The Killing Way

by Anthony Hays

  With Tristan’s words came a thunder of whispers all around the table as nobles and guests expressed their feelings.

  “They only wish to have the doors of our forts opened to them!” bellowed Kay, his voice echoing off the walls. “They wish only for us to lay down our swords and accept their dominion!”

  “No, no, no, my Lord Kay!” Tristan remonstrated. “They come as friends, as helpers to bring peace and prosperity to our lands.”

  “They betrayed us before; they will betray us again. It is in their nature,” Bedevere lectured in a more measured tone.

  “Are you afraid that the people will not remain loyal to the Rigotamos? That they might rebel against him?” Vortimer’s voice irritated me as much as ever.

  “Isn’t that what you’ve been plotting for years, Vortimer?”

  The other lord hung his head and shook it, his long hair flowing about his shoulders. “You wrong me, Bedevere. I have fought at Ambrosius’s side as oft as you have. Why should I want to see him overthrown?”

  “Why, indeed,” Arthur said, entering the fray. He regarded Tristan with a tired frown. I paid close attention now. All before had been but preamble. Negotiations were about to begin. Ambrosius, as a sign of Arthur’s stature, would allow him to take the lead. “You see, Lord Tristan, how the other lords are arrayed against such a treaty. Perhaps, if there were additional restrictions. . . .” His voice trailed off.

  “What type of restrictions, my lord?” Tristan asked quickly.

  Arthur stroked his heavy beard. “I have not given it enough thought to be specific. Perhaps if the size of Saxon parties crossing our territories were limited in number.”

  “Certainly.” Tristan nodded vigorously.

  “And perhaps if the goods their merchants would trade with us would not compete against our own people’s wares.”

  “I feel sure that such could be arranged.”

  “Perhaps,” Arthur continued, with the slightest of grins, “if the Saxons would agree to go unarmed.”

  “Yes, yes,” Tristan rushed to answer, without the barest of pauses. “I am sure they would agree to these stipulations. It would only be fair and prudent.”

  Coroticus cocked his head at me and smiled. I knew immediately what he intended to convey. Never would the Saxons come into our lands unarmed. Such would be death to them.

  “Of course,” Tristan said with a firm set to his jaw, “because the western shores are so far from Saxon lands, it might be necessary to allow them to establish permanent camps in far Dumnonia.”

  “Lord Mark does not feel threatened by this?” It was a logical question from Ambrosius.

  “I give my word that such would be acceptable to all the Dumnonii of the west.” Tristan nodded in agreement.

  Once again his assurances came too hastily, and Coroticus and Arthur both looked in my direction. More was amiss with this statement than the obvious, but I could not yet grasp the shadowy element, the hint of treachery lying therein. So, rather than make an accusation, I simply raised my eyebrows, letting them know that I too found it suspicious.

  Ambrosius stood, causing Tristan to almost stumble back into his seat. The Rigotamos stroked his long beard and said nothing for a long moment. “This is a grave matter,” he grumbled finally. “One that bears more thought than a night’s counsel can give. I will give it the consideration it deserves and set aside a time for the consilium to discuss it.” He sat heavily then, as if he felt some grave burden.

  Vortimer arose and faced the gathered lords. “There is yet another matter, my Lord Rigotamos. The death of the girl and the selection of your successor.”

  The cagey old noble fingered the golden disc about his neck. “I see no connection between one and the other.”

  “With all my honor to you, Rigotamos, it is no secret that you favor Arthur. But if Merlin, who is as close to a father as Arthur has now, is the mutilator of this girl, and he does not pay for this carnage, then Arthur’s vaunted honor, equality, and justice, aye, his Romanitas, are just words on the wind. Some other, one who would hold the people’s loyalty, should be chosen.”

  Arthur sat quietly as Bedevere stood. “You once believed in the Christ, Vortimer, as we all do now. But you have returned to the Druids. They kill. They sacrifice. Let us say Merlin did this thing. Why should it be any different? How can you make such an argument?”

