by Tony Hays
One of the merchants, a chubby man with greasy hair and beard, turned and eyed me with a fierce look, probably expecting something other than a well-dressed, one-armed man. One-armed, aye, one-legged men were not unknown, but almost none were well-to-do. Most were beggars, shunned by the people as cursed. His eye was quick enough to catch the Rigotamos and Bedevere in the distance though.
“My lord, how may I assist you?” His voice was as greasy as his hair.
“Why come you to Ynys-witrin? Is there some festival?”
“Have you not heard, my lord?”
“Heard what?”
The man’s eyes grew wide. “Why, I would think the Rigotamos’s councillors would have heard.” I was growing quickly tired of this man.
Placing my hand on the hilt of my sword, tucked snugly in my leather belt, I smiled down at him. “If I knew, I would not be asking. Do not test my good manners.” The world would not miss one less merchant, and insolence to Arthur’s counselors was insolence to Arthur.
His eyes grew wider still and he gulped. “No harm meant, my lord. Patrick is said to arrive from across the sea today. With Patrick and the Rigotamos both here, it becomes a festival.”
I groaned. And the merchant hurried to catch up with his wagon, splashing its way through the mud.
Patrick!
This trip was ill-fated from the start. Patrick, though some called him “Patricius,” was the last thing we needed. Born to a local official in the last years of the Roman time, he had been stolen by the Scotti across the water when he was but a boy. After many years, the stories told us, he escaped and made his way to Gaul where he became a priest and had quickly become one of the most famous and important. He allied with Bishop Germanus in the Pelagian matter and earned great respect among the clergy.
Pelagius. Would that I had never heard that name. Pelagius had been a priest of our lands who had aspired to greater rank in the church. I tried to remember what I knew of Pelagianism, what the monachi had said in passing.
He had been a man of our lands, a deeply religious man, who traveled far and wide, yea even unto Rome itself. He was a man of great stubbornness, a man of stout beliefs, who argued that all man needed, for eternal life, were good works, not God’s grace. Rumors abounded that he had gone far to the east, beyond the Holy Land. Said to be a tall, friendly man, he refused to accept certain of the church’s teachings. I do not profess to be a learned man of religious things. All I can say for certain was that Pelagius claimed that man had complete free will and could choose between good and evil for himself. If I understood correctly, God’s grace and the sacrifice of the Christ had little meaning according to Pelagius. His beliefs made little headway with the church fathers, and he was eventually forced to flee, some said to the far east.
Patrick owed much of his power to his support of Bishop Germanus in the Pelagian affair. When a young sacerdote named Agricola, the son of a British episcopus, had openly championed Pelagius, Germanus and first Lupus, and then Severus, were sent to end the heresy. Patrick, himself a much younger man than now, gave homage to Germanus, earning the great man’s thanks and garnering a great deal of power for himself. And he was not shy about displaying that power. A great busybody, he frequently interfered with lords and their followers. Fortunately, he spent most of his time with the Scotti and rarely visited our shores. Until now.
The signs were all against us. From the strange summons on the death of Brother Elafius, to the sudden appearance of Patrick, to the hidden threat posed by Lauhiir. The old people would have barred our departure, threatened us with the ancient gods. I pondered telling Arthur about Patrick as he and Bedevere drew near.
As if he were reading my mind, he hailed me. “What news, Malgwyn? Why this torrent of travelers?”
I grimaced. We were almost at Ynys-witrin and the word of Patrick’s arrival would not profit Arthur so late in our journey, so I decided to let him find out for himself.
“The country folk are turning your visit into a fair, my lord.”
Though he nodded and seemed satisfied with the answer, his eyes narrowed ever so slightly. I knew him too well and the look he gave me boded ill for the future. With that, we urged our horses into the stream of people in the lane.
The great Tor at Ynys-witrin was part of a chain of hills, of islands most of the year. Rainwater swelled the great channel to the north and the lowlands around Ynys-witrin flooded often. Only a narrow strip of land joined the island to the rest of Brittania, and it was across that strip that the Via Arturius led, right along the base of the little tor called Wirral, and on to the abbey itself. Though, at some times, the water reached up and closed that route as well, turning the great tor and the little hills into a true island.
