by Anthony Hays
“I will not argue with you. Yes, I was watching from the kitchen, amusing myself by watching all those pompous lords. I saw Eleonore serving Arthur, and I saw your scowl when he touched her on the back.” Speaking straight was the only way to treat with Guinevere. She would have it no other way.
She laughed then, stopped stroking her hair. “For a man worried about keeping his cup filled with wine, you were very thorough in your watching. That is so like you.”
I did not respond.
“So, you want to know if I could have done this thing?”
“I want to know if you can shed any light on it. And yes, I must ask that question as well.”
“I know that Eleonore would have bedded Arthur in the blink of an eye if he had given her a sign. Stop, Kay!”
My companion had made to protest, but Guinevere’s sharp rebuke quieted him.
“I know you loved her, Kay,” she said gently. “And, in truth, she was not a bad girl, just willful and stubborn. She understood what power her beauty gave her over men, and that was a knowledge she would have been better off without.” Her tone was marked with a wistfulness, a sadness, as if Guinevere might have been speaking about herself at a younger age.
“Yet you had no fear that she would succeed with Arthur?” Guinevere was certainly a beautiful and alluring woman, a woman of special qualities. But Eleonore had her own charms, it seemed. I had known Kay for many years; he was not given to falling in love. Like myself, he had seen too much blood wetting the grass of too many pleasant glens to harbor such romantic notions.
For his part, Kay stayed silent.
“No,” Guinevere answered finally, “Arthur’s nature is one of constancy; our bond is too close. He cleaved to her, but as a father would to his child. No more, no less.”
“But you didn’t like it?”
“I thought she used her place in his affections for her own good.”
“Do not all women?”
Kay’s face, so solemn and stern after Guinevere’s rebuke, broke into a smile at that. Guinevere scowled at me, much as she had scowled at Eleonore last evening.
“As you say, Malgwyn. But you must know that I had no hand in this. I was here with Arthur all night after the feasting.”
“You do not mourn her.”
“You wrong me, cousin. I mourn the death of any so young. I did not like her, but I mourn her.” She turned back to her combing. “Malgwyn, I worry that Arthur has set too much of a task on you. I hear whispers, whispers in the lanes, that there is more to Eleonore’s death than an old man’s fantasies about hearts.”
“How could there be? She was just a girl.”
“A girl who kept the wrong company. I saw her immediately after the feasting last night consorting with Vortimer’s men, aye, and those of David, Lauhiir, and Mordred as well. And then, there are the new Druids.”
“Say what you mean plainly.”
“More Druids arrived last night. Arthur and I took note of it as we walked in the lanes after the feast.”
I shrugged. “Just more of Vortimer’s band.”
“Do not take so much at face value. I fear you disappoint me. You, the captor of the demented monk. Where is that perception that Coroticus so hails?”
“Coroticus would be better served to worry about his abbey and not my perception.” I had no interest in discussing the monk with Guinevere. A change of subject was needed.
“These Druids, they are not with Vortimer? They were not with the rest?”
“Not last night. They were in the lanes, following in the wake of Lord David and Lauhiir.”
“With them?”
“I could not tell.”
“What difference does it make?” Kay interrupted impatiently.
“I do not know,” I said honestly. “But it seems strange. Two days past, you could not find a Druid. Now, you cannot stroll the lanes without kicking Druids from your path.
“Be at peace, cousin,” I said finally. “I truly do not think that you had a hand in this. Murder is not in your heart.” Plus, she had Arthur to vouchsafe her story.
Guinevere put down her comb and cupped my cheek in her hand. “You will succeed, Malgwyn. You are an uncommon man. This Arthur knows, even if you do not.”
“Aye,” I said, shaking my head. “It seems that I am the only one that does not know this.” I stood. “Come, Kay. We have more questions to ask elsewhere.”
“And now?” Kay queried.
“Up the lane to Merlin’s house. Let us see what we can find inside.”
