The Beloved Dead

by Tony Hays

  I waved a hand. “Arthur worries for no reason. To claim the throne by right of your mistress is no claim at all. Besides, in a few hours it will not matter. Gwyneira and Arthur will be wed; the deed will be done. The people will not rise up against Arthur because of this. If he starved them and tortured them, maybe. But not because of who he chooses for a wife. I doubt that Guinevere even knew what Melwas was saying. If she had known, she would certainly have told him not to.” I stopped as a sudden realization hit me. To Bedevere’s amazement, a laugh erupted from me.

  “What?”

  “Melwas is just frustrated in his quest.”

  “His quest?”

  “Melwas wishes to bed Guinevere. That he’s trying to raise public sentiment against Arthur tells me that Guinevere has not succumbed to his charms, at least not yet.”

  Bedevere grinned as he grasped my message. “Poor Melwas.” And we continued on our journey to the camps of the consilium circling the base of Castellum Arturius.

  * * *

  Although Mordred maintained a house in the castle, he had chosen to encamp with his troop of horse at the base of the hill along with David, Gawain, Gaheris, and Tristan, no longer a de facto prisoner, who now commanded a troop of his father’s men sent for the festivities.

  We found David, Mordred, and Tristan at Mordred’s camp, along with little Morgan ap Tud, sitting at a campfire placed before an old leather tent. Such tents had been a common fixture in Roman camps. When the Romans had finally abandoned us, we reverted to our old tribal ways, warring among ourselves almost as often as with the Picts and Scotti and then the Saxons. But under first Ambrosius and now Arthur, much of what had been Roman about us had been revived, perhaps not everything, but much. Except, that is, for the legions.

  Our success against the Saxons had been won by our cavalry, moving quickly and striking hard. Our foot soldiers served honorably and fought bravely, but it was the horse that won our battles. Ambrosius and Arthur had seen its potential, and they developed new strategies to exploit its strengths. Now, a strong cavalry force was necessary for a lord of the consilium, and taking a troop of his finest men to ceremonial occasions was expected.

  But Bedevere’s concern, as mine, was that we not find ourselves surrounded by men loyal to other lords at the wedding. I did not truly believe that, after pushing so hard for this wedding, any of them would do anything to prevent it. Aircol’s seat at the consilium’s table was too important; the inclusion of the lands of the Demetae was too valuable strategically. But after the discovery of the threatening note in Gwyneira’s quarters, we could afford to take no chances. And, of course, there was the Druid.

  “Welcome, Bedevere, Malgwyn!” David shouted as we drew nearer to the fire. “Join us. We were sampling the wine and telling lies about our glorious battles.”

  “A delightful offer, my lord,” Bedevere began, “but we come on the order of the Rigotamos.”

  All three lords sat up a little straighter at this pronouncement. I said nothing, rather studied their faces as Bedevere spoke.

  “Only members of the consilium will be allowed to enter the castle and attend the wedding. Your soldiers and personal escorts will not be admitted.”

  Mordred bounced to his feet. “That is unacceptable! We would be at Arthur’s mercy!”

  Bedevere turned his square jaw toward Mordred. “You have pledged your obeisance to the Rigotamos. You are already at his mercy. Threats have been made against the lady Gwyneira. Our precautions are only prudent.”

  I watched carefully, but saw nothing but surprise and alarm on the quartet’s faces. Tristan, chastised after nearly two years as a prisoner, wisely stayed quiet.

  “Is she well?” Morgan asked solicitously. “Does she need my assistance?”

  “No, Morgan,” I said, suspicious yet of this creature of David’s.

  “You must admit, Bedevere, it would give Arthur a prime opportunity to eliminate us,” David said slowly. “Perhaps he should rethink his position.”

  “Please, Lord David,” I said softly. “What would it profit Arthur to kill all the lords of the consilium save his favorites? You all have vast lands and people loyal to you. Such an action would spark another civil war. And many of the lords, like Gaheris and Gawain, are good, honorable men who would themselves challenge Arthur if he were to act so brutally. No, David, this is only about ensuring the safety of Gwyneira. And are you ready to stake her life and yours that none of your soldiers have sold their loyalty to her enemies?”

