Anthony Hays is a journalist and novelist. He has covered topics as varied as narcotics trafficking, political corruption, Civil War history, and the war on terror.
ALSO BY ANTHONY HAYS
The Killing Way
PRAISE FOR ANTHONY HAYS
‘A moving, gritty, intriguing take on the Arthurian myth with solid, well-drawn characters, and a fantastic murder mystery you can really sink your teeth into. The best of Ellis Peters rendered in the battle-tongue of Bernard Cornwell.’
– M C Scott
‘Stirring stuff, with plenty of intrigue and atmosphere.’
– Guardian
‘This author knows his history and produces a first class, page turning tale. We shall doubtless hear much more of Tony Hays.’ – Peter Tremayne
‘Powerfully told and atmospherically driven.’
– The New York Journal of Books
‘A fascinating blend of history and fiction … sure to engage fans of both Bernard Cornwell and Ellis Peters.’
– Library Journal
First published in the United States in 2010 by Forge, an imprint of Tom Doherty Associates, LLC, New York.
First published in paperback in Great Britain in 2013 by Corvus, an imprint of Atlantic Books Ltd.
Copyright © Anthony Hays, 2010
The moral right of Anthony Hays to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act of 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities, is entirely coincidental.
Maps by Jon Lansberg and Jennifer Hanover
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
Paperback ISBN: 978 0 85789 066 5
E-book ISBN: 978 0 85789 068 9
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For
ROBERT DOUGLAS HAYS
(1917–1981)
and
CARL T. TALLENT
(1921–2008)
who sacrificed their youth so that we might be free
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Faced with the task of giving credit where it is due for this, the second volume of Malgwyn’s and Arthur’s adventures, I find that the list grows longer, not shorter. But the length does nothing to diminish the appreciation I feel toward each.
My agent, Frank Weimann, and his assistant, Elyse Tanzillo, are absolutely the best. My delightful editor, Claire Eddy, her assistant, Kristin Sevick, and all the folks at Tor/Forge have been wonderful. As always, Bo and Dee Grimshaw and Rich and Roz Tuerk have proven themselves true friends. Bill and Diane Pyron and their children, Amelia and Atticus, have been a constant source of encouragement. Thanks go to Clara Gerl, my lecture partner with DeVry, for her understanding and support. And no list would be complete without Brian Holcombe, who stood by me through some tough times.
I am forever grateful to Geoffrey and Pat Ashe for their willingness to share their vast knowledge of Arthur and his times as well as their friendship. Dr. Christopher Snyder was always happy to answer my interminable questions about the Britonic Age.
Much of my life has been spent overseas, teaching English and creative writing at a variety of places. And I am the richer for having enjoyed the friendship of Sonya Mitic, Lela Argus, Anita Reci, Todor Gajdov, Jeta Rushidi, Luizia Zeqiri, Jazmin Triana Durango, and Qenan Saliu in Macedonia. A world away in Tennessee, my classrooms were blessed with students like Tristan Daniel, Kassie Vickery, Allen Farmer, Taylor Holder, and more than I could possibly name here. Dear friends from my days in the Marshall Islands include Carolyn Laws, Max Voelzke, and John Tuthill. In England I enjoyed the hospitality of new friends Diane and Ross Bowman and Jane and Chris Lee and old friends Hazel and Nigel Garwell. I had great times with the folks in Reading at the Thames Valley Writers group, the Southampton Writers Circle, and Susan Down and her fine group in Salisbury.
The publication of The Killing Way brought a host of old friends back into my life. My first coauthor and childhood friend, Michael Greene, classmates Kathy Louvin, Mike Card, Jeff Harrell, Cindy Lamb, Dave Rizzuto, Dana Spinks, Steve Ellis, Doug Nall, Woodson Marshall, Sheryl Rennie Hall, Bruce Martin, David Vowell, Randy Tarkington, Matt Fischer, Jenny Roberts, Teresa Vaden, Laura Watts, Joan Howell, Lynn Jones, Jeannie Wagner, Debbie Vaden, Ron Estes, Anjanette Benjamin, and the list goes on.
