Divine Sacrifice, The

by Hays, Anthony

I rolled it to the right and left and it moved too freely. Something caught inside his neck. His neck was broken. That was how old Elafius had died.

  “Who is this Rhiannon?” I asked, still staring at the pulp from Elafius’s stomach.

  “She is the new abbess. From Gaul,” Coroticus explained. “She has some uncommon views. Well”—he hesitated—“somewhat uncommon for our lands but common enough in Gaul.”

  I grunted. “Rhiannon” meant “holy” in our ancient language, an appropriate name for a woman in the Christ’s service. “And they would be?”

  “Might we move outside?” Coroticus asked uneasily. His was not a path strewn with bodies. That much was obvious.

  Our little troop left the cell and poor Elafius behind. Once in the gray daylight, the abbot seemed to return to a proper mood. In the distance, I could see the vallum, the ditch and fence that separated the abbey grounds from the surrounding lands. Monachi, brown-robed and ascetic, scurried about the grounds on some errand or other.

  “Rhiannon was used to the practice of women serving at the church services, giving the holy bread to those who would take communion. This is not something that we or the church in Rome accept, only in Gaul. And, yes,” Coroticus admitted, “Elafius argued with her over it, many times since her arrival.”

  “They argued violently, most violently, but especially the very worst yesterday eve after the meal,” Gildas interrupted. I had seen such as this little scamp before. Secure in their position by virtue of wealth or influence, they thought themselves above all. And their ambition knew no bounds.

  Arthur turned toward the young monachus. “The next time you speak without my bidding, young man, you will do so from a pit in the earth, filled with rats. Now, leave Master Malgwyn to his work.”

  I suppressed a smile. Gildas had several brothers, all older than himself, one of whom Arthur had personally killed. The others all led factions that would not join the consilium, and Arthur had no love for them. That Coroticus allowed Gildas into the abbey spoke more of his father’s purse than his politics.

  With some reluctance, I turned to Arthur and the abbot. “Elafius’s neck was broken. Of that, there is no doubt. How it came about, through design or by accident, I cannot say.”

  “How do you accidentally break someone’s neck?”

  “By trying to force his mouth open and pour yew extract down. His neck must have been broken as they poured the yew, for some of it made it down to his stomach. Dead men cannot swallow. The yew was meant to poison him. Yew will do that to horses and cattle. We know this well. Either those who held him were too rough or the old man’s neck was easily snapped.”

  “Are you certain of this?”

  I thought of the silver denarius. But I knew from experience that this was not the time to reveal it. “I am certain this is how he died. I know that more than one was involved. Perhaps the woman recruited others to hold him while she poured the poison down his throat. Perhaps it was an attempt to make her seem guilty. Either way, the woman bears questioning if nothing else.”

  “A-hem!” Coroticus cleared his throat. “She is the head of the women. She was sent here because of her great devotion to the Christ.”

  “She was sent here because of her family’s influence,” Arthur snapped. “When the troop arrives, send them to arrest her. Otherwise, not a word from any of you. Especially”—and he glared most effectively at Gildas—“you.”

  Arthur turned to me. “You have seen all that you require?”he asked.

  I nodded. “I have seen enough.”

  “Then join us as we confer with Patrick at the abbot’s great hall.”

  “And what of Lauhiir?”

  “He can wait. It will do his ego good.”

  With that we trudged across the muddy ground to Coroticus’s great hall, almost as large as Arthur’s seat at Castellum Arturius. The timber hall stood on a line with the old church to the east, beyond the cemetery and the cells of the monachi, which ran to the north, into the edge of the slope. From where we stood, we could look down slightly on the row of timber shops that marked the village.

  Coroticus fell in step with me, leaning in close to my ear. “Malgwyn, Rhiannon could not have killed Elafius.”

  “Why?”

  “She is a stout woman, I grant you, but she is not the murdering kind. Yes, she is strong in her beliefs, but she is gentle as a lamb.”

  “People, even gentle people, can be roused to violence if their beliefs are challenged strongly enough.”

  “Not she.”

