by Tony Hays
“And the Rigotamos wants me to save Mordred’s neck.” It was not a question, but it should have been.
“No, Malgwyn. He wants you to help him sort out what manner of anger he will face from the consilium when he lets Mordred be executed.”
I both hated and distrusted Mordred, and I had for many years. But I felt no satisfaction at the thought of his death. Not this way. Not when I knew he was innocent, at least of this crime.
Reaching into my pouch, I pulled out the silver and agaphite brooch and studied it in the fading light. I needed to confront Cilydd, but he had been conveniently absent from wherever I happened to be. If I had more time, I would go and question this “One-Eye” and see exactly how many particular brooches he had sold. But time was a commodity that I could no longer trade in.
“Malgwyn,” Sulien said softly. “The Rigotamos awaits.”
I did not answer. I would not go to Arthur until I had a solution to this problem. Mordred’s life could brook no error. “How old is your son, Sulien, the one you have named for me?” The question was to stave off answering his.
“Eight winters, or thereabouts.”
I chuckled. “Then you wasted no time when the wars ended.”
Behind me, I heard him laugh a bit as well. “No, Malgwyn. I did not. Though it was difficult.”
“Difficult?”
“Aye. I had to convince her that I was through with warring first. That was not easy.”
Again, I laughed. “And not true.”
“Well, it was at the time.”
I will never know if it was in the way that he said it or in the words themselves. But something became clear then. My head cocked to the side and my eyes grew wide.
“Malgwyn?” Sulien called to me, but I barely heard him.
I understood what had happened. And many things of little note before now made sense. I believed that I knew who had killed Doged.
But I had one last chore to perform, one last fact to check. And that would take me to the north.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
“I have had enough of your delays!” Ysbail was furious. She walked right up to me and seemed about to raise her hand to slap me, but Petrocus intervened. She had been cautious enough to reserve this meeting to herself, Arthur, Petrocus, and me.
“My lady, Malgwyn is renowned for his ability in these affairs. Aye, for that and for his devotion to the truth.”
“And I tell you now,” Arthur said, entering the fray. “Malgwyn has no greater enemy than Mordred,” which was not exactly true, but close.
“I have seen him do nothing but delay and protect his fellow while my husband lies unavenged.” Her fury was such that her normal white pallor had exploded in red.
I had reached a critical juncture in this stew of affairs. Could Ysbail rule Doged’s lands? Was she with child? Who were these strange mercenaries roaming the countryside, killing at will? And why were they attacking Castellum Dinas? Did they, or the Saxons, know of the riches to be found there? And how far was Arthur willing to go to protect the gold and agaphite? Finally, and truly most important, who killed Doged and why?
The last part of that query was still as ethereal as the mist, but I believed that I had sorted out the “who.” The problem would be using that knowledge to delay Mordred’s death until I had confirmed it. And Ysbail was volatile. If I rolled the knucklebones wrong, I might doom Mordred and thus the consilium’s future in these lands.
“I have what I believe to be a key bit of evidence, but I need to make one more inquiry to confirm my suspicions.”
Everyone’s eyes bulged open then.
Ysbail cleared her throat. “And what would that evidence be?”
This was the critical moment. “A brooch, a rather unusual one. It was found just outside the rear door of Doged’s hall. I believe that the killer lost it as he fled.”
The red fled from Ysbail’s face and she turned so pale that I thought her dead for a fleeting moment. “And where is this brooch now?”
“Oh,” I answered in an offhand way, “I have it in a secret place, to keep it safe until needed.”
Petrocus pursed his lips and nodded sagely. “This is prudent.”
“This is ridiculous!” Ysbail exploded. “I am to believe you?”
“I believe him,” Arthur answered.
“Of course you do. He is your creature.”
At that, Petrocus straightened. “I believe him as well, and I am no creature of the consilium or the Rigotamos.”
This was one endorsement she could not ignore or dismiss out of hand, and she immediately knew it. She turned her back to us and her shoulders slumped.
A few awkward moments passed.
When she turned back, it was with a face without guile, a face marked with the tracks of tears. “Do you realize the position I am in? If I delay any further, I will lose Druce and my brother’s offer to support my claim.”
Arthur and I exchanged looks. His nod was nearly imperceptible.
“Lady Ysbail, you will lose their ‘offer’ regardless of what you do. Druce has the taste of power in his mouth, and it is impossible to wash away. Here is what will happen: Once Mordred is dead, Druce, Cilydd, Ysbadden, and all the rest will use it as an excuse to break ties with the consilum. The Rigotamos will be forced to withdraw his men from your lands. Then, as soon as we are gone, you will either be killed or forced into hiding and, eventually, the civil war you fear, that we all fear, will ravage these lands more effectively than the Saxons ever could.
“Doged’s lands will remain in chaos for a generation or more. And if anyone should care to track this domain’s decline, they will find that all the blood trails lead to this one moment. Your husband was a good and decent man. Honor him and let me do what must be done.”
The tears streamed again. And she turned those blue eyes on me. “You have no idea what you are asking of me.”
