The Beloved Dead

by Tony Hays

  “With your permission, my lord, I would ask that Master Merlin be named my guardian. He is already as a father to me.”

  I could not help but smile. Kay’s face drooped. Bedevere and Illtud hid their own smirks behind woolen-wrapped hands. Guinevere cocked her head to the side and nodded approvingly, appraising Nimue, for perhaps the first time, as something other than a potential rival.

  “What say you, Merlin? Merlin?”

  My old friend looked up from his bowl and nodded as if irritated. “Of course, of course. It is my honor.”

  And with that, the feast ended, all except for our council after.

  * * *

  As the now free Nimue and the others began to clean away the night’s meal, Bedevere, Merlin, Kay, and I moved to Arthur’s private chambers, separated from his great hall by a thin wooden wall. He planned a more substantial construction, but his time as Rigotamos had left him little freedom for such things. Aye, his beloved cruciform church was still little more than muddy foundation trenches, although that was more the fault of Coroticus, the abbot at Ynys-witrin.

  So Arthur had sent Guinevere to her home on the Via Arturius, the road between Castellum Arturius and Ynys-witrin, with Illtud as her escort.

  Arthur’s quarters were not fancy. Aye, other than one weaving, there was little in the way of decoration but his shield, bearing the chi rho symbol of his faith, mounted on the wall. We sat about a wooden table, our faces grim. I am not sure that any of us relished our task.

  “Bedevere, you, Malgwyn and Merlin will depart tomorrow. Take two troop of horse. That should be enough to discourage any latrunculi bent on mischief or a Saxon raiding party. On your way north, stop at Ynys-witrin and add Coroticus, the abbot, to your party.”

  I started to protest, but Arthur held his hand up, his irritation showing through. “Enough, Malgwyn. I know that you do not like him, but I am beginning to wonder if there is anyone you like. You hate Coroticus. You hate David. You hate Aircol’s daughter.”

  With that, I rose sharply. “You forgot yourself, my lord. I have hated you for longer than all the rest!”

  And we stayed like that for a long moment, our jaws both grinding, staring at each other with narrowed eyes.

  “Stop it! The both of you!” Merlin admonished us, like the teacher he so often seemed to be. “Arthur, you brought Malgwyn to your service because you respected his abilities to reason through matters, his wisdom. And he has proven that it was a wise choice. Malgwyn, you came to Arthur’s service because you realized that at this time in our world, he is the best suited to lead us. You know that as well as you know how to breathe.”

  It was hard to argue with the thin, wrinkled little man. I did not feel calm, but I felt foolish at my anger. And I felt foolish standing like a peeved little boy. I sat.

  “I want to impress upon Aircol,” Arthur continued in an apologetic tone, “the strength of my devotion to the Christ. Bedevere, take Cerdic with you to prepare the meals. And take double the meat, butter, milk, and leeks, and mushrooms, all the foods. Allow Cerdic to distribute the extra to the people on your return trip as he sees fit. Oh, and take Morgan ap Tud. I would have him with you if someone falls sick. Besides, I have little for him to do here.”

  I could not remain quiet. “Rigotamos, I understand your desire to impress Aircol, but these actions seem but empty gestures, false even.”

  Though I expected to be chastised again, help came from an unexpected quarter—Bedevere.

  “Rigotamos, Malgwyn is right. If you wish to grant food to the poor, that is noble. But do it because they are in need, not because you wish to make Aircol happy. I thought better of you. He is a noble, yes, but he is not Rigotamos, and he should wish to impress you. Do not lower yourself like this.”

  For the first time in a long time, I realized that Arthur was still young in a sense. We were about the same years, but where I was born a poor farmer, he was born a noble. And he wanted so much to succeed. I had simply wanted to survive. Until Tribuit.

  But in other ways, Arthur was wise beyond his years. As a youth, I had been told, Merlin was his teacher. Little was really clear about Arthur’s early years. I knew that his father was a noble named Uther, a friend of Ambrosius and Lord Cadwy and that Uther died fairly young. Beyond that, I knew nothing, and to ask was something not done. Merlin, too, was quiet about those days. His willingness to impress Aircol stood in marked contrast to his attitude toward the Saxons. And, for that much, I was thankful.

