by Tony Hays
Owain leaned against the rampart and frowned, shaking his head. “Women are difficult to understand, aren’t they?”
The severity of his look sent me into laughter, a good, belly-deep laugh. One sentence from young Owain and my ill mood fled like a falcon in flight. I tousled his hair with my one hand and then led us both down the ladder and off the parapet.
* * *
I kept my distance from Ygerne throughout the rest of the day and evening. Mariam came to my house late in the afternoon and sat in my lap as Merlin amused her with stories of Gwynn ap Nudd, the faerie king who lived inside the great tor at Ynys-witrin. Long before the feasting, her yawns threatened to overtake her and she rode my shoulders back to Ygerne’s house. I let her down and knelt beside her.
“Mariam, do you know why Mother Ygerne is upset with me?”
My daughter pursed her lips again and frowned at me. “Mother warned me that you would ask me questions. She said to tell you that you are a grown man and should understand women better.”
Before I could answer, the door flew open and Ygerne appeared, snatching Mariam from my arm and slamming the door in my face. That she was upset about Guinevere I understood. But that had been Arthur’s decision, not mine. Frustrated and worried, I trudged back up the lane toward home.
Because our return journey had taken so long and been so tiring, the feasting on the first night was fairly subdued. Despite Cerdic’s blustering, he prepared a more than adequate table, simple foods to be sure like pig, chicken, leeks, potatoes, flat bread and mead spiced with apples and flecks of fennel.
The air held little of the festive atmosphere it should have, I noted as I walked through the lanes. The wedding of the Rigotamos should have heralded the greatest festival in recent memory. But that night was strangely calm, though the flickering of the torches made shadows seem to dance along the lanes. Granted, none of the other lords of the consilium would arrive until the next day, along with other guests: the bishop Dubricius, two of Vortimer’s brothers—Faustus and Riocatus (both sacerdotes)—an envoy of Sidonius Apollinaris from Gaul, an envoy from Pope Leo in Rome, and one from the Roman emperor. I cannot now remember if it was Avitus or Majorian or Libius Severus. It was before Anthemius, I am almost certain. Emperors changed so often in those days that one needed a sharp mind to remember them all. Arthur, anxious to solidify his status as Rigotamos, had sent out fast riders as soon as the decision was made, before even our trip to the White Mount.
I heard that three horses and one rider had died in the race to reach Rome, but, as with so many rumors, there was no way to prove it true. That the dispatch rider had flown with the wind was obvious, but even extraordinary acts were often exaggerated. I never understood why.
The vendors with their wooden stalls had not yet filled the market square, near the still unfinished church. But the people from the outlying villages had just begun to arrive. Those who first gathered in their colorful patchwork clothes were more interested in the wine than in buying or trading for brooches or new tunics. Indeed, I saw more than one old and frayed toga among them. Good wool was not meant to be abandoned, even if its style was outdated.
“Malgwyn!”
A voice called to me from near the main gate. Craning my neck around, I saw a tall, slim man approaching. He wore the tunic and camisia of a noble and the belt at his waist was studded with iron. Tristan ap Cunomorous (or Mark as he preferred).
Though I had no interest in talking with him, courtesy dictated that I do so. “My lord.”
He trotted up to me then, his Pictish hair flowing about his shoulders, a smile planted firmly on his face. “I have just heard that Arthur is releasing me to return home.”
“Yes, it is only just,” I muttered, with little sympathy in my voice. I took the chance to study him a bit, though, and I noticed that he had more lines in his face than I remembered. Perhaps his stay with us had matured him. “I hear that your father is marrying?”
“It is true. As with Arthur’s match with Gwyneira, there is more than a little controversy about it.”
“Aye?”
He leaned in closer. “She is Scotti, daughter of some tribal chief or other, named Iseult. I do not yet know the whole story of it, but she is either very beautiful or very rich.”
I had to chuckle at that. Mark was known for two things: his appreciation of beautiful women and his devotion to treasure. “Well, I am sure it will be good for you to get back home to Castellum Dore.”