“Actually, I think I do. But it is the right thing. Once this is behind us, I can concentrate on finding who killed those poor folk near our border, Daron’s people.”
“Who?” Ysbail was confused and rightly so.
“A girl,” Arthur said offhandedly. “She was the only survivor, and we brought her with us.”
Had I two hands I would have locked both around Arthur’s throat for revealing that. But he had other things on his mind and meant no harm, and, in truth, the error was of my making.
Ysbail too seemed to brush it aside. Her mind was elsewhere also.
In looking back, I think that it was at that moment that she truly became a queen. The slumping shoulders straightened and she took a deep breath.
“Do what you must. But know this, scribe: You must prove Mordred’s innocence beyond any doubt. If you fail, he will lose his head by this time on the morrow. Do not doubt that.” At that, she swept from the room.
“Who do you think did this?” Arthur asked quickly.
I shook my head. “I am not yet ready to say.” Indeed everything pointed to only one conclusion, a conclusion that I was strangely reluctant to draw. I had decided that I was letting my own opinion of people color my efforts.
“Malgwyn,” he began in that low, threatening voice I knew so well.
“No, my lord. If I am wrong, I will have accused an innocent man. It is much better that I keep my own counsel until I am certain.”
I suspected that Arthur expected such an answer.
“How long will it take you to confirm this?”
I squinted at the sky, but the gathering clouds kept the sun hidden. “By just after the midnight, I should have returned with the proof I need.”
“Well, waste no time then.”
“And Merlin?”
Arthur sighed. “You know that I do love him like a father, but Kay has been unable to find him, and now they are fair besieged at Castellum Dinas. And Malgwyn?”
“Yes, Rigotamos?”
“Ysbail is right about something else, something none of us has been willing to voice.”
> “And what is that?” I asked, though I knew what troubled him.
“Just as Ysbail is frustrated with the state of affairs, so are Druce and Cilydd. I do not believe that you have yet more time. My scouts report that Ysbadden and Druce have met with some of these strange mercenaries. I suspect that it is their guiding hands that are directing the assault on Castellum Dinas.” He stopped and paced across the room. Even at a distance I could see the veins at his temple bulge and pulse. “I cannot commit more troops to this fight. I did not come here prepared to wage war but to arrange peace. To withdraw more troops from Castellum Arturius will weaken it. Pray that Tristan does not fail us or the entire west country may be lost to us.”
I just nodded sadly.
As I turned to leave, I thought of telling Arthur where I was headed, but I knew it would only cause him further distress. Because though the winds of the coming gale were already licking at Doged’s fortress, I was headed north.
To Tyntagel.
* * *
“Malgwyn.”
I mounted my horse to the sound of Sulien warning me.
“Malgwyn, you cannot go alone. I must go with you.”
Looking down at him, I shook my head. “You must stay here with Daron. Ysbail knows of her presence here, and she might let it slip in front of the wrong people, though I think she is more concerned with her own situation.”
At that, the old soldier screwed his face up in frustration. “I must tell you something.”
“What?”
Sulien fidgeted a bit.
“What?”
“The night that Doged was killed, Daron disappeared for about an hour, right before the lord was discovered dead.”
Stunned by his words, I jerked my head back. “What are you saying, Sulien?”
“It is possible that she could have killed Doged.”
My world went spinning at that moment. I had never once considered Daron. But Sulien was right. She had seen her entire village sacked and plundered, and the lord responsible for their protection was bedding his new young wife. Daron certainly had reason. But if she did, why had she not fled?
“Why have you waited so long to tell me?”
“I did not want to believe that she could have done this thing.”
“Then why tell me now?”
Sulien raised his head. “I do not like Mordred, but I know that his execution could split the consilium. I was there last night, Malgwyn, when David told you as much. And I thought perhaps you could use this information.”
I did not answer him. It was certainly possible, and I believed that she had the spirit to carry it through. But I just did not see her hand in this. My present course was the right one; at least, that’s what I told myself.
“Keep her close by, Sulien. If she did do this, I would have her at hand. If she did not, we will still need her to identify those who ravaged her village.” At that, I steered the horse away, but a thought struck me and I turned back.
“Sulien, if—”
He waved me off. “You will return, Malgwyn. Now go.”
And I did.
* * *
I had not traveled to Tyntagel by this route before. The lands along the coast were bleak, but I could not tell if that was because of the mammoth black clouds, roiling and boiling out of the northern sky, or perhaps it was just a cold and discouraging place.
With the approaching gale stirring up the wind, few travelers were on the road. Most folk had scurried into their huts, added extra chinking to their walls, secured what few of their belongings were outside. In these lands, such storms were not unusual, and I found myself smiling grimly at the people’s practiced movements, working swiftly but not in a panic.
On a good day, the journey from Doged’s fort to Tyntagel would take but a few hours as we reckoned things. The road led along the coast, except as you approached Trebetherick, where Petrocus’s community of brothers lay on the northern side of the River Camel estuary. The river’s entry into the sea was a grand thing to see, the banks splitting away like a pair of arms opening wide, but it caused travelers to journey inland to its narrowest point to cross.
