by Anthony Hays
“You are Lord Arthur,” Mariam said, her tone as curious as ever.
Even in that scene of carnage and death, with Cuneglas a few feet away, Arthur found a smile to give her. “You may call me ‘Uncle,’ ” he answered, bringing looks of confusion and consternation to Kay and the other soldiers.
I laughed, but said nothing as a soldier arrived with my mount. For I knew that he was right, or at least nearly so, and it was something I had never thought to hear him say. Perhaps Guinevere was not without hope after all.
I held the horse’s reins tight in my hand as we negotiated the twisting, turning lane from Arthur’s castle toward Ynys-witrin. The trees were not in full leaf, but so big they were that no moonlight filtered through the canopy. Narrow as the trail became at times, I navigated it by memory. Occasionally, the lane broke from the trees and bordered some farmer’s field, his round, thatched hut dark and lonely in the night. The breeze clothed us with the damp, rich odor of fresh-turned earth.
Behind me, I could hear the clank and rattle of Kay’s mail coat and the horse’s rig, the sound of leather stretching. He tried to question me about our journey and Arthur’s strange pronouncement, but I waved him off, my mind too filled with thoughts. Parts of the affair were becoming clearer; other parts were still shrouded in the cloak of confusion.
Finally, we reached the ivy-entangled stone fence across the stream from the road, opposite the giant oak and blackberry vines where I had once watched Arthur in a private moment. Beyond the stream, beyond the fence, we could see the faint yellow pinpoint of a burning candle. I jerked the reins around and walked my mount across the stream, its hooves clattering against the stone- strewn bed.
Near the gate, a voice emerged, low and soft. “Malgwyn? Who is with you?”
“Only Kay. Have no fear.”
“Bring your horses inside the gate. The stable is behind the house. They will be safe and well hidden there.”
We dismounted and Kay led his horse even with mine. “Malgwyn, why are we here?”
I held a finger to my lips. “All will be clear in a moment.” I handed him the reins of my horse and motioned toward the stable.
My eyes saw better with the light from the candle spilling into the yard. The woman before me, as tall as me with hair of the same color, but as comely as I was haggard and beaten, reached out her hand and stroked my face softly, just once, and then her hand fell to my new tunic. “You look better without a jug of wine in hand, cousin.”
“And you are more beautiful than when I last saw you, Guinevere. Arthur’s choice in women knows no peer.”
Her home was modestly furnished, which surprised me not. She had never been one for fancy possessions. Indeed, at one time in her life she owned nothing. We went inside, where we took stock of each other as Kay made his way to join us.
Guinevere had changed into a solid maroon dress, belted at the waist, and her long hair flowed around her shoulders as she poured us a cup of watered wine. I told her of Cuneglas. Arthur had sent her away with an escort when the feasting was disturbed.
“So, Mariam stands to lose her father.” Guinevere dropped her head. “And yet not her father.”
I waved the comment away. “That matters little now. Tell me. What news have you of Accolon?” For that was what her note had suggested.
She lifted her head. “After we spoke this morning, I came here for a dress for the feasting. He came to me after the midday, frightened, looking for a place to hide. I told him of a place, not too far from here, where a waterfall hides a cave. Do you know it?”
“Aye,” I confirmed. “I know the place. ’Twas a good choice. What has he to tell? What had him so frightened? Did he speak of Nyfain?”
Guinevere nodded. “Aye, of her and of Eleonore too.” And she stopped right there.
I remembered why she drove me crazy as a child. She loved to draw a tale out and stretch my patience at the same time. It was a true gift that she had. “Are you going to tell me what he said of them?”
“Would you not rather hear it from him?”
Even Kay was shaking his head and rattling his chain mail.
I smiled as politely as I could. “Yes, but if you tell me now, then I will have time to ponder the questions I need to ask.”
She rose and fetched the jug, moving to fill mine and Kay’s cups. But Kay’s gloved hand blocked her as she started filling mine. I gave him as black a look as I could, but withdrew my cup from her reach.
