The Bloody Cup (2 page)

PROLOGUE

It is always better
to avenge dear ones than to indulge in mourning.
For every one of us, living in this world
means waiting for our end.

Beowulf

Three furtive men made their separate ways to a lonely bothie north of Ratae. Summer was almost fled and the woods wore the first yellowing leaves of autumn. Although the night was still, the moon was obscured by cloud as if the last storms of the warm months were building around the mountain chain.

‘Enter, traveller! You’re late!’

The man who spoke was muffled in a long black cloak that disguised his form and transformed him into a shadowy puddle in the rear of the wattle and daub room. The fire was unlit, so his face was invisible within the cowl of his cloak. A heavy wrapper of coarse wool concealed his mouth and nose, while the fabric also disguised the man’s voice.

‘The route was difficult - and I dared not travel by daylight,’ the smaller man replied, as he insinuated his body into the room through the derelict entrance.

The newcomer was even more heavily disguised than his master. Ragged travelling gloves disguised his hands and his beggar’s robes turned him into a shapeless, verminous lump.

‘Well, at least you’re here now,’ the third man stated roughly, causing the beggar to bridle within his coarse disguise. ‘Have you found men who are suitable to our needs, men who’ll keep their mouths shut?’

‘Give me credit for some gumption,’ the beggar responded irritably. ‘The High King makes enemies easily, so I’ve encountered no difficulty in tracking down several men who have been thrown out of Cadbury for drunkenness or theft. They like their heads attached to their treasonous shoulders, so they’ll obey me when the time comes.’

The third man snorted derisively and leaned against the far wall, cleaning his nails with a plain, wickedly sharp knife. Unlike his companions, he had chosen to bare his face, an unprepossessing network of puckered scars rendered more hideous by a sunken eye socket whose empty lid had been stitched shut. His plaited hair marked him as a warrior and a decorated eyepatch had been pushed up on to his broad brow for comfort. A heavy jerkin showed signs of hard use, although the leather was supple with oil, and bronze plates had been threaded on to the heavy ox hide to provide added protection. His kit was polished and in good condition, as befitted a mercenary.

‘The time is right for us to strike,’ the beggar hissed. ‘And, with any luck, the High Bastard won’t see any threat coming. He’s grown soft on top of Cadbury Tor, bedding his serving women and avoiding his whore of a queen. He’s old. And he’s far too cosy with the Christian Church. It’s the priests who’ll own us all at this rate.’

The seated man in black made a sharp action with one shadowy hand.

‘Artor is ready to fall.’

‘I have no cause to love the man who killed my master,’ the warrior began slowly. ‘But it would be disastrous to underestimate Artor. He’s survived this long because he’s cunning and prepared. He manipulates our people and his bodyguard cannot be bribed.’

‘The common people are stupid, because they love Artor.’ The beggar sighed. ‘Any number of them would inform on us in a moment if we don’t take care.’

The black-clad figure laughed thinly, although neither of his companions imagined that he felt any mirth.

‘The peasants have forgotten the old days before Pendragon, but there’s much dissatisfaction in the northern towns,’ the beggar continued, and smiled within the shadow of his cowl. ‘We must capitalize on their discontent, and I’ve found a solution that might help our cause. I ask your permission to act on it.’

He aimed his request directly at the black-clad man, who was displeased at the tone of the demand. However, although his fists clenched reflexively, he visibly calmed his telltale hands.

‘Continue.’

‘We need a symbol to unify the common people and to lead them into a popular revolt against the rule of the bastard king.’

The beggar moved further into the bothie to reveal a twisted, womanish mouth above and below the crude wrappings that disguised his features. Only the glint of his deep-set eyes, fanatical with madness, was visible below his cowl.

‘I’ve found something that we can shape to suit our need. It’s a gift from the gods, and it’s so very old that it may have been held by the Old Ones themselves - a symbol that could promise a better life to even the lowliest of men.’

He could see that he had gained the attention of his two listeners.