Above me, clouds scudded across the sky as if pushed by a giant’s hands. They rolled black and purple and gray, and the smell of rain was heavy in them, heavier than even the salty scent of the sea. I could taste it on my tongue and in my chest.
The dark would be around me soon, so I kicked my horse in her flanks and prodded her forward. I knew this route, but I had never traveled it myself. I would not want to be caught out on it when the storm hit.
I pushed on.
Not far beyond Trebetherick, I dismounted and led my horse into a small grove of trees near a pond. She needed the break and the water. Only a fool paid no attention to his horse’s needs. And while I might be a fool in other ways, I would not fall afoul of such folly as to not attend to my horse’s needs in that manner.
As I knelt beside her, cupping some water in my hand and quenching my own thirst, I heard the sound of leather and horses’ hooves. Quickly I drew my horse deep into the surrounding copse. I held her muzzle in the fading light.
Twenty men appeared at the water’s edge, not one hundred feet from me. The bile rose in my throat as I saw those selfsame gray tunics, too many of them for me to engage. So, I remained quiet, listened, and watched.
In the coming night, blackened even further by the coming storm, I could not see individual faces, but I could hear voices. The accent was so familiar, very like that of the Gauls. Perhaps this was some new tribe of Saxons, just come from Gaul. But they did not wear the greasy topknot favored by the Saxons of my acquaintance. They certainly acted like Saxons, pillaging and sacking all in their path.
Their language was something like ours, some of the words seemed the same, but there was a difference. I frowned and waited silently until they had left. Soon, I would be able to focus on them, but right then, Tyntagel awaited me.
* * *
The raw beauty of Tyntagel’s jagged cliffs was overshadowed by its dangers. One misstep and my horse and I were doomed to be crushed on the rocks below, and with the wind whipping about us like angry demons and the grayish-white blow of the sea spray, it seemed a likely prospect. I dismounted and led my horse along the narrow earthen bridge that tethered Igraine’s home to the mainland.
On this night, the guard chambers were empty. Only a fool would tempt the gods in this weather.
Ahead of me was the wooden door to her outer ward. She truly had little fear of assault. The approach was simply too narrow to allow a force to mount an attack. A sudden gust of wind near blew me over the edge and I wrapped my one arm in my horse’s mane. It would take more than a gale to move her; she was a stout horse.
And though my feet slipped on the wet rocks with every step, I finally arrived at the door, exhausted, sodden. I hammered it with my fist until the skin split and bled, while the storm seemed to pound away all sights and all sounds.
I had just determined to give up until the storm abated, turning away from the door, when something caught the back of my tunic. I swiveled around to see what it was and promptly lost my footing, and I went over the edge, feetfirst.
In that split second, that moment when you recognize that life is over, I surprised myself.
I said, “NO!”
With enormous effort, I twisted my body about and flung my one arm back up to the cliff’s edge, clawing for some purchase, some hold to halt my fall.
My fingers found a crevice, a niche, but then the rock broke away under my weight.
This time it was truly over.
I cursed all the gods.
I died, inside.
But just as I had abandoned all hope, in that same second, a hand burst from the blast of the rain and the mist of the sea spray, as from some ethereal cavern, and fingers, real fingers, wrapped about my wrist and with some inhuman strength fair jerked me back on to the level and to my feet.
Morgan ap Tud, our little doctor.
“Malgwyn!” he shouted above the whining of the gale. “What sort of fool are you to travel on such a night?”
“I must see Lady Igraine. Now.”
He led me away from the gate and into the feasting hall. “Malgwyn, she is but hours from death. I cannot allow you into her chamber. Any excitement might finish her.”
“You do not understand, Morgan. I am not asking; I am commanding.”
To his credit, our physician stiffened his back and stared me straight in the eye. “The Rigotamos gave me charge of Igraine’s health, and I shall not allow anything that I fear will further harm her.”
“Where is that sniveling little northerner?” The voice exploded from a private chamber at the back.
“Here.” Morgan lowered his head, almost like a dog that has been beaten.
“I am not deaf, you insignificant spy. If someone wants to see me, I will decide if they may. Whence come you, stranger?”
“From your son, the Rigotamos, Lady Igraine.”
“Then quit dawdling and come here.”
I felt a hand on my shoulder.
“Be strong, Malgwyn,” Morgan encouraged me.
* * *
Arthur’s mother lay on a high pile of furs, covered over with a blanket. For such a commanding voice, she was a small woman. But I could see that she had given Arthur her penetrating eyes and high cheekbones. Her lips were thin, and she was very old. She had once had yellow hair, but it had turned gray and white, and not held up by bone pins, it framed her wrinkled face.
“You only have one arm,” she said by way of introduction.
“That is true.”
“Then you are Malgwyn. I cautioned Arthur not to enter you into his service. I told him that you would bring ill fortune on him.”
I nodded. “Many say that is so.”
She coughed, a wet, hacking cough, and I noted a pink tinge on the kerchief she used to wipe her lips. “I am glad to know that on this one issue, I was wrong. Arthur tells me you have been of great service to him. I thank you. He is not my only son, but he has risen higher than the other.”