The Bloody Cup Read Free Page A

truth of Anna’s birthright, and his chest contracted with an old pang of concern. He also knew that Artor’s grandsons had come to offer allegiance to their grandsire in ignorance of the true ties of their bloodline.
    ‘The High King is entitled to the protection of all loyal men who serve as his personal guard’, Percivale explained gracefully. ‘And we take our duties seriously.’ His easy smile encompassed both young men. ‘Please leave all your weapons at this threshold. Only the High King goes armed within the precincts of his Judgement Hall.’
    Balan complied with easy good humour, but Balyn expressed his irritation with every muscle of his face. However, item by item, the brothers laid aside an impressive array of weapons and followed Percivale and Gareth into the presence of the king.
    Artor’s hall was resplendent with finely woven cloth that acted as the perfect foil for the battle standards of Mori Saxonicus, the last great battle against the western Saxons under the command of the thane, Glamdring Ironfist. The eyes of the twins widened as they observed the symbols of one of the west’s greatest triumphs. Around them, courtiers in brightly dyed linens and furs, and warriors richly caparisoned as befitted the servants of the king, rested on carved wooden benches or stood in corners, gossiping and drinking beer or wine offered by quiet-footed servants. It seemed to the dazzled eyes of Balyn and Balan that these vivid courtiers scarcely noticed the magnificence around them.
    Peace had bred complacency and Balan read it in the plump, bland faces that gawped at them when they entered the King’s hall. But he saw that farmers, shepherds and shopkeepers were also among the gilded throng. These ordinary men stood unabashed in the presence of the High King, firm in the knowledge that Artor would offer judgement in their various cases with impartial, unimpeachable justice. Balan felt a visceral thrill of pride that he could become a part of a world that was both beautiful and just.
    His eyes were drawn to the man sitting on a simple chair at the far end of the hall. His tunic was snowy white, and he eschewed ornamentation except for his crown, a torc of red gold and a fine golden chain that disappeared into the neck of his robe. He was far less gorgeous than any of the aristocrats who lounged in the hall, but the force of his character was unmistakable. Here was the centre of this world; here was the source of song and story: Artor, High King of the Britons.
    Artor himself longed for the open air. The aristocratic petitioners made his head ache with their constant demands for preferment over neighbours, for judgement over tribal borders and for relief from tribute. Their greed often made him feel nauseous.
    On the other hand, his Judgement Hall also brought common men to the tor. Farmers, traders and town dwellers trudged up the spiral pathway, seeking arbitration from the one man whom they trusted to be fair. Untangling the complex familial or financial skeins of ordinary life gave Artor pleasure, for it reminded him of what it had been like to be a free man.
    Although the hall was crowded with petitioners, the twins caused a stir as they strode through the crowd as if it did not exist. Within moments, they stood proudly on the decorated flagstones before the High King and his queen. Their booted feet rested at the claws of Artor’s dragon mosaic, as if the twins were extensions of the great beast that reclined at the High King’s feet. Smoothly, and with careful discipline, the brothers dropped to their knees and bowed to kiss the talons of the Dracos dragon.
    ‘Rise, young princes, no child of Queen Anna need bow to me,’ the king ordered, while Queen Wenhaver stared at the twins.
    Artor listened to their salutations with a mixture of excitement and discomfort. Balan, who used the hand sinister, or the left, was tall and was similar in build to Artor himself. Not a hint of curl marred the sheen of his