by Tony Hays
“He nodded. ‘Aye, that is my daughter. Please, join us.’
“Arthur had lost that hunger on his face. And he asked the question we were all thinking: ‘Are you ill? You are so thin.’
“The old man’s face reddened like a ripe apple, and he hung his head. ‘I need but little to survive. I wish my daughter to grow strong,’ he said.
“We thanked him for his offer and left quickly. Never again did Arthur speak of power, or lust, only honor.”
I had never heard that tale of Arthur. In truth, stories of the young Arthur were scarce. Sometimes it seemed to me that he had been born on the edge of manhood. Asking about his youth and origins brought either a clever joke or a scowl. Merlin knew much, but he was ever faithful to Arthur and kept his secrets well.
The journey was uneventful, save a rain and blustering wind that swept across us for a few moments and then was gone. Our western lands held long, wide wastelands where the remnants of those who went before could still be seen. From the circular mounds where they buried their dead to the circular rock footprints of their houses, they dotted the bleak green landscape. I did not know why the old ones would have chosen such desolate places to live, or die. Perhaps in those olden times they were not as dismal and wind battered as today.
We approached Doged’s lands a little warily. Bedevere posted a defensive screen of horse on either side of our main party to flush out any ambush. We were not too distant from the sea, and despite our best efforts, the gods’ tears soaked us. “The gods’ tears.” That was something my mother used to say when I was small. Even then, I could not help but try to understand.
“But tears are salty. If they were tears then nothing would grow.”
My mother had pursed her lips as she lowered a bucket into the well. “That’s the difference between man’s tears and the gods’. Ours kill things; the tears of the gods make things grow.”
Though that answer did not satisfy me, I accepted it. And the driving rain on this day did nothing to dispel my dissatisfaction. Daron, riding behind me, never spoke a word. All seemed dreary and unpromising. Until a rider appeared from the west, from the crest of a low hill to our right, carrying a banner.
Bedevere raised a hand and brought our party to a halt. Ider rode forward and joined us.
“Trouble?” I asked of no one in particular.
Ider stretched forward in his saddle and squinted. “No. It is Doged’s banner.”
The three of us exchanged glances as the rider sped forward until, nearing us, he jerked on the reins, bringing his mount to a halt with a snort.
A big man, he wore an old Saxon helmet. I wondered if he won it in battle. Something about him was familiar, though I could not quite discern what. As his horse continued snorting, catching its breath, he removed the helmet to reveal a huge scar running across the left side of his face, from cheekbone to chin.
“My lords, please … forgive my appearance,” he gasped, nearly as out of breath as his horse.
“You have a message for us?” Bedevere asked.
“Yes, my lord. Lord Doged wishes you to join him at Trevelgue. He has gone there to meet with the Saxon envoy from Aelle.”
Part of me was grateful; going all the way to Doged’s seat and then having to turn around and go to Trevelgue would have added another half day or more to our journey. Another part of me was bothered. Merlin would be delayed in joining us. The rocks were at Castellum Dinas or near there.
The rider was saying something else; I tried to shut it out and plan the most expedient way to assess the ore without drawing too much attention. But then Bedevere barked angrily, nearly like a dog.
“Mordred? What is he doing here?”
That brought me back as if a thunderbolt had struck me. “Mordred?”
The poor rider must have feared for his life, as he backed up his horse and seemed about to bolt.
“Hold, rider!” Bedevere’s shout brought the poor messenger’s panic to a stop. He reined in his horse and calmed it. “Repeat what you said about Lord Mordred.”
The rider gulped. “My lord, the envoy says that they have Lord Mordred as a hostage and are prepared to release him to Lord Arthur as a sign of good faith.”
I looked at Bedevere, feeling the grin then spreading across my face. “Can we refuse this gift?”
Bedevere was not smiling, at all. His eyes flickered at me, nearly a glancing blow, but enough to give me pause. When and where had Mordred been taken prisoner and why did we not know of this already?
“Consider your message delivered,” Bedevere said to the rider.
