The Beloved Dead

by Tony Hays

  I do not remember much about the next few hours, except turning up the skin and the wine pouring down until my stomach revolted. Sometime after dark, I remember hearing the sounds of horses and soldiers passing my hut, heading into the fortress for the feasting. Not long after that I passed out amid the sour and fetid smell of my own vomit.

  * * *

  “I seem to recall another situation like this.” The voice stirred me from my drink-induced slumber. My eyes, matted with tears and dirt from my hovel’s floor, pried themselves open and searched blurrily for the voice’s owner. Of course it was Arthur, looking almost exactly as he had that night some two years before when he had found me in very nearly the same position.

  “Go away and let me die,” I croaked, the words barely audible.

  “I cannot do that, Malgwyn,” he said in his most reasonable tone. My ears perked up. Usually, when he spoke like that, someone was about to lose their head. “Either you arise, clean yourself, and get back to work or I will drag you out into the market square and gut you like a hog at the slaughter.”

  I pushed myself up on my one good arm. “Three children are dead, and you care nothing about it. All you care about is solidifying your position as Rigotamos and chasing Guinevere into Melwas’s arms.”

  And then my head exploded and I was flung against one of the walls so violently that it shook.

  “Enough, Malgwyn! You wallow in self-pity as if it is a warm bath! Do you want me to care about these girls? Then show me who killed them! I will personally take his head and display it from the walls! But until then, enough of this!”

  I straightened myself and felt the back of my head where it had collided with the wall. My fingers came away damp and crimson.

  Arthur knelt beside me, kneading his wool-wrapped hand, the knuckles already bruising from striking me. “Malgwyn. I know that your heart is true. I know that you wish for the same things that I wish for—truth and justice, a good life for all of our people. But men, women, children are going to die. You cannot save them all, nor can you find each and every killer. If I had a thousand Malgwyns, maybe we could make this true. But there is only one of you, and you pledged to serve me. Now, serve me.”

  I pulled myself up until I was sitting against the wall more than lying in front of it. My hand inched up and felt the puffiness of my swelling lip. The wine still twisted my stomach in its grip but its fogginess was leaving my brain. I looked up at him, standing above me, no anger now in his face, only sadness.

  “I hoped you had put this behind you.”

  “So had I.” I looked away, unwilling to face him. Arthur was right. I had solved nothing by wallowing in my own filth. “I take it the feasting has ended.”

  Arthur dragged an old chair over and lowered himself into it. He had split his mail shirt at the hips so that it would spread and not bunch up. “The formal part has finished. The lords and their chief lieutenants are still drinking in the hall.”

  “Mordred?”

  He nodded.

  “The Druid?”

  Arthur laughed. “No. I told Mordred that his hospitality only guaranteed the Druid’s entry and safety in my city. It did not mean that I had to break bread with him.”

  “Good for you. Arthur—”

  “No,” he interrupted, holding his hand up. “I know that these killings have touched a memory that you would rather remain buried. I know that each time you see one of these girls, you are seeing Gwyneth again, ravaged by the Saxons. That memory will haunt you for the rest of your life, but do not allow it to ruin all of your days.”

  He rose. “Rest here this night. I need you at your best over the next few days. Tomorrow is the wedding. There is time yet for someone to try to destroy this alliance. You have always had an eye for spotting trouble where none appeared to exist. I need that eye now. Once we have the wedding behind us, we will have more time to deal with other things. Perhaps, just perhaps, we will finally be able to relax a bit. We will speak no more of this, but I expect you to live up to your pledge. Your friend David arrived in time for the feast,” he added, almost as an afterthought.

  “What of Guinevere? Is there any news? I cannot believe that she is willingly with Melwas.”

  Arthur shrugged. “Ask Ygerne. She spent the better part of the day with Guinevere at the tor, just returned right before the feasting.”

  “What did she tell you? She is not speaking to me right now.”

  At that he laughed. “Then we have something in common as she refuses to talk to me as well.” And then he was gone.

