Authors: M. K. Hume
‘May your god save this black warrior from the anger of the king,’ Bedwyr whispered to Balan. ‘For Artor will have his revenge. The black warrior will suffer before the king lets him die.’
‘Is the king so brutal?’ Balan asked.
‘When wicked men practise evil, they must be forced to fear for their lives.’ Bedwyr spoke softly. ‘He practises the old ways of justice that he learned from the Romans who raised him. For men such as Artor, punishment is meted out to the exact measure of the crime committed, and it is carried out with complete impartiality. His justice is harsh, but it’s effective against the sort of barbarity that was inflicted on the good bishop.’
‘Can this form of cold-blooded justice create a peaceful civilization?’ Balan was sceptical.
‘Perhaps you should consider Cadbury and the peace that has been created there. A generation ago, it didn’t exist. Harmony and plenty reign in the west, and you rode here from the north in perfect safety. The only reason that such security exists is because Artor has meted out retribution to thieves and plunderers and he’s not afraid to get his hands dirty in the process.’
‘But what of his soul?’ Balan murmured.
‘Ask him yourself,’ Bedwyr replied and hurried after his king.
In the lee of the church wall, a grave had been partially excavated. The stained and rotted shroud had been ripped away so that the skull bones and the clasped fingers of the long-dead Roman bishop were partially exposed. Out of respect for Lucius, a piece of embroidered cloth had been placed over the pathetic skeletal remains.
‘To bone and dust we all go eventually, friend Lucius,’ Artor whispered as he stroked the worn thumb ring gifted to him by the long-dead bishop at his coronation.
Artor knelt so he could remove the fragment of embroidery and carefully examine the partially exposed bones.
‘Is this grave exactly as it was left after the attackers were driven off?’
‘Aye, my lord. We knew you’d want to see this desecration for yourself, so we only covered the bones with planks to protect them from the elements.’
‘Why would these animals expend so much effort and place themselves at such risk to open an old grave?’ Artor looked up at Taliesin, who was also puzzled. ‘The black warrior had few men and little time, while Glastonbury has many potential defenders. The villains stole nothing. The attack appears to have been carried out with the intention of killing Aethelthred and opening Lucius’s grave. These actions are bizarre, because the black warrior must have known that these churchmen would fight to protect the bones of their dead bishop. A diversion, perhaps?’
‘The skull doesn’t seem to have been disturbed, my lord,’ Taliesin replied quietly. ‘See? The earth is still tightly packed around the bones. Perhaps there was something else in the grave that the Black warrior wanted. Petrus seemed certain that something was taken.’
Artor turned to question Brother Mark. ‘Was anything of value placed in the grave of Bishop Lucius when he was interred?’
‘I don’t know, my lord. I wasn’t here when Lucius ruled Glastonbury. God hadn’t called me at that time in my life.’
Artor smiled thinly at the priest. ‘Fetch Brother Simon. He was outside the sanctuary earlier. And bring any other greybeard who served the church when Lucius was Bishop of Glastonbury.’
Men didn’t dawdle when Artor issued orders, especially when the king was visibly upset. Brother Simon soon arrived. Breathless, he leaned heavily on a sturdy staff and winced as he gazed down into the gaping grave. The empty eye sockets of the skeleton flickered with a counterfeit of life.
Four other ancient priests joined the group standing in the burial ground. Their eyes slid over the open grave as if they, too, couldn’t control the primal curiosity that living creatures feel for the dead. Age-mottled hands clutched at crucifixes and made the sign of the cross.
Artor addressed the elders of the monastery.
‘Was anything placed in the grave of Lucius at the time of his death and burial? Is something missing? It’s important that we are properly informed if we are to capture the men who killed your bishop. Today isn’t the time to preserve old secrets. Look closely, keen-eyed Simon, and try to remember if there were any objects in the grave that have been removed.’
The old priests came forward and stared down into the grave. Confusion and regret dulled their eyes.
Then one lurched into hurried speech. ‘I recall seeing something placed in Lucius’s hands as his body was laid out on the altar.’
‘What was the object?’ Artor demanded.
The old monk was frightened into a panic of incoherent mumbles.
‘It was his drinking cup, Lord Artor,’ another priest said earnestly. ‘Lucius was interred with his old campaign cup. He used it at every meal.’