He jerked the reins to turn his horse, and something in the gesture was familiar.
“Wait.”
The rider looked over his shoulder and pulled up.
“Your name is Gurdur.”
“It is, my lord.”
I had seen this man before, but I could not remember where. Usually a name will spark some memory.
“You look familiar to me as well,” said Bedevere.
The rider hid a smile behind his hand.
Why did I know this man? It was frustrating. Then, behind us, one of our soldiers said something in the Scotti tongue, and the rider answered him.
The soldier, Aidan, then joined the laughter. “Master Malgwyn, this is Gurdur, the boy who spoke all languages, who joined Arthur’s banner before he could yet grow a beard.”
And then it was plain to see. He was older by several years and had finally grown into a man. The lad had a gift for tongues, and within a few days could pick up almost any tribal dialect or foreign speech. After the war, I had lost track of the youngster and he had faded in my memory.
“How come you to serve Doged now?”
“I was from these lands, and after the war it seemed only meet that I should return. Lord Doged needed someone to serve as a translator; I was recommended to him.”
“Go, and tell your master that we are coming,” Bedevere ordered, as much to give us time to confer as in any haste.
Gurdur rode off; we did not.
“Mordred was with Lord David at last word,” I said, studying Bedevere’s face. It was expressionless. He hated Mordred nearly as much as I did.
But he remained silent.
“I can see only two ways that Mordred became a hostage of the Saxons. Either he was taken by force (an event we should certainly have heard about) or he went willingly, which seems odd even for Mordred,” I said into the quiet.
“Unless it happened since we left Castellum Arturius.”
He was right. But if it happened so recently, how did Mordred appear in the company of a Saxon envoy so quickly, so far from David’s lands?
“It does no good to worry about these things now,” I said. “Let us go to Trevelgue and find out.”
* * *
Another day passed before we entered the fringes of the coastal village of Trevelgue. I was glad that Gurdur was at Trevelgue; the speech of the far western peoples was almost incomprehensible to me, though it was said to be the same as ours. The westerners, the Cornovii, though, did not speak any Latin, which most of us still did. Oh, there were a few in each port who had some Latin; they had to since so much of our trade came from those countries. But our children were not learning much Latin, and I suspected that it would fade away over time.
I turned on my horse and motioned Sulien forward. Daron favored me with a smile. “Remember that when we enter the village you are my servus. Here, Sulien, take her onto your horse.”
We made the exchange with little problem. “Our task is simple, Sulien. We are to keep Daron safe.”
He nodded quickly, and I felt happy with my choice of a bodyguard. Sulien was mature and experienced. He did not chafe for war, but he would not shrink from it either. I urged my horse forward.
* * *
The lanes were lined with people as if some great festival had been declared. Booths lined the road, selling wine and mead and cervesas, rabbit and chicken. An odd variety of odors drifted across t
he lanes, spices that I did not recognize, warm and musky scents. Beneath the shouts of the merchants, hawking their wares, was the clink of coins changing hands. People here had more coins than we had further east. The trading ships brought them and used them in the village.
Trevelgue, though but a small place, was a seaport. And as such it boasted facilities that we did not have at Castellum Arturius—ganea, where men bought sex; and public houses where food and cervesas could be bought, where men played at dice and ships’ captains recruited men for their next voyage. And coins clinked.
We were not better people to the east, but we had fewer foreigners. Those who chose to journey east from our western ports took grave risks. While many of the civitas, the cities of the Romans, functioned still, the land was yet lawless. Strangers were easy quarry for the bands of latrunculii that roamed the forests and for the petty tyrannies of lesser lords.
But Castellum Arturius had a public house, in the lower precinct near the northeast gate, more to serve the soldiers of the lords who visited the Rigotamos. Arthur would not suffer the meretrices, the whores, however, to establish their own house within our walls. Rather they used an old building in the Roman village to the northeast.
Most lords of the consilium had such laws. Though I had heard it said that David allowed ganea in his domain, and Mordred too. I doubted that Mark did, since our episcopus, Dubricius, was in residence at Castellum Marcus.