  His strong support for the woman made me question his relationship with her. In those days, though abbots and monachi were forbidden the pleasures of the flesh, many ignored the prohibition.

  With that he fell into a silence as Arthur glanced back at us.

  “Coroticus,” he bellowed. “What temper is Patrick in?”

  “He is in a foul mood, my lord. Though ancient he may be, he is stout as a bull. And just as loud.”

  I chuckled quietly. Obviously, Patrick’s visit was as welcome to Coroticus as to Arthur. Patrick did not like leaders such as Arthur, Christian though they might be. He considered them all false believers. His hopes for bringing our peoples together lay not with kings or lords, but through the Christ. Yet even in that single purpose, the fathers of the church seemed to have no consistency and much controversy. It was no wonder I regarded them with a skeptical eye.

  “And what brings the great man to such an anger?”

  “He has heard there is Pelagianism among us. And once he arrived here, Gildas whispered in his ear about Rhiannon and her Gallic beliefs in the divine sacrifice.”

  “Is it not enough, Coroticus, to worship the Christ and his Father? Must you always be fighting so fiercely over such nonsense?”

  Shock and amazement rolled across the abbot’s face. “Malgwyn! ’Tis not nonsense. These are very important affairs.”

  By then we were approaching the great hall, and Arthur was looking about for me. I saw Bedevere standing close by, whispering in the Rigotamos’s ear, probably warning him about some part of Patrick’s rage.

  Lucky men, we were. Though not enough time had yet passed for our little thief to make his way to the castle, I scanned the area for any sign of our reinforcements. None. I took a deep breath before drawing abreast of Arthur. We had but ourselves to defend against the roaring lion.

  “My lord Arthur!” Patrick’s cry echoed off the wooden walls. He stood, without help, though he looked ready to topple over at any moment. That much, I knew, was an act. Patrick, it was said, was stronger than any two men, but affected frailness as the situation suited him.

  Arthur, tall and strong, bowed before the old man, using his shield with its red cross, to hold himself up. “I give homage to the great Patrick, defender of the Christ, and keeper of all that’s holy.”

  This took the old man aback. He had a mole on his right cheek and sharp, piercing black eyes. He recoiled, as if offended, but we all knew he wasn’t. “I am touched by the Lord Arthur’s praise, and surprised by it. My feelings about such lords are well known.”

  Another man would have hazarded a sharp sword with that remark, but Patrick was not an ordinary man. His rise from slavery among the Picts to his training as a presbyter to his return to the land of his enslavement had made him more than a legend; he was a symbol to Christians from Rome to the far northern regions of our island.

  Arthur rose to his full height and bowed his head. “You have not met me, episcopus. I defend the Christ with more than words. I defend him with action.”

  I glanced at Coroticus; he was relieved that Patrick’s attention was focused on Arthur.

  “Then you are different from your fellows. That much is certain. But do you speak only words, or do you speak with a sword?”

  I watched as Arthur took the old man’s measure. “Which would bring me the greatest esteem in your eyes?”

  Patrick smiled. “So, you seek to say only what will please me?”

&nbs
p; “Is that not what you expect?” Arthur circled the room, taking his time before continuing. “I speak when that is the weapon needed. I pull my sword from my belt when it is called for. My sword becomes more and more necessary as the Saxons continue to invade the western lands of the Durotrigii and the Dumonii and the other lords of the consilium less ruly.”

  I noticed a tightening of the lips on the fat little monachus Gildas. His brothers were among those unruly lords. At least the living ones were. But his father’s wealth brought him no esteem with Patrick, who had sacrificed much to serve the Christ, so he kept his counsel and said nothing. Perhaps he was not as stupid as I thought.

  Patrick saw us not. He was focused on Arthur, nodding in what I took to be approval. “I see that the stories they tell of the Rigotamos are, at least, partially true. I am well pleased. When I wrote to the soldiers of the tyrant Ceredig, it seemed that I was talking to myself. Bloodthirst. Greed. Those are the only things true tyranni understand.”

