by Anthony Hays
To be certain, I drew her skirts up and examined her womanhood. No tears, no scrapes, no blood, no bruises, nothing. No reason to think she had been raped or even that she had submitted willingly. I had heard enough in the lanes to know that she had her admirers, those who would pay court to her. Kay was one. I had also seen the look of hunger that young Tristan had given her at the feasting that night. He would bear questioning, as would Kay.
“Malgwyn!” a voice hissed, and I looked up to see Kay himself, with an expression of disfavor on his face. “Her honor, Malgwyn. Leave her something!”
“Her honor is gone with her life’s breath, old friend. And if studying the most private part of her is the path to her killer, then I must follow that lane wherever it leads.” I shook my head, replacing her skirts and smoothing them. “However, that is not the reason this time.”
“She was not abused?” Kay asked. He was an exceptionally tall man, and I was forced to stretch my neck to look up at his face, as I was stocky and of medium height.
“No. There is something else awry here. Where is Merlin?”
“I had him taken to the barracks and tied to a post to keep him out of trouble,” answered Arthur, more loudly than I thought necessary considering the hour, but I suspected he wanted all to know that he would offer no favor in this matter. In other circumstances, I would have laughed at Arthur’s sometimes overwhelming desire to seem fair and just. What man with power in this day and age was either? But this was not a night for jests.
“And your other servants, my lord? The ones that this girl worked with. I’ll need to speak to them as well.”
“As you wish,” Arthur said with a flourish, more for the benefit of his followers, Kay, Bedevere, and the others. He knew that I’d do as I pleased regardless. “You have my full authority in this matter.”
“Thank you, my lord.”
“I will leave you to your work,” Arthur answered. “But, Malgwyn?”
“Yes, my lord.”
“Be quick about it.” Arthur left abruptly, returning to his hall.
His tone left nothing to the imagination. The longer I took to divine this matter, the less chance Merlin would have, and Arthur’s chances to be Rigotamos would dwindle. The people would demand Merlin’s punishment, and for this there could be only one choice.
Arthur loved the old man like a father, and he would hesitate to have him executed, hesitate until the people began to ponder whether he had the strength to rule. As soon as Arthur lost his popular support, the other nobles would pressure Ambrosius to stop championing him as the new Rigotamos, leaving the field open.
“Are you finished with the body?” a new voice asked, one that was as familiar to me as my own. I turned toward the grim face of my younger brother, Cuneglas, named for our father.
He was turned differently, was my brother. He had no liking for the farmer’s life and became a thatcher in Arthur’s castle. Though I started out as a farmer, fate and the Saxons had robbed me of that life. Despite my missing arm, and by the grace of the monks at Ynys-witrin, I made good money, more than I ever had as a farmer, by writing or copying documents. And so I had spent my days, when the light was good, copying or writing, and my nights drinking to blot out the blackness of my sunny days. My brother and I were not close; we saw each other but seldom. Like our father, he had a gruff bearing, cast by his nature to be sarcastic, and his company was not pleasant. My days were dark enough without allowing him to darken them further with his melancholy moods. A big part of the matter with me had to do with my embarrassment at leaving my child with him and Ygerne, his wife. At first, I was so besotted with revenge that I could think of nothing but seeing her cared for and out of danger so that I might pursue my own mission. Then, when my wound cost me my arm and I turned to drink to blot the thought of my dishonor, I knew she needed a family, not a cripple. So, I stayed away and let my brother see to her raising. Occasionally, I would slip them some money; I spent a little on drink and less on food.
Cuneglas and another man began moving Eleonore. I rarely saw my brother. Indeed I saw his wife, Ygerne, more frequently, and Mariam, my daughter, until recent days—before Mariam stopped speaking to me. But that was my fault, for shirking my responsibility and leaving her to be raised by them.
“It is good to see you, brother,” I stuttered somewhat lamely, not meaning it. My hand flew to my empty sleeve, attempting to hide unconsciously what I could not keep from his view.
“Would that another reason had brought us together,” he replied.
I had no answer, and I knew that he expected none. A thought struck me, though, now that he had asked about the body. “No. I’d like to look at one more detail.” Kneeling beside her again, I held her hands up and saw that a bit of cloth was clenched in one fist. I needed to look at it, but the cloth was held tight in her death grip. “Cuneglas. Please, help me here.”
With his two good hands, he pried her fingers apart enough for me to pull the cloth out. It was dark, heavy wool cloth, the type worn by peasants and not uncommon among the Picts. Of itself, it meant nothing. Folk even of Arthur’s rank would wear such cloth as an outer garment, covering their precious skin with imported linen beneath. That it was torn and clenched in her fist did offer a clue. She had struggled with her killer.
I checked her fingernails and found some streaked blood on the nails of the hand that clenched the scrap, but I couldn’t be sure if it was her own or her assailant’s. No flesh clung to them, but that didn’t mean she hadn’t marked the killer.
With a frown, I addressed the captain of the guard. “Who found her? Was she lying just as she is now?”
