by Tony Hays
The wedding was to be held the next day at Arthur’s hall. His famous cruciform church, still nothing more than foundation trenches, had failed even yet to get the blessing from Coroticus that Arthur desired. David, Mordred, Gawain and some of the others had arrived the night before. Gaheris and young lord Celyn were expected that afternoon as were the envoys from Rome and Gaul. Lauhiir, who was still technically a member of the consilium, was, of course, enjoying Coroticus’s hospitality and sanctuary. He would not be joining us just as Melwas, ensconced on the great tor with his new friend Guinevere, would stay away.
Arthur had not demanded my presence to welcome the new arrivals. Aircol would be present, but Gwyneira, now tucked away in our house, was not attending, watched instead by Kay, Bedevere, and Illtud. Merlin had moved in with Kay as would I. But I would take my turn guarding Gwyneira as well.
That night would be the first of two great wedding feasts. Arthur had had his hunters scouring the forest for game. We would dine on rabbit, pig, deer, and drink wine from Italy, Gaul, Syria, and Judea. Of course, there would be fish from the great seas, hurried in fresh by riders, and great salmon from local streams. And river mussels and oysters. We would have leeks and onions and rape. And Arthur had decided that all food left over from each feast be distributed among the people. No one would go away hungry.
Even as I thought these things, I wandered the back lanes to the northeast of Arthur’s hall and saw servi and others hauling food, amphorae, and storage jars to the kitchen. The scene reminded me of an anthill I once watched for a time. The little fellows streamed in a line, each carrying some burden, food for their colony or some object to add to their home. They were remarkably focused, rarely deviating from their path and only then to find an alternative route around some obstacle. I admired their focus and determination, unwavering. And so the servi and other servants seemed in their haste to prepare for the first great banquet.
“Fight!” The shout echoed through the lanes, followed quickly by another that chilled my blood.
“Malgwyn, quickly, Mariam!”
The echoes had not faded as my feet sped me to their origin.
It was yet early, and no new lords had arrived, so the market square was filled with villagers appraising the vendors’ wares. Only at that moment, it had been cleared and three combatants, it seemed, were squared off.
Owain stood with fists raised, feet set, facing his opponent. My heart fell when I saw why. His adversary had a hand firmly clamped on Mariam’s upper arm. And though I should have known, or at least expected, facing Owain was Aircol’s son, Vortipor.
I had no idea what the dispute was over, though Mariam would certainly seem to be involved, but I started to wade into the coming battle.
Until a hand on my shoulder pulled me back.
Aircol.
“Let them resolve it,” he said.
“With all due respect, Lord Aircol, that is my daughter,” I whispered through clenched teeth.
“And by our ancient laws and traditions, any who strike a noble can be executed,” he countered. “But my son needs to learn humility, and your daughter’s friend seems ready to provide a valuable lesson. Rest easy, Malgwyn. I will not allow any harm to come to your daughter. Trust me, as I trust you.”
And at that, I surrendered. At least a part of me, if the truth be known, was anxious to see Vortipor knocked on his backside.
Aircol’s appearance quieted the crowd some, and it was easier to hear the combatants.
A quizzical look marked young Vortipor’s face. “I do not see,” he said to Owain, “why you would risk death over this. I simply said that I would like to buy her and asked the price.”
Aircol stifled a chuckle, but I was enraged. How dare the little princeling! If Owain did not feed him dirt, I would!
Mariam shook her arm loose. “We do not buy and sell free people at Castellum Arturius,” she advised him.
This seemed to confuse Vortipor, who cocked his head to the side and said, “Then what use are they?”
And then my daughter showed just how much backbone she had.
Taking a step forward, she launched her foot into Vortipor’s privates, sending him flying backward into the dirt, his hands clutching himself and moaning loudly.
“Now that, Malgwyn,” Aircol said, “was a lesson well deserved. And your daughter is a child to be reckoned with. Try and forgive him, Malgwyn. His mother was much like him, and no matter how hard I tried, I have not been able to smother his haughty nature.”