  He considered Bedevere’s words. “Agreed.” Stroking his mustache, Arthur turned then to me. “Be prepared to grant Aircol command of any northern army gathered to repel another Saxon invasion, but do not agree to it unless you must. Allow him to speak for the consilium with the other northern tribes, but do not agree to let him treat alone with the Saxons under any circumstance.”

  “What of additional lands?”

  Arthur smiled beneath his beard. “ ’Tis time for you to decide, Malgwyn. Will you accept Teilo and Dochu’s lands and become a lord of the consilium? Or will you remain my scribe and councilor? If you refuse the title, you may grant Aircol those lands.”

  Bedevere and Merlin looked at me intently. Arthur still smiled. He already knew my answer, knew it by my hesitancy in answering until now.

  “I will stay here, Rigotamos. Though I know that I am not as obedient as I should be, I am fit more to be your scribe than a lord,” I reminded him, lifting my half arm.

  “You are fit to be what you wish to be, but I will not argue with you. I know we have our differences, Malgwyn, but I welcome your presence in my councils. Give Aircol the lands.”

  Bedevere cleared his throat, his woolen hand fingering the brooch at his shoulder. “That will give him a very large power base in the northwest, Arthur. Is it wise?”

  Arthur’s thick eyebrows rose and fell and he shrugged. “What is wise in these days? You know as well as I that we have few allies in the north. While I do not hate David as Malgwyn does, I do trust Malgwyn’s instincts and judgment. David is not to be depended upon. Allying ourselves to Aircol puts a friend at David’s back gate. And a little whisper in the wind tells me that Aircol and David are rivals.

  “After all,” he continued, “we will have Aircol’s daughter in our midst. I would not choose to think of her as a hostage against his good behavior—as Tristan is for Mark’s—but her presence serves a similar purpose.”

  “You assume that Aircol will feel a need to protect his daughter,” Merlin countered. “Daughters are for marriages and alliances.”

  “He is a father, too,” I said, coming to Arthur’s defense in this matter, oddly enough. “It might not be enough to guarantee his goodwill, but it will give him pause.”

  Arthur nodded. “So it is decided. Bedevere, you will command the party for the journey. Kay will remain here and see to the preparations.”

  “And you, my lord?” Kay asked, innocently.

  The Rigotamos rose, pulling his tunic down and cinching his iron-studded belt tighter. “I will go to Guinevere’s cottage and do what must be done.”

  * * *

  “She will need you, Malgwyn,” Merlin told me later that night as we settled into our beds.

  “Who?” My mind was still wrapped around the poor, ravaged body of Hafren back at the base of the White Mount.

  “Guinevere. This will be a savage blow to her. You are the only family she has left.”

  “Yes,” I agreed. “And Arthur has conveniently arranged for me to be absent when Guinevere needs me most.”

  Old Merlin cocked his head to the side. “I did not think of that. Arthur did not, either. But it would not matter. He has his mission to complete as we have ours.”

  He stopped and looked across the room at me. “Have no fear, Malgwyn. She will need you just as much when we return.”

  But I did worry, because I knew Guinevere better than Merlin. She had abandoned her vow of celibacy for her love of Arthur, though she had been but a child when she undertook it.
She had borne her disgrace with nobility. And I did not believe that she would give up the role of consort easily or well. In truth, I did not know what she would do. And that made me fear for her. For Merlin’s point was double-edged: Just as I was all the family that Guinevere had, she was all the blood kin left for me, save Mariam.

  * * *

  “Why must you leave now?” Ygerne was much out of sorts with me. I had just cinched a leather pouch on my saddle and was preparing to mount my horse. We were standing in the flat below Arthur’s hall, just inside the main gate. Nearby, Cerdic and Talorc were guiding a cart pulled by oxen, loaded to bursting with our food and supplies. Merlin was leading his horse through the gate to meet Bedevere, who was waiting in the levels below the castle with our troops. “You just returned from the White Mount.”

  “And now I must leave for the Demetae.”

