by Tony Hays
“He is that certain that they will honor the flag?”
“He is certain that if they do not, we have enough men to send Druce’s rabble running.”
I was not that certain, but Bedevere was a fine commander.
“Malgwyn?”
Ider was calling me, and I was lost somewhere else. “Sorry, lad.”
“What shall I do?”
“I need you to gather the soldiers who were on the gate at midnight last night, and the soldier who guarded the back entrance to Doged’s hall.”
“Very well. What will you be doing?”
I waited a long moment. “I will be on the parapet, watching Bedevere parlay.”
“Should you ride with him? Perhaps he will need you.”
“If Bedevere needed me, he would send for me. Now, go. Send a boy for me when you have gathered them. Oh, you should know that they captured Mordred dashing from Doged’s chambers last night. He is being held in the kitchen.”
But Ider did not move. He looked at me questioningly, as if he had not heard.
“Do you have a question?”
My young friend just shook his head and departed on his errands.
I did not like being here, so far from home. Ygerne was having my child. My daughter, Mariam, from whom I had been separated for so long, missed me on my long absences, and I missed her dearly. Recently, I had begun to worry about how my family would fend for themselves should I die. And I had come very close in the years since I rejoined Arthur’s banner.
Pushing those thoughts from my mind, I trotted down from the burial mound and headed toward the front gate and the parapet atop the embankment.
I mounted the rickety ladder and found, to my surprise, Lady Ysbail already there, studying the scene below intently. She glanced over her shoulder and saw me.
“Your fellow is courting disaster,” she said.
“How so?”
“Druce is a barbarian and respects nothing. He has not a drop of the charm or nobility of his brother, Cilydd.” I noticed an uncharacteristic warmth in her voice as she spoke of the young noble.
“So you predict that Druce will not honor the flag of truce?”
“I predict that unless your Lord Bedevere clearly signals that he is as strong and ruthless as Druce, we will see much blood spilled and a civil war begun this day.”
“Truly?”
“Watch for yourself as the consilium loses my lands for me.”
“If you will excuse me, Lady Ysbail. I think I may be needed below.”
“What use could a one-armed man have in battle?” She turned away.
If what Ysbail said was true, Bedevere might need me; he certainly needed to know what sort of man he faced. I made the decision quickly.
Once down from the parapet, I snatched a soldier by his shoulder. “Bring me a horse and a sword.”
The man looked at me as if I were mad, and to encourage the idea I drew my dagger quickly and pressed it to his throat. “Now.”
Within a bare few moments, I was racing through the lanes of the vicus and out onto the plain.
Dust swirled about me as the winds pounded the land. Back in the distance, I saw a line of dark clouds roiling on the far horizon.
Pulling my horse up sharply as I entered our formation, sending half a dozen horses scrambling to clear a path, I glanced about for Bedevere.
“No, master,” yelled one soldier. “He’s gone to parlay.”
I pressed on beyond them.
Once I cleared our lines, I could see Bedevere trotting toward the middle of the plain with a two-man escort. I stretched up as far as I could to see a single man riding out to greet Bedevere. He carried something in one hand, but I could not make out what it was.
Shoving my heels into the horse’s flanks to speed him forward, I pushed him as fast as I could.
I had no idea what I would do or say when I reached them, but I suddenly felt that it was essential that I be there.
And I made it.
Just as Bedevere halted his party and waited for Druce’s rider to arrive.
And he did, a young lad without the hint of a beard.
Not bothering to salute, he lifted the object in his hand and threw it at the hooves of Bedevere’s horse. It rolled against them, frightening the horse, who reared up and stepped backwards.
The hairy sphere came to rest, and Bedevere’s escort gasped.
“’Tis Aidan.”
I looked at Bedevere, confused.
“’Tis the rider I sent to summon Arthur.”
“Lord Druce,” the boy said, “instructs you to withdraw from his path or you will all end up as this one.”
“Is your master mad? Does he not know that killing a soldier of the Rigotamos is punishable by death?”