  Vortimer spoke not to Bedevere, an insult that sent Arthur’s hand to hold Bedevere in place, and addressed Ambrosius. “The Druids sacrifice for the people’s sake. They sacrifice for better crops, for better weather. They too have laws that are just. But the killing of this girl is madness. It brings no fertility to the land. It offers no homage to the gods.”

  “Clever words from the son of a traitor!” Bedevere could hold back no longer. Around the room, Vortimer’s bodyguard went for their swords as Arthur’s went for theirs.

  “Enough!” Ambrosius rose to his full height, stretching his old bones as high as they could go. “You will spill no blood at this table! I will say it now. Arthur is my choice. But the members of the consilium will vote. Should Merlin prove to be the culprit in this affair, I will withdraw my support of Arthur. Love of the Christ has no place in it for such butchery.”

  A bellow sounded outside the hall, shouts, screams. The main doors burst open and two guards rushed into the hall, red faced and agitated. “Murder, my lords! There has been another murder!”

  Revolt! The people are revolting and besieging the barracks!”

  Arthur and his men leaped to their feet in such haste that platters and jugs went flying. I kept my eyes on Vortimer and his followers. As I suspected, I saw no surprise, only the most fleeting of smiles. Tristan, on the other hand, looked decidedly ill.

  “What work of the devil is this?” Arthur bellowed.

  “My Lord Rigotamos,” one of the guards panted. “The body of a second woman, killed as the girl, was found in the lanes. The people believe that Merlin did this thing too. They are rioting at the barracks, trying to seize Merlin to be hanged!”

  Arthur’s eyes darted quickly to me, and my hand rose just the slightest bit, as if to say, Be calm, I will deal with this.

  “To the barracks, men!” Arthur ordered, and I followed behind him, out the door, and straight into the arms of an angry mob, my second of the day.

  “Stand aside!” cried Kay and the others, but the motley crowd, mostly peasants from the countryside, not townsfolk, were not in a mood to obey a noble. Their clothes, patchworks of bright-colored cloth, created an odd, festive look in the torchlight.

  I gasped as I surveyed the lane in the flickering light. From the great hall to the barracks, the entire length of the lane, people blocked our path.

  “Malgwyn!” I recognized Arthur’s call to me. He needed no words to tell me what my duties were. The mob was his; the murder was mine.

  “This way, Malgwyn,” I heard Kay shout above the people’s din.

  Kay and two soldiers stood in a side lane fifty yards from Ac-colon’s old house. He was too poor to afford better quarters, something talk in the lane said led to violent arguments with the status-hungry Nyfain. And so he took a house on a back lane, not far from Arthur’s hall.

  I rushed forward and saw a clutch of people gathered around a spot in the lane next to Accolon’s house. Just out of sight of the main road lay another bloody body, its legs sprawled apart, its arms flung about as if broken. I thought for a moment it might be the missing Accolon.

  But I knew before I saw the face that it was not Accolon. No, this broken body belonged to Owain’s mother, Nyfain. She would never more embarrass the youngster. Her life’s breath had been stolen. The boy was now alone in the world.

  I shoved aside my thoughts of the boy to focus on her body. The foul deed was most perplexing. For, like Eleonore, this woman too had been ripped apart. I quickly knelt beside her and examined the now familiar mutilation. “How came you to find her?” I asked a vigile standing near.

  “Some
of the townspeople found her. I hastened here, and once in the lane, I saw her.”

  “You!” I shouted at one of the soldiers. “Go to my hut and fetch a fur. Hurry!”

  I remembered then Paderic telling me that Accolon had left the barracks early in the morn. Could Accolon have been the master of these events? He was the one that found Eleonore’s body, and the last man known to have seen her alive. As for Nyfain, she strayed more often than she shared his bed.

  I knew he had been drinking. Could he have seen Eleonore, lured her to the tower, and in trying to take her, killed her? Then concocted the tale of seeing her with another man to protect himself? Then, later, finding Nyfain and still in a murderous rage, killed her? Perhaps. It was not unlikely. His hatred for Arthur was as great as mine, and if he were drunk, he might have struck out at one close to him. Surely, he knew that the girl stood high in Arthur’s esteem. She might have been a prime target for his anger.