  She eyed me closely, that red hair shining in the summer sun. “Guinevere did not stay at Arthur’s hall last night. Does that have something to do with your journey north?”

  Ygerne was clever, accomplished at putting facts and events together, drawing some meaning from them. Arthur would allow the word of his impending marriage to be spread later on that day, but until then, we were sworn to secrecy. She knew from the lines in my face that my mission was important, and she knew too that I was not pleased by it. Most important, she knew that I would not tell her without Arthur’s permission. I think that frustrated her the most.

  Her red hair swirling about her in the constant wind, she took my face in her hands and kissed me. “Take care. I would have you come back to me, and Mariam worries so when you leave. She fears that you will not return and often cries in her bed at night.”

  I pulled her hands away with my one. “There will be fewer trips after this, I hope. I have told Arthur that I will not accept the forfeited lands and become a lord of the consilium. He has agreed that I may stay here in his service.”

  The smile that brightened her face was more than I could have desired. “Then you deserve a better kiss, for I have hoped you would do just that.” And she gave me one.

  Moments later, Merlin and I were atop our horses, leading them through the massive double gates and winding down to the levels below. The wind had shifted, and I caught a whiff of the woad-making, such a horrid smell. In my heart I prayed that it was not an ill omen.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  “We have not met Arthur. What think you of that?” Bedevere asked as we passed the narrow lane that led to Guinevere’s cottage.

  Indeed, we had not seen Arthur on the road, nor did we have time to stop to see Guinevere. Our journey on this day was much longer than our trek to the White Mount and would take more than a week to complete. Stopping to retrieve Coroticus would make the journey that much longer.

  I shrugged, tucking the reins under my half arm as I wiped the streaming rainwater from my face with my one hand. “Perhaps she took the news better than we thought,” I answered, knowing that the likelihood of that was slim at best.

  The rains had held off for some time, but in recent days they had returned, soaking the ground like some great sea sponge, the likes of which I had once seen far to the west, where the great seas touched our lands. Part of our path took us along ancient wooden track ways, paths that kept us from the sodden mess of the bogs where our horses’ hooves would sink beyond recovery in the foul, ill-smelling muck. Some people in another time had created wooden causeways to help them. Their waterlogged boards, dark against the bogs, were marked here and there by blazes of white and yellow wood, freshly cut to repair damaged planks.

  We had passed our outpost near the hills between Castellum Arturius and Ynys-witrin and were descending along the track toward the old Roman bridge before beginning the ascent into the village. A wisp of grayish-white smoke arose on our left from a small community of women dedicated to the Christ’s mother, Mary. They had a timber chapel and a small group of huts. These women were not of the same beliefs as those in the larger community above the abbey, and they kept to themselves, not mixing with either the brothers or their fellow women.

  That thorn tree from Joseph of Arimathea rose starkly against the skyline on our right as we made our way along the lane. The last time I had passed this way, we had been greeted by a steady stream of merchants and pilgrims, all coming to Ynys-witrin to see the famous Patrick, episcopus of the Scotti. And some had seen him. Others had attended his burial in the simple graveyard beside the vetustam ecclesia in the abbey.

  As we neared the abbey precinct, marked by its vallum, I noted a gathering of soldiers wearing red and gray tunics, the uniform of Lord Melwas, commander at the great tor. He was poised to take over from Illtud, who had consolidated our holdings in the wake of the recent revolt, but whose talents were many, and he was now needed for other tasks.

  In the distance, atop the mist-shrouded tor, I could dimly see the small wooden chapel and huts recently built by Arnulph and Ogmar, Patrick’s companions. They had been granted permission to establish a small hermitage on the summit in honor of the old episcopus.

  Much to my surprise, as we started up the slope to the entrance of the abbey, I saw that the bank and ditch had been strengthened and the old timber rampart replaced with a new, thicker, taller one. I saw too that Melwas’s men stood watch, something the abbot had not welcomed or permitted when Liguessac, or Lauhiir as we called him, had commanded the tor. But Lauhiir was trapped inside the abbey after claiming sanctuary. His men had killed three of Arthur’s soldiers. It was also believed that he had killed the old monachus Elafius for interfering with his plans to rebel against Arthur. But that accusation had been convenient, not truth. So, now he sat within the vallum, unable to leave for fear of his immediate arrest and execution.

