The Bloody Cup (55 page)

‘Please, sir, I have travelled for many weary miles afoot to deliver a message from the dead to the Lady of the Lake. Do you dare to anger a shade because you stood between his desires and the lady whom he loved? I know the lady will be glad of my arrival.’

So Bedwyr alternated between cajoling and threatening until the headman’s fat, squat wife bade him send the lordling to the mistress; she would know immediately if there was any wrong in the intentions of her visitor.

Aided by sketchy directions, Bedwyr eventually found the lake, still partly frozen and pearl-grey under warming skies. From there, he travelled to a strange hilltop villa that sprawled around and above the trunk and roots of a riven oak.

‘The legends live on, I see,’ Bedwyr grunted to the corpse of Percivale as he stumbled on bleeding feet towards a metal-bound, oak door. Like the beggar he resembled, Bedwyr longed for warmth, fresh bread and, desperately, for sleep.

He used the hilt of the Arden knife to pound upon the heavy door. When it was opened, a vivid, smiling young man stood on the threshold. His eyes opened wide as he saw, and smelt, Percivale’s remains.

‘Rest, friend, for exhaustion covers you like the shroud that your companion wears. Let me take your horse - and his mate, who carries his burden with growing unease. I’ll feed, water and curry their coats until they are content. My mother waits in the great room for you.’

The young man slipped past Bedwyr, leaving him to enter a short, flagged passage that opened into a room full of colour, strange weavings and the scent of sweet wood and dried flowers. A fire blazed in a stone hearth in the centre of the room and several huge, shaggy mastiffs sprawled on the warm stone floor at its base. They lifted their heads as he entered, and Bedwyr saw their noses catch the smell of death that he carried with him. They would have growled to match their raised hackles, but a crisp voice hushed them, and they dropped back into their warm sloth.

‘Enter, friend,’ a woman’s voice greeted him from the corner of the room where a great loom stood. ‘I don’t remember your name, but your face is familiar. You are one of the men who fought with Myrddion and Artor at Mori Saxonicus, aren’t you?’

Although the ceiling of the room was tall and the fire smoke was dissipated by cunning use of hide flaps, the air was dim and glittering with dust motes so that Bedwyr’s tired eyes were almost blind. Then the woman moved towards him and Bedwyr immediately recognized the Nimue he had first glimpsed at a distance, so many years earlier, for what man could forget her silver hair or her pearl complexion? But now her beauty seemed incandescent in the filtered firelight. Her simple robe of unbleached wool moved around her with a memory of life. Her hair shone on her shoulders and back as she slid into the light.

Bedwyr fell to his knees in exhaustion and superstitious dread. He lowered his head in supplication.

‘My lady, I bear a message to you from the dead, and I beg your forgiveness for the sorrow that I bring. I ask that you bless my friend and give him peace and a final resting place.’

Her breath caught in her throat. ‘Taliesin! My son, Taliesin. He’s not your dead companion, is he? Do not fear to speak the truth, for I’ll not harm the bringer of bad news. But tell me quickly, for I can scarcely think for fear.’

‘No, madam. I’d not bring your son to you unheralded. I swear to you that Taliesin was hale and happy when I left Cadbury.’

Relief showed clearly on her face.

‘Come, my lord, rise. I’m not a woman of worth or power, and my sons would be amused to see a man on his knees at my feet.’

An unobtrusive servant woman knocked at the doorway. Nimue instructed her to bring food and wine. Then Nimue led the exhausted Bedwyr to a heavy bench. Only then did she notice the blood that caked his rag-covered feet.

‘Your poor feet!’ She exclaimed. ‘They are in sore need of attention.’

She knelt to unwrap the crude bandages and examine each foot, toe by toe. Bedwyr protested that one of her servants could dress his cuts and blisters, but Nimue ignored his suggestions. She clucked over deep, half-scabbed gashes and sniffed at the wounds to assess whether infection was present. Then she left him to fetch what she needed.

The warmth of the fire slowly seeped through to his bones. As he leaned back against the stone wall, his eyelids drooped. His tired mind reminded him dimly that his tasks were not yet completed, but the luxury and comfort of his surroundings lulled him as if he was a babe. His head nodded on to his breast and he slept.

He awoke when Nimue returned and forced him to endure having his feet washed in bowls of warm water. The filth and corruption that soon stained the water embarrassed Bedwyr. He protested and would have pulled away from her touch, but her clear blue eyes stilled him.

