The Divine Sacrifice

by Tony Hays

  “You should be more tolerant,” Patrick chided me, sipping from his own beaker.

  “You are different, much different than your reputation. Aye, than your actions yesterday would attest.”

  The old episcopus winked at me and grinned. “A leader of the church must be stern when necessary. It is far easier to become more pleasant later, after one has established a stern, demanding manner.”

  I smiled at the admission. “One thing I do not understand. You were made a servi by the Scotti for six years, and yet you went back to work among them. Why?”

  Patrick stretched his legs out and massaged his knees. “After I had made my way home, I resolved to never leave again. But I was troubled by visions. I will not bore you with the details, but I soon understood that God was calling me to His service. I had not been religious before, but when I realized that God was speaking to me, I answered His call. I understood too that He wanted me to return to Hibernia and convert the Scotti. But understand me, Malgwyn. I did not do these things for God. It was a gift of God that I could do them.”

  “Episcopus, why would your God or any god send a man back to preach justice and peace to a people who had held him captive? I am sorry, but the miracle to me is that you survived your return at all.”

  Patrick leaned over and patted my knee. “My God protects me and keeps me safe. He protects you as well.”

  I did not like all of this talk about gods. It made me squirm in my seat. Lifting my half-arm and waving it at him, I grunted, “Well, He did not mind His business on at least one day.”

  Half expecting Patrick to begin to chastise me for blasphemy, he laughed a belly-deep chuckle. Since he had confided in me, it was as if his soul were lighter and his worries fewer. Unfortunately, at that moment Coroticus walked in.

  For his audience with Patrick, the abbot had chosen to wear his formal robes, rimmed with fur. His fingers held gold and silver rings, and the cross around his neck was not the plain one he normally wore, but a stone-encrusted, golden one that I suspected he had ordered specially made.

  Patrick grimaced at Coroticus’s apparel. In my short acquaintance with the episcopus, I already understood that he was a simple man, prizing simple things. The richness of Coroticus’s garb was not sitting well with my new friend.

  “You asked for me, episcopus?” Coroticus was all innocent inquiry.

  Patrick immediately straightened and cast a forbidding look at the abbot. “Why did you send Gwilym away today?” Without preamble, he launched straight into the matter.

  In the pause which followed, I could smell the hint of cooking pork drifting up from the kitchen. Mixed with herbs, it flavored the air with its delicious scents. But I could not enjoy the smell. My friend Coroticus had lied to me. I did not understand why.

  “May I sit?”

  Patrick nodded, and Coroticus adjusted his robes and lowered himself onto the chair.

  “Why did you send Gwilym away from the abbey today?” the episcopus repeated.

  The abbot did not answer quickly. He looked away for a moment, toward the timber walls of his hall. “By what right, episcopus, do you ask me such questions? This is not your bishopric. You have no say in how I conduct the affairs of my abbey.” All of this he said without looking at either of us. Indeed, his voice held a distant, almost whispering quality.

  Patrick studied the abbot carefully. He glanced at me. Coroticus’s voice had the sound of a condemned man, a man resigned to his fate. “You are correct, abbot. But Malgwyn holds Arthur’s commission as iudex. Do you deny his right to ask questions?”

  Then Coroticus turned and looked at us both. “If I believed that such questions were valuable to his inquiry, I would not challenge his right. But, as Gwilym has not been formally accused, I saw no reason to limit his movements. And, as the episcopus knows very well, if Gwilym did commit this act, he is protected by this sacred precinct.”

  “He is protected as long as he remains within its bounds,” Patrick corrected him.

  Sanctuary. It was an ancient right. Anyone could seek sanctuary within a religious precinct. As long as they stayed within that precinct. They were protected from harm, and woe be unto the man who violated this right.

  “Where did you send him? What village?”

  “I will not tell you, Malgwyn. And no one else here knows. I respect you greatly, but in this matter, I do not trust you to abide by the rules of sanctuary. Your obsessive pursuit of such affairs might cause you to ignore such traditions.”