“All right, then. Accolon saw Eleonore at the gate on the Via Caedes last eve. He was returning from looking for Nyfain, he said. She was not at home.”
“No, she was drinking with Ambrosius in the great hall. I suspected as much, and he had told me about seeing Eleonore before.”
“Aye, but he did not tell you that he knew who she was with.”
“He said the man was hooded and in the shadows.”
“He would not tell me either,” Guinevere admitted, “but he was afraid of what he saw. He said he knew who it was, but he would only trust you with the knowledge. They were arguing. He did tell me that. He spoke to the man and then went to report for duty. But he saw them again, and of this he told you nothing. While on his rounds, he spied this man and Eleonore headed toward the watchtower. Later still, he saw the man again, without Eleonore, running back to the watchtower with Lauhiir, Mordred, and some other men.”
“But that is it, Malgwyn!” Kay exploded. “These people with Lauhiir must have been the men that killed Eleonore.”
“And whoever it was,” I agreed, “his mere name was enough to frighten Accolon. Vortimer?”
“I cannot see Vortimer engaging in such wanton killing.”
“Not himself, perhaps, but he would have directed it be done to advance his cause. It’s in his blood.”
“Accolon said that he would tell only you, Malgwyn. After Eleonore was found, he became worried—he would not say why. When his duty ended, he drank for some time with the other soldiers at the barracks and then went back to his house for rest, but in rummaging around for food, he found Nyfain already murdered in a storage shed. Later, someone, he did not say who, told him of Nyfain’s death, told him to keep silent or he would end his days the same way. Accolon became truly scared then. He believes that he is being made to be the murderer of both women. And he fears that those behind it are too powerful for him to overcome.”
“Why came he to you?”
Guinevere’s face narrowed with a smile filled with a woman’s intrigues. “Accolon was one of the first of Arthur’s men. He rode with him to the monastery many times to see me. When Accolon fell in love with Arthur’s sister, I counseled him against it, told him that Morgan’s mind was as changeable as the winter wind and that Arthur could never be made to approve the match.
“But he loved her so much that he could not help but press his suit with Arthur. He did not know that it was Morgan herself who rejected him. He blamed Arthur, and for a time he became one of Arthur’s enemies. He soon returned to Arthur’s side, but by then he was a drunkard and embittered, and the only place Arthur could trust him was with the common soldiery.”
I nodded. “Accolon was always too sensitive a man. He lets too many little things bother him.” It took a moment, but then I realized that Kay and Guinevere were smiling at me.
“I can think of another with that affliction,” Kay said.
A grunt was all I would give them in reply. “Come, we must hurry. It will take us some time to get to Accolon and we have little to spare.”
“Why is that?” Guinevere asked.
“Ambrosius was forced to set Merlin for execution at sunset tomorrow if Malgwyn has not navigated this maze. The consilium will vote immediately after and Arthur will not be its choice.
“And if I do not appear, solution or not, I will be hunted down and my own head taken as well.”
“How could Ambrosius—”
I raised my hand to stop her. “Don’t blame Ambrosius. He was maneuvered into it. Partly by
Vortimer, partly by Merlin, and partly by his own blasted beliefs.” I grew angry again at this lack of will to use their power and rose to my feet. “No, he bears more blame than the others. With one flick of his hand, he could have stopped this. They could have turned their cavalry on the mob, declared Arthur as Rigotamos, and freed Merlin.”
“And what would he have lost in the process?” my cousin asked. “How would you feel as one of the mob to see his men turned loose on you? How would you have felt to see him free a man you believe is a murderer? After all his talk of truth and justice and the Christ? You would feel betrayed, just as they feel right now. Arthur can be no other than what he is. And that is a good man about to be lifted high in a brutal time. He is not perfect, but he is a good man.”
Her hand stroked my jaw through my thick beard. “As are you, my cousin. You are a good man, and that is why Arthur came to you. You blame him for this.” I winced as her gentle fingers touched the empty sleeve.