The fair-haired boy shrugged. “With Doged dead, the consilium has no power in these lands.”
I was just barely listening to the talk. Instead, I studied what was left of poor Aidan. I knew him slightly. But he was like most of our young soldiers, a younger son, desperate to avoid life on the farm. His face was white where all of the blood had drained from it. The red/black stump that had been his neck had begun to dry and harden. A pair of flies found it and began feeding. Suddenly, I was back in Daron’s village, and my village, looking at the dead. My heart began to pound, but not from the ride, from a deeper, darker place. A heat, stronger than any fire, rushed up my neck.
Someone screamed.
The next moments were lost in red haze.
It was only after, after my sword found its way through the lad’s neck, that I realized that I had been the one screaming.
Bedevere and his escort stared at me in shock.
I did not wait for them to speak. Jumping down, I snatched up the newly severed head, the body sliding down from the horse and landing heavily on the ground. Swiftly wrapping the hair to a leather strap to secure it, I climbed back into the saddle, kicked the horse’s flanks, and took off at a gallop for Druce’s lines, all the while with Bedevere’s voice in my ears. “No! Malgwyn!”
My horse laid his ears back, reveling, it seemed, in this mad race.
Time froze around me.
Only the horse and I seemed to move.
And then we were close enough to see the looks on their faces.
Druce was easy to recognize. He and his brother, Cilydd, favored each other greatly.
I jerked the reins, bringing my horse to a staggering stop.
Though he had two hundred men at his back and they could have killed me with little effort, they sat on their horses, stunned at the appearance of a one-armed man and the still-dripping, severed head, bouncing against the horse’s shoulder.
Releasing the reins, I untangled the head and threw it at Druce’s feet. “This is not the time for a rebellion. Lay down your arms and prepare to mourn your dead king. If you do not, I will gladly light the funeral pyre that will burn your bodies.”
My words seemed to shake him from his stupor.
“That boy was my nephew.”
“Then you should have kept him at home, playing at wooden swords.”
He ignored my jibe. “Our king is indeed dead. These lands need a strong hand to lead.”
“And you are here to provide that hand? I am certain you will not be the only claimant to Doged’s seat. I have been charged by Lady Ysbail with finding Lord Doged’s killer, to give him the justice that he deserves. I cannot do that with civil war raging about me.”
Druce spat at my horse’s hooves. “You should look to your own master. I do not doubt that he ordered Doged’s death.”
“Do not try my patience, boy.”
“You are very foolish, riding here by yourself.” Druce’s voice was gravelly, holding nothing of the charm of his brother’s. And his eyes held a dark mischief. But I saw a hint of fear there too. Killing a single soldier was one thing, the act of a petty bully. Launching a frontal assault against an equally strong opponent was another.
“And you are even mor
e foolish for challenging the Rigotamos within the consilium’s domain. And it is the consilium’s domain. Lady Ysbail has not denounced the consilium, and Lord Doged was one of its oldest members. Indeed, Lady Ysbail has sworn Lord Bedevere to her service, and he has pledged to defend her against any enemy.” I paused. “Your sloppy attempt to exploit Doged’s death is both juvenile and laughable. As was your raid on those poor villagers.” It was a weak thrust, but even at that, Druce did not flinch.
“What village?” His tone was flat enough that I could not decipher it. He could be guilty. He might not be.
Quickly surveying his host, I noted a conspicuous absence. “I do not see your brother among your men. Does he not support your claim?”
“My brother champions his own claim.”
“And yet I do not see his army here, attempting to usurp Ysbail.”
Druce smiled then, but it was a nervous smile, a tic jerking his lip. “More the fool he.”
“More the man he.”
“I have heard of you, Malgwyn, the one-armed scribe. They say you are a nuisance, an annoyance.”
“I certainly was to your nephew.”
My bluntness stole some of the sting from his words.
“We will encamp here and honor Doged,” Druce announced.