  “And so you will keep him from me? Why in the name of your God did you send for me? You have known me for years! You know me!”

  The pain on Coroticus’s face could be seen, almost touched. “When I called for you, I did not know what I know now. I reacted without thinking.”

  “What do you know now?”

  “I cannot tell you.”

  “Why not?” I was beyond frustration. The conversation went in more circles than a wagon wheel.

  “Was it in a confessio, abbot?” Patrick asked softly.

  He nodded.

  “He cannot tell you, Malgwyn,” Patrick said to me. “He said it in confession to Coroticus. Such confessions cannot be repeated.”

  I turned and motioned to the soldiers. “Bring Bedevere to me as quickly as you can.”

  Coroticus’s eyes shot to me. Patrick’s reaction was somewhat slower. “What are you going to do, Malgwyn?” the old episcopus asked.

  I stood, my half-arm hurting up into my neck. “Fighting with the church is not something I wish to do. I could let all of this go. But you, Coroticus, were the one that brought me into it. And now that that is done, I will not stop. I will have Bedevere set guards around the abbey precinct and put patrols out to search the region. If I cannot take Gwilym here, I will take him before he returns. Then, I will find out what has happened here and what you are hiding, my lord abbot.”

  “Malgwyn, I beg you. You do not know what mischief you will bring down on us!” Coroticus too was on his feet.

  “Then tell me who or what Gwilym is!”

  He dropped his head and turned his down-stretched hands palms up, as if in supplication.

  But before I could answer, I heard the odd clink of mail. Bedevere had arrived.

  “I came upon your call, Malgwyn.” He glanced at Coroticus and Patrick. “How may I serve you?” I realized then that in some ways I had always underestimated Bedevere. In a single glance, he took in the situation and addressed me in a manner intended to aid my task. No pause. No haughty expressions.

  “Lord Bedevere, the monachus Gwilym has been sent away to a neighboring village.” I threw a grimace at the abbot. “I need him, and I need him before he can arrive here and claim sanctuary. Please post guards around the vallum. Arrest him before he crosses into the abbey precinct. Send patrols out to search the surrounding villages and countryside.”

  “And when we catch him?”

  “Hold him in the village. Let no one near him.”

  Bedevere nodded. “As you order.” He did not question me; he did not challenge me. Bedevere nodded sharply and spun around, shouting orders to the soldiers already there.

  “Malgwyn,” I heard Patrick say. “Forgive my words to you yesterday. For all that you may have been, you are now a different man. I suspect the death of my old friend Elafius will not be a mystery for very much longer. Arthur has chosen well, and my opinion of him is changing too.”

  Coroticus said nothing, but the expression on his face said everything. He was a most miserable man.

  “Be of good heart, Coroticus. I have not had you arrested yet.” I tried to sound friendly, but the abbot was not interested. If ever I had seen a man at the point of collapsing, it was Coroticus.

  He stood up then and straightened his robes, his fingers adjusting the massive cross to the center. “I will go and see to our evening meal and to the preparations for Elafius’s burial.”

  “As you like,” I said. In truth, I felt strongly that once we broke down this wa
ll surrounding the old monachus Gwilym we would know how Patrick’s friend died.

  “Will he be sent to Bannaventa Taburnaie? We were born there,” Patrick said.

  Coroticus shook his head. “Elafius once told me that he wished to be buried here, where he had made his home these many years. We will bury him next to the church. I have already set men to digging his grave and the carpenter to building his coffin.”

  “May I now view the body?” His words reminded me that we had already objected once.

  “Umm, I—” I began, but a wave of the hand from Coroticus stopped me.

  “Of course, episcopus, whenever you like.”

  CHAPTER NINE

  We all left together, Coroticus walking next to me. Apparently, he had had his men clean and dress Elafius for burial, obscuring my earlier explorations. He seemed more comfortable now that he and I were both keeping secrets from Patrick.

