by Anthony Hays
It had happened along the river Tribuit; we battled with an exceedingly large force of Saxons. I remember that it was a pretty morning, but the songs of birds did not grace our ears, rather the clank of metal on metal and that awful, indescribable sound of rent flesh. The enemy had nearly overwhelmed our brave force with their stout spears, lances, and swords, and a handful of us were surrounded on a grassy knoll that sloped into the river.
The more desperate our situation became, the more frenzied the thrust and parry of my sword. I slew twenty of the mongrel Saxons, but with only three of my fellows left, I realized this was the end of my vengeance, the end of my smiles, a reality driven home when a Saxon blade cleaved my right arm at the elbow.
I fell in the blood-dampened grass, my severed member lying with the hand toward me as if imploring me to join it, and waited for peace to come, for my chance to rejoin Gwyneth. But as darkness grew around me, I sensed someone fumbling at the stump of my arm, a leather strap tied taut to stanch the flow of scarlet. As I cried in protest, I was lifted up and placed on a horse; a voice whispered in my ear, “No warrior such as you will waste his life’s blood if I can prevent it.” It was Arthur.
For days I was delirious with fever and exhaustion, near to death I was told. I awoke two weeks later with the brothers of the small abbey at Ynys-witrin, that place also called Avalon. Arthur had left me in their care. The brothers liked Arthur not and he cared not for them, but they respected each other, and Arthur knew my wound would need careful attention if I were to survive.
Survive, what a hateful word.
When I awoke and realized what I had lost, the last thing I wanted was to survive. Gwyneth gone. The farm gone. Half an arm gone. I cursed Arthur for saving me, cursed him for not letting me die on the battlefield, bathing in Saxon blood. I struggled with learning to write my letters. The brothers had suggested the task as a way to keep my mind active, to strengthen my left hand and arm, and to give me a trade, that of the scribe. But for me it was just something to fill my time, to push out thoughts of Gwyneth and the Saxons and a war that had seen Arthur rise high while others lost everything.
The great man visited me once, without warning. “A good occupation,” said a voice from the door.
“Good for something that once was a man,” I had answered without turning, already knowing who it was, continuing to scratch the quill across the parchment.
“That is true only if you believe it yourself.”
“That is what you and your church say, and the Druids as well.”
“Yet, the brothers here have cared for you,” Arthur retorted.
“They are kind.”
“Perhaps you should learn some of that kindness.”
“For what purpose, my lord?” I spat out the words as though they were sour wine.
“In order to turn it upon yourself. You act as a man who has done some great wrong and cannot forgive himself. Be kind to yourself. You deserve it.”
“And what should I tell my men, the ones you dragged me from, the ones I should have died with, and betrayed.”
“That their time had come and yours had not. That God had more plans for you.”
“You are not God, my lord! But you are the archpriest of bastards and the spawn of vermin.” In any other time and place that would have earned me a quick death. But Arthur had merely laughed. I think back now and realize that my words were so venomous because Arthur’s were so true. And I think he knew that then.
“Learn your lessons well, and keep your mind sharp. I may have need of you again.”
He was gone before I could tell him to leave me alone forever.
But though I heeded his words about learning my letters, I kept my mind anything but sharp, except for one irritating puzzle at the monastery that drew me from my melancholy. I learned my letters, and with something of a trade, I returned to Castellum Arturius, intent on making what little money I needed to drink myself into the next life.
I scratched the stubble on my face as I considered Arthur’s expression and a burning that was building in my belly.
We had seen each other little from that time to this. Now, Ambrosius was the Rigotamos, and Cadwy and the rest were but memories, old men who bored guests with their tales of battles gone by, for the Saxons’ advance had been checked for a time. Ambrosius was readying to step down, and the cloak of leadership seemed poised to fall to Arthur. I watched from afar as he rose high in the esteem of the people, and now he sought election as the acknowledged overlord, the Rigotamos, the high king of the Britons. It was a time of relative peace as the Saxons stayed in the lands of the Cantii and left our western fields and villages alone. And I lived alone in my little hut, drinking, trying to forget I’d ever heard of Arthur.