  Mordred and David exchanged quick glances. In truth, their objections were pro forma. They were so used to objecting to anything Arthur did that now they did it almost without thinking. And they truly did desire the alliance with Aircol.

  “As you wish,” Mordred begrudgingly agreed. “But we do this under protest.”

  “Wine, Master Malgwyn?” A familiar voice sounded at my elbow.

  I turned to see Talorc, the servi boy. “Talorc! I am surprised to see you here and not at the hall making preparations.”

  The Pictish boy dropped his head sheepishly. “Cerdic lent me to Lord Mordred.”

  To keep him out from under foot, I supposed. “Be honored, Mordred. You have a true hero waiting upon you.”

  “That will keep his head attached to his neck as long as he keeps my beaker full of wine,” grumbled Mordred. As if to emphasize the point, he halfheartedly threw a slap at Talorc, who dodged the blow, but fell to the ground.

  With the trio laughing at Talorc and mumbling about suspicious lords, we left and headed to Gawain’s camp farther along the base of the hill.

  * * *

  Gawain and Gaheris were brothers to Mordred, sons of one of Arthur’s uncles. But they were as different from Mordred as Druids were to Christians. Gawain was as brave a man as any I had known. Gaheris was a born diplomat, better able to resolve disputes than an army of ambassadors. Visiting them was a delight. They expressed no concerns and pledged to follow Arthur’s instructions.

  * * *

  Bedevere and I continued on our circuit of camps, though I dreaded the next with all my heart—Lord Celyn, son of Caw, brother of Huaill and, my favorite monachus, Gildas. Celyn had particular reason to hate Arthur.

  In years past, when Ambrosius was Rigotamos, Celyn’s father Caw refused to both acknowledge the consilium and pay obeisance to Ambrosius. Even worse, Caw’s son, Huaill, had organized a band of pirates who were terrorizing shipping between our western shores and the lands of the Scotti. I had been with Arthur when we raided their camp. Huaill, as arrogant a man as ever lived, spat at Arthur. And though he was strong, he was not up to single combat with Arthur. It took but moments and a single splash of blood and Arthur held Huaill’s head in his hand.

  Though Caw vowed revenge and refused to join the consilium, he ordered his youngest son, Celyn, to pledge obeisance. We all knew that Celyn was more spy than ally, but at least he kept communication open between the consilium and Caw, who ruled a wide territory in the far north. Another son, Gildas, became a brother of the Christ and lived at the abbey at Ynys-witrin.

  When Arthur was elected Rigotamos, Celyn had tried to snatch the sword, the symbol of the office, from the Caesar Stone before Arthur could. I stopped him with a well-placed backhand and Lord David demanded my arrest. But Ambrosius overruled him. Celyn had retained his seat in the consilium, but his blue eyes always seethed with anger when he saw me.

  Just as he did when Bedevere and I arrived at his camp.

  I was in front of Bedevere, and Celyn, seeing only me at first, leapt to his feet and his hand shot to his sword. But the man standing next to him laid a hand upon Celyn’s shoulder and gently held him back. Gereint ap Erbin, the last of the consilium to be in attendance.

  “Be easy, Celyn,” Gereint cautioned the young lord. The pair was as distant in appearance as their lands were on our island. Celyn was a lord in the far north, near the lands of the Picts, and his blond hair and blue eyes seemed suited to that distant kingdom. Gereint was tall an
d dark in both eyes and hair. Of all of our lords only he was clean shaven, in the manner of the Romans. His lands lay to the southwest, among the Dumnonii.

  The scent of leeks was in the air, and I noted a steaming pot, suspended by a strap from a tripod, hanging over the fire. Celyn was not taking advantage of Arthur’s kitchen as the other lords were.

  “Lord Celyn, Lord Gereint, it is good to find you both here,” Bedevere said in greeting.

  “Lord Gereint,” I nodded, watching from the corner of my eye as Celyn glowered.

  “How be it, Bedevere? Is our Rigotamos ready for marriage at last?” Gereint attempted to soften the mood.

  “Nearly. We have come to tell you that entry to the wedding will be limited to yourselves; your troops will not be allowed.”

  Even as alarm spread on Celyn’s face, Gereint nodded in approval. “Taking no chances then.”