In days past, the old folk said that the sea itself came up to the tor. When I was yet young, my father took me once and showed me where the Romans had built wharves for the big ships to come up the river. They were still there, at the edge of Wirral, though few ships made the journey anymore, and they were in poor repair.
As we drew close to the causeway that linked Ynys-witrin with the Via Arturius, I saw the silhouette of a single tree, a thorn tree, at Wirral’s summit. Coroticus swore that Joseph of Arimathea, he who gave a tomb for the Christ, came to this spot from Judea with twelve companions. Exhausted, he planted his staff and it took root, growing into the twisted, gnarled tree I could yet see. I knew nothing of the truth of it, but I know that it bloomed during the winter, around about the time that the old Romans held their Saturnalia festivals, and, as my father used to tell me, the Druids held one of their rites.
As I say, I could not judge the story’s truth. I only knew that the old tree on Wirral Hill always seemed lonely to me, and somehow sad. If this Joseph did indeed come here from the lands of Judea, many thousands of miles away, he must have been as the thorn tree, a solitary and lonely figure in his own way, twelve companions or not.
I breathed deeply, holding in my chest the smells of a place that was special to me in both good and bad ways. Never, in all of my travels with Arthur, had I found a place such as this. Wood smoke flavored the air, but somehow it mixed with another, purer, cleaner air and acted as a balm to my soul. Explanations for this were weak and assailable. Yet it was true.
The village of Ynys-witrin consisted of a single road that snaked around the gentle slope beneath the abbey and up the hill beside it. The houses were all wattle and daub, an oak frame with a mix of straw and mud and cow dung between the timbers. The odor in wet weather was not pleasant, and it left the road smelling like a herd of cattle. And this day was wet.
I saw quickly that word of our arrival and that of Patrick had truly spread. Our journey had taken but about three hours, and much of that because of the mud. It was a distance of but ten Roman miles. In drier weather it would have taken an hour less. A man afoot, avoiding the sloppiness of the road, could often travel faster, as fast as four miles to the hour if he were unburdened and disciplined in his march.
Merchants with their carts lined the sides of the roads and were tucked between the handful of houses in the village. They sold pottery, wine, cervesa, brooches, linen, and wool. Colorful banners of red, white, blue, green draped from their carts. The lookers were many, but I saw few buying. We had little coinage in our country, some old coins of Honorius and Valentinian that were still traded, and occasionally new coins from Rome and other places that came in through our western ports. Even the tin and lead mines were not really producing anymore, though one of Lauhiir’s charges had been to make the mines active once more. So, we traded as we could, used coins when we had them. Taxes were collected in both coin and produce. Aye, that was one way Arthur kept his table furnished. But of late, with the countryside recovering from the Saxon raids, times had been hard.
“You should have brought a proper escort, my lord,” Bedevere chastised Arthur.
“I did not know that there was to be a festival here. Now, I cannot risk sending either one of you for more troops
.”
“Do I detect fear in the Rigotamos’s voice?” Any man but myself, Kay, or Bedevere would receive a strong rebuke, but Arthur allowed us freedoms that others did not enjoy. But only in private, never before the people.
He frowned at me though. “Kings are but men, Malgwyn. And men die easily. I am not yet ready to enter the next life. Much is still left to be done in this one.”
I looked around, noting the people as individuals and not just a crowd. As I suspected, I quickly picked out a little figure lurking on the edge of a group pushing against a merchant’s cart. “Llynfann!”
Like a trapped rabbit, the man crouched, his head whipping quickly around, searching out the man who called him. He saw Arthur first and nearly bolted, but then his eyes caught me and my missing arm. Something of a twisted grin marked his face, and he strolled toward us.
“My lord Malgwyn!” With a cocky smile, he trotted over to us, bowing with great majesty to Arthur.
