Authors: M. K. Hume
‘The boys are speaking of a giant stag that we spotted when we were in the snowdrifts,’ Gawayne began. ‘A truly gigantic beast with a rack of horns that the animal could barely lift. What a noble deed it would be to sink an arrow into such a regal creature. I would have given my knife hand to hunt and kill that stag.’
‘You’re over-tired to make such a wish, Father, but I agree with you that this animal was amazingly large and elusive,’ Galahad said. ‘But what surprised me most was the reaction of the hounds. They were terrified and wouldn’t pursue the beast. We rode after the stag and followed it into the thickets, but it kept out of bowshot with ease, almost as if it was protected by some magical charm.’
‘A stag, even a huge old male, is hardly an object of fear,’ Artor remarked with a slight smile. While he listened, he continued putting an edge on his dragon knife where it had become a little blunted on the previous day’s hunt.
‘It was a trick of the light, a shaft of sunshine, or something that fooled us into seeing these peculiar . . . well . . . fantasies,’ Gawayne continued. ‘I even thought I could see a crown caught in the horns of the stag. Then the animal foundered in a deep drift of snow and we thought we had managed to trap the creature at last.’
‘But somehow it heaved itself out of the snowdrift and it was gone! Poof !’ Balyn completed the tale with a dramatic flourish.
‘You saw a crown?’ Modred asked, and grew a little pale.
‘And also a falcon,’ Galahad added. ‘Just after the stag vanished, we saw a large peregrine. It was snow-white and barred with gold. The bird appeared out of the same thicket as the stag and then spiralled upward until it, too, disappeared into the snow clouds.’
‘I think your vision was a portent of evil,’ Wenhaver breathed excitedly.
‘Am I supposed to be the stag?’ Artor asked, scarcely diverting his attention from his whetstone. ‘And is the falcon some heir or pretender? I think not. And, with the greatest of respect to your keen eyes, sirs, you were probably affected by snow blindness.’
Without pause, Artor continued to stroke the whetstone over the edge of his knife with a hollow rasp that intensified the mood of drama in the warm room.
‘It’s possible, my lord,’ Gawayne acknowledged thoughtfully, but his lips were twisted with doubt. ‘But for those of us who were there, the stag and the falcon seemed perfectly real.’
‘They probably were real,’ Artor replied, dismissing all further discussion of portents and visions. ‘But not supernatural.’
‘You may expect a visiting traveller shortly, my king’, Galahad suddenly remembered. ‘We could see a far-off man on horseback heading in our direction as we were climbing the tor. He’s alone, apart from a staghound that accompanies him through the snow.’
‘He’s probably a beggar, come to throw himself on our mercy in the depths of winter.’ Wenhaver scowled unpleasantly.
‘The cold outside is dangerous, it’s a miracle that any wayfarer can survive,’ Elayne murmured, the softness of her heart evident in the sympathy in her eyes.
‘My subjects are always welcome at Cadbury Tor or in the villages,’ Artor stated with certainty. ‘No traveller should be turned away on a night that is as cold as Morgan’s teat, especially with the approach of Samhein. Besides, of all the beggars I have seen, Wenhaver, none was ever in possession of either a horse or a dog.’
The darkness came swiftly that afternoon, as if the unseasonably heavy snow had blinded both the sun and the moon. The lone rider continued to climb the spiral road leading up to the tor, avoiding the black ice reflected in the flare of torches that were placed at regular intervals on the wall. On Artor’s orders, the traveller was unhindered during his journey, although several warriors looked sideways at the huge staghound that padded silently alongside its master.
‘Well met, traveller, for Samhein is upon us,’ Percivale greeted the man at the final gate of the fortification. ‘The snow is wicked and deep, so I’m glad you’ve reached shelter on this vile night.’
‘Have no care for me, good sir,’ the heavily mantled man answered. His voice was muffled inside the layers of wool and fur that thickened his form. A heavy pack bowed his back and a smaller hide of wool disguised some implement that was strung from one shoulder. Even the staghound carried a small pack, but as the beast stood taller at the shoulder than a seventh year child, its load barely encumbered it.
‘You’re to be given shelter in the stables this evening on the orders of the High King, but I must ask for any weapons that you carry.’
The traveller wordlessly removed a worn but very sharp knife from his belt and handed it, hilt first, to Percivale.
