by Sean Poage
“Bedwyr!” she exclaimed. “It’s been so…” She faltered in her step, her smile turning to distress, her voice choking, “My brother?”
Chapter Twelve
“Arthur’s in the most skilled hands we may hope to find,” Bedwyr sighed, stepping out of the small building they called the sanctum. They had carried Arthur’s litter into its single room and set him down on piled rugs and furs beside the small hearth. While Bedwyr spoke with the woman, Gawain and the others went back outside to stay out of the way.
“Who is she?” Gawain asked. “Did she say she’s Arthur’s sister?” Amren and the others crowded in to listen.
“Her name is Morgen,” Bedwyr replied, sitting on the firewood stacked against the side of the building. “And yes, she is his sister. Well, half-sister. She and the other eight of her community are the most skilled healers under Heaven. Hold your other questions for now.” He turned to Sandef and said, “Tell the guard that Arthur is receiving care and to set up camp where they are. Then take a message to Guin to have the wounded brought there, but only the seriously injured or ill. We must not overwhelm our hostess.” Sandef repeated the instructions and sprinted off.
One of the younger women hastened out of the sanctum as another pair of women appeared from the garden and went in. Moments later, they scurried back out and set off in different directions.
Soon, other women began hurrying to the building, carrying a variety of items, such as blankets, pans, satchels and such. A pair of women struggled with a large wooden tub, which Gawain and Amren took for them.
Carrying it through the open door of the sanctum, they set it down in the corner. The fire had been stoked, and beeswax candles lit the small room. It was immaculate, with a floor made of the same stones as the walls and tapestries hung to reduce the chill. Shelves and a few short tables were crowded with wooden and stone pestles and mortars, clay jars, silver, bronze and iron knives, spoons, bowls and other odd implements. Bundles of flowers and herbs hung from posts or filled baskets, and a copper pot simmered on the hearth.
On the wall opposite the door hung a large, elegant tapestry depicting a woman holding a child. The depiction was quite similar to the image on the inside of Arthur’s shield, so Gawain assumed it represented the Christ and his mother.
The two women had removed Arthur’s bandages and were gently cleaning his wounds with warm water from the pot. Morgen looked up as they set the tub down and thanked them.
“May we do anything else?” Gawain asked. “Perhaps bring water?”
“The water we need comes from the sacred spring in the garden,” Morgen said, picking up a pair of bronze scissors and carefully trimming the hair around Arthur’s head wound. “By ancient custom, men do not set foot in the circle. However, if you wish to help, we will need a fire pit outside, as well as more wood.” Morgen looked at the woman assisting her and said, “Thiton, please show them where they may retrieve wood and tools.”
“Of course,” Thiton replied, washing her hands, then leading the men outside.
As Gawain and Amren dug a long shallow trench for a fire, the women of the community streamed back and forth from the garden, carrying pails of water or baskets of cut herbs or flowers. One woman brought a freshly slaughtered goat and laid it upon a stone slab beside the garden wall, building a shade for it out of sticks. It was odd and discomfiting, appearing to Gawain and the others to be some sort of pagan sacrifice.
Once the fire was going, they heated pots of water and cleaned the medical implements. By this time, two of the gravely wounded members of Arthur’s Guard, Cors and Uchtryd, had been brought in. There was no room for them in the sanctum, and more would soon be coming, so Gawain and the others went to work establishing an expedient camp in the clearing near the saltworks. Their tents and other camp accoutrements had been abandoned at Dolens, so they did their best by digging fire pits and latrines and gathering branches, brush and straw to create simple shelters.
Gawain appreciated keeping busy. He and the others fretted over Arthur’s condition, which had worsened to the point that he had been unresponsive the entire day before arriving at the springs. Morcant had performed miracles for the many injured and sick men of the army, seemingly going weeks without sleep. With Arthur, however, he appeared at a loss, and the toll was beginning to crush his spirit.
