The Bloody Cup Read Online Free PDF Page A

comfort, while Odin leaned impassively against the heavy, wooden door.
    Their lord’s frugal habits meant that Percivale and Gareth had little to do but put away the High King’s scrolls in their fitted shelves and tidy Artor’s collection of maps. Odin personally tasted the High King’s water, stored in a beaten silver flask, and nibbled at the plates of nuts, cheese and flat bread that were prepared for him. Artor always remonstrated with Odin over his precautions and called him an old woman, but when Artor’s safety was at stake, Odin simply ignored his master’s wishes with a vague, agreeable smile.
    Artor considered his three closest bodyguards and wondered why they had remained true to him for so long. Odin, the Jutlander, had to be well over sixty, but his tawny hair and greying beard suggested maturity rather than great age. His muscles were still as hard as old oak, while his huge spine remained unbent. Odin had sworn a solemn oath to cleave to Artor until death took him and, regardless of the passage of time, Odin would never change his allegiance.
    Gareth was almost a kinsman, for his grandmother, the slave woman Frith, had been Artor’s mother in all but blood. Frith had died with Gallia, Artor’s deeply loved Roman wife, whose memory had developed into the idealized beauty of a distant dream. Gareth had spent his youth caring for Artor’s daughter, mother to those strong twins who had so shaken the High King’s guarded heart. Gareth knew no other life than service to Artor and his family.
    As for Percivale, chaste, Christian and a superb athlete, he was partly of Targo’s making and partly a product of Gallwyn from the kitchens of Venonae. With his whole, passionate heart, Percivale had sworn to guard his king while breath remained in his body. Artor knew, to his cost, that Percivale would dare anything, risk anything and sacrifice himself beyond reason for him.
    Suddenly, Artor was angry with both himself and his servants. Why must they love him? He could never care for them with that same, unreserved devotion. He wore their love around his neck like a chain of lead.
    ‘I have waited so long for a sign that I’d almost given up hope of a solution,’ Artor sighed, speaking to no one in particular.
    ‘Lord?’ Percivale looked up as he tidied the High King’s desk. ‘Is there anything I can do for you?’
    ‘This matter goes beyond your understanding,’ Artor growled. He continued to pace, but he felt ashamed of his outburst of temper.
    Gareth set down the draught of clean water in its silver jug which was heavily decorated with a dragon swallowing its own tail. He placed one hand gently on his master’s shoulder and stilled the king’s frenetic movement.
    ‘Yes, my lord, they are your grandsons. And, no, you cannot share the secret of their birth with them, for such knowledge could lead to their deaths.’
    Percivale tensed at Gareth’s effrontery, while the stolid Odin raised his white eyebrows.
    Artor shook his leonine head and Gareth almost flinched, but his faith in his master held true.
    ‘You are among the few men left alive who know the tale of Gallia and my childhood at the Villa Poppinidii’, the king hissed in warning.
    Percivale’s mouth gaped open.
    As always, Artor saw everything. ‘Keep your mouth tightly shut on this matter, Percivale. You’d be wise to remain silent about my secrets. I am an old man, and my temper is uncertain.’
    Percivale wanted to protest that he knew no secrets but he heeded Artor’s warning and closed his mouth.
    Artor resumed his pacing. ‘I know that neither of the twins can be told of their birthright. Rumours that Anna is my sister places them in an invidious position as it is. But in spite of the danger, I cannot help but wonder if one of them has the temperament and the ability to become the heir to my throne.’
    ‘Perhaps,’ Odin rumbled.
    Gruffydd hobbled into the room, leaning on a cane and swearing as one swollen foot came in contact