‘I speak of the Cup of Bishop Lucius of Glastonbury,’ the beggar whispered reverently. ‘I first heard of it when I gave shelter to an unfrocked priest who’d been evicted from the abbey. I swear that the goddess, Ceridwen, she who gave knowledge to men, sent this fool to me. I’ve searched out any talk of the Cup since the priest crossed my path. It seems that Lucius was a pagan Roman in his youth and the Cup came into his possession by some trick of fate. The priests count it as holy because Lucius owned it, but I swear I smell blood whenever I think of it. The priest had helped to bury Lucius, and he wept when he thought of his old master closed into the cold earth with only his cup for comfort.’

‘Why not just use any old cup that we can find?’ the black-clad man asked. ‘Why disturb Lucius’s bones for no reason? To attack Glastonbury will draw the attention of the Christians and Artor. Your argument is flawed, or perhaps it’s motivated by your personal spite.’

The beggar’s body bridled with affront.

‘I have thought of the risks of my plan, but this cup has an inbuilt symbol with a potency that we can use to achieve our aims. The Christian faithful will honour Lucius’s relic and will invest it with power. If we can transfer this reverence to Ceridwen and prove that Lucius stole her cup, we will add to the power of our imagery. I can make this powerful link, for I worship Ceridwen and can enact the old druidic ways. The gods are still under the surface of our skin, regardless of the whining of the priests. Many Celts are still pagan and have learned to distrust the growing power of the Christian priests. Strike at Glastonbury, and we strike at all Christian Celts. More importantly, we strike at Artor.’

‘But he’s not Christian,’ the one-eyed warrior retorted. ‘From all that I’ve seen and heard, he’s not anything. He pays lip service to all faiths and tries to reinforce an aura of fairness and impartiality.’

The beggar smiled. ‘Which is even more reason to attack holy Glastonbury, which lies at the heart of the Christian West. We can imply that the Church has stolen Ceridwen’s gift to humankind for its own evil purposes. You may pick my ideas to pieces, but I know the people and they still fear the emerging power of the Christian religion.’

‘Very well, then. Explain your plan.’ The dark leader sat a little straighter on his rickety stool. His eyes gleamed with intelligence.

‘If I can persuade those malcontents who have little cause to love the crucified god that this relic was truly made in antiquity, and that it was a gift to man from the time of the standing stones, then we would have a symbol that could be used for our own purposes. Then, if we incite the people with the old sacrifices, give them the hope of wealth taken from the Christian churches and promise them a return to the free, old ways, they will follow us.’

He paused and looked at his listeners in turn. ‘If I have Ceridwen’s Cup in my hands, the gods will surely show me how to outwit the Christian Church and return our lands to purity.’

The mercenary, who had little faith in anything, grimaced sourly. ‘Ceridwen’s Cup? The goddess is said to have owned a great cauldron from which all knowledge and disaster comes, but I’ve heard nothing of a cup. You’re playing with circumstance!’

‘The peasants are superstitious, and a cup will do as well as a cauldron if we can play on their hatreds and fears. The goddess Ceridwen is an oracle, and she is useful. She is enchantress, mother and hunter. She will nurture those who protect her sacred places, and wreak vengeance on those who turn away from her laws. She is old, she is young. Ceridwen is the sacred beloved and the crooked woman. She is a potent enemy to pit against Artor and his milky, cowardly Christian god.’

‘Your eyes burn too brightly with belief, friend. I care nothing for your Ceridwen or her cauldron, whether you turn it into a cup or not,’ the black-cowled man retorted. ‘But if you can use your goddess to hurt Artor, I have no quarrel with your plan.’

The warrior nodded his agreement. ‘At least a cup is more portable than an iron cauldron. I predict that whatever object we use will have to travel far before the people relinquish the years of peace they have enjoyed.’

‘The peasants care only for full bellies and the freedom to squabble over women, wine and gold’, the beggar said impatiently. ‘If they think a cup will give them their hearts’ desires, they’ll follow where it leads.’