For ten years, I hung my hat in Savannah, Tennessee. I would be totally remiss if I did not mention Lisa Bevis, Ann Bain, Pat Prather, Jimmy Bain, Steve Bain, Billy Bain, Benson Parris, Diane Qualls, Deb Gray, Donna Davis, Stacy Carnal, and Tammy Cherry. Tommy Tallent, Mary Sue Vickery, and Becky Bain have been far greater and more loyal friends than I deserve. And that’s true too of Jana and Kevin Shelby.
And, I cannot forget to mention my newly rediscovered family, the children of my late brother Robert Joe Hays, Sr. His sons, Joe Hays, John Hays, and Jamie Hays. Their children, Amber, Morgan, Alex, and Katherine Hays. His daughter, Christy Dawn Langford, and her children—Ashley, Ryan, Sarah, and Caleb. And then there are the in-laws, Lisa Hays, Brad Langford, and Samantha Hays. Last but certainly not least, Shannah Vivian Farr, who was like a sister to me all those years ago.
To those who I have inevitably left out, I apologize. Their friendship and support are not diminished by their absence.
CONTENTS
GLASTONBURY
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
GLASTONBURY
In the Eighty-first Year from the Adventus Saxonum
The water is high again, transforming the marshlands into sea and turning this ancient place into an island. With gray mist coating the land like a thick fur, I often find my old feet taking me to the abbey, to the old cemetery next to the vetustam ecclesia, the original church. With my ninetieth winter upon me, I know more people buried here than those still aboveground.
One grave lies near unto the old church, aye, not far from the well. No marker tells of its occupant. Indeed, if you did not know it was there, it would seem just another bare plot of ground, a hollow place. But that is how he wanted it. Unmarked and therefore unpretentious.
I am not a brother of the abbey. Aye, I am not sure what I am, save an old, one-armed man in a world that does not value such. For a short while, many seasons past, I was a farmer, then soldier, then counselor to the Rigotamos, Arthur ap Uther. It is he who lies between the two stout pillars in the burial ground, interred with my cousin Guinevere. I come to this place often and sit on a rock, wishing that I could speak with them.
Though I am not a brother, my simple hut sits insi
de the vallum, the ditch that marks the abbey’s boundary. I take my meals at the abbot’s table; copy an occasional manuscript when my one hand is not too pained. The abbot still seeks my counsel when he treats with the pagan Saxons, who have now spread across our land like a vile disease.
On this day, I thought not of Arthur, of Guinevere, but of the man whose bones lie in the hollowed spot. I knew him, not well, but I knew him. He was a simple soul, too firm in his beliefs to allow for any change, and though he would have willingly died for his beliefs, it was not those that brought him to a violent end. Sometimes the best of us are brought low by the most worthless of reasons. So it was with him. But his was not the only death in that affair. And, it was not the first, but it became the most important.
I remember well the day on which his death began. Beyond the gods cursing our weather, it dawned without any portent of trouble. The most evil occasions often have the most innocent beginnings. That is the way of life. The water was high on that day too, and the Via Arturius, the road running from Castellum Arturius, was muddy, slowing the journey and tiring the horses. But such is not the proper way to tell the tale. And only I am now left to tell it. The others, Arthur, Guinevere, Bedevere, are all gone. But I must tell it in the proper order, to ensure that I leave nothing out. And, as with all days, it began with an awakening. . . .
CHAPTER ONE
Malgwyn!”
The voice came from the other side of that netherworld whence come our dreams. I ignored its call and rolled over, pulling my fur blanket tighter against me.
“Malgwyn!”
I resisted it still.
“Malgwyn ap Cuneglas!”