‘I know the object, my lord.’ Simon sighed and lowered his eyes. ‘I remember that its dull metal had been scratched and dented by time. Before he died, I even offered to make Lucius another cup more befitting his station, but he refused my suggestion. He told me his cup had travelled over half the world and had, at times, been drenched in blood. He didn’t elaborate on how it came into his possession, but he did say that it was fitting that it should now contain clean water to quench the thirst of a simple priest.’ Simon hesitated. ‘I’d quite forgotten his battered old mug.’
‘The failure is not yours, Brother Simon,’ Artor replied distantly, as if he could sense some evasiveness in Simon. ‘I, too, recall seeing him drink from that same vessel all those years ago. I remember that it was round at the base with a simple flange of metal to serve as a handle. Was that the cup you recall?’
‘Aye. He treated it as if it was a commonplace thing, but it was a memory of his past and he used it daily.’
‘But why would these brigands take a simple cup?’ Taliesin whispered to Artor, his mind haunted by images of the bloody goblet he had seen in his dreams. ‘Unless the object is some relic with a history of its own, it would have no value to anyone, apart from Lucius.’
‘I don’t really understand either, but the cup must mean something to the black warrior.’ Artor switched his attention back to Simon. ‘What did the cup mean to Lucius, my friend?’ he asked softly. ‘Come, Simon, you’ll not harm your old master by telling me what you remember about this object.’
Simon’s eyes appeared clear and honest as he considered the king’s request. He was obviously thinking carefully and only Taliesin and Percivale saw a fleeting shadow appear, and then disappear, in their guileless depths.
What is Simon hiding from the king? Percivale wondered warily. He’s very cautious, even for a man of God.
Percivale turned towards Taliesin, who raised one eyebrow in mute agreement.
Is this cup the source of Mother’s dreams? Taliesin wondered to himself. His hand itched to make the sign that wards off evil. The cup must be something of far greater significance than an old campaign mug.
‘Lucius once told me that it had come into his possession when he was a soldier.’ Simon’s brow knitted with the effort of remembering, or hiding, the memories passing through his mind. ‘He was ashamed of the violence in his early life and rarely mentioned his youth, but I remember that he referred to it once in a way that I didn’t really understand.’
‘I also remember speaking to Lucius about the cup,’ one of his fellow priests added. ‘I, too, asked him why he had kept it for such a long time. He told me that its design appealed to him. I took his meaning to be that the cup had been made in the land of his birth.’
Another old man joined the conversation. ‘I remember I once spilled some water by overfilling it, and Lucius brushed aside my apologies by saying that water stains were cleaner by far than the bloody hands that had befouled it in the past. The bishop smiled in that sad way he had when he spoke of his younger days. I remember that we were very curious about it at the time, for the bishop was such a romantic figure to us when we were young men.’
‘But it’s only made from base metal’, Balyn protested. ‘Why would anyone want to steal it?’
The king and his retinue stared into the grave, but it gave no answer to the enigma they faced. After a moment, Artor turned back to Mark and broke the uncomfortable silence.
‘Did you see the direction in which the black warrior and his men fled?’
‘Those men who were afoot headed across those small hills towards the river,’ Mark replied, grateful to change the topic. ‘The black warrior separated from them and circled round to the north on his horse.’
‘Then we’ll begin our search by following their trail towards the river. Guard Glastonbury well during my absence, Brother Mark, and keep a sharp watch at night. I’d be surprised if any other marauders return to shatter your peace, but continued vigilance will ensure your safety. Perhaps you can remember us in the prayers you make to your god and, if he’s willing, we’ll find the dogs who murdered your bishop.’
Despite Mark’s invitation to remain for the night, Artor knew that any sudden shower of rain could destroy the spoor of the fugitives and leave them with a very cold trail. They prepared for an immediate departure and rode off into the softening evening light.
Bedwyr led the way, accompanied by Taliesin on foot. As fleet as any woodsman, Nimue’s son was well versed in hunting and could easily keep up with Bedwyr’s horse as the two men sought their quarry through the telltale signs of broken leaves, dislodged stones and scraped bark.
Shortly after leaving the last of Glastonbury’s fields, the party came to the river that was flowing slowly between gently sloping banks.
‘There are signs that coracles have been drawn up here,’ Bedwyr called back to Artor.