In truth, it was the only logical decision. Now that I was close, I saw that Druce’s men were little more than boys, boys puffed up by their braggart leader. Our men were seasoned veterans. No battle would honor this plain. It would be a massacre. And Druce was no idiot. Plainly, he had thought to strike in the confusion and our willingness to support Ysbail with force was unforeseen.
Druce directed his men with a wave of his hand to a meadow off the road. I turned my horse and started at a walk back toward Bedevere, watching behind me as I rode, just in case.
“Do not think that this is over between us,” Druce’s voice called at my back.
I did not turn. The civil war had merely been postponed, and I knew it.
Moments later I rode past the headless corpse of Druce’s nephew and faced Bedevere.
“I do not understand you, Malgwyn. First, you preach caution and then you toss caution, like a thin parchment, into the wind, behead an envoy, and charge his army single-handedly.”
I did not need Bedevere to tell me what I already pondered. Why had I done that? Why had I killed that boy? “Nor I you, Bedevere. You chide me for being cautious and then chastise me when I disregard caution. Besides, the boy did not carry a flag of truce.”
At that, my old friend laughed. “I do not argue your right to kill him. All know that to kill a soldier of the Rigotamos is punishable by death, but you did it so quickly. Why?”
I was not prepared to answer the question, so I made an answer up. “I have had my troubles with puffed-up young nobles in the past. Remember Lord Celyn, the monachus Gildas’s brother? I shamed him when Arthur was elected Rigotamos and now I must watch my back whenever he is present. It is easier to just kill them.”
Bedevere cocked his eye at me, and I knew he did not believe me.
“In truth,” I continued, “Lady Ysbail reminded me that I was more than just an old, one-armed man. And she reminded me that Druce was more bully than lord. Bullies only respect brutal strength. I rode to meet this threat with you, but when that child became so insolent something within me took over.” I did not say it, but I was more than a little embarrassed by my actions.
“What will he do?” Bedevere asked, nodding toward Druce.
“Stop acting like a child. Pay due honor to Doged.” I stopped. “You will need to send another rider to fetch Arthur.”
Bedevere waved his wool-wrapped hand. “Already dispatched. What did he hope to accomplish by killing the first?”
I shrugged. “To impress us? If pressed he would probably claim that the man had done something to warrant his death. This is a strange land and these are strange people. Ysbail’s brother, Ysbadden Penkawr, is likened to a god, and the people fear him. We will have our hands full with him; that is for certain.”
“Come, let us return to Trevelgue.” We turned our mounts back toward the village. “Have you learned anything new?”
“There was no time. I set Ider to gathering together the people I need to question. There is yet a separate question that must be resolved.”
“I know. Can Ysbail reign in Doged’s stead?”
The ancient laws of our peoples were complicated, and many had not been in use for long years past. And they varied from tribe to tribe.
“I have heard of a learned monachus not far from here. Petrocus is his name. He has established a community of believers between here and Tyntagel. Perhaps we should send for him,” Bedevere suggested.
“No,” I answered, suddenly remembering something very important. I was indeed getting old. “Ysbail told me that she was with child. If that is true, and I have little doubt that it is, Ysbail could rule in his stead, assuming that it will be a boy. The question is: Will Arthur and the consilium recognize such a situation?”
“I suspect that Arthur will recognize whatever arrangement entails the least blood and the least chaos. You believe her? This could just be a ploy to maintain control.”
“She is clever, but not that clever, I think. In all honesty, Bedevere, we have more trouble than we need without counting Ysbail among our enemies. We must contend with her brother, Druce, Cilydd, and the Saxons. And I have little choice but to save Mordred’s neck or there will certainly be war.”
At that, my friend snapped his head around. “Could the many factions have joined with the Saxons in a plot to murder Doged and blame it on the consilium?”
I considered the idea for a moment. “They are not working in concert. We have only met Cilydd once, but while I do not doubt that he covets Doged’s seat, I am not convinced that he would ever have declared open war with him.”
We rode in silence for a bit longer.
Bedevere looked at me with his head cocked. “Malgwyn, you surely seem subdued. You are not acting like yourself.”