“The vigile found her,” came the answer. Vigiles were another of Arthur’s Roman pretensions. Watchmen. Guards. Their function was to patrol the lanes and watch for fires primarily, but for thieves and drunks as well, though there was little stealing within the walls of the fort. Arthur’s punishments were harsh when someone erred. “He’s back out on his rounds.”
The captain’s answer tore me from my mind’s wanderings.
“Have him brought to me at the barracks. If I am not there, then find me,” I ordered. I was turning to face my brother when a thought struck me. “Why are you claiming her body? What of her parents?” This was not our way, and it bothered me greatly.
He shook his head at me. “Dead this month past, Malgwyn. The plague took them. I am surprised you had not heard. She had no one, and since we had Mariam, she came to us. I could not turn her away. Eleonore was Mariam’s aunt and your sister-in-law. She was family.” As if to punctuate the matter, Kay rose, dusted off his knees, and slipped away from the torchlight, his face as white as that of a dead man. Kay must truly have cared for her. I had seen him walk away from the remnants of a battle, picked at by the ravens and crows, as though he were leaving a banquet.
Nodding at Cuneglas’s recitation, I thought I would find myself unmoved at the death of Gwyneth’s parents, but they were such simple, goodly folk that my heart sank at the news and I mourned their passing. I suspected that soon, though, a numbness would settle over me, and nothing more could shock me. I looked to the captain of the guards again. “Will your men take her to Cuneglas’s house?” He nodded his assent, and I took my brother’s arm in my hand and squeezed gently. “Walk with me, brother. The women can prepare her body. I would like to talk with you.”
He hesitated, torn, I knew, between his duty to Eleonore’s body and his curiosity about why I was involved in the affair. But after a brief pause he started up the broad avenue at my side toward the guards’ barracks.
“I knew she worked at Arthur’s hall, but I never understood why. Do you know?”
“She needed work. His cook, the old Saxon slave Cerdic, needed another serving girl. There’s little else hereabouts for a young girl without parents. I could shelter her, but I needed help to feed my house hold.” It was a common story. Time was yet hard for all in our lands. But his voice a hesitation betrayed, one I didn’t welcome.
/> “What else? The girl is dead. I must know everything if I’m to finish this matter.”
He averted his eyes. “Well, Lord Arthur had a hand in her hiring as well.”
Sparks flared in my eyes. “How so?”
“Malgwyn, he heard of her plight, of our plight, and came to me one night. He said there was nothing in his kingdom that he would not give to help the family of Smiling Malgwyn.”
Damn the man! Did God above appoint him as my eternal tormenter? First, he snatches me from an honorable death at the river Tribuit and puts me in the charge of the brothers at Ynys-witrin, leaving me a one-armed warrior and object of pity. Now, he takes it upon himself to care for my family as if I couldn’t. I stopped my silent rampage at that thought.
“Had Eleonore said anything about someone bothering her?” I was anxious to change the direction of this conversation. “Had she mentioned Merlin?”
“She was always mentioning Merlin. He spends half his time at Arthur’s table, eating and annoying all who will listen to his tales of dragons and potions. But Eleonore only laughed about him. I saw no fear when she spoke of him.”
“Others?”
Cuneglas frowned. “She was a pretty maid, and lacked not for suitors. But she did not seem inclined toward any of them but one.”
“Who were they, and who was the one?”
“There was Tristan from the west country, acting in Mark’s stead at the consilium. Her chosen swain was Kay, Arthur’s lieutenant. Then there was—”
“She was a peasant girl,” I interrupted, shaking my head. “You are naming lords and warriors. What use had they for Eleonore, other than pleasure?”
“She was a special one, my brother. Much like your Gwyneth. Beautiful and lively. Quick-witted and saucy. And Arthur had bestowed his blessing on her. All knew that he favored her above the other servants. Though, truly, none knew why.”
“But did she fear these men? If she were as protected by Arthur as you say, my head tells me that Kay, at least, would have been protective too. I remember this Tristan as only a foolhardy boy, but the Dumnonii need Arthur. He would do all in his power not to incur Arthur’s wrath.”
We passed a pair of closed-up stalls and I saw, by our torchlight, shadows lurking to either side of them. Wearing light gray robes and hoods, they huddled closely together. Cuneglas must have seen my look. “Druids. They arrived today, during the procession for the consilium. No one knows why.”
“Vortimer?”
Cuneglas shrugged. “I think so, but who can tell? He speaks to the people of the old ways, and the Druids shadow his path, but he keeps himself apart from them, just enough.”
Vortimer was Arthur’s chief rival for the throne of the Rigotamos. He was the son of Vortigern, that man whose bad decisions brought the Saxons upon us. But Vortimer, through his prowess in battle, had overcome his father’s disgrace. Ten years ago, Vortimer’s preference for the Druids would have worked against him. But now, a growing wind was sweeping the Druids back across our land, and the people were breathing deeply. Aye, even Mordred, Arthur’s cousin, had proclaimed his belief in the Druids. Mordred lusted for Ambrosius’s seat too; most thought him too young, but his ambitions were as unfettered as deer in the forest.
I too had watched the procession of the consilium, the council of lords who would choose Ambrosius’s successor. I did not remember seeing the Druids during that great parade, but Vortimer was smart enough not to include them in his escort.