  Preparations were further along than Coroticus knew. As we approached the building where Elafius lay, all of the brothers save Gwilym and Coroticus were present. Rhiannon and the women had wisely stayed away. The day had dawned to a clear sky, but gray clouds now blotted out the sun and I could taste rain on the wind.

  I saw first the wooden coffin built for the old monachus. In our simple village, we mostly lined our graves with stone. Wooden coffins were seen as a rich man’s vessel. Death was too common among the villagers, from age, disease, accident, and violence.

  Four of the brothers were busied with placing the white-shrouded Elafius in his coffin. They chanted something in Latin as they hoisted their burden to their shoulders. The remaining monachi formed a line behind, young Gildas at the front, and followed their departed brother to the grave opened near unto the old church.

  We followed along the muddy path, falling in behind the procession. Gildas recited something in Latin, but his voice was low and cracking, and the wind had risen and whispered around the wooden cells.

  For some reason, memories of my days here returned to me, and to my surprise, they were surprisingly pleasant. In past times, I had remembered those days as dark and unending, the darkest of my life. But watching the brothers lay their fellow to rest, I suddenly recalled the kindnesses they had accorded me. Aye, even Elafius, annoying as he had been. I recalled the old man finding me one day, in the midst of frustration over learning to do without my right arm. His eyes softened in kindness, he gently patted me on the back and said, “Patience, my son. You lived many years with both of your arms. It will take you time to learn to live with one.”

  And now, another part of my past was being buried. The gray sky and the somber occasion darkened my mood like nothing in a long time. But as Patrick moved forward, I stayed by his side. The brothers laid Elafius’s coffin on the ground, the top not yet affixed. My companion knelt down and studied his old friend’s face as the others withdrew a step or two out of respect.

  “He seems so old, Malgwyn,” Patrick said softly. “But I still see the boy I once knew, hidden behind all those wrinkles. Do I look that old?”

  I did not answer. I knew Patrick was suddenly feeling the weight of his years in a way that he never had before. He was feeling the approach of his own death. I watched as his eyes closed and his lips moved in a soundless mumble. I knew not whether he prayed for Elafius’s soul or his own, and, in truth, it did not matter.

  He began to rise, stumbled, almost falling, but I moved to catch him with my good hand. Patrick looked up at me with a whisper of a smile, patted and then softly squeezed my hand, and rose to his feet. I could feel a tremble along his old frame and so I kept his arm fast in my grip.

  “The day is passing us quickly, Malgwyn,” he said, leading me away from the burial. Coroticus looked at us questioningly as we brushed by him. I am certain that he thought Patrick would stay, but the episcopus had said his good-byes. Watching the coffin lowered into the ground and the sod covering old Elafius would not provide him an end to the story or to his own grief.

  Behind us, the chanting began again and Gildas’s voice grew stronger. I took the lead then and guided Patrick back to his wooden cell. We sat on the wooden stools we had occupied before, and Patrick stayed silent for a long while.

  When I had tired of contemplating how the wisps of smoke from the abbot’s kitchen hung in the heavy, moist air, I looked to my colleague. He had aged twenty seasons in as many minutes. His wrinkles, already deep as ravines, deepened yet more. Those brown eyes of his had retreated farther into his skull. His skin seemed stretched tautly over bone, and even in the dull light I could see flakes of dead skin peel away from Patrick’s forehead as if they were trying to flee.

  “ ‘Tis almost time for the evening meal, episcopus. Why do we not delay our work until tomorrow. By then, Bedevere’s men will have found Gwilym and we may question him and, hopefully, reveal the truth of Elafius’s death. Until then, you may sup and rest. It has not been your easiest day, I suspect.”

  He looked up then, with that same soft smile. “You judge well, Malgwyn.Tomorrow, once we conclude our discussion with Gwilym, my aides and I will be off to Castellum Marcus. I believe that once we have talked to the brother, you will have no trouble discovering the truth of this matter.” Patrick paused, and I could almost see the new thought entering his mind. “Malgwyn?”

  “Episcopus?”

  “Will you come to Castellum Marcus after the affair with this Gwilym is finished?”