I could have told him that killing a boy, as I had just done, was something that would change your behavior, but Bedevere already knew that. We had both seen more killing than we wanted, but that was our world. Life was as easily taken as air was to breathe. And yet that did not excuse my actions. “It is probably many things,” I told him. “Ygerne is about to give birth while I am far away. Mariam needs me there, to be the father I was not for so long. Myndora is not well.”
Myndora was an aged blind woman, sister to that old Pelagian episcopus, Agricola, whom I had encountered near Bannavem Taburnum nearly two years past. She had helped me in those last days before the late rebellion. When the fighting had stopped, Merlin and I went to her and moved her to Castellum Arturius.
“And what of Owain and the other children? And Rhodri and young Vala?” I continued. The last two I mentioned were from a family we had encountered the year before. They had been kind to us, and Vala had betrayed a curious ability. They too, like Myndora, had been resettled at Arthur’s seat in the summer country. Kay had asked if I were trying to move all of Britannia to Castellum Arturius.
“Malgwyn, I have never heard you complain about your duty so,” Bedevere pointed out.
I dismissed his comment with a frown. “Is it too early to drink some mead?”
“For you, it is always too early.” He spoke lightly, but I did not miss the concern in his eyes.
He did not need to worry. For when we returned to Doged’s hall Ysbail was meeting with the Saxon embassy.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Over the last five winters, word of Aelle, the Saxon lord, had rolled into our lands like a giant wave from the sea. Tall and ruthless, he was said to have massacred all of the Atrebati that opposed him, men, women, and children. Landing on our southeast coast, he had beaten a small force at one of the old Roman forts, and he was now the recognized bretwalda, overlord of all the Saxons in our island.
The year before, Amb
rosius Aurelianus, the former Rigotamos, had warned Arthur that Aelle embodied the greatest threat that the consilium yet faced. “He is young and ambitious,” Ambrosius had told Arthur. “And he is hungry for lands.”
The Saxon embassy, at least those we saw, numbered five. The tallest of them, like his colleagues, wore the ubiquitous braided topknot, greased with animal fat until it shone. His caligae boasted leather straps that wound nearly to the knee on both legs. Around his torso was strapped a leather breastplate. His cloak was bear fur and pinned at the neck with a circular brooch.
They were seated near the back of Doged’s hall, alone save for Trevelyan, who seemed so forlorn that he probably welcomed any company, even that of Saxons. Ysbail, dressed soberly, was receiving the minor nobles at the front of the hall.
Then, one of the other four Saxons turned and glanced toward me and Bedevere. A cold, clammy fist grabbed my stomach as he smiled.
I reached for my dagger.
His smile grew wider.
The dagger was out.
He winked at me, with one milky eye.
I started across the room.
Until Bedevere blocked my path.
“Put that dagger away, Malgwyn. Are you insane? Those Saxons have been granted Ysbail’s hospitality. We cannot touch them.”
I moved to brush him aside, but he stood firm. “Look at him, Bedevere,” I hissed.
My friend turned then and looked at the Saxon, who now approached us. Bedevere tensed, and his hand started toward his own dagger but pulled up short.
“Lord Bedevere,” a voice said.
A soldier had appeared at the Saxon’s elbow. Gurdur, the man who spoke many languages.
“This is Ceawlin,” Gurdur continued. “He is one of the Saxon emissaries and wishes to speak with you. Unfortunately, he speaks neither our tongue nor Latin, so I will have to translate.” Gurdur stopped and studied our faces. Mine was fully crimson, I knew, but I could not shake my glare free from the Saxon long enough to see Bedevere’s. “Have you already met?”
Oh, we had met before. More than three years before, when the plot to assassinate Ambrosius was revealed, Ceawlin had been one of the killers sent for the job, a task at which he failed. And in order to affect his escape, he took my baby, Mariam, hostage, held his dagger to her tender throat. By the favor of the gods, her life had been saved. And that of the Saxon as well.