddle like a boy.

With a casual salute, Bedwyr was gone, his dog ranging ahead with the same joy as its master. The hut seemed smaller and more dilapidated for his absence.

‘I’m glad to see the last of Bedwyr’s mongrel’, Galahad grumbled. ‘That thing eats more than a full-grown man.’

‘I like fighting hounds,’ Percivale replied evenly. ‘Besides, the bitch catches as much as she eats. That rabbit stew was her contribution to our rations.’

‘Then I’d better start learning how to trap coneys myself,’ Galahad said. ‘My father neglected this important aspect of my education, so I’ll probably need some suggestions.’

Percivale laughed, dug deeply into his memory of a feckless boyhood and commenced Galahad’s practical education in woodcraft.

Winter was coming and even in the more pleasant, gentler climes of Cadbury, the skies were slate grey and cheerless.

Within the king’s hall, winter had already arrived, night came early and gloom deflated the spirits of all those souls who dwelt within its walls. Artor was rarely abroad except to hone his battle skills against the younger men of his guard, while Wenhaver’s bower was deserted. Chilly winds trapped the ladies within the warmer rooms of the great house.

One small diversion lifted the spirits of Artor’s warriors when Trystan, the spymaster of Kernyu, arrived to assume Gruffydd’s place in Artor’s favour. Gruffydd’s grandson was black-haired and slender, second in male beauty only to Galahad, and even his air of effeminacy was no hindrance to the sudden flushes that appeared on the cheeks of Wenhaver’s ladies. His skin was the colour of pale honey and was an effective foil for his unusual pale-blue eyes. Some barbarian blood must lurk in his ancestry to create such striking colouring, but any woman who gazed into those sapphire eyes was lost.

Like Taliesin, Trystan was a harpist and his long, slender fingers seemed incapable of lifting a weapon. However, during a short bout of weapons practice, Gareth and several of the more gifted swordsmen among Artor’s guard came to realize that Trystan’s slim form disguised blinding speed and whipcord muscles that lay under his soft, white skin. The newcomer was only of middle height, but his lightning reflexes more than compensated for the longer reach of taller men.

‘My hands will never be the same again,’ Trystan complained after a long day of hunting. His companions ignored him as he pulled off knitted, fingerless gloves and examined his perfectly clean nails. He had killed a boar, afoot and armed only with a long spear, and the other hunters looked at Trystan with amusement at his affectations.

True to form, Wenhaver found Trystan to be an amusing companion. She saw nothing unmanly in his obsessive care of his glossy hair or his passion for finely woven, colourful clothes. While most of the warriors wanted to kick his backside when he complained of non-existent chilblains, Wenhaver took Trystan’s maladies seriously and sent her maids scurrying to fetch warmed bricks for his feet and salves for his fingers.

Trystan was an amiable young man with a talent for subterfuge, whom Artor, inexplicably, did not trust, no matter how he tried. Perhaps the king distrusted any man who was so attractive to women that he could pick and choose whose bed he shared. In matters of love, Trystan’s effeminacy was soon exposed as another pretty affectation designed to please the ladies. His seductions were effortless and light-hearted.

‘Ah, Wenhaver, Queen of Queens, we are so very alike,’ Trystan murmured in the queen’s ear as he plied her with wine one afternoon. ‘We see the world through the same reflection.’

‘What reflection, Trystan?’ Wenhaver cooed.

‘Why, ourselves, dear lady! Who else?’

Wenhaver’s smile wavered slightly as she tried to unravel the young man’s reasoning. He lifted her right hand to his mouth and kissed her knuckles, never taking his eyes from hers. The queen blushed a becoming shade of rosy pink.

Elayne watched the private exchange and tightened her lips with disapproval. The queen seems to lack all decorum when she is bathed in the admiration of a handsome man’s regard, she thought as she forced her face to remain expressionless.

‘I tend to love unwisely and follow my heart when I should take more care,’ Trystan confided to Wenhaver’s receptive ears.

She tapped him lightly with her spindle, but her giggles betrayed her fascination.

‘You’re a rogue, Master Trystan. You’ve turned the heads of my ladies, yet you swear that you passionately love another woman who is very far away. What would she think of your behaviour?’

‘Ah, Your Majesty, my lady would weep to learn that I was so perfidious.’ He grinned charmingly. ‘But I can’t help myself when the whole world seems full of pretty flowers to pluck and enjoy.’

Wenhaver pouted. ‘Are women such trifles, then, Trystan, that you taste us and then leave us behind?’

‘Fair ladies are mere pastimes, my queen, as you must understand. In the game of love, one must take one’s pleasures where one can.’

‘I refuse to listen to another word, you wicked boy,’ Wenhaver cooed flirtatiously. ‘I pity the poor woman who gives her heart to you, for you’ll break it before the night is out.’

‘Breaking hearts isn’t the sole prerogative of males, sweet queen’, Trystan riposted outrageously and kissed her fingers in a most lover-like fashion. ‘I’m sure that your charm and beauty could easily break my heart.’

Several ladies winced but most of Wenhaver’s attendants shivered with delicious anticipation and jealousy for the liaison that was developing.

Artor was eager to see the last of Trystan for many reasons, so he conducted his business with the young man as quickly as possible. Fortunately, Trystan had a natural talent for secrecy and he gathered up the strands of Gruffydd’s network of friends, paid informers and patriots with ease.

‘What plans do you have to change Gruffydd’s network, young man?’ Artor asked gruffly. Trystan’s mannerisms set the king’s teeth on edge.

‘The greatest of the threats within our borders are the Brigante nobles, Your Majesty. So I’ve already begun to embed spies into the halls of the most vocal aristocrats.’

Artor nodded his approval. ‘Anything else?’