“Give my daughter another chance and she will beat it out of him.” I was much pleased with Mariam.
As we two old fathers laughed, a roar like that of a wounded bull sounded, and we looked back to the market square as our tongues froze in fright.
Mariam had turned and taken a few steps away from Vortipor.
The little prince had regained his feet and, moving awkwardly, had pulled a dagger from his belt and was advancing on Mariam.
Both Aircol and I leapt toward him, in a vain hope to intercede before his dagger found Mariam.
But we needn’t have bothered.
Young Owain very expertly swept the dagger away with his left hand and with a tremendous swing of his right sent Vortipor sprawling backward once more, this time unconscious.
Rather than cheers for a well-placed fist, the crowd audibly gasped.
Owain had struck a prince.
True to his word, though, Aircol strode forward and thrust forward his hand for Owain to take.
Blinking and uncertain, my little friend searched the crowd until he found me. I nodded quickly, and he took Aircol’s hand.
“Well struck, young man! You will become a mighty warrior.”
With Owain’s safety secured, the crowd then released its applause.
I reached Mariam and wrapped my arm around her. “Where did you learn to kick like that?” I asked her, once assured that she was unharmed.
She smiled at me. “In the lanes, Father. He is not the first to lay hands upon me.”
I tousled her head and hugged her again.
“Were you two old fools going to let these children kill each other?”
Ygerne.
Her fury was so great that you could almost feel the heat.
Both Aircol and I were struck dumb.
“I suppose I should be grateful that you took time away from your noble friends and matchmaking to notice your daughter,” she fumed, taking Mariam in one hand and Owain in the other. Then she turned to Aircol. “And you, teach your spawn some manners or keep him at home!”
With that, she stomped off down the lane, her two charges in tow.
I started after her, intent on learning why she was so angry, but Aircol’s hand on my shoulder stopped me.
“You will gain nothing but more of her fury if you go to her now. Let her calm. Your woman?”
“Aye.”
“A fiery one.” He smiled then. “Let us go and see to Gwyneira.”
I motioned toward the still unconscious body of Vortipor, lying in the dirt.
“Leave him. Perhaps it will add to the lesson so ably administered by your daughter’s friend.”
While it seemed but a child’s fight at the time, years later, that single fist, so well struck, would come back to haunt me, Owain, and Mariam.
* * *
“Did you and my father rescue my brother from himself, Malgwyn?”
The voice startled me, startled Aircol. All the more because it was a voice not intended to be heard in the lanes, at least not then. Gwyneira. I spun and saw her standing there in a peasant dress. Glancing about to see if anyone was watching us, I hustled to her side and slipped my good arm about her waist.
“My lady, why are you out of the house? More important, how did you get out of the house?” My tone was more of a guarded hiss than actual words.
She smiled at me and wrapped her own arm around my waist. “Why, Malgwyn! I didn’t know you found me attractive,” she whispered.
�
��Girl,” Aircol began, “you will stop this nonsense!”
Her life in danger and yet she could tease me. She was either incredibly foolish or a truly remarkable girl. “Woman,” I threatened through clenched teeth, “noble or no, I will personally haul you over my knee and spank some sense into you. Keep smiling and pretending to be happy and we will get you back to safety.”
“But I am happy out here, Malgwyn. I am not happy caged up like some criminal.”
“Gwyneira, someone in this town means you harm. I have pledged to you and your father to protect you from that. But I cannot fulfill that promise if you do not cooperate.”
“Very well, but I needed to see what my new home really looked like, without people knowing who I was, changing their behavior to fit my status. Do you understand me?”
“Of course I do, my lady. But too many people saw you arrive with your father. It was not exactly secret.”
She laughed and those beautiful doe-like eyes laughed at me as well. Had she been ten years older or I ten years younger, I would have challenged Arthur to mortal combat for her hand. But she was not nor was I, and no matter how beautiful Gwyneira might be, Ygerne held my heart in her hands. Still.
I firmly turned us toward my house, where a stricken Kay was in the lane looking back and forth. “Do not worry, Kay. I found our wayward maiden.” Kay’s shoulders slumped in relief.