  “This is unacceptable!” cried Celyn.

  “Why is it, Lord Celyn,” I asked, “that your response to almost everything is to argue against it?”

  “Lord Bedevere, if Arthur persists in this, I will absent myself from the ceremony in protest.” Celyn believed that not responding to me was an insult. But, then again, I had thought the same thing. Suddenly my face went red, not from anger, but from embarrassment.

  Celyn was much like his brother, Gildas. Though, in Gildas’s defense, the monachus was less prone to verbal outbursts.

  Gereint patted Celyn on his back. “Come, Celyn! You would miss all that fine food and drink? The horn will be full for our pleasure!”

  “But Gereint—”

  “Arthur has no need or desire to place you in jeopardy, but there have been unusual incidents over the past fortnight. And Arthur is not one to court God’s anger,” Bedevere explained as gently as he could.

  Swallowing hard, I smiled at the young lord. “Lord Celyn, the occasion would be the less for your absence.”

  Even Bedevere had to stifle a laugh at my awkward diplomacy.

  But my olive branch had the desired effect. Celyn looked at me for the first time with a smile. “How kind of you, scribe. I mean no disrespect to the Rigotamos, and of course I will attend under his conditions.”

  As we walked away, Bedevere patted me on the back. “See, Malgwyn? You have learned some restraint in your old age.”

  That both Bedevere and Mordred had accused me of the same thing bothered me. Perhaps I was losing my edge.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  The time had come. Kay had done his work well and the market square had been encircled by banners, the white with a red cross for Arthur and Aircol’s green with a white cross, alternating. Garlands of fresh late-summer flowers hung from the posts that supported the banners.

  After the twelfth hour, only citizens of the town, the lords and distinguished guests, and Arthur’s soldiers were allowed into our citadel. Despite their objections, David and the others did not seem ill at ease without their bodyguards. I had stationed myself at the main gate to observe their entry, but try as I might, I discerned no concern, nothing that would indicate they were planning some mischief.

  I had tried to see Ygerne again, but Mariam stopped me at the door and said that she was sick and would not go to the wedding.

  “And you?”

  She cocked her head to one side and smiled sadly. “I will stay here with Mother. She needs to be cared for.”

  I leaned down and kissed her cheek. “I will tell you all about it later.”

  With that, she had disappeared inside the house, and I had trudged off to my house to check on Gwyneira after first stopping at Kay’s house to retrieve my new clothes. Vivianne, a local seamstress, had made me a fine pair of braccae and new crimson tunic. For this occasion, I wore a linen camisia beneath my tunic and felt horribly decadent. Only the very rich or very noble (and I suppose they were the same) could afford such luxuries. But after my all too recent return to the wineskin, I decided that I needed it to remind myself of my station. In truth, I could instantly see the attraction. Woolen tunics, especially the sort that I was used to wearing, scratched the skin, sometimes so badly that it left it red and itching.

  Once properly arrayed, I attended to my charge—Gwyneira. She was alone in my and Merlin’s house, already dressed in a beautiful white gown with a wreath of flowers about her head. To my delight, she had refrained from using chalk to whiten her cheeks or berries to redden her lips. She was as fresh and natural as the smell of spring breeze.

  “My lady, you are just the sort of queen who will capture our people’s hearts.”

  “If I ever get the chance to meet the people,” she answered with a frown.

  “Do not fault us for protecting you. Once the marriage is made, all threat to your person will vanish.”

  “Why do you insist on that? If someone wishes me dead, will they not still wish me dead after I am married to Arthur?”

  “The only reason anyone in our lands would wish you dead is to sabotage the alliance with your father. When the marriage is complete, the alliance will be fact. Your houses will be bound. Killing you then serves no purpose. And, my lady, I have to believe that it was more an attempt to frighten you than a true death threat. Killing either the intended bride of a Rigotamos and more especially the actual woman of our high king is not something to be done for the thinnest of reasons.”

  She looked at me with her eyebrow cocked. “Perhaps. But purpose might be found by those whose aims are not political.”

  “What other enemies could you have, my lady?”

  At that she fell silent.

  “Have you spent much time with Arthur?” I changed the subject.

  Her lips curled into a smile at that. “Some. He is quite handsome and very kind. But I worry.”