I pried one of my eyes open and squinted at Merlin, old and wrinkled, standing there with one of my finest tunics, dyed crimson, in hand. Owain, a little orphan boy who helped us with our tasks, stood next to him, holding my braccae and my caligae. A smile grew across my face though I wished only to frown. They looked like father and son.
“He is awake!” Owain cried. “Shall I get the water jug again, Master Merlin?” he asked with a smile that betrayed how much he would enjoy dousing me.
“Certainly you should, boy. He used to be a farmer, and farmers are renowned for rising early. I have a theory that rising early allows us to breathe the freshest air of the day. It is time that he went back to his old habits.”
Sensing the inevitable, I threw the fur back with my good arm and swung my feet around. “Which old habits are those, Master Merlin? Draining wineskins or killing Saxons?” In truth, I had done more than my share of both. After Saxons had killed my wife, Gwyneth, I turned from farmer to soldier, and at Arthur’s side, I reveled in the Saxon blood I spilled. Until I lost an arm at Tribuit. “What will you teach this scamp while I am away, Merlin?”
The old man, whose face resembled a dried grape, wrinkled it further in concentration. “He must learn more about herbs and how to use them to heal, Malgwyn. His education is wholly lacking. Now, come! Don your tunic and breeches. Arthur will be waiting.”
I wiped my stump of an arm across my eyes, hoping to clear away the cobwebs of sleep. “Arthur can wait. ’Tis only a two-hour ride to the abbey, and we are not expected before midday.”
“Aye, but I think the Rigotamos has a stop to make on the way,” Merlin said with a wink.
Pulling myself to my feet, I took the braccae and struggled to put them on. “Not on a formal trip,” I answered, with enough of an edge to let Merlin know that he was plowing in salted earth.
But Merlin had spoken the truth, I acknowledged to myself as I donned my linen camisia. Once, many moons ago, I was a farmer. But the war against the Saxons stole my young wife from me and made me a soldier in the command of Arthur ap Uther, now the Rigotamos, the High King of all Britannia; he was then but the Dux Bellorum, the leader of battles, for the consilium of lords that held our fragmented island together. My zeal for killing Saxons raised me in Arthur’s esteem, and I quickly became one of his lesser lieutenants. But a Saxon sword cleaved my arm along the River Tribuit and took my bloodlust away.
Arthur stanched the flow of my life’s blood and saved me, when I wanted nothing more than to die. He took me to Ynys-witrin, where the monachi bound my wounds, healed me, and taught me to write with my left hand, gave me something of a trade since farming and warring were lost to me. Death still seemed preferable to all, and I bore Arthur a grudge for my salvation, a grudge that blighted my days and sent my nights reeling into a waterfall of drink.
Ambrosius Aurelianus was then the Rigotamos, having taken office in the wake of Vortigern’s disgrace. It was Vortigern who had been betrayed by the Saxons. He had first hired them to counter the threat of the Picts, but the treacherous Saxons turned on Vortigern and swept beyond those lands granted them. The war thus created made the threat of the Picts seem but a minor annoyance, swatted away like a fly. The Saxons hungered for our land, and their appetite was voracious. In the confusion that followed Vortigern’s fall, Ambrosius, a native Briton, but one with deep Roman roots, rose to leadership. He brought with him a group of young, valiant warriors, including Arthur ap Uther.
“Oh, did Lord Arthur not tell you?” Merlin continued to chide me. “He has reduced the size of his party. Only you and Bedevere will accompany him.”
Owain tied the rope around my waist that held the braccae up. He jerked it tight, too tight, and I yelped. “You should not eat so much, Malgwyn.”
I whacked the back of his head for his insolence and turned back to Merlin. “Only two in his escort for a formal visit? What is Arthur thinking?”
Merlin laid my tunic on a rickety wooden bench. “I think that Arthur is reluctant to pay too much attention to Lauhiir. Should he be accompanied by all his nobles, then it could confer upon the little oaf an importance he does not deserve.”