Eleonore, such a pretty child. Dead, now. I had seen her about the castle in recent days, and she showed a love for life that knew no bounds. I could not imagine her cold and white with death, as I had seen her sister, my beloved. It was as if Arthur had brought death to my family again and had saved me to bear witness to it. With a great effort, I pushed myself to my feet and brushed Arthur’s hand from my shoulder, meeting him eye to eye and not yielding an inch. “Listen to me, my lord. Mark you this and mark it well: I will have the truth of it, no matter where it leads. Even if that crazy old fool did the killing. She will atone for another of her family who lies unavenged.”
My lord drew himself to his full height, fearsome as it was, his eyes blazing. “Do not forget who rules Arthur’s castle.”
“Do not forget whom you have sought out,” I countered. “I will not spare Merlin if he is the guilty one. And should your hand be seen in my inquiries, it will prove what Vortimer and the others are probably already whispering: that the great Arthur, who champions truth and justice and boasts the Cross on his shield, will conveniently forget such things when an old friend is in jeopardy. And that will force Ambrosius to reconsider his support for you.” I chose my words well and knew my target even better.
Arthur’s shoulders slumped, and he turned from me. “Of course, you are right. You are a hard man, Malgwyn. But the world needs such as you. Though if any citizen of this kingdom lies unavenged, Malgwyn, it is not Gwyneth. You repaid her death a hundred times over.”
“Her death will never be fully avenged.”
“Believe as you wish. Come, I’ll show you where it happened.”
“Has aught been touched?” I asked him brusquely, struggling into my shirt.
“No. I knew you needed to see her as she was found.”
Outside, people were still moving about in the lanes. This was no ordinary night. The entire consilium, the entire group of lords from all the tribes of Britannia, had come to Arthur’s castle for one purpose and one purpose only—to name a new Rigotamos, a new high king to govern over all.
Oh, the old Rigotamos was not dead. No, he breathed yet.
Most such lords seemed as the one before, one to pay tax to, like all the rest. But Ambrosius was different somehow. He seemed to care about all of the raids by the Saxons, once our allies. “Aye, he has a Roman bearing, that one,” my old man would say, leaning on his hoe at the end of the day. “Yep, him and that young one will stand us in good stead.” By “that young one” he meant Arthur, a young officer and tax collector for Ambrosius. “A good, stout Roman lad,” my father had said.
And when I met him one day, I saw that look in his eye, the one you knew you could trust above all else. His name was well known in our family. Rumors flew that he had been the reason that my cousin Guinevere was cast from the women’s community at Ynys-witrin, but few knew the truth of it. A few years later, when we had laid my old father in his grave and the Saxons turned on us, ravaging the land at will, I remembered those eyes, and it was those I sought after the devils butchered Gwyneth when they reduced our village to burning huts and bloodied bodies. That was the beginning; much came after.
Now, Ambrosius was stepping down, and that young officer, the one I had come to trust with my soul
yet now hated with all my heart, was said by some to be the next Rigotamos. He had repulsed the Saxon surge, with me at his side most of the time, and his reputation stood high across the land. Ambrosius, fat and rich, had retired to Dinas Emrys, leaving the administration of the various lords to Arthur. But he did not trust his consilium, as well he might not, and worried that some ambitious lord would conspire to kill him and claim the throne for himself. So, by retiring, he removed himself as a target and secured the major voice in choosing his successor.
By that time, I could care less, a one-armed drunk, saved from the grave by Arthur and despising him for it every day. He had made me half a man, and robbed me of my love for killing Saxons, that inner love that kept a smile across my face. No, I was no lover of Arthur.
It was generally assumed that this meeting of the consilium would confirm Arthur’s choice. Treachery was a way of life, however. By proposing Arthur as his successor now, and using his power with the consilium to secure the selection, Ambrosius could rest easy. I had to wonder at the conjunction of events— the consilium’s meeting and Eleonore’s death. Were they somehow connected?
Arthur’s castle was an old fort even then. An ancient village from Roman times was located to the northeast, and it was among those once-fine houses that some of the soldiers made their homes. Lord Cadwy established our fort on old Roman ruins near the land called Camel. The young Arthur would not take the bribes offered by the abbots and monks to ignore their levy. It earned him no friends among the priests, but the common man appreciated his fairness, and he rose to Dux Bellorum for our consilium. When Cadwy died, Arthur claimed his fort near Camel, changing its name to Castellum Arturius.