We had been noticed. A gaggle of Doged’s soldiers were loitering outside a public house. Their tunics were dyed a deep brown, with a single chevron stitched in yellow at their center. But their clothes held tears and ragged edges. They were poor specimens. As Arthur’s officers and councilors, we deserved their salute, but they did not give it. Rather, they turned their heads and sneered.
“It seems we are not very welcome,” I said to Bedevere.
“Or these men are but wolves in sheep’s clothing.”
“Speak plainly.”
“Everyone knows that Arthur will support Doged’s authority. We know that he has rebellious men. Perhaps these are among them and they view us as enemies.”
He was right.
And then yet a new party sent my hand reaching for my sword. Saxons. Beside me, Bedevere swore. We knew they were here under a flag of truce and hence we were forbidden to harm them. This was fortunate. For were I to have my way, I would personally have cut each and every Saxon throat I could find, and bathed in their blood. I tried to push those thoughts away, and much of the time I was successful. But the sight of even one greasy topknot sent the bile boiling into my throat.
“Steady, Malgwyn,” Bedevere cautioned me.
“I’ll start no wars today,” I grunted.
The village was laid out on either side of this lane, which ran out to the headland where Castellum Dinas stood. A second lane split off just before the gate and ran down to the harbor. Shops lined that route as well: a lumberyard for the shipbuilders, a wine merchant who preferred not to have to carry his amphorae very far, a public house, a dealer in olive oil. The scents of this area were both richer and fouler. Raw sewage ran through the gutters. A tanner’s stench drifted across the lane with the breeze. And beneath those lay a more appealing odor of cooked pig.
We stopped before the gate and dismounted. Two of the Pictish servi that we had brought along hurried forward to take our horses. This was my first journey to Doged’s coastal seat, and an impressive one it was. Its being situated on a headland, connected to the mainland by a narrow bridge, with six massive ditches and ramparts, made it a nearly impregnable fortress. Within, I had been told, were several of the old, circular burial mounds favored by our ancients.
But as we crossed the bridge and entered the fort, I noticed the signs of age and neglect. Even the bridge creaked and groaned under our weight. Weeds grew from the dirt embankment and up into the wooden ramparts. Some of the timbers had been recently replaced, but several showed signs of sagging and rot.
None of the guards challenged us, though whether out of laziness or lack of concern I couldn’t tell. But the grunt from Bedevere told me that he was not happy. My companion was an excellent soldier and outstanding officer. He demanded much of his own men, and to see others so ill behaved rankled him.
Ahead of us, striding down the lane from a large timber hall, came a tall, elderly man, dressed as a warrior, spear and shield in hand. His tunic bore the yellow chevron of Doged, and his cloak, fastened about his shoulders with a circular brooch, was of the same brown fabric. The old fellow had once been a powerful man, but he was now stooped and walked with a limp.
On reaching us, he nodded and said in a voice that crackled like knotty wood in a fire, “I welcome you to my home, Lord Bedevere.”
So this was Doged. I had never met him before. His warring days had ended before mine began, and he had warred, riding with Ambrosius in the days after Vortigern’s disgrace and proving himself an able warrior.
Behind me, I heard a chuckle. Yes, Doged had been a great warrior in his day, but his being attired as one now made Doged look weak and addled. He should have been attired as a senior lord of the consilium, with a fine tunic and a strong leather belt, dotted with iron studs.
I turned to see who was making sport of Doged and saw a pack of young nobles swilling mead and jostling each other. One in particular caught my attention, a short, stocky man of about twenty-five years. His nose was the most remarkable feature, as it was crooked with a good-sized hump. I had seen such noses before; it had been broken. A closer look revealed a long scar down one side of his face. Though young, this man had seen some trouble.
“Malgwyn.”
I turned back to Bedevere, who was trying to introduce me to Doged. He was easily older than Ambrosius by ten winters, his skin stretched so tight over his bones that he looked more like a skeleton than a man. Thrusting out his hand to take mine, he noticed my missing arm. He narrowed his eyes in apparent confusion.