  Here, then, was my substitute for Merlin. For a moment I felt relief. I sat back on my haunches and considered the affair from all angles.

  Accolon had reason and the chance to kill Eleonore. He could have killed her beneath the tower, moved her to the lane in front of Merlin’s house, and then raised the alarm. He lied about seeing her with another man to divert suspicion from himself. Like a sword in a sheath, it fit snugly.

  Still, other questions nagged at me like a wife. The soldier, as irritable and gruff as he was, never struck me as a man who would kill a woman. An enemy in battle? Yes. Arthur in a fit of anger over a woman? Maybe. But I could not see him committing this kind of butchery. Yet here was a second woman who had crossed his path who ended with her entrails on the ground. And this second death brought more questions than it answered. For this new theory did not account for all the footprints at the watchtower.

  And, as with Eleonore, I could tell by a simple look that Nyfain was not murdered here. No great splashes of blood marked the lane. Indeed, it was as neat as if freshly swept. She had been killed elsewhere and placed here later. That bespoke more than one person, just as in Eleonore’s death. If the old soldier had done this, he had had help. But who?

  And why kill the woman Nyfain in the same manner? And how and why was her body dumped here, probably as we feasted, to be found? Nyfain’s death seemed to accomplish nothing except excite the crowd. And what of the other footprints at the tower, the proof that more than one man had helped in this matter? Were these things meant to point at Accolon or Merlin? Were we supposed to think that Merlin had killed both women for their hearts? That did not seem sensible to my old brain. For why then was there but one heart on Merlin’s table? Why not the both of them? And where was Nyfain’s heart?

  If Accolon was not the man I sought, then why had he returned to the castle this morn? Nyfain had been dead for hours, not quite as long as Eleonore, for her wounds were still a little fresh, but she had been killed in the early morning hours for certain, before Accolon was last seen. But Kay had come to this house searching for Accolon earlier and had seen nothing of her. Where had they kept her body? These discrepancies ate at me like a disease.

  I checked her hands and fingers for signs of a struggle, but there were none. The look on her face was peaceful and her eyes were closed. I caught a strong whiff of honey mead from her open mouth. No great effort had been needed to kill poor Nyfain. She must have been senseless from the mead. And I saw no marks on her throat. Feeling around her mass of dark hair, my hand came away bloody. I pulled her head up and turned it to find that the back of her skull had been caved in.

  “Here is the fur.” The soldier brought it to me and laid it at my feet. He stared down at Nyfain’s gaping wound and backed off a step or two.

  “Cover her with that and stand your guard,” I instructed. “Come, Kay. We have more work to do, and Accolon to find.”

  “Mother?” The small voice came from the atrium, and I turned to see Owain standing, hands dangling at his sides, staring at his mother’s lifeless body. He must have followed the soldier back.

  In the name of Arthur’s God! Could I not be granted any fortune in this affair? I snatched the fur from the gaping soldier and flung it over Nyfain. With carefully measured steps I snatched up Owain under my one arm, tucked him safe though he fought me like a wildcat, and hustled him off to Kay’s house. A pair of old women in the lane stared at me as if I were mad as I hauled the screaming, bawling child along.

  Once inside, I set him on his feet, and one of his fists caught me sharply on the temple, breaking loose the stone’s wound and sending blood streaming down my face yet again. “Owain! Stop it!”

  “You killed my mother!”

  “No! I didn’t. Listen to me!” But his onslaught continued, and with just one arm, and no desire to hurt the lad, all I could do was fend off his blows. At last, Kay strode forward and pinned his young arms to his side and held the wriggling worm still.

  “Owain, have I ever lied to you?”

  He slowed his struggles and shook his head. Tears were streaming down his face.

  “Your mother is dead. It is true. I would have given my one arm to keep you from having seen it, but I did not kill her.”

  “Then who did? The magician, the sorcerer, Merlin?”