I preferred to be closer to the fort above and lived just beyond the outer gates. Years of use had beaten the main road into more a wide gully than a road, but Arthur had had the route cobbled in recent years. It led past my door and entered through Roman-style double gates, winding sharply up through the four defensive rings surrounding the fort. The massive rings were made of rock walls, dry-stacked in the old fashion, not mortared like Roman builders would have it, sixteen feet thick and reinforced by strong wooden posts every ten feet or so. Each ring of stone was surmounted by a stout wooden rampart. It would take a massive army or base treachery to defeat the castle’s defenses.
Guards stood watch at each ring, but they raised a hand and smiled as they saw Arthur with me. Had he worn his warrior’s regalia, they would have stood and saluted, but they knew that Arthur did not like ceremony when he dressed as a common man. Arthur could be a fierce and passionate warrior, and for this his men loved and trusted him. Trusted him enough that they accepted that he was a true believer in the Christ and carried symbols of Christianity on his shield, though even some of Arthur’s men wished for the return of the Druids. A good man he was, but no special friend of the clergy, and that endeared his men to him as well.
On top of the hill, on the high summit, sat Arthur’s great hall. The fletchers’ workshops, armorers, the great market, and other shops and timbered houses lay spread gloriously out below. A Roman-style barracks occupied the far end of the plateau from the great hall, at the terminus of the wide lane that ran the length of the fort. All was fresh and clean, the lanes all paved with local stone. When Arthur had taken residence at the fort, he launched an extensive rebuilding campaign, paving the lanes, repairing the buildings, and erecting a new hall for himself.
As we trudged along the lanes, we encountered few people at this hour, two past the midnight, but as we drew closer to Merlin’s hut, just east of Arthur’s hall, a circle of armed warriors stood guard while a group of young men pushed for a closer look.
The metallic smell of blood hung in the air, like that of a freshly dressed kill in the field. I pushed past the young toughs and through the circle of guards. Eleonore’s face was turned away from me, and I was glad for that. Her tender neck looked like Gwyneth’s, though, and the sight stole my breath from me. From behind I heard a sudden silence and the rustling of bodies as the crowd parted for Arthur.
I knelt before her and pulled her clothing back from her stomach. She wore an old-fashioned gown, called a peplos, with a Roman-type cut, favored by Arthur’s circle. A beautiful bronze brooch, shaped like a dolphin, fastened the gown at her shoulder. But when I saw what had been done to her, appreciation for her jewelry fled and I nearly spewed wine over her. Arthur had been absolutely correct. She was cut from between her breasts to her womanly parts and the flesh laid back. Blood lay splattered about her clothing in gobbets. I took her cold face in my hand and pulled it toward me, and the sight of that familiar face sat me back on my haunches as if I were truly drunk. I began to heave again as the bile flooded my throat. This time I couldn’t hold it back and my evening’s drink splashed all over the cobblestones. She had her sister’s face, almost my wife’s twin, and seeing her like this was like kneeling in my hut, desolate, so many moons before. For a moment, all around me disappeared, and I felt the rage and revulsion of Gwyneth’s death sweep over me again. It was as if I knelt over her still ravaged remains; it was as if she had died once more. My bile heaved and my heart tightened; until, that is, some wag behind me chuckled.
“His lordship not only brought a one-armed drunk to investigate the crime, but one with a weak stomach as well. Perhaps his spine is as yellow as his belly is weak.” I didn’t recognize the speaker, but I knew that he was a follower of one of the lords of the consilium, a young buck with less common sense than experience and of that not much at all.
I paused to see if Arthur would answer this insolence, but he stood curiously silent, perhaps waiting to see what I would do. I knew too that this was Arthur’s way of checking my worth. We had some old warriors about the villages and towns, missing hands, feet, but those who suffered such wounds mostly died from loss of blood or the stinking, choking putrefaction that followed. Those who survived, like me, were left to begging, pleading for a scrap of bread or a jug of wine, losing the last of their pride. A one-armed man served little purpose in any world. Farming required two hands as did most other jobs. Men with one arm had no purpose, no use it seemed. Arthur kept me breathing, gave me a trade to keep me from begging, but he could not return my arm. And now he would see how I had adapted to that loss.