“May the Christ bless your life, Malgwyn! I thought my own was forfeit. I turned away but a moment and she had scampered out.”
“This one is headstrong, Kay. We may have to tie her to a chair.”
“And then I shall walk out through the lanes carrying the chair with me.” Gwyneira was not going to remain quiet long.
“And then I shall tie you to a post. You will not walk down the lanes with that.”
By then we had reached the house, and I firmly, if gently, shoved her in.
“Malgwyn!” she cried.
“My lady, your safety is part of my charge. I will not allow you to compromise it.”
“Nor should he,” said Aircol.
Aircol’s face held a grim set, but it was aimed at Gwyneira, not at me. “You are even more headstrong than your mother. But I am your father, and you will both obey and honor me, even if that means that Malgwyn does indeed have to tie you to a post.”
She dropped her head at Aircol’s words and mumbled a soft “Yes, Father.” But I could not tell if she was truly chastised or simply telling him what he wanted to hear. I suspected the latter. She disappeared to change behind a partition we had set up to give her some privacy.
“My lord, what will you do with your son?”
Aircol rolled his eyes. “I am tempted to put him on a horse and send him back home, alone.”
I knew he did not mean it, but I had to smile.
“He will mature.”
“If he lives that long,” his father grumbled. “Gwyneira needs to be properly dressed, which she is not. I was coming in search of you when my son chose to entertain us. A new guest has arrived, an unexpected but welcome one. Ambrosius.”
I jerked my head back in surprise. “Ambrosius Aurelianus?”
Aircol nodded. “Aye, the old Rigotamos. And he wishes to meet the bride and give his blessing. I cannot deny him that.”
Old Ambrosius! He had stepped down as Rigotamos nearly two years before, when Arthur was elected by the consilium to succeed him. It had been a time ripe with conspiracies and death. I was surprised that he had roused himself from his fortress at Dinas Emrys, far to the north. He had another home closer by, near unto the great stone circle, but it was also near unto Saxon settlements and he had ceased to feel safe there. I did not blame him. Any proximity with Saxons was too much for me. They could not be trusted. And, besides, they smelled.
“Come,” Aircol invited. “I am sure he will be happy to see you. He visits me on occasion and he speaks well of you. Aye, it was Ambrosius who first told me of you. He holds you in high regard.”
I cocked my head to the side in confusion. I never knew that Ambrosius thought much of me one way or the other. I had fought under his and Arthur’s banners, to be sure, but we had not shared a special bond of any kind. Such was life, though. A man never really knew what others thought of him, sometimes until it was too late.
As if by intention, Gwyneira appeared from behind the partition, now properly attired for meeting a lord, and the three of us, with Kay trailing behind, made our way across the lane, stepping gingerly to avoid the puddles born of a brief rain shower, and into the rear of Arthur’s hall.
* * *
Ambrosius had grown even fatter in his retirement. He was arrayed in a crimson tunic and leather braccae, wrapped by a wide belt decorated with more iron studs than I had seen on any other belt in my life, including Arthur’s. His hair had turned white and desperately needed a comb brushed through it. Ygerne would be outraged that the former Rigotamos would appear in public without being properly groomed.
“Malgwyn! My dear friend,” Ambrosius shouted, slurring a few words and already deep into a wine amphora. By rights, he should have acknowledged Gwyneira first, but in his present state, I was not sure if he was aware she was there.
“My lord, it is always good to see you,” I said, kneeling, but he motioned for me to rise, nearly slipping from his place in the process. Yes, he was deep into the wine.
At that he turned his attention to Gwyneira. “Let us see this bride of Arthur’s, Aircol. Let us see if she is fit for a queen.”
Gwyneira stepped out from behind her father and dropped her head in respect.
Ambrosius straightened and looked her up and down with a wavering head. “By the gods, Aircol! She is indeed suitable for a queen. Were I not already in retirement, I would petition you for her hand myself.”
“I am pleased that you approve, my lord,” Aircol answered with a smile.
