The Stolen Bride

by Tony Hays

  “My lady Ysbail,” Doged began, taking the woman’s hand in his. “Please greet our visitors from Castellum Arturius—Lord Bedevere and Master Malgwyn.”

  She stepped toward us, averting her eyes, but not from modesty, rather from apparent disdain. “So you are what the Rigotamos has sent us rather than visit himself.” Her voice was icy, destroying, for me, her beauty. Arthur was right. She did enjoy her new station.

  “Yes, my lady,” Bedevere said with a forced smile. “I am Lord Arthur’s Master of Horse. But be assured that the Rigotamos will be here shortly. Until then, we must do.”

  “And this,” she replied, indicating me without looking at me, “is your servant?”

  “No, my lady,” my friend answered patiently. “He is Malgwyn ap Cuneglas, senior councilor to the Rigotamos.”

  She turned that frigid gaze to Doged then. “Arthur must be in serious trouble if this is the best he can muster for a councilor.”

  “Now, my dear,” Doged began, but I shook my head.

  “Do not worry, my lord,” I said. “A ‘woman’ should not be expected to recognize the Rigotamos’s advisors.”

  I did not need to see the look she gave me then; I could feel it piercing my chest with all the fury of an arrow shot in anger. But that was only in my mind. Beside me, I heard a slight gasp escape from Bedevere. I regretted my words almost as soon as I had spoken them. First, I did not believe them myself. But more important, she was the wife of Lord Doged and she deserved my respect. And I had insulted her.

  Once more my temper had spoken over the voice of common sense. “My apologies, my lady,” I tried a more conciliatory tone.

  “The next time you appear, Lord Bedevere, leave your pets at home.”

  Doged rolled his eyes.

  Ysbail nodded to Bedevere and ignored me. I deserved it. “Let us feast now and talk later,” proclaimed Doged, in a hurry to move to other topics.

  We all sat then and the servi began filling our cups anew. I jammed my dagger into the plank of pig on my platter and ate hungrily. Until I felt a tug at my sleeve.

  Looking down, I saw a wisp of a lad, perhaps five winters old, with straw-colored hair and high cheekbones. “May I help you, young master?”

  “You have but one arm,” he said, his voice filled with curiosity.

  “I do,” I confirmed.

  “But why, master? Why have you only one arm?” I could not be offended; his tone was not insolent.

  “He lost it in battle, Culhwch,” a new voice said. “This is the great Malgwyn of Tribuit, who slew Saxons by the dozens.”

  The newcomer placed his hand tenderly on the boy’s shoulder. It was the broken-nosed man with the scar on his face. I saw immediately that the boy was but a fairer miniature of the father.

  He extended his left hand to me, and I took it in mine. I found his smile infectious.

  “You do me great honor, sir.”

  “Only because it is deserved. I am Cilydd, my lord. This is my son, Culhwch.”

  So this was the rascal Cilydd, who threatened rebellion against Doged. Bedevere and I exchanged quick glances. Cilydd was not what we expected. Traitors, in our minds, were more like Mordred, greasy, ambitious, and likable in a common way. This man seemed a genuinely good sort, and his son was charming and without guile.

  “Would you sit with us?” I asked, without thinking.

  Cilydd shook his head and smiled again. “I think Lord Doged would not approve. I am relegated to the far shores of the hall.”

  “Then attend us in our camp tonight,” I offered. Our troop of horse was establishing our camp even then, beyond the walls of the fort.

  Cilydd bowed. “It would be my great pleasure.”

  “And bring your son,” Bedevere answered. “He seems a good lad.”

  Again, we were greeted with that infectious smile. I hoped that it was not the plague Cilydd carried.

  The rest of the evening passed without the usual speeches, boasting our host’s battle prowess, of which our people were so fond. I assumed they were saving those for Arthur’s arrival, and I was glad. I had seen too many battlefields to find glory in any of them. War was a terrible, though sometimes necessary, thing. I am not a learned man; I have not studied with any great philologus, but that much I knew.

