The Bloody Cup Read Free Page B

long, loosened hair, and his face under its dark, winged brows was calm and untroubled. Artor felt a painful stirring of affection for this clean-limbed young man.
    Older by minutes, and as fair as his brother was dark, Balyn possessed hair that curled gently past his shoulders. The petitioners in the hall recognized the similarities between the two young men and the High King, and silence was replaced with a low hum of whispers. The other twin used his dexter, or right hand, which was believed to be more benign by the superstitious, although Artor wasn’t sure that this grand-dam’s tale was always true. His agile mind recognized an impulsive nature in Balyn, demonstrated through his swiftly moving hands and the ready words that spilled out his thoughts without the leavening grace of caution.
    Both young men rose and waited quietly under the scrutiny of the High King.
    For their part, the twins examined the face of their lord and noted the clipped, greying curls that gathered around his face. Artor was still handsome, strong and straight-limbed, but heaviness dragged at his mouth and clouded his wintry eyes with distrust. Lines of worry tugged the inner corners of his eyebrows close to his shapely nose, and the shadows under his eyes were deep, almost bruised.
    ‘You will introduce me, Artor, won’t you?’ the queen interjected, tapping one foot on the dais.
    Age had not dimmed Wenhaver’s ostentatious display. She wore far too many fine gems for good taste. Her mouth was petulant and was marred by deep lines around her thinning lips. Although her hair was still extraordinary, her figure and face bore the signs of dissipation and encroaching old age, held at bay with the aid of rigid bindings and cosmetics that were better suited to a young girl than a mature woman. When Artor bothered to notice and remembered her former natural beauty, he felt stirrings of pity for her. Like a painting on wood, her looks were extraordinary until any movement broke the spell and revealed the hag waiting under the curls and the powder.
    Both young men knelt before her and, characteristically, Balyn spoke first.
    ‘I am Balyn ap Cerdic, my queen, second son of Cerdic ap Llanwith of the Ordovice, and this callow youth is my younger twin, Balan. Beware of his sweet words, my lady, for only I can offer the appropriate phrases that your beauty deserves.’
    ‘How charming,’ Wenhaver simpered.
    Balyn’s eyes were fervent and Artor sighed inwardly to see the boy so easily beguiled by Wenhaver’s jewelled, practised and wholly superficial magnificence.
    ‘My queen.’ Balan spoke in turn with careful gravity. His gaze was direct and a shadow seemed to darken his eyes before he lowered them in homage.
    Artor missed nothing.
    ‘What news of your mother, Queen Anna, and your brother, Bran?’
    ‘Bran enjoys the tribe’s favour, and fortifies his lands with diligence,’ Balyn responded in a slightly dismissive voice. ‘He swears to you that Saxons shall never set foot on his soil while he lives.’
    Artor nodded distantly. Gareth could have warned Balyn that any disrespect towards Anna’s eldest son was dangerous ground, especially when duty was concerned. The High King had immolated himself on the fires of duty for decades, and fully understood the bitter price that Bran paid for his kingship.
    ‘Mother sends her greetings and bade me remind you that the High King remains her favourite warrior of all the lords of the west,’ Balan added cautiously. ‘I ask that you forgive her familiarity, my liege, but she swears that she has known you for as long as she has been alive.’
    Balan’s brief speech caused Artor to smile and some of the bleakness left his eyes.
    ‘Is she well?’ he asked the young man.
    ‘Our mother is indefatigable.’ Balan grinned widely. ‘She’s still beautiful, as you have no doubt heard, my lord, but she pays no attention to her physical appearance. She’s the first to join the women in the apple harvest,