  A figure stepped out into the lane before us. At first I did not recognize him, dressed as he was in a plain brown tunic and a hooded cloak. Coroticus, the abbot. Behind him, I saw a smallish figure, hustling clumsily in pursuit.

  “No robes and trinkets, my lord?” I asked, swinging down from my horse and splashing into the mud. My tone carried a hint of insolence. I was no friend of the abbot’s nor he of mine, though it had not always been that way. But time and events can sever even the most intimate of relationships, so what chance does mere friendship stand in a turbulent era?

  “I thought it better to travel incognito.”

  I nodded. Arthur enjoyed traveling that way, though circumstances rarely allowed it. That Coroticus would choose to go about dressed plainly was a bit surprising; he so loved his abbot’s gold chain and cross and his fur-lined robes.

  Coroticus must have seen the confusion on my face or sensed the hesitancy in my manner. “Scotti raiders are reported along our path. The deaths of Teilo and Dochu have left their lands fragmented and unguarded. My capture would not be a good thing.”

  No, I said to myself. For Coroticus that would not be a good turn of events. But, instead of commiserating with him, I simply said, “And whose fault would that be?”

  His well-fed cheeks glowed red, and he turned to berating young Ider, who, it appeared, had been chosen to accompany the abbot.

  “Bedevere!” I called to my friend, who was even then arranging to incorporate the abbot’s horses and wagon into our own. He turned from his task and trudged through the mud to my side. “I need a favor.”

  “Anything, Malgwyn.”

  “Send three men under a flag of truce to my bandit friend Gareth,” and I gave him the location. “Have them bring him to us along the way.”

  That square face, lined from the demands of a life at arms, wrinkled up into a frown. “For what purpose?”

  When I told him, he smiled and nodded his assent. “That is wise. I would never have thought of that, Malgwyn.”

  “It is risky for Gareth and his band.”

  “Then why will he agree?”

  I grinned. “Because he will see it as great fun, a chance to tweak the Scotti’s nose.”

  With a laugh, Bedevere se
nt a patrol off to fetch Gareth while we waited the brief time it took for Coroticus and Ider to join us. As we continued on through the village, headed northeast, I noticed a gaggle of soldiers crossing the lane and headed toward the Roman wharves to the southwest. At its center was the unmistakable form of Melwas, a little lord who was as broad as he was tall. Part of Lord Vortimer’s faction who opposed Arthur’s election as Rigotamos, Melwas had wisely kept his distance from his comrades. After Lauhiir’s ill-fated rebellion, Arthur had no reason to deny him the command at Ynys-witrin.

  I knew little of his history. His family originally came from the lands of Iceni, now overrun by the Saxons. But he had lived among the Durotriges for many years now, and Melwas was popular among the people in the way that only truly ugly men can be popular. His brown hair was perpetually greasy, and his attempts at growing a beard were laughable. His plump, reddened cheeks bore witness to the wineskins he had drained, and he was given to boring guests at his feasts with his recitations of imaginary women conquered. Some considered him a buffoon, but there was a sparkle to those eyes, set deep above those fat cheeks, that made me wonder.

  He stopped, holding his hand out to halt his followers, and turned as we passed. With a slight bow, he nodded to me and I to him. Until, that is, I saw his group more clearly. Until I saw the thin man in the white robe, a rope tied about his waist, turn and look toward us.

  Wynn.

  The Druid from the White Mount.

  With great strength, I forced myself to make no sign of recognition, but the red in my cheeks must have told the entire story, for Wynn smiled at me.

  Blast him! And blast all Druids! How could they feel smug when they had to rely on the likes of Melwas and Mordred for noble support? ’Twas a question without answer.

  But my horse, with the rhythmic rise and fall of his hooves, carried me past. I did not like that Wynn had appeared in our country, nor did I like that we were leaving for the Demetae with him yet in our midst. And I could not forget the curse he laid on Arthur.