As evening approached, the wounded began arriving. Nearly every man of the army had some form of injury, but these, the worst of the lot, suffered from fevers, festering wounds, debilitating illness or unconsciousness. There were over a hundred such men, but a place was found for each in the hospital camp. Most of the sanctuary’s women tended to these, and they were assisted by several medically skilled soldiers whom Morcant had sent along to help. Gawain was greatly cheered to find that Illtud and Peredur were among these helpers, though it was a disheartening blow to learn that Keir had succumbed to a fever the night before.
It was after dusk by the time everyone had been accounted for and settled. For the first time since leaving Biturigas, there was a sense of peace and safety. A profound weariness replaced the weight of danger and vigilance as they gathered around their fires, finally able to give thought to their fallen friends and brethren. The men had little food left, and the women’s community was not prepared for so many to suddenly appear on their doorstep, but they made the best of it. What little wine they had was saved for medical needs.
Gawain and several of Arthur’s Guard were making their shelters behind the sanctum when Bedwyr appeared out of the shadows and sank down by the fire.
“You’ve all done well,” Bedwyr said. “We’ve managed a respite to regain our strength for whatever is to come.”
“What is to come?” Tegyr asked gloomily, polishing the dragon of Arthur’s standard. He, like most, was demoralised to the point of despair. The rumour mill poured out fearful speculation about Arthur’s fate and the prospects of the soldiers if he were to die.
“Another sunrise and another day to conquer,” Bedwyr snapped. He grimaced and continued in a softer tone. “Towards that goal, we must recover our strength. The Guard and the infirm will remain here. Guin and Morcant will lead the rest of the army to Avalon, the town named for this region, nine miles further north-east.”
“Why do we divide?” Siawn asked. “If Euric pursues us this far…” He drifted off.
“Morgen and her sisters are granting us a great favour by taking in our wounded,” Bedwyr answered. “But they haven’t the resources to support even our reduced numbers, and an armed camp on the doorstep would smother the peace that encourages healing here.”
“Will the lord of the town harbour them?” Gawain asked.
“They know Arthur here, and Guin carries a letter bearing the Rigotamos’s seal, explaining that Arthur is stopping briefly at the springs to rest before resuming raids against the Vesi, in accordance with the pact with Emperor Anthemius,” Bedwyr said airily. “As Roman foederati, they’re obligated to assist, but as rivals of the Vesi, it’s in their best interests to do so. Arthur sends this small contingent to defend the region against any reprisals by Euric.”
“Will Euric attack Burgundian lands?” Amren asked. “This isn’t a very defensible location.”
“I rather doubt he wishes to fight on two fronts,” Bedwyr replied. “But we’ll mount patrols to provide warning. Our next step, however, is to get news from Gallcoyt and Menw. At some point, we must reunite.”
“Who should I go to first?” Cyndelic volunteered.
“Your bravery is unbounded, my friend,” Bedwyr smiled. “I pray it doesn’t cost you your life. My heart yearns to know how our men at Biturigas fare. But Menw will know how things stand with Syagrius, and that is intelligence we need sooner.”
“Blesum it is,” Cyndelic nodded. “My horse needs rest, so I’ll leave in two days.”
“Very good,” Bedwyr nodded, then addressed the others. “For now,
we see to Arthur’s recovery. By the time Cyndelic returns, he should be able to decide our next steps.”
Gawain stepped away from the group and walked around to the sanctum’s entrance. The door was closed, but light showed around the edges, and he could hear a woman’s voice murmuring and smell the strong odour of vinegar. Arthur was in a grave state, but with good care, he would recover. Gawain said a silent prayer towards that end and walked down towards the saltworks to find Peredur and Illtud.
On the edge of the hospital camp, he found Illtud layering branches over a low lean-to shelter. Illtud looked up and saw Gawain in the light of his fire, and his face lit up.
“Amidst all, we’re blessed to be brought back together,” Illtud smiled, embracing Gawain. “It’s fortunate that you included the healing arts in Peredur’s training. Otherwise, he’d be at the main camp.”
“Where is the youngster?” Gawain asked.
“The youngster was fetching water,” Peredur answered, walking up from behind. “I spent the day doing so for the infirm. Now I do it for the aged.” He set down a pail of water, handed the other to a soldier and stretched his shoulders.
