The Bloody Cup (10 page)

Modred stood very still and his face whitened under his blue-black hair. With visible self-control, the young man unclenched his fists and allowed the insults to pass over him.

‘If I have given cause for offence, my liege, then I beg your pardon and the forgiveness of the noble Percivale and Gareth. It was not my intent to disrupt the order of this house. I was eager to meet and offer obeisance to the great Artor, as a friend and defender of my grandfather, and to swear allegiance to your house forever. I believe we are distant kin.’

The fair words stung Artor with their delicate taint of derision.

King Luka had been close to the High King’s heart, so Artor had exacted bloody vengeance on those cowards who had murdered the Brigante king, Percivale thought nervously. Now Luka’s grandson claims the High King’s favour because of his blood ties and an old friendship. But kin or not, no one is permitted to insult the High King.

‘Your apology is accepted, Modred. As the grandson of my old friend, Luka, you hold a special position in the hearts of my courtiers, for your grandfather was an admirable man who was my mentor when I was a young man. I still owe him the greatest of debts.’

Modred smiled at the king’s omission and Odin stirred threateningly at Artor’s shoulder.

‘I believe the debt was cleared when you placed my cousin on the Brigante throne, my lord. Your justice was wise and swift.’ Modred bowed deeply in mocking respect.

‘We’ll speak again later, King of the Brigante and grandson of my friend. I tell you now that I value your oath of fealty, especially after such an inauspicious beginning to our friendship.’ Artor smiled thinly. ‘You’d do well to consider what your grandfather would have done in my position. Luka would’ve separated your head from your body. But my friend was a hasty and a passionate man, while I am neither.’ Artor’s eyes were as devoid of emotion as a shark’s.

Wisely, Modred remained silent and backed away, his head lowered modestly between black wings of hair that hung about his narrow, handsome face.

As the Brigante king left Artor’s hall, Odin made a covert sign against evil, while Wenhaver devoured the young man’s retreating body with her blue, vacuous eyes.

More man-flesh for my lady, Artor’s inner voice hissed. And this one is a dangerous, careful snake who’ll inveigle her into carrying out his desires rather than the other way around. Perhaps sending Wenhaver to Tintagel may not be such a bad idea.

Artor continued meting out justice to petitioners, but one ear was keenly attuned to catch the ripples of laughter and conversation that rose around Modred’s head like a murder of crows.

The High King was at table when, days later, Bedwyr and Lady Elayne craved an audience. Bedwyr would have retreated immediately and waited until his king had finished his meal, but Artor stood on no ceremony with his Arden Knife, the man who had delivered the Saxons to him at Caer Fyrddin.

Wenhaver pouted at the interruption, for Modred was an amusing companion, entertaining her with his wicked observations concerning Artor’s personal guard, who all bore a striking resemblance to their king.

‘Artor’s personal guards are his bastard sons,’ Wenhaver tittered. ‘Can’t you tell?’

How clever, thought Modred. Unacknowledged sons, especially those elevated to high positions in court, had powerful incentives to remain loyal. And a father’s love and affection guard against assassination. Modred’s thoughts swirled, as they alternated between admiration and bitter jealousy.

‘I mean, my dear, just look at them,’ Wenhaver whispered. ‘They’re pale imitations of their father, and they make me a laughing stock in the process.’

Amazing, Modred thought incredulously. The woman is not only barren, she’s also stupid. Why does he bother to keep her?

When Lord Bedwyr and his wife ventured apologetically into the dining hall where space had been made to accommodate them, they became objects of curiosity for all eyes.

Bedwyr was grizzled, like a good mastiff just beginning to grey around the muzzle. The Master of Arden carried his battle scars and slave marks with distinction, and his brown eyes, so like the trees of his forest, were filled with genuine love and respect. He knelt in homage to Artor and would have kissed his master’s feet had the High King not deftly diverted him.

‘I’m told that my Arden Knife has chosen to wed,’ Artor joked. ‘It’s about time, my old friend. You’ve enjoyed the benefits of youth almost into old age.’