Now, that was reasoning that I could understand.
As Owain strapped my iron-studded leather belt around me, I smiled at the memory of the young, oh so earnest, lord.
Arthur, son of both Rome and Britannia, was a soldier above all else, and he fought the Saxons with courage and guile. I fought alongside him, until that day at the Tribuit when a Saxon blade left me bleeding. By the time my wounds healed, Arthur had stanched the flow of Saxons into our lands and positioned himself to become the next Rigotamos.
After a time, I returned to the old village near Castellum Arturius, taking an abandoned hut as my own. Little Owain, a boy of the castle, neglected by his own people, became my assistant of sorts, helping me with little chores. And thus I remained, copying manuscripts for the monachi, drinking and whoring, until the night that Arthur came to me and laid the death of Eleonore in my lap, on the eve of Ambrosius’s retirement and the election of a new Rigotamos.
I grabbed my leather pouch and checked the contents, my flint and tinder for starting fires, an extra dagger, and a small piece of dark, heavy cloth. I had found it in young Eleonore’s hand, when she lay ripped apart in the lane.
Eleonore had been the sister of my wife, Gwyneth. After the death of their parents, while I lay drunk at Castellum Arturius, she turned to my brother for aid, becoming both a beautiful and willful young woman and a serving girl at Arthur’s table. Her body was found in the lane in front of Merlin’s house, ripped like a slaughtered deer. Arthur came to me to solve the crime. The affair was sordid and nasty, peopled with Druids, true and false, Saxons, and grasping lords, and more deaths followed the first. Among the deaths were those of young Owain’s parents, leaving him an orphan in a world bereft of charity. But by luck and a stubborn persistence, I weaved my way through the maze, helping to place Arthur on his throne and keep Merlin safe from the machinations of Mordred, and keeping my own head firmly atop my shoulders. After that, all was different.
I became Arthur’s counselor, and I moved into Merlin’s house near the main hall in the castle. I had left my daughter, Mariam, survivor of the vicious attack that stole Gwyneth from us both, with my brother, Cuneglas, when I went to war with the Sa
xons. On my return, I was too lost in shame and drink to retrieve her. She had grown up thinking that Cuneglas and his wife, Ygerne, were her parents. Only during the affair surrounding Eleonore’s death did she learn the truth, but even now she lived with Ygerne.
Though I was now responsible for my late brother Cuneglas’s family—he died of a head wound some days after the election of Arthur as Rigotamos—it was not appropriate for me to live with them, though I had a yearning that knew no end for Ygerne, my brother’s widow. And, oh, how I wished I could break down the fearful barrier in my own mind that kept me from joining Mariam and Ygerne. Guilt is a powerful foe.
Marriage between widows and their husband’s brothers was not uncommon in our land, but the guilt I felt for leaving my daughter with them, ignoring them, overwhelmed all other urges. Ygerne, kind and charitable soul that she was, took Owain too into her home, though he spent as much time with me and Merlin as with anyone. And we needed each other, the three of us. Merlin, whose mind sometimes wandered, needed companionship. Owain needed people who cared about him. I needed people who needed me.
I fingered the scrap of cloth with my good hand, in wonder at the role it had played in making all of that happen. It had led me to Eleonore’s killers and a better life; I kept it now for good luck.
“Well, do not expect to arrive at the abbey by the midday,” Merlin said in a mischievous tone, “formal trip or not.” The old devil delighted in aggravating me. One of the things that bound Arthur and me was my kinship with his mistress, my cousin Guinevere, who lived in a house just off the Via Arturius, the road to Ynys-witrin. The story was an old one and known by but a few. When very young, she had been with the sisters near Ynys-witrin. Headstrong and beautiful, she had joined the sisters to avoid a marriage she did not want. But while there, she met the young Arthur and fell in love with him and he with her. And their love led them to break the boundaries between the sisters and men, and they were caught in an embrace.
Divine Sacrifice, The Page 1