  Sleep came, but not easily. I needed to seek out Gareth’s men and see if they had learned anything. But every time I threatened to arise, my stomach threatened to revolt yet again. Almost without knowing it, exhaustion turned to an uneasy sleep. And I woke to the dim light of dawn streaming through my door. Clouds tried valiantly to hold the sun at bay, but they were losing badly. I knew how they felt.

  * * *

  A few hours later I was clean and garbed as a king’s councilor should be, though my head still pounded from the wine the night before and my face wore a frown to match the pain. Even a heavy draught of Merlin’s willow bark extract had only dulled the throb.

  I went to Ygerne’s house, and she slammed the door in my face. But as I was leaving, I heard Mariam call for me. As I turned, she leapt into my arm.

  “Where have you been, Father?”

  “I had business for the Rigotamos,” I answered, kneeling and adjusting her onto my knee.

  “Mother says that you fell into a wineskin.”

  “Your mother is out of sorts with me.”

  “Why?”

  “I only understand part of it, Mariam. Like you, she is angry with the Rigotamos for marrying Gwyneira rather than Guinevere. But more than that, I do not know.”

  Mariam’s little face, framed by her golden hair, wore a thoughtful frown. “She has not felt well lately. But she is truly upset over the Rigotamos’s wedding. She went to Ynys-witrin yesterday, after that horrible Vortipor attacked us, to see Aunt Guinevere and stayed all day.”

  “Did she say anything when she returned?”

  “No.” Mariam shook her head. “She has been very quiet. Lord Arthur came to see her last night after she came home. She slammed the door in his face as well. Father?” She cocked her head to the side. “Isn’t a wedding supposed to be a happy time? I mean, I am sad for Aunt Guinevere, but it seems like no one is happy. And somebody should be.”

  “You are right, Mariam.” And she was. “Go, run and play. I will come and see you later.”

  “Father?”

  “Yes.”

  “Don’t go swimming in a wineskin again. It makes Mother mad and you smell.”

  She scampered back to the house and I turned toward Arthur’s hall, duly chastised by my own daughter. Rounding a corner to a lane that would take me past Kay’s house, I literally collided with someone. We both went flying, he into the mud from the previous night’s rain and me into the side of a house, rattling the wall.

  I say “he” because it was the Druid, Wynn.

  Pushing myself to my feet, I had the pleasure of seeing the Druid’s white robes splattered with mud. I glanced about and saw no sign of Mordred or his men.

  “Looking for any witnesses so you may kill me?” The Druid wasted no time with pleasantries.

  “The thought did indeed occur to me. But, you see, were you to be found dead, I would be the first suspected. And since you are here under Mordred’s grant of hospitality, and Arthur is bound to honor it, my life would stand forfeit. I do not propose to give my life for such as you. If you are guilty of those acts as I believe you are, then ultimately I will be able to prove it and you will be punished.”

  Wynn did not speak immediately, choosing to brush, forlornly, at the mud on his robe, succeeding only in smearing it. “I did not kill those girls. Lord Arthur brought that upon himself by defying the gods and desecrating Bran’s head. He is responsible for this string of evil, a strin
g that even now winds its way around his throat and will choke the life from him. That is why I am here.”

  “You killed the girl at the White Mount, and the girl at Caer Goch, and the girl near the old Roman villa on our journey back. And you did it all to prove the effectiveness of your own curse.”

  The Druid stopped swiping at his robe and looked at me curiously. “I killed no one. Arthur’s and your arrogance caused those deaths. Your arrogance and ill treatment of the people and their beliefs murdered those girls. If you are seeking to blame someone, blame yourself!”

  In one motion, faster than even I thought possible, I pinned him by his scrawny neck against the wall of the house with my one forearm. He choked and white, foamy spittle burst from his lips and clung to the hairs on my arm. “I think you are here so that I may choke the life from you.”

  His eyes began to bulge and my senses returned at the same time. I released him. “I will prove that you killed those girls and then your life will be mine, or I will catch you in the act of killing another and your fate will be the same.”