  My stomach began rumbling. Apparently, Arthur and Coroticus had eaten while I was seeking answers in the matter of Elafius. I was about to go off to the abbot’s kitchen and see if any scraps were to be had when Coroticus asked the question we all wished answered.

  “Is that why you are visiting us, episcopus? To meet the Rigotamos and judge him?”

  Patrick smiled and shook his wrinkled old head. “Matters of greater consequence than yet another tyrannus have brought me on my journey. The monachus Elafius sent me a message of a disturbing situation here at Ynys-witrin. It seems that Pelagianism has returned to haunt our church. And now, the young monachus Gildas tells me that a Gallic woman is taking a role in the divine sacrifice. This is an outrage and against our beliefs.”

  “Why did you not seek out our episcopus, Dubricius, himself?” I spoke for the first time. “It was he who brought her here.”

  The old head reared back in surprise at my question. “Who are you to question me?”

  “Malgwyn is my counselor,” Arthur interrupted.

  “And mine as well,” Coroticus hurried to add.

  I was pleased that they spoke. Their recommendation gave me at least some standing in an unfamiliar situation.

  “You are Malgwyn the scribe?”

  “I have been many things in my life. Scribe is one of them.”

  Patrick nodded. “I have heard of you. Travelers tell me that you helped stem the rising tide of the Druids, that you helped hold the people for the Christ.”

  I shook my head. “I unmasked false Druids only. My intentions and motivations had little to do with the Christ.”

  As he cocked his head at this honesty, a lock of Patrick’s white hair fell across his wrinkled forehead. “Your earthly intentions and motivations count for little. The Christ guides us to do his work through our hearts.”

  I wanted to laugh, but I knew this was the wrong setting. “As you wish.”

  Patrick nodded as if this were exactly what he expected, total acceptance of his word. He narrowed his eyes and scanned the gathering. “Now, bring unto me the monachus Elafius, so that we might explore this problem of Pelagianism. I do not see him here.”

  “You know Elafius, episcopus?” Coroticus asked, as surprised as the rest of us.

  “Of course. Elafius is the son of a neighbor of ours from Bannaventa. He is a childhood friend of mine. Do you think that I would abandon my mission so readily and hurry here on just any complaint? I trust Elafius as I would my own blood.”

  “Did Gildas not tell you?” I had to deflate the little monachus, though I knew that Patrick would not take it kindly. “I would think he would have told you immediately.”

  The old bishop looked at me, again surprised. “What is the matter?”

  “Elafius is dead.”

  Coroticus and Arthur were not happy. Bedevere hid a smile behind his gloved hand. That Elafius had been in secret correspondence with Patrick about problems at Ynys-witrin brought yet a new element to the old monachus’s death. It gave me much to ponder. But if Patrick came to see Elafius, he should know that his correspondent and, it now appeared, old friend was dead by someone’s hand.

  “Is this true?” Patrick spun quickly, belying his age. Coroticus was red faced. Obviously this was the first he had heard about Elafius writing Patrick or of Elafius knowing Patrick.

  “It is true that Elafius is dead. Of Pelagianism at Ynyswitrin, I know nothing.”

  Something in Coroticus’s face made me doubt his words. I had never seen him lie; at least I had never known that he was lying. He had withheld information from me before, and I knew he could quibble, but this time, the timbre of his voice shuddered just a little. His eyes grew a bit too large. That he was lying, I was certain. About what he was lying, I had no idea. Too many possibilities floated about the hall.

  “With all respect to you, episcopus, but we are not in your care. Your lands are across the waters with the Scotti. Problems at Ynys-witrin belong to me and to our bishop at Castellum Marcus. From whence springs your authority to hold sway over the monachi of Ynys-witrin?”

  The question was bold. Although Coroticus was right in asking it, few men would have had the courage to question Patrick’s authority anywhere on any issue, such was his renown. Who among us had sacrificed as much as Patrick, the son of a decurion, stolen by Scotti raiders and made a servus? Then, after he broke free, he devoted his life to the Christ, returning to save those who had enslaved him. Such sacrifice comes not from a common man. And with those sacrifices he had purchased great power in the church, more power than all the coins of Honorius could buy.

