It had happened sometime just hours before. Without even moving his body, I could see that where his cheek touched the floor it was dark. And lifting his arm, I saw that it was yet stiff. Casting about, I could see that little was disturbed. Not that Patrick had aught but a pallet on which to sleep. He did not. And his companions had been sheltered in a hut near unto his own. Patrick was not wearing the long robes of his bishopric, but the shorter tunic favored by men for sleeping, tied with a cloth belt at the waist.
A thought struck me and I lifted him by the arm not without great effort. Beneath his privates, the ground was damp in a tiny circle, matching the dark circle on his tunic. I smelled the unmistakable odor of urine, but just a bit, not what a man normally releases when his soul departs his body. Much, much less. Things became a bit clearer.
Rising, I held an oil lamp and studied the hard-packed floor. Despite the shadows, I thought I could discern small scrapings from behind the door. Now, I understood.
Whoever killed Patrick came to his cell to find the old episcopus gone to void himself. He hid behind the door, and when Patrick entered, he moved forward, stabbed him, and laid him on the ground. A man loses all control at the moment of death, but Patrick had little to soil himself with. The killer had then left without touching a thing.
What all of this told me was that whoever killed Patrick was not looking for something among his belongings. This was the act of an assassin. His goal had been to kill Patrick. He had hidden in the shadows and awaited his prey. As I squatted on my heels at Patrick’s side, I considered the why of it.
Random killing was no stranger to our lands. But even in those deaths, there was yet a reason—theft, rape, even mere cruelty, but a reason nonetheless. A man of Patrick’s stature and disposition made enemies. The old tyrannus Ceredig would have especial reason for killing Patrick. The episcopus had written an open letter to his soldiers urging them to leave the old devil’s service. They did not heed his advice, but that would not deter Ceredig from seeking revenge.
Ceredig’s lands lay far away from Ynys-witrin though, and he was an old and ill man now, living off the riches he had stolen from the people. No, Patrick’s killer lay close by. I reached deep within my brain, trying to pry loose those things I knew about the old priest. Rhiannon might have reason to kill him, if she were guilty of Elafius’s death, or even if she thought that Patrick might lay the old monachus’s death at her feet. But she had been with me.
My dear friend Coroticus was hiding something, but I could not fathom what would cause him to take Patrick’s life. Unless Coroticus was bedding Rhiannon and she had used her charms to lead him to this. While I was no scholar of religious things, I knew from my days at the abbey that priests and bishops were discouraged from involvement with women. Some episcopus named Augustine had declared that when men entered the priesthood they should forsake such earthly pleasures.
Even given all of this, Arthur was still right. Should I be unsuccessful in finding Patrick’s killer, the church in Rome would send priests of Germanus’s stripe stomping loudly throughout our lands, confiscating the abbey, stripping Coroticus of his position. To kill Patrick in light of that was illogical. All the same, he could not be assumed innocent. Men involved with women were nothing if not illogical.
Setting those thoughts aside for the moment, I continued scanning the small hut. I noticed then a bundle of scrolls lying atop the single table. Unrolling one, I read the title “On the Ruination of the Community of Brethren at Ynys-witrin.” Snorting, I turned to the last page and saw the signature of the young Gildas. So this was the epistle that had brought Patrick here. I took a moment to scan it.
Among the more sensational claims by the pretentious little monachus, Gildas asserted that upon his arrival at Ynys-witrin he had found unfettered Pelagianism, men of God indulging in pleasures of the flesh (I assumed this was a reference to Coroticus and Rhiannon), and, most interesting of all, an “unholy influence exerted by Arthur, the Rigotamos, and certain of his minions.” I could only think that he was referring to Lauhiir in this, but I could not say for certain.
He ended with a plea for Patrick to hurry at all due speed to Ynys-witrin, moaning that had he, Gildas, not arrived when he did the entire island of Brittania might have been lost to Satan. Well, that is not exactly what he said, but the intent was the same.