  As was my charge at Arthur’s table, I spent my time watching the people, and I saw much. Cilydd’s men showed little interest in anything but their food. Except for Cilydd himself, that is. He seemed very interested in the fair Ysbail, and to my great surprise, I caught her meeting his looks with a faint smile and a coy expression. That did not bode well for Doged at all. Another group of nobles in the last aisle regarded Doged with equally ill-disguised disdain. I asked Bedevere if he knew them.

  “They are from Ennor and Ynys Scilly.”

  “The lands which were flooded?”

  “Aye. They have wandered for a generation, seeking a new home. In truth, they are cousins to Lord Mark, but he refuses to settle any lands on them.”

  In my grandparents’ time, the great islands of Ennor and Ynys Scilly were connected to the mainland by a giant swamp. Older tales said that all had once been dry, and there were the remnants of great trees, stone walls, and even a chapel. But then, about the time of my father’s birth, a giant wave rose, submerging the swamp and those last bits of a great and noble people, and splitting Ennor and Ynys Scilly into a myriad of smaller isles.

  It had been a horrible event; thousands were drowned, swept away. Whole villages disappeared beneath the wave. Some people remained, but most fled to the mainland. Thus dispossessed, they journeyed throughout our southwestern lands, seeking a place to call their own.

  “Perhaps they are hoping that Doged will grant them lands?”

  Bedevere shook his head. “I do not think so. He is fighting now to keep his lands together; I doubt that he would willingly part with any.”

  I nodded and resumed eating the excellent grilled pig, noting as I did the intense exchange of looks between Ysbail and Cilydd.

  Later in the evening, as the nobles began to leave, or pass out from the mead and wine, Doged motioned for us to join him. As we maneuvered through the wreckage of the feast, one of the nobles from Ennor stopped us.

  “My lords, you serve the Rigotamos?” He was a pleasant- enough-looking fellow, neatly attired in tunic and braccae. His hair was neither red nor brown but something in between, and it hung below his shoulders. But his face was clean shaven and his smile showed a full set of good teeth.

  “We do,” Bedevere answered.

  “I am Trevelyan, of Ennor.”

  Something in the name was familiar.

  “How can we help you?”

  Without Bedevere’s leave, Trevelyan slumped into a chair and hung his head. “My lord, since my grandfather’s time we have been attempting to find lands to settle on. Some people have found sanctuary with their kinfolk.”

  I nodded. It was common knowledge that Lord Mark’s grandfather had taken in a large group of cousins, among them Mark’s first wife, mother of Tristan. “Why do you not settle on the islands that remain?”

  Trevelyan grimaced. “They are small, and who knows when the sea might swallow them as well. No, it is better that we seek safer lands.”

  “Have you considered the regions near the great wall in the north?”

  Again, Trevelyan grimaced. “And subject ourselves to daily raids by the Picts? No, that is not the answer. I am hoping that you will press the Rigotamos to grant me an audience when he arrives.”

  Bedevere looked to me and I shrugged. There was no harm in it. “Very well, Trevelyan. We will arrange a chance for you to press your suit.”

  The young man leaped up and embraced Bedevere, much to my friend’s dismay. Bedevere stepped back quickly, embarrassed, and I stifled a chuckle.

  Trevelyan saw Bedevere’s reaction and was immediately humbled. “I am sorry, my lord, but it is not often that we find anyone willing to listen to our plight.”

  Bed
evere’s stone face cracked a bit. “I will commend you to Lord Arthur. Perhaps your cause will find a friendly ear with him.”

  At that, Bedevere broke away and followed after Doged with me at his heels, leaving Trevelyan standing alone in the empty hall.

  * * *

  “Well, Bedevere,” Doged began in his crackly voice. “You have seen the rocks I sent to Arthur?”

  “Aye, my lord.”

  The old warrior crossed the room and sat in a chair. Behind him was the door to his private bedchamber. I guessed that Ysbail was closeted there.

  “I will not lie to you. It complicates an already complex situation. Should word escape that there is gold and agaphite in my lands, then my old white head will be laid upon the chopping block for every ambitious noble in these lands and perhaps beyond.”

  “Is it not already, my lord?” I asked.