My good wishes paid, I made to turn away, but Tristan’s hand caught my shoulder.
“Malgwyn,” he said with a stammer.
“What is it, my lord?” Something in his eyes held me to the spot: pain.
“I need you to know that I truly did not wish any harm to Eleonore. My passion drove my hands in ways that my brain could not control. But you must understand that her death was not my intention.”
Despite the earnestness of his voice, I was not inclined to treat easily with him. In truth, he had not killed Eleonore, but I had let him believe that he had. He certainly contributed to it, but others bore more blame than he. “Yet, Tristan, she did die.” I stopped. Tears streamed down his smooth cheeks. “Here, here! Steady yourself, Tristan. Her death is long past, and you have borne your punishment with grace. When you are my age, I expect to see you high in the consilium.” My words held not the ring of truth, but so upset was the young lord that he did not hear the lie among them. Yet his grief was convincing and my hard old heart softened a bit.
“May I seek you out for counsel in the future, Malgwyn?”
“Of course, my friend.”
With that, Tristan wiped his face with a wool-wrapped hand, straightened his stance, and left me with a nod. I watched him walk back through the main gate and sighed. Perhaps it was time to lay my anger over Eleonore aside.
The wind shifted out of the northeast, and the acidic stench of the tanner filled the lane. My nose crinkled at the sting, but at least it was not as bad as the smell of the woad-making. I headed toward the barracks at the far end of the town, next to the metalworkers’ hearths. For once, the ringing of their hammers did not echo throughout town.
I saw a familiar shadow passing through the stout gate to the barracks. Illtud, another of Arthur’s cousins but smarter than all the rest combined. And he looked much like Arthur, tall with a full head of chestnut hair. But where Arthur went bearded, Illtud did not. And where Arthur was a born general and hungry for position, Illtud was a skilled soldier with little in the way of common ambition. He had been a frequent visitor at Ynys-witrin when I lived there, but he spent no time with the abbot. No, Illtud sought out the oldest and wisest brothers and conversed with them for hours. I never asked him what he found so interesting. He was a private man, and I respected that.
“What say you, Illtud?” I called after his shadow. He stopped and turned toward me.
“Malgwyn? What brings you to the barracks this late?”
“Idleness. I have nothing to which I can put my hand. My latest mission is finished and my charges guarded by Bedevere’s sword.”
“And your daughter?”
“Asleep by now, enchanted into a deep slumber by one of Merlin’s stories.”
“So you’ll play at dice and drink yourself to sleep?”
I laughed. “Just visiting old friends, Illtud. And you? What brings you to the barracks at such an hour?”
He smiled then, a good smile. “I am confused, Malgwyn. I would have your counsel.”
“Of course. We have warred together too often for me to deny you that.”
Illtud looked away, nodded, and took my good arm in his hand, guiding me away from the barracks and toward the northeast gate. Now he had my attention. We exited the gate and descended the lane, but only to the second rampart, where he led me from the path and to the well there. Few came here at night; it was one of the only places in the town where you could be assured of privacy.
The soldier Illtud released my arm and walked over to
the earthen bank, surmounted by its timber rampart, and dropped into a squat, resting his back on the bank. Neither the tanner’s stench nor the choking odor of fermenting woad or that of the fuller penetrated here, only fresh-cut timber and rich earth flavored the air.
“What is it, Illtud? Why have we come here?”
“The town is a very small place, Malgwyn. Everything we say, whether intended for one pair of ears or many, is heard by the many. What I wish to speak of is not something that I want to have as the subject of town gossip.”
Now I was concerned. Perhaps Illtud had heard of some new plot against Arthur. “Tell me.”
“I am thinking of leaving Arthur’s service.”
And then my mind did race! Illtud leaving Arthur’s company might mean any number of things—an alliance with another lord, a sign of even further unrest among the soldiers. That Illtud, cousin of Arthur and one of his most loyal men, could abandon him was unthinkable!
“But, Illtud!”