“How is Arthur?” Illtud asked, settling down by the fire.
“He’s with the… I suppose Morgen is an abbess,” Gawain replied. “She’s said to be the most learned healer in Gaul. It’s too soon to know anything more.” He gave them a brief description of what Bedwyr planned.
“I’m anxious to know how the fellows of our combrogi made out,” Peredur said. “It’s hard to believe we’re the only two equestrians remaining.”
“Keir, Teilo, Mabon… Gareth,” Gawain nodded, pushing down a surge of emotion. “I had little opportunity to see our infantry brothers. Had you?”
“Only briefly,” Peredur replied. “When I carried a message to Cei, I saw them relieve another company. Ajax waded into the fight like a bear, throwing men about or crushing them with a club. And later, during the withdrawal, I saw old Eudaf organising litter teams for the wounded.”
“How did we go from such success to such sudden tragedy?” Illtud wondered.
“Betrayal by the Romans,” a soldier bitterly interjected as he passed by.
“What would Syagrius have to gain by betraying Arthur?” Peredur asked after a long pause.
“I can think of nothing,” Gawain shook his head.
“Some say he covets our lands in Letavia,” Illtud suggested. “Arthur’s campaigns there strengthened our borders, and killing the usurper helped to end the internal strife that made us vulnerable.”
“If Emperor Anthemius thought the Vesi threat against Syagrius was dire enough to instigate a war,” Gawain said, “it would seem reckless to sacrifice an ally for modest gains.”
“Perhaps not so modest, if it weakens Euric and removes a potential rival,” Illtud suggested. “Arthur’s success would give him influence and lands to Syagrius’s west and south.”
“That’s a risky gamble,” Gawain said. “And too much to speculate on at this point. Let’s instead turn our thoughts to our fallen brothers.”
Two days later, Cyndelic set out, and that night Arthur opened his eyes.
It was Gawain’s turn to guard the door to the sanctum that evening. He stepped in to see the sleeping king, who lay propped up on cushions and covered in blankets. A thick turban of bandages sat loosely on his head. The room still had the strong vinegar smell, though mixed with herbs, flowers and the metallic tang of blood.
Morgen, sitting beside Arthur, was lifting the blankets from his torso as Gawain entered. Another of her ladies, Moronoe, sat at Arthur’s head, grinding something in a small bowl.
“You’re protecting Arthur from us this evening?” Morgen said, glancing up at him.
“I’m certain you are no threat to the king, my lady,” Gawain replied. “And I doubt there is any threat to him in this place.”
Morgen looked back at Gawain thoughtfully a moment before returning to her task. She peeled back a bandage from Arthur’s side. The livid gash was clean but open, the flesh showing in shades of pink, white and yellow. Movement within the injury caught Gawain’s eye, and he stepped up to peer more closely. He gasped and nearly retched when he saw the wound crawling with maggots. Morgen glanced back irritably, rolled her eyes and turned her attention back to her work, carefully prodding and examining it.
“I took you for a seasoned warrior,” Morgen said. “I must have been mistaken, or you would have seen much worse than this.”
“I have seen worse among the dead,” Gawain answered without offence. “But never have I seen carrion worms feasting on living men.”
“Dead flesh suffocates living flesh and poisons the blood,” Morgen replied tiredly. “These maggots eat only the dead tissue, allowing the body to heal more easily.” She used silver tweezers to remove some of the fatter ones, tossing them into the fire. Moronoe mixed the contents of the bowl into a pitcher of water beside Morgen and excused herself.
“I’ve heard you’re a master of the healing arts,” Gawain said. “Please forgive my outburst. My knowledge is certainly inferior to yours.”
“You’ve studied medicine?” Morgen asked sceptically. “Or just to manage wounds of violence?”
“I had more opportunity to aid farmers and animals before this past year,” Gawain shrugged. “I’ve helped where I could since then.”
Morgen gave him another appraising look, then asked, “What would you do for a burn?”
“Soothe it with the slime of a snail and leave it open to the air if the flesh is not charred.”
“How would you treat an infection of the eyelid?”