At midday, not many bustled about the lanes. A sprig of early spring flowers had been laid beside Merlin’s wall, near where Eleonore had been found. I studied the cobblestones where she had lain, unsure of what I was looking for.
Some of the now blackened blood stained the stones, not much to be sure. I saw no bits of clothing or weapons or anything else, for that matter, in a wide circle around the spot. “Kay, look around the sides of Merlin’s house. See if you find anything unusual.” He went off to do my bidding.
After staring at the stains, black on the surface but oddly transparent in the cracks between stones, for what seemed like hours, I stood. The blood told me only that she had lain here, not who or what brought her to this end. Kay reappeared at my side. “I found nothing, Malgwyn.”
“My search has been fruitless as well. Let us see if anything within may help us.”
We made our way into Merlin’s home once again. A smell of decay filtered through the one room, and I remembered the heart that I had wrapped and had stowed at Arthur’s hall. “Kay, see if there’s a boy about in the lane. Send for a horse man. Her heart needs to be buried with her body.”
Lighting a lamp, I looked at the contents of a long, low table running against one wall. Pots and small vials, like those I saw often at the abbey, lined the back of the table near the timbered wall. Another table along the opposing wall held stacks of parchments. I opened the top of each vial and sniffed of the contents. Kay returned while I studied the table.
“A rider is on the way.” He winced as he shifted his sword. His wrist was hurting him.
I smiled and took a small vial from the table. “Here, drink this. It will remove the pain.”
Kay eyed it suspiciously. “What is it?”
“An extract of willow tree bark. I learned of it at Ynys-witrin. It is safe and will help.”
“What of the rest of this?” He motioned at the table.
“Simple medicines like those the monks prepare.” I picked up a covered pot and sniffed. “This is carpenter’s weed, made into a paste. It can be used for stanching bleeding and treating sores. Nothing of harm. Merlin is a wise old man who has seen much in his life, but I fear that his memories of yesterday are not as clear as those of a thousand yesterdays before.”
Kay picked up a parchment from the other table and handed it to me. “What of this, Malgwyn? What says it?”
I unrolled the ancient parchment and read the Latin words. “It is a story, a story of a man called Joseph of Arimathea, who came here after the Christ was killed and rose again. It says that Joseph is buried at Ynys-witrin with a great treasure.”
My friend’s eyes widened. “Do you believe this?”
“It is only an old story, probably written to keep some lord at bay, to keep him from destroying the church. But I know that Joseph is supposed to be buried near unto a certain well and that this secret is kept well hidden by the monks.”
Just then something large and solid slammed into the wall, rattling the old house and causing the parchments to roll from the table.
“Murderer!”
Another stone assaulted the wooden door, jarring the walls, and the cry of “Murderer!” was taken up by a dozen other voices.
The house only had one door. Neither Kay nor I wanted to risk it, but we saw no other way. To stay in the house meant facing a mob in a small space. At least under the open sky, we could try and fight our way clear. If we made it that far.
The crowd of voices grew louder. The thud of stones grew more rapid, more fierce.
Kay drew his sword and I took the door handle in hand.
With a quick nod from Kay, I jerked the door open. A dozen stones flew through, reaching even to the pots, breaking them, spilling their contents on the table and floor.
As Kay charged forward, a stone struck his wrist, his bad wrist, and his sword clattered to the ground. Another struck him in the shoulder, and a third slapped his throat. He went down.
I saw the stone just as it hit me, against my temple, tearing the skin and sending a flood of blood rushing down my face. Staggering back, I managed to grab the door and steady myself,
A but the jeers and shouts of the crowd grew louder and I would not have given a silver brooch for our chances.
Then, above the shouts and screams of the crowd, I heard horses’ hooves clattering on the cobblestones, and from another direction, a familiar voice rose above all others.
“You will stop!”
Arthur. Again coming to my rescue. But this time I welcomed him.
Kay was lying next to me on the lane. Blood flowed from his throat, but it was only a glancing blow and that had but torn the skin. Propping myself up on my stump of an arm, I touched my temple and felt that the cut was not deep.