The thought struck me that perhaps Gildas could have committed these crimes. I did not tarry over the thought long however. The little monachus was certainly odious, and he was physically able to plunge a knife in Patrick’s back, but he struck me as the kind of man who persuaded others to do his work for him. Not at all like his brothers. Huaill, at least, had been man enough to face Arthur in combat, not shrinking or shirking from the mortal match. Their father, Caw, had been one of the holdouts from the consilium, refusing to ally himself and his people with that coalition. Affairs had not broken into open warfare until after Caw’s death. Even Celyn had had the courage to confront Arthur face-to-face at his election. Such was not Gildas’s way.
Rolling Gildas’s missive back up, I turned my attention to another scroll. It too was a letter to Patrick, but this one was from Dubricius at Castellum Marcus, Lord Mark’s headquarters. He was asking Patrick to inquire among the Scotti about pirate raids up and down the coastline. It was his feeling that the Scotti were at fault, but he asked Patrick to endeavor to find out.
Not a particularly easy job when one was trying to convert those same Scotti to Christianity. But in my experience, our bishop was not a man who understood subtleties.
I knew of these incursions by pirates on our western coast. But we had suffered such attacks to the south for years, and they had always proven to be the work of Saxons. The Scotti and Picts had not resorted to piracy since Vortigern’s days. Indeed, it was the advent of those awful raids that convinced Vortigern to bring the Saxons to our island. But in recent years, the barbarians had found more profitable ways to pillage and the Saxons had adopted piracy to further their own goals.
I had no reason to suppose that these raids sprang from a different source and could only wonder that the bishop did. They were simply harassment, stealing a few items, killing a few villagers, burning a few huts. Arthur and I had discussed this very subject not a full moon past. I had ventured that they were an effort by the Saxons to drive our coastal villages further inland, leaving room for their own settlements. Arthur had agreed.
The other scrolls were various items of correspondence, none of which seemed connected. I lowered myself into the one rickety chair, just sticks of wood bound together with leather strips.
“Malgwyn?” I looked up to see Coroticus standing in the doorway.
“Yes? What is it?” My tone was sharp, testy, to match my mood. Whoever killed Patrick had left less behind him than a simple cutthroat would. And it hid the motive most effectively.
“Bedevere must speak with you. May he enter?” Something in Coroticus’s voice caused me to study him closely. He was unhappy, more than unhappy. He seemed ill. It was as if he had lived three lives since I had last seen him.
“Are you well?”
The abbot swallowed deeply, the lines marking his face growing ever deeper. “Yes, Malgwyn. But first Elafius and now Patrick! Lauhiir has disappeared too! I do not understand these things.” Again I felt strongly that he was withholding information from me. But this was not the time to press him.
“Neither do I,” I said, attempting to sound sympathetic when in reality frustration was closer to my true feelings. Bedevere appeared over his shoulder and I motioned him in.
“Malgwyn, I must speak with you.” He glanced at Coroticus, who immediately saw his meaning.
“I will leave you to your labors,” he said gracefully and slipped out.
“Yes, old friend?” I prodded Bedevere, whose eyes were locked to Patrick’s corpse.
He started at the sound of my voice and turned reluctantly from the unfortunate old bishop. “Two of Lauhiir’s men say they were i
n this area last night and saw the old priest, Gwilym, entering Patrick’s cell.”
“How? We had all approaches guarded. He could not enter!”
Bedevere raised a hand. “We have just taken Gwilym prisoner, within the abbey. He is claiming sanctuary.”
“Where?”
“In his cell.”
“When did Lauhiir’s man see him at Patrick’s cell?”
“An hour after the midnight.”
“Did he see nothing else?”
“No, at least he said nothing. Ider is with him now at the abbot’s hall. I knew you would wish to question him further, so I held him.” Having spoken, Bedevere looked away from me, a hint of a blush marking his cheeks.
Gwilym! Within the abbey? Within the vallum? How in the name of the gods had he managed that? Armed patrols scouring the countryside, and armed guards and patrols protecting the abbey itself! Arthur just might order some horrible punishments for this failure. No wonder Bedevere was embarrassed. Were any other man commanding the troops, I fear Arthur might have done something rash, but Bedevere was too close to him, their friendship born of too many moons together for Arthur to do more than bluster and grow angry.