‘Aye,’ Taliesin agreed. ‘Rain has blunted their traces, but they’ve left many footprints behind to show their presence. The tracks of two horses have also stirred up the mud.’
‘These traces would be of the two horses they stole.’ Bedwyr murmured.
He stared intently at the earth and leaned forward, snatching up a single bedraggled feather that had been trampled into the soft mud. ‘One of these men wore a raven’s feather on his cap. A fitting reward for scavengers.’
‘Keep it safe,’ Artor ordered economically. ‘Which way did they go? Did they make a fast escape downstream? Or did they travel against the current?’
‘It would be easier to continue travelling towards the east if they were on foot,’ Gawayne offered. ‘Why would they run so far and then paddle back over ground already covered?’
‘I agree,’ Artor answered brusquely. ‘We’ll follow the river downstream.’
The waning light slowed their progress. At some fords, Taliesin and the twins crossed to the far bank to look for signs of a landing by the coracles, but they found nothing.
When full night came and the horses were imperilled by rabbit holes and poor ground, Artor drew his troops to a halt and they ate a frugal meal under the willows. On the far side of the river, Taliesin sang softly of his home and the twins were entranced by the magic of his voice. Slowly, to the soft whickering of the horses as they cropped grass in their hobbles, the force settled down to sleep.
At noon the next day, when Gawayne rode past the Isle of Salinae Minor, he felt only a momentary pang of guilt, but Galahad’s brows furrowed suspiciously as he considered the isle and its inhabitants. The thought of Gronw’s deceiving eyes made his nerves twitch, although the young zealot kept his thoughts to himself.
Later that afternoon, Artor’s men came to the grey sea. The pebbled beach and the mournful cries of seagulls chilled the hearts of the warriors. No matter how carefully they scoured the banks of the estuary, there was no sign of the coracles.
Angry and defeated, Artor stared at the leaden sea with its treacherous currents.
‘No small craft could survive in that mess.’
‘A man can easily carry a coracle on his back, but we’ve seen no spoor to indicate they came this far, Artor,’ Bedwyr said. ‘It’s likely they left the river at some point upstream, perhaps along one of those small tributaries we passed on the way.’
‘There’s been no sign at all,’ Taliesin added, ‘although both the men and the horses could have walked through the shallows to hide their presence.’
‘They haven’t flown away,’ Artor retorted.
‘They’re more familiar with the terrain than we are,’ Taliesin offered evenly, refusing to take offence. ‘Perhaps we should investigate those tributaries upstream. Although . . .’ His voice trailed away.
‘What?’ Artor snapped.
‘Look!’ Taliesin pointed towards a flock of gulls that rose from a partially concealed streamlet. ‘Over there! Those birds must be feeding on something.’
The harpist would never have noticed the birds if a falcon hadn’t hovered on the wind above the flock, disturbing the gulls and sending them into the air in panic.
‘Bedwyr, check it out!’ Artor ordered.
Bedwyr wheeled his horse and Taliesin swung up behind him. Together, they rode back up the pebbled beach to the sluggish, wide river mouth and urged their horses to enter the water. After crossing the flooded inlet, they disappeared into the marshy, reed-choked watercourse on the far side of the stream. Within minutes, Taliesin reappeared on a small knoll and waved to the waiting horsemen.
‘I’ve found something, Artor,’ he said as the king and his retinue joined him at a spot where the stream flowed around a series of natural stone steps. ‘The gulls have been feeding on a corpse.’
A bloated, water-sodden body was caught in a cleft between two wet boulders. Even now, gulls were returning and beginning to tear at the exposed flesh with their long, hooked beaks.
‘I never liked those birds overmuch,’ Gawayne muttered. ‘How did we miss this body?’
‘We were looking at the ground for signs of men and horses, not in the air where the birds fly,’ Taliesin replied. ‘Nobody notices the cries of gulls when they’re near the sea.’
Balan dragged the battered corpse on to dry land.
Artor recognized a worn leather jerkin set with iron plates, which fitted the description given by Brother Petrus. The king grunted in disgust.
‘So, where are the others?’
As if he had heard the words of his master, Bedwyr reappeared. He rode out of a small copse of stunted trees that had been partly hidden from the riverbank by rising ground. To gain the attention of Artor and his warriors, Bedwyr whistled piercingly and then returned to the shadows of the copse.