The Stolen Bride

by Tony Hays

  This time, his tale sounded true. Wood smoke flavored the air, but I noticed that it had shifted, dampened, the scent of coals freshly wetted. Glancing at the great fire, I noticed one of the servi, still at his chores.

  If I knew anyone in the world, I knew Mordred. He was no coward; I had seen him on the battlefield, fought alongside him. But assassination? No. Mordred would never do his own killing in that manner. He would hire others. He did not come to Doged’s hall to kill him.

  And he had made a good point earlier. While no one would mistake Mordred as one of Arthur’s confidants, he was a lord of the consilium. If it was believed that Mordred had killed Doged, we might lose this entire province, the port, the trade, aye, and these new rocks, the agaphite, and the gold, if there was any. I knew one other thing. Mordred was not stupid. He might threaten, intimidate Doged. He might try to bully him. But he would not kill him. He could not control the aftermath, and Mordred liked to be in control.

  And then there was the matter of two or three or four Dogeds. I had not even had time to consider it. Bedevere and I saw one Doged go into his chambers. Then later, Doged reentered his chambers, but I had not seen him leave. Shortly thereafter, another Doged had fled past me at the gate. Finally, there was the true Doged, murdered in his bed. I could not pretend to know what it all meant, but something told me that unraveling the different Dogeds was the most important task before me.

  Unfortunately, having settled Mordred’s innocence in my own mind did little to prove it. And, I had to admit, the prospect of rescuing Mordred from this mess left a foul taste, like sulphur, in my mouth. So foul, in fact, that I wished only for some mead to wash the taste away.

  Before I could send the servus for a cup, Bedevere joined us. His first words left no doubt of his reaction.

  “Mordred, if you did this, I will see your privates ripped from you while you yet breathe.”

  “As much as I hate to admit it, Bedevere, he did not do it. There is something truly strange going on here.” Quickly I sketched the evening’s events. “What is being said in the town?”

  Bedevere shook his shaggy head. “Chaos. People are gathering in the lanes in the vicus. Apparently, Ysbail has given orders to seal off the fort. I have sent a rider to advise Arthur and ask for instructions.”

  Somehow, I sensed that this chaos would last only until Ysbadden arrived. “Come. We need to study Doged’s body and chamber to see what story they yield.”

  We turned toward the door as a yelp erupted from the floor.

  “You cannot leave me like this,” Mordred argued, a sweat breaking from his forehead.

  I truly felt sorry for him at that moment. “I cannot do anything else, Mordred.”

  “He is right,” Bedevere added. “To release you would only prove Ysbail true.”

  “You are safe for the moment, Mordred,” I assured him. “Ysbail is unlikely to take any action until Ysbadden arrives.”

  My old enemy glared at me, shaking his head to move his braid from his face. “Which could be at any moment.”

  We left him at that, not at all unhappy that he was thoroughly miserable. Strangely, I feel bad about that now, but at the time I only regretted that his fate might be decided by someone other than me.

  * * *

  To my surprise, my requests had been honored. Ysbail was nowhere to be seen, but Doged and his chamber looked just as I had found them, if more brightly lit.

  “Search the floor and furniture,” I directed Bedevere. “I will see what else Doged can tell me.”

  “What do I seek?”

  “Anything. Everything. Whatever strikes you as out of place.”

  With that I turned my attention to Doged. Under the flashing and flickering flames of new torches, the old lord looked only older and paler. No great pools of blood marred the furs, but I was certain he was murdered here. First, the dagger was such that it trapped the blood inside his body. Second, yet one more Doged wandering about was more than I could stand.

  Nothing about the dagger was special, just the ordinary sort such that you might find at any man’s waist.

  With my one hand, I lifted Doged’s body by his arm and saw what I expected: His back and side were dark as a Nubian. The blood had pooled within him.

  I let him drop and stepped back. The dagger had struck him just below his breastbone, at an upward angle. “He did not expect his visitor to be his murderer.”