‘You bear no other arms in this harsh winter?’ Percivale was mystified as to how anyone could survive, alone, in such inclement weather.
‘I have my Rhiannon to bring down game and she’s better than any sword if a thief is foolish enough to attack me. All else I need I pay for with my art.’
Percivale raised an inquisitive eyebrow.
‘I am from Caer Gai in distant Powys, where winters are far harder than in these soft lands. I’m a harpist and I have come to sing for my supper at the table of the High King.’
‘Then you’re doubly welcome, traveller, for my lord always welcomes diversion. Please rest and wash, if such is your custom. I’ll fetch you within the hour.’
The two men had reached the stables where a vacant, hay-filled stall beckoned the tired traveller. His horse and hound were quickly accommodated, while a boy prepared to rub down the wet hides of both animals. With natural courtesy, the traveller bowed low to Percivale and promised that he would be ready when the warrior returned.
As soon as Percivale closed the stable door behind him, the traveller eased off the heavy pack and dropped it on to the floor. The smaller pack was hung reverently from a hook on the wooden half-wall that separated the man from a large bay horse in the next stall. Several weary youths stirred from their task of oiling leather to stare with undisguised curiosity as the traveller shed his outer coverings, layer by layer.
The man who emerged from the cocoon of cloth and fur was nearly as tall as the great King Artor himself. As he stripped to his bare skin, the ostlers had ample opportunity to determine that the itinerant entertainer was broad of shoulder, narrow of hip and virtually hairless except for a mane of raven black hair that hung down his back. His feet and hands were very long and narrow, while some quality in him sent one youth, unasked, to collect two pottery jugs, one of warm water and the other of cold. When he offered the water jugs to the stranger, the man smiled with such sincerity that the lad felt warmed to his toes.
‘My thanks, young sir. As you have heard, I must wash before I entertain the king.’
‘It’s nothing, lord,’ the boy replied, tugging on his forelock with respect. ‘The horses have plenty and we can heat more for our supper.’
‘Then I will fashion a song for you. What is your name?’
‘It’s Gull, sir. My mother once lived near the sea and she says I was a squawking babe.’
The traveller laid his left hand upon the boy’s forehead and immediately Gull felt warmth radiate through his flesh and bones.
‘Like the bird after whom you’ve been named, Gull, you will sail far in this world. And I hope you remember that it was Taliesin who told you this, for I know it to be true.’
Gull backed away from the traveller, for this Samhein was proving to be a night of marvels and he was a little afraid. He rejoined his friends among the bales of hay and gently placed his grubby hand upon the spot where Taliesin’s fingers had rested.
Taliesin grinned ruefully at the look of awe and expectation that brightened the boy’s face. He was no mountebank, handing out prophecies like greasy, base coinage; Gull’s inquisitive eyes had spoken to Taliesin more clearly than any foresight could have done. The harpist knew that the boy was a born traveller who would be gone from Cadbury long before he was a full-grown man.
When Percivale returned for his charge, the traveller was washed, scrubbed and dressed in a long robe hidden by a black cloak and hood.
‘I am ready, my lord. Rhiannon has been ordered to await my return, so I’ll collect my harp and we shall meet my new master.’
Percivale looked up at the long, shrouded form and noted the clean-shaven jaw and sensitive mouth exposed by the light of his torch.
‘I hope you’re in good voice, traveller. The king has had a trying day and needs amusement.’
‘I’ll do my best, for I’m duty bound by a familial oath to serve the High King.’
As Percivale led the way towards the feasting hall, he could feel the strong presence of the dark stranger close behind his heels.
All we need is more discord, Percivale thought to himself. Artor’s court is already a hornets’ nest that is stirred to fighting against itself, so I hope this man can charm away some of the evil that permeates our house.’
Percivale’s ever-loyal heart knew that fate was rarely kind, even to the good and the pious, so he prayed silently to the Christ to protect his Artor from any malice that had entered the goodly house of Cadbury Tor. But in his heart, he could feel time running quickly towards an unknown and grim destiny.