From the corner of my eye, I saw Bedevere reach for his sword, but my good hand held his. “This one is a friend of mine.”
“From your days hefting a wine jug?” Arthur grumbled. In truth, Llynfann looked more like an evil rat than a respectable citizen. But looks often belied the inside of a man.
“From the day that Kay and I kept Merlin’s head attached to his shoulders,” I shot back.
Arthur raised his eyebrows at that. “So this is one of Master Gareth’s men.”
Then it was Llynfann’s turn to show his surprise. And for a second, the little thief shrank a little, fright returning to his eyes. He was part of a band of latrunculi, living deep in the forests and hills between Castellum Arturius and Ynys-witrin. Gareth, their chieftain, and I knew each other from a nasty affair here at the abbey. My work in that matter had kept Gareth from the executioner’s axe. A friendship had been born at that time, and, in the matter of Eleonore’s death, Gareth and his men had come to my aid not once, but twice.
“Master Llynfann, I have need of you,” Arthur said. He had a way of making the humblest peasant feel as lofty as a prince. “Make your way to my fort at all possible speed. See the commander of my horse soldiers. Tell him that I require a troop of horse, immediately. Show him this, but then keep it for your own purse.” He reached into a little pouch hanging from his saddle and pulled out a bright gold coin. With a flick of his wrist, he tossed it down to the thief.
It was handsome payment for the errand. And it would ensure that Arthur’s command was heeded. Only the Rigotamos could afford to spend so much on such a task. Seeming an inch taller, Llynfann saluted Arthur and darted back down the road.
“You will never see your escort on this journey, I wager,” Bedevere predicted.
“Have faith, Bedevere. Even the most disreputable men can rise high if given the chance.” He laughed, slapping me on the shoulder.
“My thanks, my lord, for your confidence,” I answered sourly. “Come. Coroticus awaits us.”
The community of the brethren at Ynys-witrin was an imposing sight, nestled into the slope of a large hill. Surrounded by a circular vallum ditch topped with a timber palisade, the complex consisted of a number of austere wood huts grouped around the old church plus a larger dining hall and Coroticus’s own hall, a recent addition to the site, and a kitchen. Most of the smaller structures were cells for the monachi, but others housed the herbarium, scriptorium, and places for other work.
Such communities were relatively new in our island. Before, you might find an isolated hermit or two scattered here and there, on land not coveted by a lord, asking only to be left alone so that they might worship the Christ in their own way. But slowly, over time, the hermits gathered together, finding solace in forming a community. At this time, other than taking a daily meal together and contributing to the vegetable garden and other chores, they were free to pursue their own interests much of the time. Before Coroticus arrived to lead the group, they did not even pray together. Now, he had set some order, a meal and two prayers as a community, and I suspected he planned even more.
The old church at Ynys-witrin always mystified me. Always. A simple structure of wattle and daub, it was the centerpiece of the settlement. No one knew for certain who had built it or when. The monachi had old scrolls that said Joseph of Arimathea had built it all those years ago when he came to our island. But whether the old church we saw was the same as what he built, or just built on the same site, I knew not. That it had seen more seasons than Arthur, Bedevere, and myself combined was obvious.
Arthur was always after the abbot to repair it, but Coroticus argued that to do such would desecrate a sacred place. Arthur then suggested covering the entire structure with lead to protect it. Coroticus reminded Arthur that the lead mines were not yet productive. Such was one of the many disagreements between them. A burying ground lay near unto the church. Farther east sat the timber hall of Coroticus and the monasticvallum, the ditch and mound that marked the abbey’s boundaries.
Near unto twenty brothers lived at the abbey. Ynys-witrin was the most ancient of such conclaves. Beyond the vallum, a five-minute walk from the abbey and just north of the apple orchard, lay the community of sisters, a collection of some fifteen women who had pledged their lives to devotion and study of the Christ. This was the place where my cousin had first met Arthur; this was the community that cast her out in disgrace when their liaison was discovered.