‘The Picts from Raeburnfoot, deep in the mountains to the north-west of the Wall, are stirring. If they venture into the lowlands of Ituna Aest, we might need to send an Otadini force to chase them back to their hiding places.’

Artor began to feel a stirring of alarm, for enemies seemed to be appearing out of all the plastered-over cracks in his kingdom.

‘And, of course, King Mark is no friend to the west.’

‘I’ve heard that the Deceangli tribe are showing some arrogance, in the mistaken belief that the Saxons will never breach the mountain walls west of Deva,’ Artor responded. ‘If that’s Mark’s belief, he doesn’t understand the Saxons. And that makes him a fool. He doesn’t seem to realize that they can approach by sea if the Union of Tribal Kings fails.’

Trystan snorted. ‘I don’t think Mark really considers much, other than his own consequence. The man is the worst kind of bully. He only makes war on women, children and those who are weaker than himself.’

Despite his prejudices, Artor was impressed with Trystan’s knowledge of political intrigue. Here was a clever, adroit young man who might prove to be a most valuable asset. The High King offered Trystan his sword hand.

‘Thank you, Trystan.’ He smiled. ‘Your knowledge of my enemies will be very valuable to me, and I look forward to developing an expansion of the network during the next few weeks to deal with our internal threats.’

‘My thanks, my lord, for I live to serve.’

‘Not to love then, Trystan?’ Artor riposted with a grin. ‘I must have been misinformed.’

Two weeks after Trystan’s arrival, Artor completed his briefing of the new spymaster and the young man rode away to the north, singing tunefully as he rode. Wenhaver wept tears of self-pity for the loss of her new friend.

‘I always seem to be alone,’ she moaned to Artor. He forbore to remind her of Modred and a brace of high-born women of marriageable age who had been sent by their fathers to serve the queen and snare a husband. Potential friends surrounded her but, with her usual capriciousness, she pined for young men to charm. Besides, Wenhaver had discovered that she really didn’t like King Modred any more.

Modred had fallen from favour during the summer when he had shown his contempt of Artor a little too freely. Like all domestic despots, Wenhaver claimed the privilege of insulting her spouse whenever she chose, but woe betide any person who claimed the same rights. Wenhaver had also looked into her future and had finally accepted that her fate lay with her husband if she wished to remain comfortable and happy. Modred threatened to upset the precarious balance of that comfort by ridiculing her husband, so Modred must be taught to respect the wishes of his betters.

‘After all, he is a bastard, and his mother is that very peculiar woman, Morgause, who’s my husband’s half-sister,’ Wenhaver confided to her companions. ‘I’ve only met her once, at my wedding, and I can assure you that she is a very proud and disagreeable woman. And as for Morgan, her sister, she’s sharpened her teeth into points. And her tattoos! Ugh!’

The ladies in her bower tittered their amusement and Wenhaver smiled her gentle malice.

At this stage in their lives, Artor and Wenhaver were almost friends, as long as they spent very little time in each other’s company. Occasionally, the king even came to Wenhaver’s bed and she had no cause for complaint about her ageing husband’s performance in matters of physical release, for so Artor treated their infrequent sexual couplings. Out of pride, Wenhaver said nothing to her husband regarding his seeming partiality for Elayne. Nor did she discuss real matters of the heart with her intimates. The one time that Modred tried to draw her out on the matter, Wenhaver’s large blue eyes narrowed dangerously.

‘You’re a sweet boy, Modred, but don’t trouble yourself with the private affairs of your superiors. If I’ve no complaint of the High King’s behaviour, what is it to do with you? Lady Elayne is the wife of a vassal lord, not King Artor’s leman, so mind your manners.’

‘I trust I’ve caused no offence,’ Modred murmured with a lowered head. Venomous dislike filled his downcast eyes. Soon, he thought savagely. If Artor should die, I’ll arrange to have your throat sliced open, or you’ll be safely locked away in a nunnery where you can cause no further harm.

During that unusually cold winter, the patterns of long habit remained fixed and predictable for those who lived at Cadbury. Perhaps matters would have continued in this fragile balance had a hunt not broken the stasis of the court.

As November aged into December, the frosts held the earth in their iron grip and the shortening days hung heavily on the inhabitants of the tor. Snow began to threaten. When Modred suggested a hunt to break the boredom, the young men of Cadbury embraced the prospect of excitement after weeks of grey days and inactivity.

Artor reluctantly agreed to the plan, especially when Wenhaver proposed that the ladies should accompany the warriors into the field to observe their prowess. Such an expedition involved the same organization devoted to a minor military campaign, for Wenhaver intended to watch the entertainment from a safe distance in a warm, cosy pavilion. Artor might complain that his warriors had better things to do with their time than build her a log cabin on a small rise above the forest, but Wenhaver was determined - and Artor lacked the will to deny the queen her whims.

The day of the hunt dawned cold, clear and brisk. After frantic preparation, a small cavalcade set out from Cadbury, complete with beaters to find game and drive it into range of the hunters’ bows, while the ladies of the court kept their mistress amused.

‘How pretty it all is,’ Wenhaver exclaimed when she spied the simple hut that had been erected from logs, hides and willow just above the tree line of the forest. ‘A good fire will keep us as warm as toast while the men are killing things and enacting brave deeds to impress us. Our only task is to admire and comment on their proficiency.’

The cold air had heightened Wenhaver’s colour and she seemed almost girlish as she rode on a gentle mare, her skirts gathered decorously around her and her fur-lined cloak framing her flushed cheeks.

Artor grunted a wordless, ambiguous reply but, unenthusiastic though he had been about this excursion, he was beginning to feel his blood stir with anticipation. The muted colours of the many cloaks blended perfectly with the bare trees and a light dusting of snow, and the laughter of the fur-clad ladies created a festive mood.