  Doged jerked back in surprise, and then smiled. “That is true. But I have held Cilydd and his fellows off by marrying Ysbail.”

  “Any signs?” Bedevere did not have to explain any further.

  The old lord shook his head. “Not yet, but it has only been two new moons.”

  “Still, the sooner she conceives the sooner you can smother these sounds of rebellion.”

  “Oh, well, unless she is barren, she will conceive.” His certainty seemed … wrong, somehow. But then was not the time to question him.

  “What is the current state of affairs here?” A much better question.

  Doged shrugged. “You have seen my court. Of my own nobles, Cilydd is the most powerful, though his brother, Druce, is also very strong, and it is Druce I fear more than Cilydd.” The old lord reached up and fiddled with the brooch holding his tunic in place, a circular one, common and unpretentious.

  “Why, my lord?”

  Doged cocked his head to the side. “Both are ambitious men, but Cilydd has some honor. Druce has none. He will do whatever is necessary to bring strength to his banner.”

  That moment seemed to be the right time to bring up the village massacre.

  “Lord Doged, as we journeyed here, we passed through a village near your border with the summer country. The people were killed and all their goods and animals taken. I cannot describe the devastation inflicted on those poor people.”

  Doged dropped his head, and I noticed that his fist was clenched so tight that his knuckles were white. Finally, he raised his head. “Could you determine when this happened?”

  “The bodies were still fresh. Dead less than a day before we arrived.”

  “And there were no survivors?”

  Bedevere and I exchanged glances. I was most hesitant to tell anyone of Daron, but Doged’s reputation was beyond reproach. And that feeling in the pit of my stomach said that I could trust him. “One, only. She says that those who weren’t killed were taken captive.”

  Doged turned and slammed a fist into a wall, rattling the entire building, it seemed. “Druce. It had to be Druce or his brother one. They are the only two of my rivals with a will to act. The others are feckless whiners who would run in fright if they saw a dagger aimed their way.” He paused, turning back toward us slowly.

  “Malgwyn, Ambrosius speaks highly of some skill of yours.”

  “Ambrosius is kind.”

  “I have no one with such abilities about me. My vigiles are more drunks than watchmen. Would you take my commission to see that the savages who did this are punished?”

  It was only then that he turned full face. A blood vessel pumped angrily at his pale temple. The wrinkles that cratered his face seemed to deepen as we watched. The redness in his eyes had grown tenfold and tears glistened. This was a good man, a proper noble.

  And though I had already set myself on that course, I readily and happily nodded.

  Doged turned away again, embarrassed, I am certain, at his tears. We stayed silent until he faced us once more, his eyes still red, but no hint of moisture in them.

  “What of this Saxon embassy from Aelle?” Bedevere ventured into the quiet. “And their claim of holding Mordred hostage?”

  Our host chuckled. “They may hold him forever for my part. I know that Mordred, when posted here by Ambrosius, incited Cilydd to revolt. But no, I have no proof of their present claim, though I have heard rumors that he is being held along the coast between here and Tyntagel.

  “I have chosen not to admit their party into the fort itself,” he continued. “I cannot keep them out of the town, but my problems are quite serious enough without allowing the wolves into my sheep pen. Besides, I am no fool. They are here because Arthur will be here. If there will be negotiations over Mordred, it will be Arthur negotiating. When he arrives, I will give them leave to enter the fortress.

  “But until then they enjoy my hospitality in the vicus. I keep four of my men watching them, rotating the hours. As yet, there has been no sign of Mordred.”

  Bedevere nodded. Obviously Doged was not the fool that rumor held him to be. “We are not certain as to when Arthur will be here. He is visiting his mother, who is very ill.”

  Doged smiled sadly. “I knew Igraine when she was still married to Gorlois.”

  “Truly? Arthur rarely speaks of his mother and father,” I said.

  The old man laughed again. “Then I shall not, but did you know that Celliwic is where Gorlois was killed, freeing Igraine to become Uther’s woman?”

  At that, even Bedevere, Arthur’s oldest companion, shook his head. “I knew only that Igraine had been married before,” he said.

