The Killing Way

by Tony Hays

  “Eleonore sought me that night to tell me what she had learned, to seek counsel, I suspect. I was gone, but the boy Owain saw her. And she told Nyfain as well. Remember, my lord?” This last I directed to Ambrosius.

  “Yes, I recall.”

  That surprised me a little. I did not think he would remember anything. “The architect of this affair discovered that Eleonore knew. Tristan’s rendezvous was convenient, and the passion of his ardor a stroke of good fortune. They were likely waiting for Tristan to leave her alone long enough so that they might kill her.”

  “And Nyfain?” Arthur queried.

  “They did not know what or how much Eleonore had told her. Leaving her alive was a risk they dared not take.”

  “But Malgwyn, why did they attempt to blame Merlin?” Ambrosius asked.

  “I confess that when I realized that Saxons were involved, that confused me as well. But Eleonore’s death offered a way to discredit Arthur without the mess and uncertainty an assassination brings. That’s when I understood that the man behind this scheme was as skilled a manipulator as I know and a man with a talent for subtlety. Saxons are not subtle.”

  “Do you have a name for this man?” Lauhiir asked derisively.

  “Yes, I do.” I had the consilium’s full attention. The hall fell silent but for my voice.

  “It was you, Lord Mordred.” I spoke the words without looking at him. The room exploded into shouts and excited murmurs.

  Only then did I face Mordred. His narrow face and hawkish eyes were relaxed, almost too relaxed.

  “I trust this is not just drunken raving of yours, Malgwyn,” he said, reclining in his seat, yet his hand had slid onto the hilt of his sword.

  “Treason is a serious charge,” Lauhiir responded in measured tones.

  “Aye,” I agreed, “it is.” I chose my next words carefully. The realization of Mordred’s guilt had struck me only moments before in the great square. It sounded too fiendish even for Mordred, but I could reach no other conclusion. I knew, however, that I was about to create several mortal enemies.

  “You have proof?” Ambrosius asked.

  “Of a sort. Conspirators of any kind, my lord, prefer to keep themselves a league removed.”

  “Just as I thought.” Mordred sneered. “The ramblings of a drunk.”

  I sucked in a deep breath of air. This was single combat, between Mordred and me. Again, I spoke without looking at him, a gesture of dismissal. “Think as you wish, but consider what we know. Despite the urging of many members of the consilium, Arthur had let it be known that he would not appoint Mordred as Master of Horse when, and if, he became Rigotamos. It was a job Mordred lusted after because it would put him in command of all cavalry, our most potent weapon.

  “Why should Tristan turn to Vortimer for help? It is easier to blame a dead man than a living one. Who was Tristan’s constant companion? Mordred. ’Tis more likely that he would go to his friend Mordred in such a crisis.

  “And who was the last person seen with Nyfain? Mordred. I watched myself as they left the great hall together after Eleonore was found dead. The next time Nyfain was seen, she had been cut and butchered.

  “As for the Saxons, those so newly arrived that they spoke not our language, who among you had recently returned from the eastern frontier? Who among you could have arranged so easily for them to cross our borders and arrive safely here at this castle?”

  All the consilium looked at Mordred with a growing belief in my words. Even Lord David looked aghast at Mordred. All, that is, but Lauhiir. He was part of the conspiracy too, but I had no evidence against him.

  Mordred’s expression had not changed. He smiled stiffly, but my indictment of him could not now be dismissed as drunken ramblings. Still, he was not going to confess. “It strikes me, Malgwyn, that you have no witnesses to corroborate your accusations,” he said. “You are strangely out of Saxons, and I daresay that Tristan will not help you.”

  “Not so strangely, Lord Mordred. I have not forgotten that you disappeared into the crowd just before the last Saxon’s throat was slit, and then reappeared by magic immediately after.”

  “Still, I am a free man and a noble of this land. You have no witnesses. You have no evidence beyond your own musings.”

  “Don’t be so certain, my lord. One who would investigate such things never reveals all he knows.”

  A sheen of sweat emerged on Mordred’s lip, his eyes quickly flashing as he tried to remember what he might have missed. “Then reveal it and be done!” he dared.