‘The years have passed gently over you, my king. I can believe that you will thrive until the end of time, just like ancient Myrddion.’

Artor’s eyes reflected a dim shadow of remembered pain and Bedwyr reproached himself for causing his king any twinges of memory. In atonement, he lurched into speech with a plain man’s pride and awkwardness.

‘This lady is my wife, Elayne of Arden. She is the fairest flower of the Cornovii.’

Wenhaver snorted scornfully and Artor responded by kicking her shin below the table.

Elayne had waited patiently, with her eyes downcast and with her cloak’s cowl covering her face. She was dressed in russet, the exact shade of autumn leaves, and even beneath the heavy robes, Artor could discern that her body was lissome and strong. Her sun-bronzed hands lifted back the hood on her cloak and she faced the High King for the first time.

Artor gazed at Elayne, the wife of an honoured friend, and his ageing heart fluttered in his chest.

Elayne was neither fair nor beautiful in the accepted fashion of Celtic or Roman Britain. Both Wenhaver and the legendary Nimue outshone her in form and feature, while the long-dead Gallia had possessed a face that held greater piquancy and prettiness. Elayne’s skin was amber from the sun and her fingers were scarred from apple and berry picking. Her hair was very thick and sword-blade straight, but its russet-brown length glowed with health and sun - light. Artor imagined that he could smell the scent of sunny days in her travel-tumbled plaits. Where stray tendrils had escaped, they crackled with life in the charged air and fanned her uplifted face like a halo of flame.

Elayne’s nose was narrow, but a little too long for orthodox beauty, while her nostrils flared slightly as if she could scent the moral malaise that festered around the feasting table. Her eyes were warm and amber, with flecks of green surrounding deep, black pupils. Such eyes never flinched, not even when the king stared deeply into them with his flat, grey stare.

‘What need I fear?’ her eyes seemed to say. ‘I am Arden and the trees are forever.’

Elayne’s brows were winged and mobile, rather than the thin crescents that Wenhaver had made the fashion at Cadbury. They were a pleasing foil for a mouth that was wide and full-lipped, topping a firm, determined chin.

And, for all her slender strength, she was as small as Gallia had been, and as unafraid in the presence of great men and women. She bowed low with the impudent grace of his long-dead Gallia, and Artor’s heart was irrevocably lost.

‘Lady Elayne is indeed the fairest flower to come from Arden,’ Artor stated clearly so that the assembled guests could not help but hear. ‘My congratulations on your choice, Bedwyr, and I welcome you both to Cadbury Tor. I’m fully aware of the many years of service you have given since you left your beloved forest to serve the people of the west, so I’m forever in your debt.’

Bedwyr flushed with pleasure at the High King’s acknowledge - ment and guided his wife to a bench seat that Artor indicated with a negligent hand. Wenhaver was the only person present who noticed a slight trembling of Artor’s fingers and his unwillingness to meet Elayne’s eyes.

‘What? Is the indestructible Artor afraid of a woman?’ she exclaimed so softly that even her husband missed her words. ‘I don’t believe it!’ She smiled slyly at Modred to see if he had noticed Artor’s indiscretion. The bastard is lusting after another man’s wife, she thought acidly. And the woman of a friend at that. Perhaps blood does flow through Artor’s veins after all.

Modred tapped her hand with one long, white finger, as if to warn Wenhaver that her expression was making her thoughts transparent to any person who cared to notice.

Wenhaver lowered her eyes and wiped away the self-satisfaction on her face.

Artor was assiduous in his role of host to both Bedwyr and Elayne, taking care not to give particular preference to his friend’s wife. Balan, who was seated beside Elayne, quickly engaged her in conversation and Artor watched her glow with pleasure as she described her husband’s land holdings, the fecund fields and the villagers who had already taken her into their hearts. The High King imagined that her flesh would smell of newly baked bread, clean hay and the milky sweetness of young animals. His groin tightened with desire.

‘The people are very kind but they’re so poor,’ Elayne told Balan with the simplicity of truth. ‘I intend to do whatever I can to make their lives more comfortable. As chatelaine, it’s my duty, and my pleasure, to give what I have to my husband’s people.’