“Leeks, garlic, wine and gall, fermented in a copper bowl and applied lightly.”
“Hmm, perhaps you are not simply a butcher,” Morgen said. “What is your name?”
“Gawain ap Gwyar,” he answered.
“Well, Gawain son of Bloodshed,” Morgen replied with a hint of sarcasm, “sit, if you would like to discuss the art.”
Much later, Morgen suddenly paused their conversation with a raised hand and glanced down at Arthur. She placed her fingers on the side of his neck and leant down so that her cheek was over his nose. After a moment, she sat up with the first hint of a smile Gawain had seen since they arrived.
“Stay with him while I fetch Bedwyr,” Morgen said, getting up and leaving Gawain alone with Arthur. Gawain peered at him but could see no difference at first, until he saw a twitch in Arthur’s lips and eyelids. His forehead was still warm, though not as bad as it had been, and he was less flushed.
In a few minutes, Bedwyr swept into the room and knelt down beside Arthur, a mixture of worry and hope on his grizzled face. After a moment, looking disappointed, he sat down and glanced up at Gawain with a nod.
“Where’s Morgen?” Gawain asked.
“She…” Bedwyr paused to look at Gawain, shrugged and said, “It might be a shock if he were to awaken to her face.”
Gawain waited a moment, hoping Bedwyr would elaborate, but of course, the man seldom said more than he had to.
“I assume it has something to do with Arthur not wanting to come here,” Gawain said. “She appears to care for him. Why would it be a shock to see his sister?”
“You’re far too inquisitive,” Bedwyr grimaced. “But Arthur trusts you, so I’ll tell you as much as some few know. It stems from an old, bitter enmity between Morgen and Gwenhwyfar that drove Morgen away. Arthur swore to Gwenhwyfar that he would stay away from his sister.”
“What will he say when he finds out you brought him here?” Gawain asked warily.
“Hrmph,” Bedwyr smiled. “I’m not likely to lose my head if that’s what you mean. He hasn’t violated his oath. I brought him against his expressed will.”
“I’m not as worldly as you,” Gawain almost smirked. “But even I know that no woman would ever accept such an excu
se.”
Bedwyr chuckled and shrugged. “As I said, I’ll accept any penalty to see him live. Even laying my head on a block.”
“Morgen is an unusual woman,” Gawain said after a moment of silence, staring at Arthur’s face.
“That she is,” Bedwyr nodded, then looked at him with a raised eyebrow. “On your life, do not think of dipping your toes in that pond.”
“What? No!” Gawain exclaimed. “She’s fascinating in her bearing and her knowledge of medicine.”
“She’s also adept at mathematics, music and alchemy,” Bedwyr replied, looking back at Arthur. “She writes in Latin and Greek and can quote philosophers and history as well as plot the movement of the stars. Perhaps one other person in this world rivals her mind.”
“How did she come to this place?” Gawain asked.
“When Arthur was old enough to hold a sword, Uther sent him to Letavia to learn warfare in the Roman manner, and his adventures led him here. Arthur’s sword was forged not far away in this vale. He became friends with a Burgundi warlord, Gundgomar, who is now the Lord of Avalon. Morgen visited Arthur here and fell in love with the vale, while Gundgomar fell in love with her. When she was essentially banished from Arthur’s court, he offered her sanctuary here.” He looked sideways at Gawain and added, “Do not ask about their relationship. It is not our concern.”
“Of course,” Gawain hurried to change the subject. “How long has this place been here?”
“No one knows,” Bedwyr answered. “It was an ancient place of healing long before the Romans came and subsumed the shrine to their own pagan cults. You saw the remains of their bathhouse. It was destroyed by barbarians when my father was young.”
“Did the women build this house?” Gawain looked around dubiously.
“Of course not. When Rome accepted the Christ, they sent a bishop to turn this into a Christian shrine. He built the chapel and this sanctum and he administers this region, but in truth, has little to do with the place,” Bedwyr replied. “It was in a poor state of neglect when Morgen came here. She now leads and teaches them. It irritates the bishop, but he lets them be.”