  “How do you know that?” Bedevere’s question was a fair one.

  “He was not struck from behind, as he might have been if his killer had lain in wait. He was struck from the front, but the blow was delivered underhand, as if the murderer had stepped in to him. Had it been a full frontal assault, Doged’s arms might bear wounds themselves as he fought off his attacker.”

  As if to prove it to himself, Bedevere took up Doged’s limbs. They bore old, white scars but no sign of a fresh wound. “You are right.” He dropped the arm and turned to me with a question in his eye. “Could Mordred not have done this? What you are describing to me is an action suddenly determined and just as suddenly executed. Could he not have met with Doged, been infuriated, and killed the old man in a fit of passion?”

  “He is certainly capable of it, but his voice rings true when he professes his innocence.” I raised my hand before Bedevere could rebuke me. “I know. Mordred can sing a lie as sweetly as any songbird. But this time I think he sings the truth.”

  “You understand that if he is guilty, you now must prove his innocence to sustain the consilium’s authority here?”

  I had not thought of that. In my disappointment at being away from Ygerne and the birth of our new child, I had thought nothing could make me feel lower. The idea of defending Mordred was bad enough. But my having to defend a guilty Mordred threatened to overwhelm me. I felt my feast seek a second appearance.

  Still, I did not feel his guilt. “No, Mordred is guilty of only bad timing on this occasion.” That, I could live with.

  I returned to studying Doged’s wounds, but nothing new drew my attention. Bedevere was leafing through some parchments and documents on a side table. Like Kay, he read, but not well. His youth had been spent more with playing at swords than at reading.

  He held the papers out. “What do these say?”

  I walked over and looked at them. “Some are reports of shipments at the port. Some are requests by ship captains to visit the port.” Paging through the documents, I stopped at a small scrap, smaller than the others at any rate. The words were strange ones, strange for a king to have. “The key element,” it said, “is to walk swiftly and with purpose, keeping the head low. When combined with the other preparations, one could easily be mistaken for another. Though I am confused about your request, I wish you great success, old friend.” The writing ended there, but whoever had scraped the parchment to take a new document had done a poor job. Words from the older document could still be seen, still be read. “Come, Bedevere, bring me a torch.”

  Under the brighter light I could easily discern the earlier words, and it sent a chill through me.

  “Look for the rest of this. It must have been at least two leaves.” The parchment I held had no salutation, no ending or farewell.

  And we spent the next few minutes sorting through the rest of the papers, but not one matched this queer bit of correspondence.

  We finally gave up. “Bedevere, something very odd is happening here. I have told you of the seeming two or three or four Dogeds wandering the fort this night. This,” I hefted the parchment, “would seem to be a primer in how to impersonate another person without detection.”

  “Yes,” Bedevere said, now intrigued.

  “These older words here, that were not well scraped?”

  My friend narrowed his eyes.

  “They are mine. Someone has taken a parchment I had written, scraped it, and composed this odd missive to Doged.”

  CHAPTER SIX

  “Are you certain?”

  “I know my own fist, Bedev
ere.”

  “How could someone have gotten a piece of parchment that you had written?”

  I shrugged. “I write many things, for Arthur and some still for the abbot at Ynys-witrin.” Pulling the parchment closer to the torch, I squinted, trying to read my own words. The faint, faint markings became clearer the longer I studied them.

  “I think I recognize this. It was a message to Aircol from Arthur. But I made so many errors, I tossed this aside in frustration.” Pursing my lips, I looked up at Bedevere. “This never left my house.”

  “Then how came it here?”

  “I cannot fathom it. Perhaps Merlin? Surely he knew Doged. I have never seen Merlin write, though I know he reads well.” Shoving the parchment leaf in my pouch, I tried to put it from my thoughts.

  “Lord Bedevere?”

  We turned to see Lady Ysbail entering. She had changed from her linen nightgown and put on a plain, black linen dress.

  “Will you speed a rider to Lord Arthur? I wish him to participate in my husband’s funeral, and I suspect that his presence will serve to calm things here.”