He waved a hand at me wearily. “Be at ease, Malgwyn. I do not leave his service in dissatisfaction with Arthur, or to ally myself to any other lord, no earthly lord at least.” It was as if he could read my mind.
“Then why?” If the reason was not among those, I could not see in which direction it lay.
At that question, Illtud covered his face with his wrapped hands and shook his head. He did not answer me for a long moment, and I gave him his time. Finally, those steady brown eyes reappeared. “I mean to enter the Christ’s service.”
“In truth?”
Illtud nodded. “I have tortured myself with this decision for many, many moons. But I am drawn to Him as a child to sweets.” He bounced to his feet then and paced before me. “We have warred throughout this land, Malgwyn, you and I. We have done everything we could to bring peace. But I see in the Church a way to do so much more, to educate our children, to teach them a better way to govern our lands.”
“I cannot argue that education is one answer. What are the Druids but an order dedicated to knowledge? Knowledge is power. But, Illtud, the land must be secured first. Peace must be attained. And you are far too important to that quest.”
He jerked to his feet in frustration. “If not now, Malgwyn, then when? By any reckoning, I have passed half my years in this life. When will the time arrive?”
“Do not tell Merlin how you count a man’s years. He would disagree, violently.” But such was too quick an answer for the serious question Illtud had posed. This evening had gone from an effort to fight boredom to one of surprises. First Tristan apologizes and now Illtud turns sacerdote. I should not have been surprised at all. He had long been turned different to the rest of us who followed Arthur’s banner.
“Are you certain that this is the path you desire?”
“I know this and only this, Malgwyn. I am never happier than when in study and reflection and at prayer. No doubt clouds my mind; no hesitation enters my thoughts.” For one of the few times in my life, I could detect no deception in another man’s words, no hint of a falsehood. My soldier friend was sincere, and that counted for everything.
“Then you are a fortunate man, Illtud. We will miss you at the war councils, but you are right. Life is too short to ignore such a strong calling. Perhaps you can bring some decency to the clergy,” I quipped.
But Illtud didn’t smile. “With abbots like Coroticus,” he said, “it needs decency.”
“Promise me this. Wait until after Arthur is wed and all the other lords have returned home before making your intentions known. Right now is not a good time for yet more turmoil in our ranks.”
He nodded. “Agreed. A few more days will not matter.”
I clapped him on the back with my one hand and left him to the solitude as I returned to the road leading through the gates, a bemused smile on my bewhiskered face. If men as honest and decent as Illtud could find a home in the clergy, perhaps I should revise my attitude.
Straightening my shoulders and my tunic, I began the ascent through the final rampart, oddly at peace with myself.
Until a voice interrupted my journey. A most unwelcome voice.
Arthur’s cousin, Mordred.
“Malgwyn!”
I thought for a moment of some reason to ignore him, but I could not find one. So I turned and nodded. “Lord Mordred. I see you have returned to the nest for Arthur’s wedding.” More pleasant than that I could not be.
“Rest easy, Malgwyn,” Mordred assured me. While rumors had spread that Mordred had put on great weight while commanding our western defenses, he appeared to me to be the same man I had accused of murder and treason some two years before. Mordred, yet another cousin of Arthur’s, was thin with an equally thin face and long nose. His eyes were set a bit too close together, and he looked as a hawk. What concerned me most, though, was his hair. It had always been straight and greasy, but now he wore a braided lock that fell from the center of his scalp and across one or the other of his eyes. At first I immediately took it for the sort of topknot that Saxons wore—not that that would have surprised me—but on closer inspection I saw that I had been mistaken.
The last time I had seen Mordred had been in Arthur’s hall, immediately after the attempt on Ambrosius Aurelianus’s life, an attempt by the Saxons to derail Arthur’s election as Rigotamos. He and I had clashed then, and Ambrosius had banished him to the far western coast. This was the first time he had returned to Castellum Arturius since.
“I do not think it would be wise for me to rest easy just now, Mordred. You always make things more interesting.”
He laughed and wrapped his arm about my shoulders, sending a chill down my spine. “Malgwyn, Malgwyn! We are not enemies. Just adversaries.” He had been at the mead; I could smell it on his breath.
