The Bloody Cup (59 page)

‘You’re generous, Bedwyr,’ Artor acknowledged. ‘I’m grateful for any forgiveness that you can grant me.’

‘I can never believe in you as I once did. But I’ll always love Elayne, and I can understand why you would care for her. Let peace be between us, now that Modred launches himself at our throats.’

Artor stripped the pearl ring from his thumb. ‘This ring should be given to young Arthur after my death. But if you love Elayne and the child, it might be best if you didn’t tell the boy the full truth of his parentage. He’s too young to sit on my throne. But the final decision must be yours.’

Artor pressed the ring into Bedwyr’s unwilling hands. His vassal nodded, but still refused to speak.

‘If I should die, give the dragon knife to Elayne for your son, for I hope he will always believe that he is your child. The dragon knife is most truly mine, for the blacksmith, Brego, wrought it for me when I rescued his son a lifetime ago. It was gilded at Glastonbury, and Caliburn was made in its likeness, but the knife represents Artor and all that he was. You may explain the gift in any way that you choose. Caliburn must go to Lady Nimue, who will decide what must be done with it. Like Uther, I trust no man with Caliburn. To obey the demands I place on you, I insist that you live through the coming conflict at all cost. You must heed my wishes, Bedwyr, for my sword mustn’t fall into Brigante hands. I entrust you with the physical symbols of my kingship, for only you, my Arden Knife, will comply with my orders and obey them without question.’

Bedwyr nodded his assent once more and, with obvious deliberation, bowed his head in grudging respect.

In Caer Gai, Nimue hastily packed a leather satchel and tied it across the broad back of her roan mare. For hours, her sons had tried to dissuade her from this imprudent and dangerous journey.

‘The king needs me. Your father would not forgive me if I did not go to Artor. Nor would I forgive myself.’

‘What can you do, Mother, in all common sense?’ Rhys pleaded, while his brother nodded in agreement. ‘Or are you planning to wield a sword in the coming battle?’

‘I’ll consider that your sarcasm is motivated by fear for my safety and not impudence,’ Nimue replied stiffly. ‘I’ve made my decision, so kiss me and I’ll be off on my journey.’

‘At least let one of us accompany you,’ Rhys persisted.

‘No. I’m safe in these mountains.’

Defeated and baffled, the boys stepped out of the path of their mother’s horse and Nimue rode away in a spray of flint shards. She didn’t look back.

In Viroconium, King Bran was using the same fruitless arguments with his mother.

‘But Artor only left Letocetum a week ago,’ Bran stated. ‘What’s so urgent you didn’t tell him then? Are you moon-mad, Mother? The king will not welcome you trailing after him towards a battlefield.’

Anna ignored her son and, once she had made her preparations, ordered two trusted warriors to accompany her on her journey. As she left the shelter of the city, she sighted Nimue following the river bank that led down from the mountains, so she waited for the stranger to reach the city. Once Nimue had joined the Dowager queen of the Ordovice, the two formidable women met and sized each other up through narrowed eyes. Nimue broke the impasse first with laughter. She embraced Anna and dismounted from her weary horse, reminding the Ordovice queen of the rules of hospitality. Anna led Nimue back into the city, as the two women spoke of the compulsion that had prompted them to leave their homes.

Bran arranged for a fresh horse to be provided for the widow of Myrddion Merlinus. If the young king believed for a moment that Nimue’s arrival might convince his mother to change her mind, he was quickly disabused of the notion.

Bran seemed immune to Nimue’s charmed aura; he treated her with all the deference owed to an elderly lady but was in no way in awe of her.

‘Your son does you credit,’ Nimue told Anna. ‘He’s a man unlikely to be seduced by his senses. He will become a great king.’

Anna flushed. She had never previously met the famed Nimue but, already, she could believe that all the stories she’d heard were true. She sensed that Nimue’s eyes saw through flesh and bone, deep into the soul.

‘It’s kind of you to say so, my lady.’

‘Myrddion spoke of you often. He also spoke of Gallia, your mother.’

Widow eyed widow with mutual respect and understanding.