  Bedevere and I exchanged looks. We did not know the actual condition of Igraine at Tyntagel. But Ysbail was right in one thing—Arthur’s presence might keep the most restless claimants to Doged’s seat at bay, for a time. I did not know about Bedevere, but it seemed to me that Ysbail’s request was somewhat out of character. She had shown her disdain for the consilium; why she would now request Arthur eluded me.

  “’Tis already done,” Bedevere said.

  “I have seen all that I need here, Lady Ysbail. I thank you for your patience.”

  Her eyes rolled upward, almost in jest, almost. “May I presume that you are now satisfied that the man in our kitchen killed my husband?”

  Just as I opened my mouth, Bedevere placed a hand on my shoulder. “It is likely,” he said. “But Malgwyn needs to make more inquiries tomorrow. There are several questions that have not as yet been resolved.”

  She started to speak, but Bedevere cut her off with a hand. “This is his way of divining these things. It is very effective, and your people will appreciate your loyalty to justice.”

  Ysbail had the most expressive eyes that I had ever seen, and at that moment I could almost see through them to the thoughts spinning in her head. From all accounts, she was just the sister of a bullying warlord who had never held a title that he had not murdered for or bothered with asking any questions of anyone. Justice was what Ysbadden said it was.

  In this situation she was uncertain. I did not think that she had a hand in her husband’s death, but I could not discount it either. When she accepted Doged’s marriage proposal, she probably saw nothing but the luxuries that went with power, not the responsibilities or decisions. She hesitated, just a second longer than I expected, and I silently thanked Bedevere for intervening. The woman thought little of me, one-armed old man that I was, but Bedevere carried himself as a noble.

  “Very well. My brother will soon be here. He may have until then to ask his questions.”

  “One last thing,” Bedevere began. “Lord Doged had asked me to review his troops and determine what training they need. Forgive me for speaking bluntly, but rumors have spread far and wide that these lands are but an inch away from rebellion. With Doged dead, one or more of the claimants may attempt to replace your husband by force. If you will grant me your permission, I will assume command of the soldiers here and organize them into a defensive force.”

  Normally, Bedevere was so taciturn, he did not say more than five words in a row. But in this instance I was delighted to see him take a more active role. As he was a lord of the consilium, his request would go much further than mine. Still, it was a bold request.

  For several long moments, Ysbail stared at Bedevere with those dancing blue eyes. Uncertainty lit them. She was not a stupid woman, but this was all new to her. Finally, a slight smile curved the corners of her mouth. “I have heard my husband speak of you as one of the best and most faithful of Arthur’s nobles. Your word is said to be as strong as the gales that strike our coast. Will you pledge to serve me at least until my brother arrives?”

  It was now Bedevere’s turn to pause. We had been so often in the field together that I knew what he was thinking. Bedevere did not like having limits put on him. But he had no good reason to refuse her request. “I will, Lady Ysbail.”

  “Then you may go and make certain that no revolt breaks out until we have time to bury my husband.”

  One of Doged’s nobles, one of the few that had been seated close to Doged in the feasting hall (and hence one of the more loyal), appeared in Doged’s chamber.

  “Go,” Ysbail ordered. “Tell our garrison that Lord Bedevere will assume command for the time being.”

  The man nodded quickly and dashed from the room.

  Bedevere turned again to Ysbail. “With your permission, I will bring our troop of horse within the fort. They are less likely to be confused by divided loyalties and can provide better security for you.”

  Again, she stared at my friend for a long moment. “Agreed. If you will now leave, I will begin the task of preparing my husband for burial.” Though the demand was blunt, her tone was less so.

  We departed quickly.

  * * *

  Once I was outside the hall, it occurred to me that I should go and let Mordred know what had been decided. But since I was not inclined to make his confinement more comfortable, I turned to Bedevere. “We should pull our camp inside the walls as well. I am sure that there are shelters here that we may use.”