  I shook my head. “Now is not the right time, but it will come. Fear not.”

  “I fear nothing.”

  “Then you are a fool.” I meant to provoke him, wanted to provoke him. I wanted his blood.

  “Lord Mordred!” Ambrosius’s voice rang again, and I watched Mordred nearly jump from his sandals.

  “Yes, my lord?”

  “I think that you should take your company of men and patrol our western borders. There are reports of Picts coming from Ireland. You will leave now.”

  “My lord?” Mordred wanted to argue, but he knew that all that stood between himself and a formal charge of treason was myself and Tristan. And Tristan knew that it was wiser not to involve Mordred. Plus, he was not so sure of his success in single combat with me. And Ambrosius was right. All Mordred’s death would accomplish now would be civil war.

  “But the election of a new Rigotamos!”

  “You will unfortunately miss it. Be gone before I change my mind.” Ambrosius turned to the other members of the consilium. “We will reconvene in an hour to hold the election. Lord Bedevere, find suitable quarters at the barracks for young Tristan. He will need time to learn the routine before he establishes his own household.”

  “My lord,” Bedevere acknowledged. Tristan left, a nauseated look on his face, but Bedevere lingered.

  While grumbling came from some of the lords, they obeyed, leaving only Ambrosius, Bedevere, Kay, Arthur, Merlin, and myself.

  “You performed your work well, Malgwyn,” Ambrosius began. “I do not doubt your conclusions at all, but Mordred still has many friends, and he was right, your evidence was not solid.”

  “I know, my lord. But I still prayed for his blood on my hands.”

  “I find it discomforting that the Saxons were able to penetrate my fortress so easily,” Arthur said, changing subjects.

  “More than that, my lord,” I replied. “A band of them was moving at will in the countryside between here and Ynys-witrin. No one but Gareth knew of this.”

  “Kay!”

  “Yes, my lord.”

  “You will go to the eastern borders and secure them from further incursions.”

  “For how long, my lord?”

  “Until I call for your return. Make ready for your departure.”

  “And Kay?”

  “My lord.”

  “Take the heads of the dead Saxons and impale them on stakes near unto our border with their fellows as an example to them or anyone who challenges my authority.”

  “As you wish.”

  “Bedevere!”

  “My lord,” he answered.

  “Fetch Accolon’s body and return it here for a warrior’s burial. He shall be honored in death as he was not in life. Then scout through the countryside for any other Saxons still there.”

  “Be vigilant,” I warned, pulling the arrowhead from my pouch that I had scavenged from Accolon’s body. “The Saxons were using archers, shooting these.”

  Bedevere took the odd arrow and raised his eyebrows. “These are what penetrated Vortimer’s mail,” he said.

  “Aye,” I agreed. “That I faced men skilled in their use means that new bands of Saxons are being brought to our lands.”

  “Go,” Arthur commanded. “Report everything, no matter how small. These tidings do not bode well for our future, and we must be prepared.”

  Kay had lingered, and now he told us the reason why.

  “My Lord Arthur! Tris
tan killed Eleonore. You are just going to let him walk away with such little punishment?”

  “Kay, old friend, I could not behead Mark’s son no matter who he killed.” Arthur, looking bedraggled and weary, rubbed a gloved hand over his tunic, hooking a thumb in his studded belt. “That would bring war among the consilium and civil war is what we’ve been fighting so desperately to avoid. I am sorry that it seems unfair, but—”

  “But,” I interrupted, waving a hand at them both, “it was unnecessary. Tristan did not kill Eleonore. Her murderers have already paid.”

  They all bellowed questions then, since that was not the conclusion from before. Finally, Merlin’s voice rose above the others. “But you yourself blamed him for the death.”

  “No, Merlin. I let him believe that he killed her. All I blamed him with was bashing her head against the post.”

  Now Arthur was troubled. His tongue flicked out and wetted down his drooping mustache, pulling the hairs into his mouth and chewing on them. He only did that in the most frustrating of times. “Did that not kill her?”