I shrugged. Ofttimes I wondered if perhaps Vortimer wasn’t right, that we had brought all these wars on our own shoulders by abandoning the old gods. I treasured the friendships that I made at Ynys-witrin among the monks, but I never fully accepted their religious teachings. They tried, though. Oh, how they tried. A part of me wondered if Arthur hadn’t taken me there in hopes of converting me to his faith; many were the discussions we’d had around the campfires late at night, and he knew of my doubts about Christianity. Perhaps the Druids followed the right path. Christians. Druids. I knew not which was true. One made gods of things I could see—nature, the growing season, the moon. The other made godlike a man as the son of a single God who wished only that we love one another, and then He was killed, giving himself up for that which He believed. That too was compelling. But my life had taken so many twists and turns that I spent my time wondering why any god would willfully treat a man as I had been. I had done nothing to offend the one god or the many. I had only wanted to love my wife and child, to till the land, to have a simple life.
Our talk flagged until we came to the barracks and training ground. Archery targets sat at one end of the field, wooden shafts still protruding from some. A guard stood at attention at the door of the main structure.
“Do you have Merlin inside; he who is sometimes called Myrddin?”
The guard nodded. “I was told of your coming, master. You are free to enter.” He looked at Cuneglas oddly. “But of the thatcher I was told naught.”
“He is with me,” I assured him, pushing past and into the room. Big, sturdy posts held the roof in place. A pair of tables sat at the far end of the room. Some of the soldiers sat around them, cups and jugs in front of them. The unmistakable smell of cervesas, our local beer, pervaded the room. Beyond the tables was yet another massive post.
And there stood a laughable sight if I’d ever seen one. A dried-up, wrinkled old man, dressed in a dark tunic, belted around his nonexistent waist, and wearing of all things a pointed cap, some kind of leather skin stretched over a frame. He was tied to the rear post in the room and seemed to be asleep.
“Merlin, what in the world have you done now?” Not a proper way to begin an inquiry, but neither was the way I was dragged in.
The old raisin lifted his chin and squinted at me. “Mal-gwyn, would you please untie me and let me get back to work? I have so much to do. This is nonsense, disturbing an old man’s sleep.”
We knew each other well, for Merlin had often attended our camps and counseled Arthur before battles. If not for the bloody vision of Eleonore forged into my brain, I would have laughed at the old man.
“Some evil has been done this night, Merlin. And they say you have done it. How came you here? Where were you when they took you?”
“I was in my home, asleep in my bed. Bedevere stormed in with a troop of guards and arrested me. They haven’t told me what I’ve done and haven’t heeded my calls for Arthur. But I’m rested now and I must get back to my experiments. What evil have I done? Is this about the hearts? There’s nothing wrong with that. I believe in my theory!”
A chill ran through me. “What about hearts, Merlin? What is your theory?”
Even tied to a post, the old fool put on his schoolmaster’s face. “Eating hearts is a way to make your own healthy, strong.”
“What kind of hearts?”
He looked confused. “Why, animal hearts, Malgwyn. What else could I be speaking of? Arthur and the rest said it was silly to talk of such things, but I know I am right.”
I turned to Cuneglas. “Do you know of this?” I had told no one about Eleonore’s missing heart. Stories had filtered through the lanes for months of the wandering nature of Merlin’s mind. Some said he was possessed by a demon; others claimed that he was anointed by God with special knowledge. I thought he was just an old man, and old men’s minds often decline in their last years. Perhaps it was a combination of both, the awful combination of an insane old man’s fantasies and reality. And perhaps they had met in the person of young Eleonore.
Cuneglas shrugged. “Just another one of Merlin’s latest theories. But some of Arthur’s warriors liked it not. Said it sounded too much like human sacrifice and claimed Merlin was advocating bringing back the Druids.” He spoke as if Merlin were not there and that bothered me.
“Druids! They are false alchemists, Malgwyn.” Merlin spat on the ground. “They should be banned from all Britannia!”
“Not now, Merlin,” I cautioned him. “We have other matters to concern us. Are
you certain that you do not know why you are here?”
The wizened old face grimaced. “No, I do not. I was dragged out of my bed and brought here. I very nearly had no time to dress.”
“But you’re wearing a new hat.”
“Oh, this,” he said, delighted I had noticed it. It’s a new idea, a hat that sheds water, designed to let the rain run off it instead of collecting on top. You see—”
“You were brought here because young Eleonore, Arthur’s serving girl, has been murdered.” I knew I must stop him or he would lecture for hours.
Merlin frowned even more deeply. “Eleonore? But she was a mere child. Who would want her dead?”
“They say your knife killed her.”
“My knife?” He cocked his head and confusion spread across his face. “I gave my knife to someone. Someone borrowed it to dress a deer they had killed.”
“Who?”
The old man shook his head. “I cannot remember. I have lived too many years to remember that one moment.”
So, that was to be his defense. He loaned his knife to someone. But I knew what no one else knew. She did not die by the knife, but by strangulation. Though it would be simple to believe that the old man, in his delusions, had mistaken Eleonore for some animal and killed her for her heart, I heard truth in his voice. Or mayhap I just hoped I did.