“As you like, my lord. I was headed home, and you?”
“My lads and I thought we would see what drink and food might still be available at Arthur’s hall.”
I glanced behind us to see a pack of young nobles, most unfamiliar to me. They were the sort that, try as they might, could not hide their sneers. But one stood out from the rest, not a noble, a priest, a Druid priest, with a wide smile on his face.
Wynn!
CHAPTER TWELVE
I shrugged from beneath Mordred’s arm and pulled him from the center of the lane to the edge. Behind me I heard a grumbling from his young toughs, but I ignored it.
“Mordred, are you crazy? Bringing a Druid to Arthur’s hall! And this Druid?”
“You know him?” For the first time in my acquaintance with Mordred, he spoke with true and utter innocence.
One of the guards at the innermost gate rushed to my side. It was one of the men who had fought beside me in the late rebellion. “Captain?”
I pointed out the Druid. “Arrest him!”
Mordred grabbed my shoulder and twisted me around. “Malgwyn, you cannot! He has asked for and been granted my hospitality. By our laws he is sacrosanct!”
Regardless of law and custom, the soldier was ready to ignore Mordred and arrest Wynn at my command. I considered my options for the briefest of seconds. Once a man had been granted a lord’s hospitality, he became as one of the lord’s family, safe from but the most severe of crimes, such as murder. But I had no absolute evidence of Wynn’s guilt in the deaths of the girls. Mordred was truly shocked and taken by surprise by my reaction. And Druids in general were held sacrosanct by many of our people. Treading carefully was called for here.
“Forgive me, my lord,” I said after a moment. “I was not aware that he was here under your protection. But I would ask your leave to speak to this priest at some future time.”
Mordred’s narrow eyes narrowed even further. “If he has no objections, I see no reason why you shouldn’t. We will go now to Arthur’s hall and make our presence known. ’Tis good to see you again, Malgwyn.” But his voice held a queer tone, a questioning tone, though it did not paint his words as false.
* * *
I returned to the ca
stle well where Illtud was still enjoying the solitude, relieved, I suspected, that he had finally told someone what he wished to do. “Come, Illtud! We have a problem.”
Without a question or a word, he bounced to his feet and followed me back up the lane and into the town. As we wound between the houses toward Arthur’s hall, we found Kay and Bedevere walking together. They stopped, surprised, I guessed, to see us.
“What, Malgwyn? You look as if you’d seen a spirit,” Kay chided.
“The Druid Wynn, from the White Mount, is here in the castle.”
Bedevere’s eyes narrowed and his broad shoulders straightened beneath his tunic. “There is no need for concern, Malgwyn. I will deal with this. Where is he?”
I grabbed his shoulder. “You cannot, Bedevere. He is here under the protection of Mordred. I just saw them at the northeast gate.”
He brushed my hand aside. “Then perhaps I should settle with that snake as well.”
I dipped my head, embarrassed and ashamed of what I was about to say. “I do not think you should, Bedevere. I don’t think Mordred has any idea who he has brought among us. And a blood feud between the two of you now would bring nothing but dishonor on Arthur and his guests.”
“What of it? You saw those two girls, their honor torn to bits by a stick of wood! That Mordred would protect the doer of those deeds strips him of any rights his nobility gives him!”
I watched in amazement as Bedevere, the stolid, taciturn soldier, turned as red as the cross on his tunic. His chest puffed out and I thought for a fleeting moment that he intended to strike me. In reflex, I threw my arm up to ward off any blow.
But Kay, whose fits of anger were renowned, stepped between us. “Bedevere!” He glanced about and saw that the few people about the lanes had turned in our direction. “Let us discuss this somewhere more private.”
Mine and Merlin’s house was the closest, so we headed, almost at a trot, for it.
Once inside, I lit an old Roman lamp made from terra cotta and fired a grayish-white. Our hearth, in the middle of the room, still held the glowing embers of a fire. Merlin was not there, probably over at Arthur’s hall, across the lane and up the slope.