The rain of stones stopped as abruptly as it began. The crowd drew back as Arthur strode in front. A rider, the one that I had sent for, reined his horse next to Arthur, blocking them from us.
“Why do you do this?” Arthur asked.
“We come to destroy the house of the evil one, my lord. He is a murderer!”
“Murderer!” the crowd murmured in agreement.
“These two men are not murderers; one is my fellow and the other my councillor.”
“They protect the evil one, Lord Arthur. We know it is so.”
“Who told you this?”
The spokesman, a tired, ragged-looking old fellow, pondered the question. “Why, everyone, my lord.”
“Go to your homes!” Arthur commanded, his shoulder-length hair flying in the breeze.
“We seek justice, my lord.”
“And so do I. Malgwyn is my councillor in this affair. And he will see that justice is done. He protects no one.”
The peasant drew himself up to full height, encouraged by the shouts of his companions. “He protects the evil one, Merlin, my lord. If something is not done, the gods will avenge themselves on us. The three gods will kill us all!”
I pushed myself to my feet and helped Kay to his. Once I was standing, I could see that some of Vortimer’s and Mordred’s men stood silently at the back of the crowd, most with sneers on their faces. Wiping the blood from mine, I saw that the crowd could turn even more violent with ease.
“The three gods will do you no favors for destroying this house or killing me!” I shouted.
“But you protect the evil one!” someone repeated.
“Who says this? Let him stand before me now! I protect no one, not Lord Arthur, not Merlin, nor even the Rigotamos. I want only to find the truth!”
A one-eyed man who lived near me separated himself from the crowd. “Leave Malgwyn alone!” he said. “I have known him for too long. If there is any protecting of villains, it will not be him doing it.” He cast a squinting, sidelong look at Arthur. “Others will do their master’s bidding.”
Kay started after the man, but I touched his sleeve and shook my head. Now was not the time for retribution.
With the one defection, the crowd began to melt away in twos and threes, all still muttering, leaving a black stench in the lane. Arthur ran his gloved hand through his long hair. “Mal-gwyn, you are hurt. As are you, Kay.”
“It is nothing, my lord. Just a scrape,” I assured him. Kay followed suit, but an ugly purple bruise spread across his throat, putting the lie to his assurances.
“My Lord Arthur!”
We turned to see Vortimer round the corner of the great hall with half a dozen of his followers at his heels. Their swords were drawn and their step was light. “We heard you were in danger and came quickly.”
I stifled a bitter laugh. I had no doubt that they were the very ones stirring up the crowd.
Vortimer had aged since I had seen him last. He was tall and had a chest round and thick, and his hair was beginning to turn white. If anyone had suffered from Vortigern’s disgrace, it had been Vortimer. He and I remembered each other well from the battlefield. In truth, he was a brave warrior, struggling always with the ghost of his father, peering over his shoulder. Of all those who wished to see Arthur off from his perch as Ambro-sius’s successor, none had a stronger claim than he.
“Perhaps it is time to stop this foolishness and put Merlin to the sword, Arthur. I do not doubt Malgwyn’s skills, but the people are growing more angry with each passing moment. I would not have your authority dependent on the life of one old and useless man.”
But Merlin’s death was exactly what Vortimer wanted. Arthur and I knew it, and Vortimer knew that we understood. Mordred too could see this struggle building. But this cousin of Arthur’s was as sly and cunning as his other cousin, Paderic, was good-natured and slow. Mordred’s hair was shiny and long, with braids over either ear. His eyes were set too close together, and his nose resembled a hawk’s. Casting a look about, he sheathed his sword. Having started me down the path I followed, Arthur had no alternative but to see it through. Were he to give in to Vortimer now, then, in the people’s eyes, Vortimer would be the winner.
“Vortimer’s right, Arthur,” Lauhiir chimed in.
“Malgwyn has had hardly twelve hours to sort through this matter, Lauhiir. No one could find the truth in so short a time.”
Lauhiir smoothed his hair from his face and smiled. “My lord, I’m not sure that you have much time left before the people do more than throw a few rocks.”