“No, I blame him for not letting me die on the battlefield! For leaving me half a man, unable to do anything of value. Who wants a one-armed man?”
“Is it that he kept you alive with one arm, or your memories of how that missing arm left your body, Smiling Mal-gwyn?” The voice was so soft that for a moment I thought it was Guinevere. But no, it was Kay.
I responded gruffly. “This talk does not further our task. Our answers lie with Accolon. No matter who is at fault, we have work to do. Come, Kay. Some miles yet lie before us. The forest covers near ten hides of land.”
“No,” Guinevere said. “You must wait until first light. The way to the waterfall is through deep forest and you will not find your way without torches. With torches you would be easily found if anyone searches for you.”
“No! We must go tonight. We will travel without torches,” I argued.
“And have our horses trip on tree roots and break our necks?” Kay asked. “Guinevere is right, Malgwyn. A few hours’ rest will not harm us. You got little sleep last night and it has been a long day. Accolon is safe where he is, at least for a few more hours.”
The flickering lights of the candles played shadows off the walls. The fire in her hearth had burned down to a few glowing embers. They were right. I knew they were right. The day had been long, too long, and I had not yet paused to mourn my brother’s injury. Poor Cuneglas! His wounding was of my making as surely as I would take my next breath.
Cuneglas! What would Ygerne do now? Times were hard for women, even harder now with all the uncertainty in the land. I pushed the thoughts away. Later, there would be time for such considerations. “No,” I said finally. “Whoever is behind this evil will not sleep and neither will we. They have stayed ahead of us by half a man’s step, and if we pause now, they will gain a full step or maybe more. What ever the dangers, we must go forward tonight. We cannot chance waiting until first light.”
“Perhaps you are right,” Guinevere conceded. “I would have no one else die in this affair. Behind my house is a path that leads near unto the waterfalls. I will draw you a map that will bring you hard upon it. Kay, look to my food. Wrap up some bread and cheese and take it with you. You will need it, or if not you, then Accolon will be hungry.”
While she fetched a scrap of parchment and a quill, Kay cast about for something to wrap the cheese and bread in. I tossed him a piece of cloth from my pouch, and he filled it with food from the storage pit. I noticed that Arthur made certain she did not go hungry. In moments, she handed me the map, neatly drawn and labeled. I looked at her oddly.
“You know how to write?”
She laughed. “You are not the only educated one of our family, Malgwyn. Yes, one of the brothers from Ynys-witrin taught me, though I fear he had in mind teaching me other things. But he was fat and bald.”
“You are, in your own way, cousin, worse than me. And I am bad.”
Guinevere took me in her arms then and hugged me as she did when we were children. “I have little family, Malgwyn. I know you must do this thing, but I would have you be careful. I could scarce stand to lose you too.”
I said nothing, but hugged her all the tighter. Finally, reluctantly, letting her go, I turned to Kay. “Are you prepared?”
“Aye.”
“Then let us go.”
And we slipped into the night.
“Stand for a moment, Kay. Let your eyes become familiar with the bit of moonlight. We will step slowly from the light back into the forest; our eyes will then grow accustomed.”
“We will not ride?”
“No,” I answered. “The distance is three or four hours by horse, but in this forest, ’twould take us twice as long. The horses’ hooves will not be as sure as our own feet, and our eyes will learn to see in the dark better than if we were on horse -back.”
“And the map, Guinevere’s map? How shall we see it? I brought no pitch—”
“Be calm, Kay. I brought some pitch and a flint. But we shall only light it when we must.” We all usually carried a fire-making tool, some pitch, a flint, some tinder. That I had remembered mine that morning was a miracle born of pure chance. Though I knew the way to Accolon’s hiding place myself, my cousin had marked some twists and turns that would shorten our journey by the flight of three strong arrows.