CHAPTER V
THE SINGER AND THE SONG
In a room full of warriors, prominent citizens and genteel ladies, Artor stared around his feasting tables and glumly endured this Samhein feast. Braziers and wall sconces provided illumination and caught the soft glitter of gold, bronze, silver and a variety of gems. Their wearers posed and pouted, and spoke to each other with animation, while their eyes gauged the responses of their fellow guests. Warrior vied with warrior over the splendour of their harnesses, the rareness of their furs and the artistry of their torcs, arm rings and hair ornaments. Women in wool, dyed in every conceivable shade, shaped to reveal and conceal, preened and smiled under darkened eyelashes in pretence of maidenhood. Earrings tossed and caught the firelight, elaborate braids and curls gleamed with perfumed oils and bodies swayed towards and away from each other in the promise of forbidden delights.
Cynical, and disposed to doubt that any truth remained in Cadbury, Artor sat on his curule chair and saw no beauty in the glimmer of fine, lying eyes, nor courage in the exaggerated boastings of loud-mouthed men. His mouth twisted. Who was he to pass judgement on the warriors and courtiers who modelled themselves on their king? He, too, was a liar. His marriage was a sham, his child had been raised by others because he had discarded her, using her safety as a convenient excuse, and he had committed sins larger and more damning than anything these light-hearted, frail creatures could even imagine.
As Artor brooded and frowned, Odin watched his master with concern. Although he was ignorant of the reasons for Artor’s misery, Odin could make an educated guess. The king’s afternoon had not been restful.
Earlier, he had been re-reading the Caesar scrolls given to him by Llanwith pen Bryn so many years before. He had one leg hooked comfortably over the armrest of his campaign chair when the queen swept into his private quarters on a wave of heavy perfume and fury, shattering his pleasant solitude.
‘What do you have to say for yourself?’ Wenhaver had demanded in a shrill voice, her mouth tightening into an unattractive line, stitched across with ageing little wrinkles of disapproval. Egged on by Modred’s whispered poisons, the queen was incensed and ready for a scene.
Artor sighed, put aside his scroll and rubbed his tired eyes. His sight was weakening; a concern that did little to improve his mood, for no man cares to confront old age or infirmity.
‘What have I done to offend you on this occasion?’ He steeled himself to repel his wife’s angry and impatient attack. From experience, he knew that Wenhaver would nag him until her anger was assuaged.
‘You know why I’m offended, you hypocrite. You’ve openly shown your partiality for another woman in my presence, so my reputation will be the subject of common speculation.’
Uncoiling his body, Artor laughed sourly. Wenhaver glowered at him with her face thrust forward on her neck like an indignant lapdog. As Artor considered her overly rouged face, he compared his shrewish wife with the lost Gallia, which led his thoughts to the gentle nature of Elayne and her sweetness of spirit.
His pent-up frustrations surfaced like hot, scarfing steam. Who was she to censure him?
‘Your reputation? You’re already well known to the common folk as a slut who would make the wife of Emperor Claudius seem virginal. You’ve cuckolded me for years and I’ve been forced to close my ears tightly to gossip, or else I’ll hear those things that even the most ignorant of Cadbury servants whisper. I couldn’t possibly compromise your reputation any more than you’ve done yourself with any number of men who have attended this court.’
Wenhaver stood tall and straight, quite unlike her usual pretentious posing, and Artor felt a fleeting admiration for her. Wenhaver seemed far more regal when she was defending her position rather than generating trouble or acting with arrogant, ostentatious display.
‘I insist that you don’t rub my nose into your indecent attraction towards that brown-skinned nobody,’ she said haughtily. ‘She’s not a servant girl who can be tumbled to beget another bastard son for your personal guard.’
Regal or not, Wenhaver had gone too far.
Artor hit her with his open hand, but carefully, so her skin would bear no bruise. She grunted with shock like a kicked sow and would have struck back at him had he not thrown her on his bed and pinned her down by her arms.
‘Don’t speak to me of Elayne, Wenhaver, when you’re not fit to even voice her name. I tell you now that if I weren’t encumbered with a sterile old cow, and if Elayne wasn’t wed to my friend, I would beg to enter her heart and her bed. But I’m old, while she’s still very young - and you’re so depressingly alive!’ He paused, pressed down cruelly on his wife’s wrists and then continued threateningly, ‘Take care that you don’t go the way of Caius, my late and unlamented foster-brother. He placed me in a position where he had to meet with an accident that wasn’t of his choosing.’