  Which brought to mind the denarius in my pouch. I ceased listening to the argument between Coroticus and Patrick. It took no great wisdom to know that ultimately Patrick would win. Our episcopus, Dubricius, was a man of good family and little spine, except one for maintaining those things that his station afforded him. He enjoyed the finer things of life and kept his hall near that of Mark’s in the far western lands. Wines, pottery, such luxury goods were still imported there and still relatively cheap.

  No, Coroticus was fighting a desperate battle against overwhelming odds. I would counsel immediate surrender. Patrick would have his way.

  The denarius in Elafius’s cell was another matter. I wished to draw it from my pouch and look at it, but knew that I could not. Now was not the time to tell Patrick that not only was his boyhood friend dead, but that he had broken his vow of poverty. My mind was then drawn back to my growling belly until one voice rose above all others.

  “ENOUGH!”

  Arthur. The Rigotamos. Weighing in at last. He stomped between the feuding clerics and planted his caligae firmly on the floor. “Coroticus, you know that even though you have your own bishop, should Patrick consult with him, the outcome would be the same. Patrick would be empowered to investigate the matter.”

  “And,” I added, more to see the reaction than anything else, “the more you object, the more it appears you have something to hide.”

  Then, something strange happened. A great relief seemed to come over Coroticus, as if he were unburdened of some heavy load. I watched as the lines on his face almost literally disappeared before me. Coroticus had been protecting something or someone, and now he had been freed of that chore.

  “I bow to the wisdom of the Rigotamos, and”—he turned and faced Patrick—“out of respect for all that you have gone through, episcopus. I will not obstruct your investigation. I must advise you, however, there are certain questions I may not answer because I gave my word as abbot and as a man of God.”

  Patrick stood. “This I can accept, because there are many confidences I hold which I would not be willing to reveal. Take me to the monachus Elafius. I would see his corpse.”

  “He is being prepared for burial, episcopus,” I said quickly. Patrick would not approve of my cutting his body open. “Take a little rest, and he will be ready for you to view him.”

  The old priest started to argue, but I think it was more out of habit th
an for any specific reason. After a moment he nodded. “My journey has been a long one. I will go to my quarters. In the evening I would speak to those monachi close to Elafius.”

  “As would I,” I said.

  Patrick raised an eyebrow at me.

  “Malgwyn is inquiring into Elafius’s death at my request, episcopus,” Coroticus said. “The Rigotamos agreed to let him serve as my iudex in this matter.”

  Arthur smiled. He liked it when others used the old Roman titles as did he. Arthur’s father had also been a decurion, like Patrick’s. Decurion was a title that covered a number of offices with a number of duties.

  Now, confronted by two powers of the church, Arthur was out of his element, and he needed to establish himself as a force. This marked his first encounter with Patrick, and he needed the old man to leave with a good impression of him. Arthur believed in the Christ too strongly to be classed with the other tyranni.

  “No problem of the church goes unheeded at my court,” Arthur assured the old bishop.

  Patrick rose, his simple robe catching on the stool. He pulled it free with no little effort and patted Arthur on the arm. “I am pleased with you, for now, Rigotamos. I will arise in time for the evening meal.”

  We all watched as the old priest shuffled from the hall, his two assistants flanking him.

  Suddenly, the trio was brushed aside as three soldiers burst into the hall.

  “My lord Rigotamos!”

  The troops had arrived.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  As Patrick and his men collected themselves and departed, with Patrick mumbling something about “typical tyranni,” Arthur’s three soldiers strode farther into the hall, their swords clanking from their belts.

  They were three of the younger soldiers—I could not recall their names—excited, by the looks of them, to be called to the Rigotamos’s personal service. Three of a kind, I thought, all lusting for the glory and riches of battle, unaware that Arthur hoped his fighting days were behind him.

  “We are here, my lord,” the tallest of the trio said.

  Arthur barely glanced at them. He was in deep thought about something.