As we stepped off into the forest behind Guinevere’s house, I sucked in the heavy scent of old trees. The air was damp and heavy here, almost oppressively heavy. Common sense told me that we were unlikely to be followed, at least for a while. Even if our enemy had set their men on us when we left the castle, they would wait and see our next move. We had slipped out the back door, and if anyone were watching for us, they would listen for the horses as sign of our departure. I knew Vortimer too well, and his men had always been lazy. They had been instructed, perhaps, to merely watch us, knowing that we would be seeking Accolon and wishing to find him for the same reason. Far better for them to let Kay and I do their work for them.
After an hour or more, they would become suspicious. They knew that our journey must be completed quickly, and they would be smart enough to draw the same conclusion that I had. A chill ran down my back.
Guinevere!
Vortimer’s men would storm the house. They would threaten Guinevere! Perhaps hurt her. Perhaps even kill her.
I stopped and spun around, but Kay’s hand caught me. “I know what you are thinking, Malgwyn. But your cousin is a strong and brave woman. Vortimer’s men know enough to realize that they would draw Arthur’s wrath if they harmed her. And, though they would never admit it, they fear Arthur more than Vortimer.”
He was right. Protecting Guinevere must take second place to finding Accolon. I moved forward, almost tripping on an exposed tree root and then regaining my balance.
“Be careful, Malgwyn. We have had reports of latrunculii in these woods.”
Bandits. Though Arthur had brought much order to the land, this was still a place of few laws and the thieves held sway in many hidden places. And bandits were only one of the hazards. The forests were almost always filled with those who had escaped Saxon massacres, starving, frightened. Runaway slaves were common too, but they posed less of a danger. “They will only bother us if we bother them.”
“As black as this path is, we may bother them without knowing it.”
“Then pray to the Christ that our steps stay sure and true. For the bandits will not only steal our possessions, they will steal our lives as well.”
After an hour, the screech owls ceased protesting our presence, and our eyes began making out the inky images of yew trees and rocks against the grayish fog of the night. Our forests were filled with old, gnarled trees, more ancient it seemed than the earth itself. Without the owls’ cries, the forest was quiet, very quiet. I took this as an ominous sign. In the far distance, around some pond or marsh, I could hear the muffled sounds of croaking frogs. At least they were not disturbed.
I wished that we had Merlin with us. He knew this forest better than anyone. He gathered his herbs a
nd mushrooms for his potions here and knew every blade of grass, every tree, and every rock.
Poor Merlin! He had been one of the wisest men I knew and the best judge of men’s true minds. Aye, that was one reason they called him a sorcerer. We knew of him as far away as the little village I called home. He seemed able to divine a man’s heart and know his intentions from a single look. Some called it magic, but I knew that it was experience. Merlin had seen much in his life.
Once, around the campfire, Merlin had told me some of his history. He was born at Carmarthen, but he never knew his father. He believed, as his mother told him, that he was sired by a Roman soldier, an officer of high rank, in the days just before the legions retired from our island. But the officer returned to his family in Rome and left his woman and the son they had begotten behind. We had such families among us; I had played with such youths when I was young.
Merlin’s mother had died when he was but a child, and he had lived by his wits until, one day, he met a man named Lailoken, a bard and prophet of the lands of the Picts. Some said that Lailoken was a madman, but no one yet living knew anything but tales. Even in our village his name was spoken in whispers. When Merlin came to this part of the story, he would only smile faintly and say that it was from this man that he learned much of what he knew. Of his youth, that was all he told, though I suspected there was much left unsaid. There would always be a nagging concern for me, bred around those old campfires where older men told tales of this Lailoken.
A nightingale sang somewhere nearby, breaking me from my reverie. It was getting a late start to its night’s rest, I mused. Before us lay the forest, Accolon, and, I prayed, answers.
On we pushed, stopping twice to check Guinevere’s map, a few moments only each time and then well hidden behind one of the giant trees that filled this ancient wood. Kay used his cloak to further block the flame, a small flame that seemed in that murky darkness as a giant and brilliantly lit torch.