Nimue found an unguent on her shelves that smelled of sheep’s fat and smeared it over his wounds. It soon began to dull the throbbing ache of his sores. Then she bound his feet firmly with clean rags.

‘These poor, abused feet have carried you many miles to my door. What is your name, master, for I find I cannot remember.’

‘I am Bedwyr, whom Artor called the Arden Knife,’ he replied slowly. ‘I have walked and ridden from Deva and, before that, from Bremetennacum.’

‘You have come far then,’ Nimue replied. She waited with perfect stillness

‘Forgive me—’

‘My son says your second horse bears a corpse,’ she interrupted, her forehead furrowed.

He sighed. ‘The body is all that remains of my friend, Percivale, warrior and favourite of the High King and all who knew him.’

‘Percivale? My Perce is dead?’

‘Aye, my lady. He fell beside me at Bremetennacum in the service of the High King.’

Nimue’s eyes filled with tears. Mutely, she folded her hands in her lap and allowed her sorrow to flow without check or shame.

The silence in the room was profound; Bedwyr could hear the evening wind outside the walls.

After a time, Nimue spoke.

‘Long ago, when I was a babe in the kitchens of Venonae, he was my brother in all but blood,’ Nimue explained. ‘He saved me from scalds and burns more than once. He dried my tears and told me wondrous stories of pigs and sheep on the farms. And at Cadbury Tor, he served the ancient Targo with all the purity of his love, risking his life with me when plague struck the citadel. Why would Fortuna desire the life of sweet Percivale?’

Bedwyr had no sensible reason to offer her. ‘Percivale asked me to tell you that he always loved you. Perhaps his declaration seems simple, but Percivale was a true warrior whose heart was ever innocent and pure.’

‘Yes, he was always so. But has he no wife or children who long for his presence? Why have you brought him to me?’

Bedwyr fiddled with his ragged tunic. Lady Nimue did not know she had been Percivale’s only love. Should he burden her further, for truth isn’t always kind.

‘You must tell me, Bedwyr,’ she pleaded, as if she could read his mind, and the warrior knew there was nothing he could deny this woman.

‘Percivale never wed, for his heart had long been lost to you, my lady. But you mustn’t frown or weep over his choice, for my friend understood that Lord Myrddion was the only man you ever desired. One’s heart feels what it chooses, whether we desire it or not.’

The lady wept softly. Her son entered the room and came swiftly to comfort her with strong arms and a full heart, while Bedwyr sat by the fire, cloaked in his own misery.

Suddenly, in the way of this magical place and the family who seemed to have no need for words, soup appeared before him on a small table and wine came in an earthenware cup. A servant pressed him to eat and drink and, by his side, Lady Nimue sat quietly until he was finished.

‘My son, Glynn, will take you to a warm pallet where you may sleep.’ The storms of her sorrow had been washed out of her extraordinary eyes. ‘You have carried your burdens like a true warrior and I fear you will bear many more before you reach the final darkness. When you have rested, I wish to hear more of my Perce and how he died. And then we will consign Percivale’s body to the fire.’

The sun revealed the dust motes that danced through the shafts of light stealing through the shutters. Bedwyr watched the light, his eyes still cloudy with sleep.

Instantly, Glynn was beside his bed.

This whole family seems able to materialize at will, Bedwyr thought remotely, his mental processes slow and heavy. She drugged my wine, I suppose, for I have slept far too long.

He found that his feet were so swollen that they could barely support his weight, but a short staff stood beside his pallet and Nimue’s son helped him to his feet and supported him, until he could bear the pain of hobbling.

‘Mother has laid Percivale out in our drying room. She has washed his body and has dressed him in fine clothes. Would you like to see him one last time before the burning?’

Bedwyr looked up into the eyes of the tall young man. ‘Yes. I would like to see Percivale once more. Your mother must be made of stern stuff, for he was two weeks dead at least when I arrived at your home. I’ve lost all track of time, but corruption must have ruined his face and body, even though he was near frozen.’

The boy smiled. ‘You will come to know that Mother is a remarkable woman. The hill people will also attend the burning of Lord Percivale out of their love for her. Those lucky persons who are loved by the Lady of the Lake are considered near to sacred in these mountains.’