‘Your devotion does you honour, my lady,’ Balan replied earnestly. ‘My mother, Anna of the Ordovice, always says that her day is only ended when the last of the children are fed.’ He was mesmerized by the warmth of Elayne’s eyes and, like the High King, he struggled to find the words that would cause her to gaze on him with pleasure.

Damned cub, Artor thought with mounting irritation as Elayne shyly smiled at the young warrior. Her unconscious charm had ground Wenhaver’s florid beauty into dust.

My wife converses easily with these great ones, Bedwyr thought with pride. She’s bringing me lasting credit in the king’s court.

What an artful creature this Elayne person is, Wenhaver seethed. She’s pushing herself forward, and is thriving on the attention of these stupid men.

Well versed in the foolishness of males, she recognized the admiration in Balan’s eyes.

‘I have just noticed your poor hands, Lady Elayne,’ the queen spoke confidingly. ‘You must allow me to send you some fine oils to soften and whiten them. I find that lamb’s wool gloves at night are also helpful. The ladies at our court are noted for the fineness of their fingers and we must do our best to make your hands pretty.’

‘Oh dear.’ Elayne seemed genuinely upset. ‘I never think of my hands when I’m working. You’re very kind to offer me your help, Your Majesty.’

Artor gritted his teeth while Balan stared at Wenhaver with critical, clear eyes. Like a raw-boned hound, Bedwyr bristled at the queen’s condescension.

‘Since my Elayne was a young girl, she has always done the work of two full-grown women and our people call her Little Mother, for she won’t order servants to do any simple tasks that she can com - plete for herself. Nor does any sick man, woman or child go untended, even if my dear Elayne must ride out at dawn and return to her home at dusk.’

Elayne smiled at her husband in modest embarrassment and gratitude at his defence of her worth. His obvious love for her warmed her heart.

‘For the gods’ sake, Wenhaver, let the girl eat,’ Artor interrupted. ‘Her hands do her credit and I have no doubt of Bedwyr’s claim that her people worship her. In fact, she reminds me of my foster-mother, Livinia Major, who ruled the Villa Poppinidii with tender care. I wish all women were so virtuous.’

The king’s retort was a crushing public rebuff for Wenhaver, for it was aimed squarely at her shortcomings. Wenhaver immediately retreated into a silent, fuming impotence. Artor’s reprimand sealed Elayne’s fate forever as an enemy of the queen.

A week before the first fires of Samhein, Gawayne and Galahad reached Cadbury. It was a time when a dizzy round of feasts, hunts and celebrations were beginning. Gawayne had always possessed a talent for fun and the close, heated air of Cadbury seemed cleaner for his boyish enthusiasm. The old year was dying and all the citizens of Cadbury set their eyes and hopes towards the new year, to mend the tiny tears that were appearing in the fabric of the land.

Gawayne threw himself enthusiastically into hunting. Like all aggressively healthy male animals, he adored the chase and Artor loaned him his mastiffs and great hounds so he could run down stags, wolves and the odd, unwary fox, even though the snow was deep and the hunted beasts wore their white winter camouflage. The prince rarely failed to return without a brace of coney, a handful of wood pigeons or, on occasion, a wild boar. Artor’s court, including the High King himself, enjoyed the long nights of feasting.

On the eve of Samhein, heavy snow drove Gawayne, Balan, Balyn and Galahad back to Cadbury before noon. No hint of sun could be found in the lowering grey skies and the trees in the woods were coal-black against the whiteness of the snowdrifts.

‘The silence out in the forests was eerie,’ Balan informed the ladies as he warmed his numbed hands at the brazier. ‘I know that midwinter is the stillest time, but even the trees weren’t groaning under the weight of snow, as they usually do when the snowfall is heavy.’

‘Aye,’ Balyn interrupted. ‘And the light in the forest was so fey that we swore we could see things that weren’t there. I still shiver in awe when I think of them.’

‘What manner of things, brave Balyn?’ Modred drawled as he toasted his long legs before the huge central fire pit.