  “Then we shall leave it at that. As to the issue of the gold and agaphite, I have decided to convey all rights to the consilium, provided that they take responsibility for the mining.”

  Bedevere and I exchanged swift glances. Doged was indeed clever. By giving the rights to the consilium, he essentially made them all business partners in the mining, and he eliminated the need for the other lords to contrive against him.

  “Master Malgwyn,” Doged continued. “I know that you are a scribe, and I hoped that you would prepare a document to that effect. I wish to present this gift to the Rigotamos immediately upon his arrival.”

  I nodded. “It will be my pleasure, my lord. I assume that you intend for any profits to be shared equally among the other lords?”

  This time he nodded.

  “Harrumph.” Bedevere cleared his throat and we turned to him. “You realize, Lord Doged, that signing away what might be the greatest treasure in your lands will further enrage Cilydd and your own nobles?”

  “I realize that my actions will not be popular, but imagine for just a moment what would happen if I gathered these to my breast and did not share with the consilium. I would make enemies of every lord of the consilium, to which I have pledged my allegiance. Better the enemies at home, who I know well, than enemies stretched across the land.

  “And more importantly, I have always agreed with Ambrosius and Arthur. We are far stronger unified than we could ever be as individual tribes. Vortigern was wrong to enlist the aid of the Saxons. Had we truly worked as one in those days, the raids of the Picts and the Scotti would have been as the mulings of pestilential children, annoying, but not a true threat. I told him this myself.” He stopped and hung his head. “I always believed that Vortigern himself profited by bringing the Saxons, that perhaps he had parlayed for the Saxon crown itself.”

  I reeled at the words. “You knew Vortigern? You sat in his councils?”

  The ancient lord grinned at me. “Vortigern was my friend. We met as young lords at a gathering in the early days of the consilium. I was proud to call him my brother,” and Doged spoke then through clenched teeth. “Until he recruited the Saxons. We broke on that issue, and I was denied my seat on the consilium for a time. It was later that Cadwy and Ambrosius petitioned for my return.”

  I was impressed. Doged was rarely spoken of. From what little I had heard, he was just an older lord who rarely ventured outside his lands. He was staunchly loyal and faithful to the consilium, seemingl
y unambitious, and could be expected to answer any summons quickly. In brief, he was predictable, and predictable lords caused little discussion and were trusted with the most necessary of positions.

  But now I saw that there was much more to the man, and I liked what I saw. I valued fidelity and loyalty, almost as much as I valued the truth. This was a good man, clinging to all that he held dear with both wit and wisdom. And unlike many that I encountered, he had not treated me as less than a man because of my missing arm. That counted for much with me.

  It was Bedevere, though, who answered for us both. “How can we serve you until the Rigotamos arrives?”

  Doged smiled. “If Malgwyn will prepare the conveyance and then lend me his counsel, I would ask you, Lord Bedevere, to review my troops and tell me where they need training and preparation. From what you report of those poor villagers, I fear that I will have to use them sooner than I would hope.”

  Before either of us could answer, shouts arose from the feasting hall, voices raised in fierce anger.

  The three of us rushed out to find a truly remarkable sight, at least for Bedevere and myself.

  A straw-haired soldier had twisted the arm of one of Doged’s soldiers behind his back and held a dagger to the throat of the hapless man. With a deadly grimace, he was walking the man awkwardly into the hall as the few stragglers about melted against the walls.

  “Lord Doged,” I said. “Meet the newest recruit to Arthur’s banner—Ider.”

  And it was Ider.

  “Why are you trying to kill one of Lord Doged’s men?” Bedevere asked.

  Ider relaxed, a grin spreading across his face, and he released the soldier. “He tried to prevent my entry.”

  Since being cast out from the community of brothers at Ynys-witrin, Ider, once a quiet, simple monachus and callow youth, had immersed himself in the soldier’s life. Obviously, he was learning his lessons well.

  “Something I am certain he will not do again,” Doged replied. The old man turned to us. “The night is upon us, and I need my rest. I will speak with you again tomorrow.” At that, he disappeared into his private quarters.