  He nodded. “I had rather be behind the safety of the walls out on this headland than on the plain. Whoever sited this fort here was clever. Only laying siege and starving the garrison out would defeat it.”

  Bedevere was right. The only approach to the fort was across the one bridge. And the ravine was too wide to easily cross elsewhere. A handful of skilled archers and spearmen could hold off ten times their number.

  And the wind whipping off the vast sea was broken within the ramparts of the fort. Out on the plain, it was an ever-present reminder of the world’s furies.

  I caught a whiff of baking bread and glanced at the stars. Morning was almost upon us. “Who has gone to Arthur?”

  “I sent Aidan.”

  “A favor, Bedevere? Leave Ider here with me. I think I shall need him more.” Only then, after speaking, did I look at Bedevere.

  His mouth narrowed into a tight line. “You truly do not think Mordred did this?”

  “Consider what we know.”

  My old friend just laughed. “I did not think we knew anything.”

  “True, but listen. We know that at least one other person was dressed as Doged and both entered and exited his chambers. We found a parchment in Doged’s chamber that seems to be some sort of treatise on disguising yourself as another. As you yourself pointed out, the killing itself has all the marks of being done suddenly, but by someone that Doged knew or at least had let willingly into his presence.

  “Mordred claims to have bribed a guard to gain entry into Doged’s private chambers. We have not had time to search the truth in that. But undoubtedly, he was not dressed as Doged when he was captured, and no discarded clothes were found in his wake.”

  At that, Bedevere nodded reluctantly.

  “Besides you and Merlin, Ider is the most experienced at helping me in my inquiries.”

  “Very well.” He stopped and studied my face. “Malgwyn, a year ago you would not have asked. You would have demanded.”

  “A year ago, I was more petulant child than councilor to the Rigotamos.”

  He shook his head. “Petulant child when you and Arthur squabbled, but not in other matters. It was a mark of your self-confidence.”

  This time it was my turn to shake my head. “A year ago my petulance nearly cost the lives of several folk I dearly love, my cousin Guinevere and Ygerne among them, not to mention so many others. No, if by moving more cautiously fewer mistakes
are made, then so be it.”

  “If you had moved more cautiously when Eleonore was killed, Arthur would not be Rigotamos and Ambrosius would be dead. Do not let caution rob you of that which makes you strong.” At that, he strode off toward the gate, leaving me staring after him as the false dawn began to break.

  * * *

  “Malgwyn!”

  The cry broke through the sudden buzz in the lanes.

  I had taken advantage of the last remnants of night to seek some bread, cheese, and water. But when I emerged from Doged’s hall, I saw true chaos.

  Something was happening outside the walls, driving the people to seek refuge here. I strained to look over the crowd, but without climbing on a house I could not. Then I remembered the great burial mound. It rose over all the other structures in the fort.

  Half-running, half-pushing my way through the crowd, I scrambled up its incline, my heart pounding at the effort. Though the thatched roofs of the houses obscured some of my view, I could see beyond the walls.

  A mass of people, simple peasant folks it looked, were dashing for the bridge and gate. Far beyond them, back where the narrow spit of land broadened into a plain, I saw a mob of horsemen, running their mounts at an unbelievable speed, and yet another, more disciplined, formation of horse headed toward them.

  “Malgwyn!”

  Looking around among the bobbing of heads as people ran, stumbled, fell in the lanes in their haste to find the safety of the fort, I searched for its source.

  There.

  Ider’s head appeared. “Malgwyn, Bedevere said you wanted me.”

  I motioned Ider up on the mound, giving him my hand for leverage. “Has he sent a rider to Arthur?”

  Ider, his long hair already soaked with sweat, answered curtly. “He has organized our troops with Doged’s and thrown up a defensive rampart further inland.”

  “Who are the riders?”

  “The people are saying that it is Druce’s men, intent on plundering Trevelgue now that Doged is dead.”

  “What is Bedevere’s plan?”

  “He is riding out with our entire force under a flag of truce to ask their intentions.”