But the leader of that group was dead now, and a new woman had been brought from Brittany. I knew little of her but that her beliefs were said to be somewhat strange, and Coroticus was said to have opposed her appointment. Yet, Dubricius, the archbishop for all of Britannia, desired her appointment and so it was done. I thought little more about the women as we passed through the gate into the abbey precinct. It seemed unlikely that we would have reason to visit with them on this trip.
“Welcome, Rigotamos, to Ynys-witrin!” cried Coroticus, wearing his rough brown robe and the plain silver cross, the badge of his office, dangling from a heavy chain about his neck. On either side of him were two of his primary assistants, but that was the whole of the gathering. Behind him I could see the brothers scurrying about the abbey grounds, going about their tasks.
“Malgwyn, Bedevere,” he continued. “Please also accept my welcome.”
“Coroticus, what was the hurry?” I asked. “We were to be here today at any rate, and, forgive me, but Elafius will still be just as dead.”
The abbot’s eyes hardened. He did not like anyone talking glibly of the dead, and he knew that I knew that. “I was not certain that Malgwyn would be with you. This is a situation that calls for his special talents. And it is a sin to mock the dead.”
“Enough, Coroticus,” Arthur interrupted, his dislike of the abbot marking every word. “You demanded Malgwyn. He is here. Show us this dead man.”
Coroticus swallowed deeply, and I saw the lump in his throat rise and fall. A man of just a few more years than I, he was the son of a powerful merchant from Aquae Sulis. His father’s money had bought him the abbot’s seat more so than his devotion to the Christ. But in many ways that was a good thing. Coroticus was raised in the world, unlike most of the brothers, and he understood things ungodly as well as those of God.
His manner gave me pause. “You truly think some violence has been done to Elafius?” I had imagined that Coroticus was just being cautious, or devious, for some reason of his own. Either was possible.
Coroticus ignored my question and turned his attention back to Arthur. “I thought, my lord, that you and I could meet while Malgwyn took care of that affair. And with Patrick here …” The abbot’s voice drifted off.
“Patrick?” Arthur whirled around to me. “Patrick is here?”
“You did not know?” Coroticus did not hide his surprise well.
I put on my most practiced innocent look and shrugged. “This is news to me.” In truth, I assumed that Patrick posed a bigger problem for Arthur than for me.
Coroticus dropped his head and shoo
k it. “ ‘Tis a long story, my lord. Perhaps it would be better if I explained it all to you while Malgwyn works, as I suggested.”
“No. What concerns you enough to bring Malgwyn also concerns me. Take us to the corpse.”
Arthur’s demand took me by surprise. I thought it would be as Coroticus suggested. They would begin their meeting while I looked into the death of Elafius. Though, from all I knew and had been told, it was almost certainly a normal death, if death can be called that.
“Of course, my lord. I will take you there myself.”
Coroticus and his assistants spun about and led us across the grounds, between the old church and the cells for the brothers, to a building I had visited before. The last time, I had gone to see the remains of the boy, the one murdered by Brother Aneirin.
Coroticus had just become abbot. I had been at the abbey for a few weeks, long enough to have met and assessed the brothers, yet not long enough for the great wound that was my arm’s stump to completely heal. A scream tore me from my bed one night, and I arose to find that a young boy, a new initiate, had been killed in his hut. All fingers pointed to a little thief named Gareth. Something in Aneirin’s eyes in earlier days and his insistence on Gareth as the culprit made me study the puzzle more closely. One night later, the little thief had escaped and Brother Aneirin was found dangling from a beam.
Though publicly Coroticus blamed Gareth, privately all about whispered that it might have been Aneirin. I had no need to speculate. I knew. I sighed. ‘Twas always sad for me to see death in so young a body, especially when it was by violence. It had been that incident, more than anything else, that had set me on my current path in life.
This building was longer and deeper than the cells. It served as a preparation house for the dead, before they were laid in their graves in the cemetery. Only a wooden table stood in its center. Little else marked it save some clean linen for wrapping the body and some dried flowers and herbs. The building was not often in use. The poor folk could not afford the fee for a service, so only the nobles and wealthy merchants made use of it.