“Now, put her back into hiding before I forget how old I am.”
Gwyneira dropped her head again and stepped back without turning. She had comported herself well, and I was as proud of her as Aircol was. I moved to join Kay in returning her to my house, but Ambrosius waved at me.
“Malgwyn, stay. I would speak with you.”
I exchanged looks with Kay, but he just shrugged and left with Gwyneira.
“Sit, Malgwyn.”
I pulled a chair close and lowered myself into it, curious now. Ambrosius and I were not strangers by any means, and though friendly, we had never been particular friends.
“How may I help you, my lord?”
Ambrosius took a sip from a beaker of wine. “We were approached by a man on the road from Dinas Emrys. He gave his name as Rhodri and he lives in an old villa along the road.”
I nodded. “Aye, we met him on our own journey back from Aircol’s fort. He seemed a good, if simple, man.”
“He recognized my banner and stopped us on the road. He asked if we were headed to Castellum Arturius and if we expected to see you.”
“Me?”
Ambrosius nodded. “I thought it was an odd question as well. You are quite well known, but I could not fathom why such a simple man, so far from these lands, would both know you and wish to send you a message.”
“A message? What sort of message?”
“He said that there had been a killing reported the morning after your party left.”
“A killing?” The hairs on the back of my neck were tingling, and I felt the pit of my stomach grow heavy.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
“Some girl had been raped and abused by some horrible thing or creature. He said there was much blood and rent flesh and that the people were saying she had been assaulted by a dragon, though I have never heard of a dragon raping a woman.” Ambrosius finished in a near mumble, raising his beaker and draining the rest of the wine. Then his head dropped and his eyes closed, a not unfamiliar pose for the old king.
I leapt to my feet, shocking Ambrosius’s guards so much that they drew their swords. “Was it V
ala? Rhodri’s daughter?”
“What?” Ambrosius roused himself enough to open one eye. “Vala? I know no Vala.”
“Was the murdered girl Rhodri’s daughter?”
“Oh.” A spark of understanding flared in Ambrosius’s eye. “No, the daughter of some family that lived a short distance to the west of the road. Really, Malgwyn. I do not understand why you would want to know about these things.”
“Thank you, my lord,” I said, without meaning a word of it. At that moment, I wished he had lost the whole story in the bottom of his beaker. “With your permission, my lord, I have matters to see to.”
“Of course, Malgwyn, of course. But allow some time to spend with your old commander, to relive our glorious deeds on the fields of battle.”
“I would be honored, my lord.”
At that, the wine got the better of him, and Ambrosius drifted back asleep.
* * *
Though I had felt low before, this news took me even lower. As I left the feasting hall, I snatched a skin of wine and headed for my old hut just beyond the main gate. I told no one where I was going, though I faintly remember hearing Bedevere hail me from a distance. But he must have assumed I did not hear him, as he went on his way.
I grunted at the guards at the massive timber gate and stumbled down the snake-like entrance, constructed to prevent the use of a battering ram. Ignoring the greetings from around me, I fell into the door of my old hut, pulled the plug from my wineskin and drank deeply.
Three girls, torn from life by the hand of some monster. Dragons, Ambrosius said. Druids, more likely, I thought. And one Druid in particular, Wynn. What other answer was there? He was present at the White Mount; he was present at Caer Goch; he may have been present on our return. He certainly had appeared in Castellum Arturius within hours of our own arrival, indicating that he may have followed us from Caer Goch. Yet, by all the old and new laws, as the guest of Mordred, his person was inviolable. Once again, Mordred was vexing me.
People had loved those girls. And someone had ripped them from that love for no reason that was apparent to me, but to discredit Arthur, to make real a curse laid on him by that blasted Druid. And I felt in my heart that I knew the killer and yet I could not touch him. I took another pull on the skin, letting the sour warmth fill my stomach. Once I had found comfort in that, but now I was punishing myself. As if to punctuate the thought, I drained the last of the wine. I fumbled at the door, waved at a passing boy and sent him for more.