The Bloody Cup Read Online Free PDF Page B

and fresh. Since the departure of Myrddion, the free west went on, for Artor expended his blood and his soul to ensure the kingdom endured, but Cadbury was frozen in time - and hovered on the brink of decay.
    ‘Stop dozing off over my excellent wine and tell me how my tribal kings are faring.’
    Gruffydd started, grinned apologetically and put his scrambled thoughts in order.
    ‘Well,’ he began. ‘I can say that Wynfael is no epicure like his father, the gods be praised, so Leodegran’s kingdom fares better without him. When he dropped dead while trying to mount a slave girl, his whole tribe was mightily relieved. The man was so corpulent when he died that he could barely walk, unless it was to stuff his face with food. Wynfael is a Christian, so his oath to the Union of Tribal Kings will hold. Those maniacs seek martyrdom at any price, so I’m convinced that you could cast off your troublesome wife and her brother would confine himself to praying for her soul. He disapproves of his sister.’
    Artor remembered Wenhaver’s father as a man with expensive, exotic tastes. How strange that the son should deny his father’s vices for the dubious attractions of religion.
    ‘Bran and your Anna hold the Ordovice lands with strong hands,’ Gruffydd continued. ‘In fact, the last of the Demetae who have managed to survive seem to welcome Bran as their master. And the Cornovii remain true to your cause. The faithful Bedwyr has emerged from Arden - with a wife, if you can believe it. I expect him soon, my lord.’
    ‘Everyone seems to be coming to Cadbury of late but, of all my guests, Bedwyr is most welcome. Mori Saxonicus would have been harder won without him, and the gods alone know when we’d have cracked the lice in Caer Fyrddin if Bedwyr hadn’t let us in through the old sewers.’ Artor’s brows drew together in a frown. ‘What of the south? What of the Dumnonii, the Durotriges, the Belgae and the Atrebates? Have the remnants of the eastern tribes joined the Regni with whole hearts, or do they still long for the old days?’
    Gruffydd blinked in surprise. Artor’s parents both came from southern tribes who had always formed the core of the High King’s power base.
    ‘Aye lord. Perhaps they are a little complacent, for there has been no Saxon attack for three years and our borders appear to be accepted by the barbarians. But some displaced Celts from the east are disappointed that you haven’t driven the Saxons into Oceanus Germanicus. However, they are not fools, for they understand how deeply rooted the Saxons and Angles have become. Some Iceni are even calling their old country by the name of Angleland. And the South remains faithful.’
    ‘Any sensible man regrets the passing of good and righteous things,’ Percivale murmured.
    ‘Aye, but any sensible man recognizes when the time has come to relinquish foolish dreams of glory,’ Gruffydd retorted. ‘The Saxons, Angles and Jutes are entrenched in the lands of the east, and they can’t be dislodged. Still, they haven’t advanced a mile since Mori Saxonicus.’
    ‘Nor will they while I remain alive to hold them back,’ Artor vowed softly. No man present doubted his words. ‘But the north is not so secure, is it, my friend?’
    ‘I can hardly credit that any descendant of Luka could foment troubles within the northern tribes. There’s bad blood in this new Brigante king, but he’s a clever young bastard. Modred is a scheming, ambitious youth who seems to have inherited none of his grandfather’s charm.’
    ‘I don’t like his name . . . it has an ominous sound,’ Odin growled from his station near the doorway.
    ‘You’ll like the young man even less when you meet him, Odin. Rumour whispers that Morgause spent a night in Verterae on her way back to Segedunum after the battle of Mori Saxonicus. Luka’s youngest son was very fair and Morgause was still attractive, if you ignored her total lack of charm. Apparently the young prince was smitten,