  At that moment, Mordred and two of his men appeared in the lane. But by then, a foot or more separated me and Wynn. Mordred was no fool, though. He could tell by the way that the Druid rubbed his throat and from the blood in my eyes what had happened. He stopped in his tracks, placed his wool-wrapped hands on his hips and began to laugh.

  “Early in the day for the wine, isn’t it, my lord?”

  Mordred just shook his head, his long hair flapping in the breeze. “We are getting old, Malgwyn, you and I. Just a few years ago, the Druid would be dead. You have learned restraint.”

  “And you, my lord? What have you learned?”

  He stopped laughing and gave me a penetrating stare. “Why, the same thing. A few years ago, I would not have stopped to laugh. I would have avenged the insult to my guest by running you through.”

  I smoothed my tunic. “Then we both have something to be grateful for.”

  Mordred clapped Wynn on the back, an action that caused the Druid to cringe. “Come, bard, let us find some of that wine Malgwyn mentioned.”

  The quartet moved off, but Wynn kept his eyes on me as they disappeared down the lane. No one had ever focused such hatred at me. I could not conceive of anyone bearing such hatred yet being innocent of the accusations laid against him. Only the knowledge of his own guilt and his own exposure could brew such hatred. At that moment, I knew that I was right. But at that moment too, I became convinced that Mordred was involved.

  * * *

  I spent the remainder of that day at Gwyneira’s side. Kay, as Cup-Bearer, was in charge of the ceremonies. Dubricius, the episcopus for all of Britannia, had agreed to perform the marriage, something that enraged Coroticus. But he was a mere abbot; Dubricius was an episcopus. And that was that.

  I managed a clandestine meeting with Gareth’s men, but they had little to report. The Druid had been on his best behavior. Morgan had kept to his small hovel near Arthur’s hall, venturing only to the kitchen and the hall itself. “But that will change,” said one of my spies.

  “How so?”

  “Lord David is expected at any moment.”

  And, again, that was that.

  Bedevere stayed with me. Any threat to Gwyneira would end the moment she and Arthur were married. Once the deed was done, attacking her served no purpose. The alliance would be concluded; Aircol would join the consilium. And his popularity already assured him of a place second only to Arthur. Indeed, according to Bedevere, Mordred and David were already suggesting that perhaps Aircol should become Rigotamos, supplanting Arthur.

  But Aircol was not stupid, nor was he as greedy as his newfound supporters. “Do not believe the tales that Mordred and David are spreading,” he told me a few hours before the wedding. We were in my house. Gwyneira and two of her ladies were behind the partition preparing her for her marriage. “My allegiance is to Arthur ap Uther.”

  “I never believed otherwise, my lord.”

  “I missed you at the feasting last night.”

  “My apologies. I had just received some bad news.”

  He nodded. “I heard. Another of these young girls savagely abused and murdered. You are a warrior, Malgwyn. I know how valiantly you fought in the recent rebellion. I know your deeds earned you an invitation to the consilium, an invitation you rejected. You have seen more death and destruction than most men, even in this bloody day and age. Why have these three deaths among so many affected you this way?”

  To his credit, his tone was more that of a philologus than a lord. It was as if he truly wanted to understand what spurred me on.

  “I had not realized it before, but Arthur said last night that when I see these girls, I see my wife once again, lying in the burning ruins of our house, just as foully ravaged. Perhaps that is the answer. Perhaps it is that I see no reason for it.”

  Aircol laid his hand on my shoulder. “No man can argue that you have not seen your share of tragedy, Malgwyn. But sometimes God puts us to a test, to see how we bear such tragedies, to see if we emerge stronger from the challenge. Faith in Him and his son, the Christ, will sustain you in the darkest times.”

  A dark cloud blurred my vision, a cloud with a lining of red. “My lord,” I answered bitterly, “just as I reject the gods of the Druids, who demand human sacrifice for their appeasement, if what you say about your god is true, I would have to reject him as well. I can conceive of no divine being that would savagely kill innocent young girls to test another.”

  “Then,” a new voice entered the conversation, “we will have to redouble our efforts to bring you to the Christ.”