As they talked, Bedwyr found himself being led out of the strange, sprawling building and into a low, stone outhouse where herbs, smoked meat and dried fish hung from the ceiling in a miracle of good housekeeping.

A low bier had been hastily constructed from timber and placed in the centre of the room. On it, like the marble effigy of a warrior, Percivale lay in state.

Nimue rose from Percivale’s side as Bedwyr entered the room.

In death, Percivale appeared grimly pale. His lips were livid, but were parted slightly as if he was about to speak, while his closed eyes, sunken and purpled as they were, still retained their long lashes. Percivale’s hair had been washed thoroughly and lay, unplaited, around his shoulders. He had been dressed in a white woollen robe that was a little too long for him, and Bedwyr guessed that from beyond the grave, Myrddion Merlinus had provided this last gift to a brave old friend.

Unassisted, Bedwyr hobbled forward and caressed the sweet-smelling, silken hair.

‘It feels alive,’ he whispered, forcing back his tears.

Nimue touched Bedwyr’s outstretched hand respectfully.

‘I choose to believe that nothing that has lived is ever truly dead. We change, as Myrddion would have said. Our bodies transmute into ashes or earth, and then enrich other living things. Perhaps the flowers themselves are really the faces of the long dead and the tall grasses are their hair.’

Bedwyr swallowed. ‘Such a pretty concept, my lady, and one that gives comfort to those of us who remain. But this shell is not Percivale - not to me, anyhow. His essence fled on a long journey and he now dwells in a place that is beyond our comprehension. I hope he’s found his heaven.’

Nimue smiled and the little room seemed warmer.

‘If anyone could be assured of immortality, it would be Percivale.’ She looked with love at the body of the departed man. ‘Dearest Perce, you were truly my brother.’

Then she did what Bedwyr could never have done, for she kissed the open mouth of the corpse with lingering sweetness. She stroked Percivale’s hand one last time and then led Bedwyr out into the clear morning sunshine.

‘My sons are gathering the wood for Percivale’s pyre and, at sunset, we’ll set the mountains aflame as we speed his soul towards his heaven. But, while we wait, you must tell me how my Perce died.’

Bedwyr explained the history of the Cup, what was known of its enigmatic journey to Britain and the bloody carnage that had followed its theft from the tomb of Bishop Lucius. He described how Percivale had perished and the role that the Cup had played in his wasted death. When he had nothing further to say, Nimue gazed at him, her head on one side like a neat grey bird, and considered what she had heard.

‘Whenever a symbol is turned into something more important than reality, it becomes dangerous. Percivale’s momentary obsession killed him, and the same flaw mortally wounded Galahad. If he has died as he sailed across the sea, then let us pray that the Cup lies in deep water where men cannot search it out.’

‘Whenever I held the relic, I always saw an old, battered cup, and nothing else,’ Bedwyr said reflectively. ‘It meant nothing to me.’

‘You are fortunate that you don’t desire what the Cup promised to the others. You are a plain man, Bedwyr, and, at bottom, you believe in little beyond your forests and the people you love.’

‘How faithless I sound,’ Bedwyr replied ruefully.

‘Not faithless, Bedwyr. Your beliefs lie in the slow patterns of the seasons, in the beauty of the forests, in the wonder of the stars and in your loyalty to Artor, don’t they?’

‘Aye, they do. Forests and stars rarely betray us and if some god or gods reside in the spirits of the earth, then I am content to believe in them. I’ve not been Christian since Caer Fyrddin. I’m not even a pagan any more, so I suppose that makes me nothing.’

Nimue pressed his hand and captured his eyes with hers in a long gaze. Bedwyr felt her urgency.

‘You are very far from nothing, Bedwyr. You’ll be remembered down the centuries for your truthfulness and sincerity. In days to come, when your faith is tested, you must remember the pursuit of honour and the obsessions displayed by Galahad and Percivale. You’ll remember then how frail we are - and you must be kind.’

Bedwyr wondered what lay behind her words and the urgency that threaded them together.

‘My Percivale is the reason that we have met again,’ Nimue said, her tone lighter, ‘so I’m grateful to find some small grace on such a sad day.’

Bedwyr nodded in heartfelt agreement.

And so the warrior and the widow sat companionably in the sunshine, eating and drinking as they wished, while Nimue’s sons and several villagers raised Percivale’s pyre on the highest point of ground overlooking the valley.