  “About what?”

  “Whether I shall be able to please him as a good wife should. It is no small consideration.”

  I felt my face redden and I swallowed hard. “Have you spoken to your mother about this?”

  “My mother died long ago, Malgwyn, when Vortipor was born. But why do you ask?”

  It was impossible for me to look at her. The heat in my face and beneath my tunic was nearly unbearable. But I had sworn to help her. “The question of how to please your husband is not something that I feel comfortable answering. But I will try. This night, after you retire…”

  And then she laughed so loud, I fairly leapt from my seat.

  “Oh, Malgwyn, you are a tonic to my mind! I need no advice on coupling. I meant as a queen, at his side.”

  The wave of relief that washed over me near drowned me. And I must have shown it as Gwyneira burst into another fit of laughter.

  “M-m-m-my lady, I apologize for misunderstanding!”

  She waved a hand at me dismissively. “Malgwyn, I may be young but women talk about these things. And we have just as many dogs running in our lanes as you do here.”

  I straightened my tunic. “Then, my lady, if your question is whether you will make Arthur a good queen, then I can assure you that you will. I am not accustomed to paying compliments, but you are an exceptional woman, wise beyond your years, and we are fortunate to have you among us.”

  At that, Gwyneira stepped quickly to my side and kissed my cheek, and I reddened even more.

  “It is time.” The pronouncement came from the doorway. Aircol and Bedevere were standing there, ready to escort Gwyneira to her wedding.

  She smiled at me once more, took a deep breath and hooked her arm in her father’s. Arthur’s bride was ready.

  * * *

  Nightfall was no more than an hour away. Already the lanes danced with the light of a thousand torches. With Bedevere and me flanking them, they were led across the lane into a side door of the hall. No one was loitering along the cobbles; most folks were crowded into the market square. I looked this way and that, searching thatched rooftops, dark corners, anywhere an enemy might hide. The marriage would be made inside Arthur’s hall. After Dubricius had wed them, they would emerge t
hrough the double doors onto the square and greet the people. And then the celebration would begin, and I could rest a little easier. Perhaps even Ygerne would come to her senses and forgive me.

  Inside the hall were Dubricius, garbed in his finest robes and jewelry, Arthur, likewise arrayed, the lords of the consilium, the brothers Riocatus and Faustus, the emperor’s envoy, and all the rest.

  Such weddings were not common in our world. Ancient law recognized many forms of marriage, but since faith in the Christ had begun, such distinctions were usually ignored. Most often, a man and woman would simply begin keeping house together; any words they spoke were private. The agreement would have been struck between their parents, a business arrangement. In recent years though, more and more marriages were blessed by an episcopus or sacerdote, rather giving God’s blessing on the union. For two committed believers in the Christ as Aircol and Arthur most assuredly were, a marriage granted by episcopus Dubricius was the only proper course.

  Once Bedevere and I had delivered Aircol and Gwyneira to the hall, we stepped back and moved quietly to the main entrance. I had begun to think that our precautions were silly, that the message had been, as even I had said to Gwyneira, merely to frighten. A quick survey of the gathering drew no suspicious looks or expressions. Rather, they all seemed delighted. Perhaps I was seeing conspiracies where none existed.

  From that distance, we could not hear the words that Dubricius spoke, though I recognized that he was speaking in Latin. Slowly, but steadily, we were using less and less Latin in our language, reverting back to our old tribal tongues. Latin was still the written language, but other than formal ceremonies such as this, it was rarely used in conversation.

  And, even as I mused about languages, it was over. We knew from the cheer that erupted at the front of the hall. The crowd parted and we could see Arthur and Gwyneira, arm in arm, advancing toward us with Aircol and Dubricius bringing up the rear.

  On cue, we swung open the double doors and the roar from the crowd outside smothered the cries from inside. Though the sun had now set, the square was brightly lit by torches. I was delighted to see Mariam perched atop Owain’s shoulders. She looked so happy, waving her arms and cheering the couple. The scene reminded me of a more somber one, when another large crowd had overwhelmed the market square as Arthur was poised to behead Merlin. Instinctively, my eyes began sweeping the rooftops, but no Saxons with bows marred their outlines, only cheering, happy townsfolk.