  Episcopus Dubricius.

  Retreat seemed a valid strategy. “Please forgive me, my lord. Nerves are strained; it has been a difficult time.”

  The episcopus, a portly man who obviously kept a well-stocked larder, smiled broadly as he greeted Aircol. Dubricius wore what I took to be his best brown robe. Each of his fingers held a well-wrought ring, and three ornate necklaces draped his neck, one holding the emblem of his office.

  I had not met Dubricius before, not really. I had observed him from a distance on a few occasions, in earlier times, when he had been slimmer and he wore a wild, unruly beard. But now his beard was neatly trimmed and the plump cheeks beneath were reddened from an excess of wine; his nose had an unhealthy purplish hue. He had been residing at Mark’s seat at Castellum Dore, but his home was actually in the old Roman town of Ariconium. It looked as if he had thoroughly enjoyed Mark’s hospitality.

  “Prayer will relieve your burdens.” He stopped and looked to my missing arm. “You are Malgwyn ap Cuneglas. I have heard of you.”

  Intent on being on my best behavior, I bowed and said as humbly as I could, “I am honored, my lord episcopus.”

  “Yes,” Dubricius continued, “I have heard of your excesses and arrogance. But Coroticus still holds out hope of your salvation. I shall pray for the same.” With that he turned away and I no longer existed for him.

  Quite obviously, Dubricius and I were not fated to be friends. Summarily dismissed, in a way, I wandered out into the lane to find Illtud running toward me.

  “Is he here?” panted a breathless Illtud.

  “Is who here?”

  “The episcopus. Dubricius?”

  “He is inside. Is there a problem?”

  He stopped long enough to catch his breath. “I … to … talk about … my decision.” Illtud looked quickly around to see if anyone had heard him.

  “Illtud, you cannot become a brother of the Christ in secret,” I chided him.

  “I know. I just do not want it known yet.”

  “As you wish. But I would wait a bit to talk to him. He is inside with Aircol, Bedevere, and Gwyneira.”

  At that, some of the urgency fled from his features. “What is the new plan?”

  “Bedevere and I are to remain at Gwyneira’s side until just before the ceremony. Then we will escort both her and Aircol to the hall. The market s
quare will be lined with soldiers, both ours and Aircol’s. Aircol will escort Gwyneira to Arthur’s side and Dubricius will marry them. The great feast will follow. On the morrow we can rid ourselves of David, Mordred, and the rest. Perhaps then things can go back to normal.”

  Illtud nodded. “And perhaps then I can pursue my heart’s desires.”

  “I will be most sad to see you go. We have weathered many storms, fought many battles together. Your service has been an honor to Arthur and to your family, and your friendship has been an honor to me.”

  A touch of dampness glinted at the corner of his eye. “Do you know why Arthur trusts you so much, Malgwyn?”

  I shook my head.

  “Because of all of his men, myself included, you remind him the most of what he wishes to be.”

  My look must have told Illtud that I believed him crazy. “Arthur wishes to be an old, one-armed man who cannot find his way clear of a wineskin? I think you have been sampling too many of Merlin’s potions.”

  “You are a good man, Malgwyn, with the freedom to pursue justice without worrying about the demands of being a king.”

  “I am just another weapon in his arsenal.”

  “If that is true, then you are a weapon with a mind of your own.” Illtud laughed.

  At that moment, Bedevere emerged from my house, stepping his caligae carefully over a mud puddle. “Malgwyn, Arthur wishes us to deliver a message to the camps of the visiting lords.”

  “What sort of message? And who will watch over Gwyneira?”

  “I was going for Illtud, but I see that he is already here.”

  “Whatever the Rigotamos orders I will do,” he said. With an informal salute, Illtud ducked into the door.

  Bedevere looked about quickly and grasped my good arm, turning me from my house and into the lane. “No word of this must slip out. Arthur is worried. It appears that Melwas has spoken to the villagers of Ynys-witrin and hinted that Arthur’s wedding is wrong and that Lady Guinevere is the rightful queen.”