‘Men!’ Anna dismissed the opposite sex with causal, affectionate contempt. ‘Artor spent most of his life protecting me from what I already knew. But I suppose he couldn’t have known that Livinia Minor let his secret slip decades ago.’

It didn’t occur to Anna to question how Nimue could know she was aware of the truth of her birth. Most strangers were fearful of Nimue’s sudden insights, but Anna felt no such uneasiness in her presence, and Nimue, for her part, was glad of it.

No more was said on the subject.

‘We must depart, my lady.’ Nimue eyed the noon sun that hung almost directly above them. ‘We must be in Mamucium to meet Queen Enid within the week, for Artor’s destiny awaits him.’

‘Then we’ll leave immediately, although you must be weary. I’ve sufficient provisions for us all, in spite of my son’s efforts to divert me from my duty.’

‘I can sleep when my journey is done,’ Nimue said flatly. ‘If Queen Enid can turn her back on the rebellions in the north, then I can survive for a few days without sleep.’

Anna nodded and the two women began the long ride to the north.

Sooner or later all roads meet at one point in each man’s life, Taliesin reflected, as he stood on a small rise that overlooked Artor’s army. And when they do, the sum total of his existence becomes plain to him. This is Artor’s time. He’s finally arrived at a nameless river outside a filthy, half-Roman town, a place where he’ll meet his final test of strength.

The countryside was soft and sweet-smelling. Winds came fresh from the unseen sea in the west, and the low, undulating fields were green and golden with long grass, field flowers and gorse. On the nearby hills, heather flowered in pale drifts of pink and lavender and the wide river glinted in the perfect summer weather. The army could have been about a pleasant visit to an amicable ally, so lightly did the impending war touch the warriors as they made their bivouac.

Taliesin gazed at the far bank of the river and thought of Galahad’s obsessed pursuit of Gronw and the Bloody Cup. Both men were gone now, and part of the harpist’s reason hoped that the west would not see their like again. But Percivale’s wrapped corpse had also passed this way, and the wound of his absence was slow to heal.

With his usual skill, Artor had arranged his army on the river flatlands in the form of a deep crescent. Foot soldiers were spread thinly on the horns of his formation, covering a strong centre with ranks that were at least ten men deep. Artor’s strategy for this battle was to use the ancient Roman tactics of concentrated force, coupled with the defensive lessons learned at Mori Saxonicus. He expected the men at the centre to hold their position in the line or die. The infantry ate, practised and took their rest in their fighting ranks along the line. Artor’s troops could rise from their cooking fires and assume their defensive formations within minutes if necessary. Behind the horns of the crescent, the cavalry had set their picket lines.

There was a festive mood throughout the ranks. Perhaps the deep grass, the sweet air and the clear blue skies lightened every heart. Perhaps Artor’s troops were glad to be about the business they knew so well, the terrible and exacting business of killing.

Taliesin started in surprise when he realized that Odin had materialized at his side. For such a large man, the Jutlander was as quiet as a cat, even in old age.

‘You caught me out, Odin. How do you do it?’

Odin shrugged. His broad, craggy face showed no emotion at all.

‘I thought I was alone,’ Taliesin murmured. ‘A time to think, perhaps, before the battle begins.’

Odin shrugged again.

‘Aren’t you afraid?’ Taliesin asked. ‘You’re an old man, Odin, even older than Artor. How can you face another battle?’

The huge Jutlander rested an arm on his double-edged war axe.

‘I started fighting as a boy, song-master. It’s what I do. I’m a weapon. I’m a knife that is fitted to my master’s hand. The knife knows what it is, but it doesn’t choose its purpose. The master sets the knife to work.’

‘You give a grotesque explanation of your purpose in life,’ Taliesin muttered. ‘One that implies that you have no free will.’

‘Why do you insult me?’ Odin thrust his head forward aggressively. ‘What has free will to do with warfare? I’ve always been Artor’s man, and I thank the gods in Asgaad that my master is the greatest warrior in all these lands, even in his old age. How many warriors have been fortunate enough to live as gloriously as Odin? How many warriors earn such a good death as the one that will soon come to Odin, fighting with the greatest warrior of the age?’ He looked down at the young poet.