I tried to focus on what Bedevere had reported. Gwilym had been seen after the midnight. That would seem a bit early, but not too much so, for the condition of Patrick’s corpse. I found it interesting that Lauhiir’s men had been about the abbey precinct that late. But they could have been visiting one of the women in the village and returned via the abbey.
“What of the night Elafius died?”
Bedevere shrugged. “We did not ask; he did not say. Is there more yet to do here?”
I shook my head. The darkness that had clouded my path some time before returned to haunt me. At least I had someone to question, someone who might have reason to kill Patrick. But I did not feel his guilt strongly. That he was a vigorous old man was certain, but he did not strike me as a murderer. Like Bedevere, I shrugged. Many people could be driven to kill given the right reason.
I cast one last look at the remarkable old bishop and then followed Bedevere from the hut.
CHAPTER TWELVE
As we sloshed through the mud to the abbot’s hall, I saw one of the newly arrived troops of horse entering the abbey grounds from the village. Illtud was at its head; he must have gone out to the river bridge and led them in. In theory, with Lauhiir now a fugitive, Arthur could have commandeered Lauhiir’s men, but the men allying themselves to the greasy little lord were too unpredictable. Better to have men you knew and trusted at your side.
Soldiers from the earlier troop stood close by the hall. “Is Arthur inside?”
“No. He is meeting with a decurion in the village,” Bedevere answered. “I sent most of the troop with him as an escort. He did not argue. He is worried.”
I nodded. He should be. Lauhiir’s men, by killing Arthur’s men, either with Lauhiir’s approval or not, had essentially declared open warfare with the Rigotamos. It was an odd sort of war, because in Lauhiir’s absence his men seemed confused. So was I. And with that, we stepped inside. At the end of the long room, I noted Coroticus, Gwilym, Ider, and two soldiers in Lauhiir’s service. They swayed uneasily, leaning first on one leg then the other. Coroticus too looked uneasy, but old Gwilym seemed as implacable as ever. My young friend Ider was his usual, hand-wringing self.
“Gwilym, these soldiers say they saw you outside Patrick’s cell last night after the midnight. Is this true?”
“I suppose so. You could also say that I saw them outside Patrick’s cell after the midnight.”
There would be nothing easy about this. “Did you visit Patrick?”
“I would have but he was already dead.”
“You raised no alarm?”
Gwilym turned those piercing eyes upon me, and they struck me with the force of a battle-axe. “I am not stupid, Master Malgwyn. I knew how it would look.”
“That I would immediately think you did this thing?”
“Yes.”
“And I suppose you had nothing to do with it?” My irritation was as loud as a cock’s crow in the morning.
“You may suppose that, but I am telling you that it is fact. I did not kill Patrick or Elafius. Will you take the word of a pair of drunken soldiers over that of a man of God?”
I looked at Lauhiir’s men. Their soldier’s tunics looked no more ragged than I would expect, and their eyes were less bleary than many I had seen. And Gwilym had been less than forthcoming, far less. He would not like my answer, but it was the only one that made sense.
“Yes, I do. We have been seeking you since yesterday. Extra guards were posted at the entrance to the abbey and around the vallum. How did you make entry here without being seen?”
“That is of no consequence now, Malgwyn,” Coroticus chimed in quickly. “He is here now and is afforded the sanctuary of this holy place.”
I frowned at the abbot. “Let us understand one another, Coroticus. If this monachus killed Patrick, he had best be prepared to spend the rest of his life within these confines. For I will move to Ynys-witrin and watch this place as a hawk stalks its prey. And if he sets one foot beyond the vallum, I will arrest him and see that he is executed for his crime.”
“He is not outside of the abbey precinct, and thus he is under my protection and that of the church. Therefore, Malgwyn, you have no authority.”