Arthur’s eyes narrowed. “Be careful, both of you. Be careful that you are not found pushing the people to such actions. You or these Druids either, for that matter. They may be banished from this city more easily than you.”
The younger man bowed with great circumstance. “My lord, I would never challenge your authority in your own castle. But the Druid priests serve other masters, more demanding than I. And they hold the people’s hearts more closely than you. I think it well that you not challenge their authority either.” With that, Vortimer, Lauhiir, and Mordred strode away toward the barracks, their bands of followers close on their heels.
The wind shifted, and the smell of chicken dung drifted up from the tannery west of the fort. The rancid odor burned my nostrils, and I thought fleetingly that I would forever match that abominable smell with the memory of Lauhiir, whose real name was Ligessauc, though all about called him “Lauhiir,” which meant “long hands” in our native tongue. He had no love for Arthur and made no secret of that.
“Arthur, why do you allow him, any of them, such liberties?” I asked.
Arthur sighed, the twinkle fading from his eyes. I could see in the wrinkles at their edges that the discharge of his duties was swiftly aging him. “I am being pressed hard by certain members of the consilium, pressed to name Mordred my Master of Horse. If I want their votes, I must agree,”
I suppressed a smile. Yet another of Arthur’s Romanisms. The Master of Horse was the noble appointed to lead all the cavalry. “And you will not.”
He shook his big, shaggy head. “I know him too well. Horses have become too much a key part of our defenses to put under Mordred’s control, but by denying him that post, I sow the seeds of discontent among certain members.”
“Like Mark?”
“Aye. And David, Vortimer, perhaps even Gawain and Mel-was. To do what should be done with Mordred would cause greater dissension among the consilium. For he serves as a spy for some of them, seeking chinks in my armor.”
“So you endure him to keep the peace?”
“Until the consilium decides on a successor, it is in my best interest to simply leave Mordr
ed alone,” Arthur said sadly. “What say you about this affair, Malgwyn?”
I noticed, for the first time, how much older he looked than he did in our fighting days. Dark circles rimmed his eyes, and gray streaked his thick brown beard. His fingers, weathered and beaten from a hundred battles, were not long and slender, but short and blunted. Indeed, the middle finger on his left hand was severed at the joint, gift of a Saxon spearman’s good aim. But he was still Arthur, still in many ways that brash young officer who had served Ambrosius Aurelianus so well, honest and often reckless. I had trusted him then. And though I would never admit it, I trusted him still. Even with half an arm, I would follow him into battle in a second, and I would trust his judgment without question. Though he could mete out punishment as severe as any lord, he was fair and just.
And even now, despite all that had passed between us, I saw the same trust in his eyes that had held me across the campfires in our war councils. He trusted me yet, and I could not find it in my heart to disappoint him in this matter.
And if his enemies were cunning, so too was Arthur.
“Merlin did not do this thing,” I said bluntly. “But I cannot prove this to you or any man. The evidence is heavy against him but for one thing. The girl was strangled to death. The knifing and the removal of her heart came afterward. Merlin is too old and too weak to choke a strong, young girl to death, and he lacks a reason. Something more is at play here.”
“How so?”
“To strangle a woman speaks of passion, but to rip her body from throat to belly and to take out a heart is a calculated move. Also, she was not killed at Merlin’s, nor was she gutted there. Not enough blood darkens the pavement—aye, very little indeed.”
Arthur’s deep brown eyes bored into mine. “I trust you in this, Malgwyn. But you see what is at risk. My position is a grave one, on all fronts. Tristan is here to treat on behalf of Mark, and they wish the consilium to enter into a treaty with the Saxons. Ah, and the Saxons are creeping into our lands, little by little. My patrols have found new Saxon villages along the southern coast and not five days’ ride from here to the east. The day is coming, my old friend, when we shall have to face the Saxons again, but we must do so united! We must have Mark and the other lords with us. We cannot do it alone, and we cannot allow the Saxons even an inch of our lands.”