  “Perhaps it would have, my lord, but she was still alive when the Saxons took Merlin’s knife to her. Remember that I found the bit of cloth clutched tightly in her hand. Were she dead already, she could not have clutched the robe with such fierceness as to tear it. It was their hands that strangled her before they began to carve her up like an animal. Ergo, they are truly responsible for taking her life’s breath. Plus,” I continued, “what Tristan did was accidental. What the Saxons did was intentional.”

  Bedevere regarded me with bemused comprehension. “You manipulated the truth to help Arthur put down this infant rebellion.”

  I shrugged again. “I manipulated nothing. I told the truth, just not all of it. I put to use the tools that I was given. A part of me has hated Arthur for years, but in just the three days I have returned to his world, I see that we are in better hands with him than Mordred or Tristan or the Saxons. Mordred should have been beheaded for bringing Saxon spies into this fort, and I believe he knew all along who they were, as well as knowing of the band of Saxons in the woods, but I knew too that Arthur could not do that. First, I could not prove Mordred’s guilt without doubt. He stayed just far enough in the shadows to shield himself. And we know not who else from the consilium might have been involved. No, we foiled their plot and kept Arthur a contender for the crown; Mordred is too popular to be executed. Tell me, Arthur, that you did not see what I was handing you.”

  “No, I saw immediately what your scheme was,” he replied, those dark eyes of his flashing. Arthur was as cunning as any man I knew when he chose to be.

  “Since he could not be killed, sending him away was an excellent way of keeping him out of trouble.”

  “For a while,” Ambrosius agreed.

  Arthur walked up to me and wrapped his big hand around my neck. “I trusted you, Malgwyn. You did not fail me. I ask you now to come serve with me as my scribe and councillor.” He held up the other hand as I started to protest. “This is no gift. You have earned it.”

  The offer did not seem a bad one. “Give me a night to consider it. And, if you do not mind, my lord, I will take that bed you offered a few nights ago. I am falling asleep as I stand here.” I turned to Kay. “Old friend, will you tell Ygerne and Mariam that I will take a meal with them tomorrow? And please have Cicero take Owain to Ygerne. She will understand. Tonight, I must rest.”

  “Stay!” Ambrosius abruptly commanded. “You will dine here during the election and serve as my aide during the vote.”

  I wanted a bed, not a job. “I am no member of the consilium. I have no standing. For the sake of the gods, Rigotamos, have I not earned a night’s sleep yet?”

  “Though you have done an admirable job sorting through this affair, Arthur’s election is not a certainty. We don’t know what last trick they may try to play.”

  And then the old warrior, the good king, did something I never dreamed possible. Ambrosius laid his hand on my shoulder. “A man is what he proves himself to be, Malgwyn. In this affair, you have proved yourself a far greater lord than any with lands and retainers. Accept Arthur’s offer and I will make you official clerk of the consilium. Then, perhaps, you’ll earn your night’s sleep.” He stopped and sniffed. “But now, go get cleaned.”

  As befitted his station, Ambrosius took the chair of the Rigotamos. Vortimer’s blood yet marked the great table, though large splinters bore witness to the attempts of slaves to rub out the stain.

  The other lords soon drifted into the room, each taking a Roman-style goblet in hand from scurrying servants and gathering into cliques. No politics at this gathering. The lots had been drawn and Arthur held the most. Most all were casting worried glances at the man soon to be the new Rigotamos.

  Only a fool believed that Arthur wouldn’t be chosen, yet the treachery shown in this affair had been such that Ambrosius himself had demanded my presence at the election and Arthur joined his plea. The crown had not passed to him yet, and he needed his most trusted allies to make certain there was no mischief. And such a jest it was. Myself, a trusted ally? Why, a fortnight before, I would gladly have slit his throat. But much of that love I once felt for Arthur’s leadership had returned, much of the surety in his judgment renewed.

  “Why comes he here?” I turned to hear Lord David demand a reason for my presence. Bathed and redressed, I resembled little the blood-dripping, battle-weary man of two hours before. “He is no lord of the consilium and holds no lands.”