‘Targo and me, we were made from iron, and Artor fashioned us into his knives, even when we thought we were making him. Targo swore that he had been born to train the young king. Every wound he suffered in his youth and every hardship he endured was designed by his Mithras to help him shape the future king. In thanks for his honest labours, Artor lifted Targo up. Old Targo saw the whole world, and not just his little slice of it. I am the same. I have no wish to live if Artor is dead, for my world would be narrow, and I would have no purpose.’

‘I apologize for my stupidity, Odin,’ Taliesin admitted with humility. ‘Will you accept my hand in friendship?’

Odin extended his sword arm, letting his axe fall unheeded. He gripped the wrist of Taliesin’s sword arm and the two men stood for a moment, entwined as one.

At noon, Modred’s army arrived and began to set up camp on the far side of the shallow river. The disciplined ranks of older Brigante warriors, who had served in Artor’s wars, were in stark contrast to the younger members of Modred’s force, a whooping, shouting, ragtag drizzle of men. A solitary horseman in black attempted to impose some discipline on the camp.

Artor and his captains watched the enemy from a small knoll.

‘This is an army with three heads,’ Artor commented. ‘One head is Pictish, one is Deceangli and the biggest is Brigante. The heads barely understand each other, which is an advantage for us.’

‘That may be so, my lord,’ Bedwyr responded, ‘but Modred has collected an enormous horde of men to fight this battle for him. A whole contingent of Picts has just joined them on the left flank, and there are disciplined warriors among them.’

The arrival of the Picts sent a frisson of fear through the Celtic ranks. Although those bitter warriors had been driven out of the west many years earlier, the Celts had a healthy respect for the blue tattooed maniacs who rarely surrendered in battle, and who hated the Celtic invaders with a passion that was undimmed by the passage of many hundreds of years.

‘If Modred’s forces don’t cross the river,’ Artor said slowly. ‘I wouldn’t consider taking the battle to them.’

‘Of course they’ll come,’ Pelles Minor snapped. ‘Look at them.’

Several pairs of eyes turned accusingly and frowned at this discourtesy.

The short, dark archer was dressed in a gaudy tunic of yellow wool with a cloak of a particularly virulent green. Artor surveyed his vassal’s dress sense and wondered if Pelles was colour-blind.

‘I spoke roughly, my lord,’ Pelles apologized. ‘Hades, I’m a rough man! But how do you suppose such a rabble will hold together for an orderly approach?’

‘I don’t believe that Modred intends to cross the river at all. He wants to force us to go to him, where he holds a strong defensive position.’

Bedwyr’s jaw worked. ‘Surely not! Not even Modred would be so foolish as to believe we’d willingly put our heads in a noose. We’d starve him out.’

‘I’m not so sure, Bedwyr. If they simply sit where they are, and we sit here on our thumbs, we have an impasse. We’ll run out of rations, but he’ll receive supplies from the Brigante people who are at his back. What then? How long would we be prepared to camp on this river bank? Weeks? Months? Passivity has always been Modred’s way, and he’ll use it until we starve or choke on our own shit.’ Artor dragged his hands through his hair.

‘We must offer him an attractive target. We’ll feint a cavalry charge across the river and present him with an irresistible prize. I’ll let Modred think that I’m as stupid as Glamdring Ironfist was, that I’ll advance from a safe defensive position in response to taunts from my enemy. It worked for us at Mori Saxonicus. Perhaps, in reverse, it will work again.’

Across the river, Modred’s army settled down for the night around cooking fires, to eat, drink and hone their weapons. The dusk came to life with the firefly glow of hundreds of small cooking fires while the sounds of laughter and talk wafted across the river on the night air. By comparison with Artor’s quiet, disciplined bivouac, the Brigante and their allies were loud, raucous and over-confident.

In the centre of the camp, barely visible in the fading light, a huge blue tent was raised by a team of grunting, cursing warriors. Its grotesque size marked it as Modred’s resting place.