I smiled at him. “Actually, my lord abbot, I do. You gave it to me to investigate the death of Elafius. And while I would not betray the abbot’s right of granting sanctuary by trying or punishing Gwilym, I will have him watched over. He has a bad habit of disappearing at the most opportune of times. Lord Bedevere, please have Brother Gwilym confined to his cell under guard.”
I thought Coroticus was going to be ill, though he had looked that way almost since our arrival. He could have stripped me of the authority that he himself had bestowed, but he knew that would make him appear the lesser man. So, he made no protest.
Lauhiir’s two soldiers moved forward. “We’ll take him, master.”
Something in their eyes warned me against it. “No. The Rigotamos’s men will handle it.”
The great wooden doors of the hall slammed open, and Arthur, followed by a three-man escort, strode quickly into the room. This did not bode well at all. He ignored Gwilym. And he glanced at Lauhiir’s men with disgust. “Either exchange those tunics for those of my service or begone before I have the lot of you beheaded. Malgwyn, Coroticus! We must speak in private, NOW!”
I motioned to Bedevere and he grasped the old monachus by the arm, gently to be sure. Coroticus led us to his inner chamber, leaving Lauhiir’s men as if rooted to the spot in their shock at Arthur’s tirade.
Once beyond the hearing of the others, Arthur spun upon us, his long brown hair whipping about his face. “We have trouble.”
I chuckled. “What more trouble could we have? We have a dead monachus and a dead bishop, three of your own soldiers dead, and the lord responsible missing.”
For once, Arthur’s dark eyes brooked no criticism. “A rider has sped word from Rome. An envoy is on his way from Rome to attend this meeting at Castellum Marcus about Patrick’s mission to the Scotti. Apparently, there are those, highly placed in Rome, who seek his removal. It seems, Malgwyn, that they are more serious than you thought.”
Coroticus turned even more pale and unsteady. I gave him my one arm to hold. “There are those who believe he has become too powerful in Hibernia; they believe that there were more riches to be gathered there than the devout Patrick would agree on.”
“And?” Arthur could cut through all the dressing that we often clothed our words in. “What else?”
Coroticus’s eyes flicked back and forth, and he licked his lips wetly. “I—”
At that I dropped Coroticus’s elbow, allowing it to almost drop to the floor, and he stumbled. “Patrick killed someone in his youth, at Bannaventa. Only one other person knew of it, and that person told someone in the
church. For what reason, I do not know and neither did Patrick.”
“How come you to know this?” Arthur asked.
“Patrick told me yesterday.”
“Why would he tell you? You are no presbyter, no sacerdote.” Coroticus was confused, confused and flustered.
“That is of no consequence.” I paused and turned to Arthur. “We could have Kay question his credentials at the eastern border?”
Arthur settled into a rickety chair and held his bearded chin in his hands. “Aye, we can do that. But it will buy us little time. Romans object to delay.” Such was ironic, considering that Arthur held great pride in his Roman heritage. He stayed silent for a while. “Our agents in Gaul tell of his arrival in Brittany with an assistant named Johannes Paulus, a young sacerdote of our lands.”
“And the envoy?”
“A newly made bishop from Rome, named Francesco, known for his learning and passion. They will be here within days, perhaps sooner if my spies misjudge. The spread of Pelagianism is as a foul pestilence to Rome and Patrick’s letter sparked swift action. Now, when this Francesco arrives and finds that Patrick’s been murdered it will be havoc.” He turned to me, his eyes pleading. “Malgwyn, this affair must be settled quickly, more quickly than before. Though I prize many Roman ways, I know enough of the situation in the empire that they will move swiftly and heavy-handedly. We have achieved our independence, fragile though it might be. I do not relish Roman troops quartered among us once more. They could easily splinter the consilium.”
I could be nothing else than honest with Arthur. He had saved me twice, from the battlefield and from my own selfpity. “Gwilym may be the killer, but I see no immediate reason. Pelagianism is not a killing matter. For debate? Yes. For murder? No. That his murder is connected with that of Elafius I see no other alternative. But there is something different, almost passionless, in Patrick’s demise. And when I discover the reason behind that element, I will understand it all.”
Divine Sacrifice, The Page 17