  “But why, Patrick?”

  “I would have you serve as my advisor as I appear before the commission.” His voice held no hint of mischief or laughter. He was all sincerity.

  “Episcopus, I … Why would you want me? I am no sacerdote, no presbyter. I am not learned in Christly matters. And I abhor that act for which you stand accused. I grant that you were young and much has happened since, but I would seem the worst possible advocate.”

  “Because you are a man for whom logic is a passion. Your reasoning is not driven by emotion. When my opponents argue their charges against me, you will be able to find the flaws without allowing the alchemy of religion to cloud your judgment.”

  I drew back as if bitten. “Episcopus! You called religion ‘alchemy’!” Even I knew that this was next to blasphemy.

  Patrick smiled at me and patted my shoulder. “Why, Malgwyn! Someone else might think you believed in the Christ. Some would like to ascribe the powers of the alchemist to sacerdotes and presbyters, but the Christ is not about their ramblings.” He paused again. “You are a good man, and short though our friendship may be, I have come to trust you as I have few men in my life.”

  I could read the truth of his statement in every line on his face. This was not a man who easily trusted anyone. And after all of those years he had spent among the Scotti, I could readily see why. They were a cruel and vicious people who preyed on others. Much of their wealth came from raiding our coasts, stealing our people and our produce, our tin shipments. Men such as Patrick indeed risked their lives by proposing to convert the Scotti from their pagan ways to those of the Christ.

  “What of my work here?”

  “I suspect that by morning, Lord Bedevere will have discovered Gwilym. By noon we will have arrived at an answer to the riddle of Elafius’s death. Then, I feel certain that Lord Arthur will release you to assist me. It will only be for a short while.” Patrick had neatly covered every possibility, though I strongly suspected that we would be searching for Elafius’s killer this same time on the morrow.

  Despite that, I said the only thing I could. “It would be my honor to serve as the episcopus’s counselor in this affair. And should the murderer of Elafius prove that simple to ferret out, I would consider it a great honor to offer my humble services to you.”

  “And I,” the deep voice of Arthur thundered up the lane, “would be honored to give him leave to serve as your counselor in the meeting at Castellum Marcus.”

  Arthur strode up the path, his crimson robe, which was pinned at his shoulders, flowing behind. Chain mail clad his
chest and a dagger marked his belt. His impressive sword dangled at his hip.

  “You look prepared for war, my lord. Have we missed some news?”

  Arthur sighed. “No, I’ve been listening to the complaints from local merchants. I find this garb brings more cooperation.”

  “With what?” Busied as I was with the matter of Elafius, I had lost track of Arthur’s work.

  “Goods stolen from merchant ships have begun appearing among the lands of the Dumnonii.”

  “Pirates.” I shrugged. “You can never completely stamp them out, and they will find merchants to sell their wares. In truth, ‘tis hard to blame the merchants.”

  “True, but for men dealing with pirate scum they seemed awfully nervous.”

  “Do any of them owe the pirates aught?”

  “They say no.”

  My eyes narrowed. “That is odd.”

  “And not so odd, Malgwyn. How goes it with you? Are you ready to resume your duties? After assisting the episcopus, I mean,” he added hurriedly with a hint of a wink at me. I smiled.

  “Bedevere is organizing a search for the monachus Gwilym. I believe when we locate him that Elafius’s death will become clear.” Despite my pleasant, though frustrating, interview with Gwilym earlier, I felt strongly now that he was the culprit. All else he said was simply meant to turn us from the scent. The why of it? Tangled beyond redemption in some mystic religious argument, I supposed. My day with Patrick had taught me how seriously the church took such issues as seemed minor to me.

  “Tell me, Lord Arthur, something of how you have your consilium organized.”

  Such pleased Arthur, and so I left them talking to find Bedevere encamped at the abbot’s kitchen giving orders and receiving reports as the men hurried about, pausing for an occasional cup of pulsum, the vinegar-laced drink soldiers loved.

  “What word, Lord Bedevere? Have your men found my wayward monachus yet?”