The warrior looked deeply into the eyes of the beggar. ‘Do you know where the Cup is?’

‘Of course, but I’ll need to break some tonsured heads to get my hands on it.’

‘What of the priest? Surely he’ll expose you when you steal it.’ The black shadow’s tone expressed no particular concern. ‘I’ve found that even failed priests can’t quite relinquish their faith, rot them!’

‘Dead men tell no tales and a drunkard rarely notices the taste of the wine he loves. The worms were after the priest not long before he left my door.’

‘Very well.’ The black shadow nodded. ‘Get the Cup, and use it to gather the malcontents together into a cohesive weapon, especially in the north where Artor is vulnerable and starved of allies. And perhaps the Bishop of Glastonbury, Aethelthred the Pure, should be killed while you’re at it. A different, less respected bishop will only aid our strategies. Can you do it? You must tell me now if you have any doubts, for too much depends on your dedication to our cause for half-hearted actions on your part.’

‘Do you doubt me, sire?’ The beggar’s voice rose. ‘Do you doubt my oath to the gods to cleanse the land of this Christian filth? If need be, I’ll set fire to all the churches in the land to fulfil my vow to you and to my gods. There is nothing that I won’t sacrifice in pursuit of our ultimate victory.’

The dark shadow acknowledged the beggar’s words with a brief nod, although the tension in his shoulders and back suggested that he was not as nonchalant as he wished to appear.

‘Our friend here will be your contact. He is able to travel freely about the tribal borders and he will provide you with shelter and coin when you leave your base. He speaks for me and has my complete confidence, for his allegiance is to me alone. You will obey him in all things. If you wish to speak to me, you need only send a message to the Blue Hag Inn at Deva. My friend will always be able to find me.’

The beggar straightened his body and his shadow suddenly loomed larger across the wall as moonlight outlined his body. Some - thing menacing seemed to rob the bothie of clean air.

‘I will not fail, sire. Bishop Aethelthred is as good as dead. Glastonbury will be pillaged and the Cup will be mine. I’ve waited half my life to strike a blow against Cadbury.’

The beggar turned and slid into the night. His rag-wrapped feet were silent and all that remained was an odour of filthy flesh, corruption and a heavy, sullen perfume.

‘That snake makes my palms itch, master.’ The warrior’s nostrils twitched with distaste. ‘I hope you know what you’re doing by entrusting our plans to a madman. Fanatics such as that one make me yearn for a good, clean knife.’

‘What does he really know? Or matter? He’s ignorant of our identities and he has no conception of the stakes we’re playing for. All he cares about are his gods and some futile, fanatical search for revenge. He’s a useful tool and if he makes an error and is caught, he’ll be blamed for any insurrection. My plans run far deeper than his foolish diversions. Kingdoms do not fall over religious differences. Power, greed and envy are our real allies.’

‘Good enough,’ the warrior grunted. ‘What do you want of me, sire?’

‘Do you still have connections at the court of King Lot?’

The warrior nodded.

‘Good. Then it’s time for you to become a faithful hound to that fat fool. Dig in well at the Otadini court, for Lot has always wanted a network of informants to rival Artor’s spies.’

The warrior nodded. Such an order was easy to follow, for he had sold his skills to every king in the north in the past.

‘Keep your eyes sharp and your blade sharper. My plans depend on your ability to become a trusted vassal of King Lot. But remember where your allegiances truly lie.’

The warrior closed one fist over his heart in the Roman fashion. He bowed his dark head, then pulled his patch down to hide his ruined eye.

‘I’m oath bound to you and yours forever, my lord. You need not fear that I’ll weaken at the last. I remember my master’s screams whenever I sleep and I’ve sworn that I will drag Artor and his allies to Hades with me when my time comes to leave this earth. Only then will Simnel rest in peace.’

The black shadow rose and adjusted its voluminous cloak.

‘Simnel was executed by Artor when he foolishly tried to steal the Brigante throne. We will suffer his fate if we aren’t careful, so keep your thirst for revenge under control.’