I handled it swiftly, my anger at the child’s death venting on the heckler. With a speed that shocked all who saw, I grabbed the feeble throat of the boy and, in one move, lofted him off the ground and pinned him against the wall of Arthur’s hall. His eyeballs bulged as I remorselessly cut off his breath.
“As you can see, I need but one arm and one hand to stifle your childish mewlings.” I let him drop to the ground, and he clutched his throat. “Another word from you and you’ll be as dead as that girl.” Coughing and hacking, he scuffled away from me across the cobblestones. “Now, go, before I change my mind and end your miserable life.”
I spun around and fixed the crowd of soldiers with a stare. “Would anyone else care to test my spine?”
The young ones took a step back, without knowing it, it seemed. But not Vortimer, who stepped out so that I could see him. He and I had shared a battlefield or two in our time. Bearded with a thick chest, he had not the height of Arthur, or the honesty. The slyness in his eyes worried me, for I could not read him as well as I could read other men.
“Go on now, the rest of you! Get to your homes,” ordered the captain of the guard. The handful of others slowly dispersed, leaving me with the guards and Arthur, and, of course, Eleonore.
“Bring those torches in closer,” I directed. The glowing, dancing globes of light drew in about me until I could see all too clearly what evil the murderer had wrought on the poor girl.
She looked so different now, so unlike the little girl I had watched grow up. She had been but a child when Gwyneth and I were wed. The youngest of the children, she had been doted upon by her parents. Gwyneth often chided them for spoiling her, but both she and I did our share of the spoiling. Eleonore had
bright, inquisitive eyes, and when she visited us, as she was wont to do, she would climb into my lap and beg me to tell her stories. How she would listen to those stories, with those beautiful eyes sparkling. But the sparkle was gone now, fled with the fire of life that had once filled her, replaced with the dull glaze of death. I shivered and steeled myself for the task ahead.
The blood I had first noticed now seemed less marked. There was much, to be sure, but not as much as one would expect from such a wound. No great puddles lay on the cobblestones, and yet the knife had ripped through her body, severing all those great channels that carried her blood. A knife, a single-edged blade, lay beside her, and it was covered with her blood and bits and pieces of her flesh. The great, gaping wound could easily have been made with such a weapon.
Still, something bothered me. I brushed the hair back from her face and neck and saw immediately the knife had not killed her. Bruises showed on her pale neck, in the shape of fingers, and small splotches, where blood had burst to the surface and appeared around her white eyes.
Eleonore had been strangled to death.
No blood had sprayed the lane because her heart had quit pumping before her body had been ripped open. I had seen similar wounds on the battlefield, where a blunt blow to the head had killed, and a later sword thrust produced no great gouts of blood. Why would the killer have mutilated her so when she was already dead?
I motioned for the guards to draw closer with their torches, and, with my initial shock set aside, I studied the gaping wound more closely. A quick survey led me to realize two facts: the blood I had sought on the lane was not pooled in her body cavity, another sign that she had been dead when this butchery had been done, and something more disturbing than the poor girl’s identity could ever be.
Her heart was missing.
With all the will I possessed, I strengthened myself and slid my hand into her body, shifting lungs, stomach, but where the heart should have been were those great, severed tunnels and an empty spot. An old monk at Ynys-witrin taught me what I know of a person’s insides. It was another of those studies I performed to help forget my missing arm. Preparing the bodies of the brothers for burial had fallen to this old man. He had studied the human body carefully and knew it well. The other brothers were reluctant to touch a dead body, a superstition dating back to Roman days, but one no more necessary then than now. The dead are ever with us, but I had heard tell of priests and ritual purifications, necessities to be performed before a body could be touched. We worried little about that sort of thing in these days. Now, sitting back on my heels, I studied the blood covering my hand, drying into a mortal glove, and tried to think of some reason for this. Rape. Yes, I understood rape. But this was different.