  Ambrosius settled his ungainly figure in his chair and considered David through narrowed eyes. “He nearly held your bleeding head in his hand. He may yet.” Ambrosius chuckled half seriously. “Malgwyn will serve as my official scribe and as counter of lots. And it would be my advice that the next Rigotamos confer on him the titles and lands of a lord of the consilium.”

  “That will certainly make the count come out as you please,” a fat lord named Melwas grumbled, but I paid him no mind and neither did Ambrosius. As a lord, Melwas counted for little at any rate. Arthur, rightly, paid no heed to any of it and stood to the side, drinking wine with Kay and Bedevere. David and Lauhiir were in conference with the blue-eyed lord Celyn ap Caw, one of a group of noble brothers from Gwynned who were outspoken against Arthur and Ambrosius. One brother, Huaill, was little better than an outlaw and had openly challenged Ambrosius.

  After a few moments, Ambrosius moved into place and the others followed suit. “There is no formal procedure,” Ambrosius intoned. “We will take nominations and different colored stones prepared for each candidate. Malgwyn has readied stones for three candidates.”

  I nodded. An air of mischief floated about the room. Arthur’s opponents knew they had no chance of success, and I wondered at how they would behave. I left stones of each color before each lord as two slaves heaved a giant rock onto the table. Ambrosius rose and pulled his jeweled sword, one symbol of his office, from his sheath. “’Twas this stone upon which Caesar first stepped onto our isle. It has been our custom since the consilium began, that the Rigotamos take up the sword from the stone to defend our people.”

  With a wave and a flourish, he laid the sword upon the stone. The Caesar Stone was an enigma. It might have been where Gaius Julius Caesar made his first step on Britannia, and it could have been a rock from out of one of the rivers. But symbolically it stood for the first step made by an invader, and the British leader who took the sword from the stone must be victorious, as that first was against Caesar. Forgotten was that the Romans did succeed against us later and we embraced them, but some things are best left in the past. As for the stone, my old dad thought that it was probably some rock that Cunobeline pissed on.

  This I did not know, but I knew that it had grown into a sacred symbol, held at the Rigotamos’s castle under constant guard. And such symbols were important to a people with barely a sense of themselves.

  “Who would take up this sword?” Ambrosius queried in a rumble.

  Bedevere stoo
d. “I put forward Arthur ap Uther as the new Rigotamos.”

  Lauhiir, in turn, stood and placed Lord David’s name in nomination. It was expected. After Vortimer’s death, David was the senior lord of the faction that opposed Arthur.

  No one else spoke.

  “Those choosing Arthur will use the red stones. Those voting for David will cast the blue,” I instructed the lords, sweeping aside the third set of stones. It was only prudent to prepare more “ballots” than necessary in case of a surprise candidate. As I gazed round the table, I felt a foreboding, a sense of dread. Celyn, the blue-eyed youngster from one of the northern tribes, flashed those blue eyes and snorted. I remembered seeing him at the spears when I went down into Vortimer’s camp. He seemed eager, too eager, the kind of eagerness that is not welcomed among lords and warriors. I noted that eagerness as I held the box for him to cast his stone.

  In seconds, the lots had been cast. I took each out of the box so that all could see. The reds outnumbered the blues by two to one. Arthur was to be the Rigotamos. With a nod from Ambrosius, he reached for the sword lying upon Caesar’s Stone.

  And then something unexpected happened.

  Celyn stretched forward to grab the sword himself. “Damned if I’ll let the crown go to such as he!” he cried. But before he could lift the sword and thrust it into Arthur, his eyes flashed suddenly in shock and then glazed over. The young lord fell forward onto the table, unconscious from the sturdy backhand I had given him with my gloved hand. A little blood seeped out from the corner of his mouth, and his tongue lapped from his mouth, swelling.

  I wiped my hand on the young lord’s tunic. “Only Arthur has earned the right to take up the sword.”

  Amid the clamor in the hall, Arthur took the sword from the stone and held it up.

  Quickly, one voice rose above all others—David.

  “Malgwyn assaulted a lord of the consilium! Arrest him!” cried David.