  “No, Owain. But I suspect that someone wants us to think that. I promise you, boy, I will find your mother’s killer. Do you believe me?”

  It took him a long second to reply, but finally he nodded his tear-streaked, grimy face.

  “You must do as I say, Owain. It is very important. Stay here in Kay’s house. Do you understand?”

  Again the nod took its time in arriving, but it came. His shoulders relaxed and Kay released him.

  “But Malgwyn, she must be buried.”

  “And we will, Owain. I promise you we will. But the only way to catch her killer is to hasten along this path that I follow. I would not lead you astray.”

  His lips tightened into a straight line and his eyes narrowed. “Then I will do as you say.” Owain walked to a stool and lowered himself as a man of one hundred years might. His fingers fumbled with each other and he stared at them for long seconds. “She loved me. I know she did.”

  “I know she did too, lad.” I cast about for something for him to do. “Work on the quills. Go fetch them. I will be back later. You will stay here tonight.”

  “Really? I may stay with Lord Kay?”

  For Kay’s part he smiled gently.

  I knew nothing else to do, so, at the risk of disappointing him later, I nodded. “Yes, you may stay here. Cicero can watch after you. Stay here until I return or I send for you. Now, Kay, let’s play the game and see how it ends.”

  We returned to the fray growing around the barracks. I knew some of them, from villages nearly a day’s journey away, and I wondered at how they knew to come. Our enemies must be spreading their tales far afield.

  “Kill the sorcerer! Kill the magician!!” The shouts rang off the walls of the town.

  None of them heeded Kay’s cry, nor did they cringe at the sight of the Rigotamos. A different kind of fear marked their faces, not the fear of authority, but a deeper fright. Someone had fed them a story of magic and murder, and they had inhaled it as one would the spring breeze. But they found the odor rancid and poisonous, and now they were going to strike out at the nearest target. I did not have to look far to find the source of the ill wind. Lurking in the shadows of the buildings were the Druid priests, their faces darkened by their hoods. Many of the people seemed to cling to the priests, something that affrighted me.

  This was my doing. I could see that now. I had underestimated Vortimer’s cunning, and how deeply involved he was in this affair. Obviously, he knew the woman was dead. He had led his followers to the stream, and they had but to wait for Kay’s men to arrive before drinking from the waters of revolt.

  I held my tongue. I knew that nothing I said—or that Ambrosius said for that matter—would sway them. And, as I knew would happen, the thunderous clatter of hor
ses’ hooves on the cobblestones did more than any king’s command.

  The crowd scattered as a troop of Arthur’s cavalry stormed down the lane, opening a path as neatly as an axe splits wood.

  “Hurt no one!” Arthur shouted as the mounted soldiers drew their lances. The mob quieted as the horse men twirled their lances, aiming the points at the sky and using the blunt ends to herd the people. I marveled at Arthur’s bearing, his intuitive sense of the people. Vortigern would have had the leaders skewered on the lances already. Not Arthur.

  We ran down the now-cleared lane and faced a sight even more frightening than that at the hall. One hundred peasants and townsfolk were struggling with twenty or so of Arthur’s men. Only their lances were keeping the people at bay. Curses, shouts, filled the air. Rocks, dung, pounded against the wooden stockade. The horse men formed a wedge in front of us, protecting our flanks and speeding our advance.

  As the stockade grew closer, I could see the reddened face of Paderic bravely defending the gate. Fending off the thumping shower of stones with their shields, the soldiers steadfastly held their posts.

  “Enough!” thundered Arthur, climbing halfway up the wall, his shoes finding purchase in the planks. The word rolled out and echoed off the houses and stalls, Arthur’s jowls reverberating with each repetition.

  For a wonder, they became silent. And the only sound that marred that silence was the uneven patter of stones and sticks dropping on the cobblestones.

  Arthur surveyed the mob. I could see his jaws clench and unclench, his beard tightening against the skin with each movement of his muscles. This was Arthur, struggling to control his anger, searching out a solution to this thorny problem. I had seen it many times.