“I was told that Lord Bedevere was missing a hand, yet I see both of his but only one of yours.”
Bedevere and I both chuckled. Since Arthur’s elevation to Rigotamos, word had spread about his one-armed councilor. And because Kay’s role as his steward kept him from being oft afield, Bedevere was my more constant companion, and the people often confused us.
“Surely, a lord of your experience knows that you cannot believe all that you hear,” I answered in greeting.
Doged threw back his head and laughed deeply. “I have never been called old so diplomatically. Come, and enjoy my hospitality.”
And he threw his arms about our shoulders and ushered us up the path and into his hall. I chanced to glance over my shoulder and saw that the band of young nobles was fast on our heels.
And Sulien nodded quickly, slightly, dismounting and taking Daron in tow.
CHAPTER FOUR
Doged was a congenial sort, more so than I would have been. All of his nobles, including the group of young toughs, trooped into his hall behind us, intent, I suspected, on assessing Arthur’s lieutenants.
I noticed immediately that you did not see the trappings of the Christ here as in Arthur’s hall. In truth, from the ancient burial barrows to the bear on his shields, Doged seemed a lord who clung to the old ways. Of the chevron on his tunic I did not know. Perhaps, I thought, it was some ancient symbol of his people.
Doged arranged his hall much differently than Arthur. No round tables here. One long one at the front of the hall for Doged and his family, and then a series of long ones down each side. I had been told that this was common in the western lands. Seats were assigned. The closer you sat to the lord, the more influential you were. This seemed rather silly to me. A lord’s time was better spent governing his lands, not deciding who would sit where, but as I saw that Cilydd and his followers were relegated to the furthest seats, it struck me that upon such decisions rebellions were founded.
If I thought Arthur’s kitchen well stocked, Doged’s was astounding. Oysters, fresh fish from the
sea, pig, beef, loaves of freshly baked bread. Doged had so many amphorae of wine that they were stacked around the walls. I immediately suspected that those were the price of docking at his port, not that that would be unusual. By the consilium’s orders, each member should receive a portion of any import tax, but it was an order seldom obeyed, and an abuse that Arthur did not speak out against.
“Ider!” I called for my young friend.
“Yes, Malgwyn.” His voice sounded at my shoulder and I fair jumped. Turning, I thought once again of how he had changed since he had left Ynys-witrin. But of all the changes, I reflected on how bright and alive his eyes were now. Before, they had been the frightened, humbled eyes of a small animal, when it hides from its enemy. I wondered at a faith that stole the life from a man.
“Circulate among the people. I see no sign of a chapel here, no religious house. The Rigotamos will want to know about such. And see what gossip you hear about Doged’s new bride.”
“What of Sulien and the girl?”
“They will stay with me.”
He nodded and slipped away.
“He has come far,” Bedevere said.
“Aye, and I am grateful for his presence. He reminds me of you.”
Bedevere cocked his square-shaped head at me. “How so?”
“He is a true and faithful friend. When mine and Guinevere’s lives were threatened by Melwas at Pomparles, he willingly put his own in danger to save us.”
“That makes him a better man than I,” Bedevere countered.
I just laughed. But then Doged began to speak.
“We wish to welcome our cousins from the east,” Doged said, his voice crackling like a fire of dry twigs. “They tell me that we will soon be joined by the Rigotamos.”
A cheer went up and flasks were thumped on the tables, though the cheers were louder from those tables nearest Doged.
Then, a hush fell over the room. A door at the back of the hall, leading, I presumed, to Doged’s chambers, opened and a woman glided out. She was of average height but well figured. Her hair was what caught everyone’s eye. It was the whitest yellow I had ever seen, so white as to almost be silver. Her eyes sat above a queen’s nose, slender and pointed and noble, and they were of a blue unlike any I had seen, and life danced in them. Her skin was as fair and pale as a spirit, and she used no crushed berries to redden her cheeks or lips.