by Anthony Hays
“Cuneglas is my brother, my younger brother, and it is not strange for him to think more of me than others. But I know too that I am also Mad Malgwyn the Drunken Fool, and he is worth little in this world.”
“For tonight, leave Mad Malgwyn and his flaws abed and live up to your brother’s dream of you.” And with that, she whisked out of the shed.
I finished lacing my leather shoes and followed her back to the house, where Kay was squirming impatiently in a chair, his mail shirt bunched at his hips and the tip of his sword digging a trench in the dirt floor.
“What word, Kay?”
He leaped to his feet. “None. Accolon has disappeared. None of his fellows have seen him since he left the barracks this morn. It would seem that perhaps he is more guilty than we think.”
“Or,” I offered, “perhaps he too has become a victim in this tragedy. And we are meant to believe that he is guilty.” But Kay was right. More and more Accolon seemed to be a guilty party.
Kay frowned, a big, heavy frown that weighed down his face. “You are a frustrating man, Malgwyn. Is nothing ever clear for you? Must you always be asking your blasted questions?”
I chuckled. Kay’s temper had become famous among the soldiers. But though it was easily sparked, it was just as easily dispelled. “Surely there is truth to be found, but accepting the first answer given you is not the way to the truth. Our first answer was Merlin. We both know now that that was wrong.”
“True,” he conceded.
“If Accolon did this thing, he did not do it by himself. That much I know for certain.” I recalled to him what I had found at the watchtower.
He waved a gloved hand at me. “Aye, all that is true enough, but you would still drive a man insane.”
Ygerne looked at me with questions floating in her eyes, but I could not tell her all of it. Not yet, at any rate. And the way she looked at me made me want to take her and hold her. This I could not do either.
“Come. Let us go and see what mischief Vortimer will provoke tonight.”
The lanes, at least those not yet paved by Lord Arthur, were ankle deep in a thick gray mud, smelling of manure and the fetid stench of rotting straw. Vendors lined the streets, selling wine, some cheap in goatskins and some expensive, in large amphorae from the docks at Ynys-witrin and far to the west near Castle Dore. With all the merchants’ stalls, jugglers, and simple folk gathered from the countryside, this was no ordinary feast, no ordinary gathering of nobles. The procession yesterday told them that if nothing else. The entire consilium, the entire group of lords, all the tribes of Britannia, had come to Arthur’s castle for one purpose and one purpose only—to name a new Rigotamos, a new high king to govern over all. It was as if a great festival had been pronounced, and the people entered into it with a vengeance.
The murmur of the crowd quieted even further as Arthur emerged from the door of his hall, flanked by Kay and Bedevere. As if on cue, Ambrosius Aurelianus rode into the square, and all present, nobles and peasants alike, took a knee. Though in his last years, Ambrosius was a symbol of Roman rectitude. Arrayed as a Roman cavalry officer, he rode erect on a snorting white horse. He wore a bejeweled helmet, tufts of white hair pushing out and framing his craggy features. Were his shoulders any straighter, I would suspect he wore a wooden frame beneath his tunic and brooch-joined fur cloak. But such a one as he would never stoop to such vanity.
I laughed at all this ceremony. Ambrosius had been here since the day before, and indeed had feasted at Arthur’s hall last night as I well knew. But such displays served two purposes. The people expected it, and Ambrosius’s pride demanded it.
Ambrosius was followed by four attendants, and his only allowance to age was for the attendants to help him, ever so slightly, from his horse. I noticed the tremble in Ambrosius’s arms and legs as he dismounted. Ambrosius never moved very quickly, as I recalled, but he moved even more slowly now as he approached Arthur, touched him on the shoulder, and signaled that he should rise. Turning a bit, he signaled that all should rise.
Too much chatter filled the square to hear Arthur’s welcome. The old man had served us well, but plainly if the Saxons were to be kept at bay and unity was to be upheld in our lands, a new leader was needed. And as much as I had come to hate Arthur, I knew that only he could hold all the factions together. No matter how much I respected Arthur’s abilities, the fact that I was who I was, what I was, stood between us. Before that day at Tribuit, I was a good man. Now I was useless, and Arthur had done that. We had seen friends, comrades, die on the battlefield, die a warrior’s death. Why couldn’t he have honored me the same way? I brushed the thoughts away to concentrate on the task at hand and made my way into the hall.
Coincidence gave me a view of the great hall and the consilium gathered around a large table. I watched with curiosity to see who spoke with whom. If Ambrosius were to nominate Arthur he would stand little opposition, but Cuneglas was probably right; there would be some. And some is not the same as none. Ambrosius’s support would carry enough votes to anoint Arthur—unless I failed.
I heard a murmur from the women in the great hall. A new arrival had joined the feasting—Guinevere. The murmurs had a nasty lilt to them. She was dressed, rather plainly, in a deep green peplos gown with a Roman cut. A small bronze brooch with three-diamond-shaped pieces of quartz held the gown in place, and her jewelry, a necklace and bracelet of gold, was modest in design. The brooch was called a fibula then and had come down from our grandmother and her grandmother before. Once, it seemed, our forebears had been gentle, worn the purple perhaps. Her long brunette hair was swirled into a knot at the back of her head, revealing her pale, delicate features, lips slightly full and high cheekbones.
If you asked the women of the court why they disapproved of Guinevere, they would tell you that it was because of her past. In reality, it was jealousy. She and Arthur had been together for a long time, but Arthur would not marry her, could not, to his way of thinking, marry her.
But at that moment, with Guinevere’s entrance accomplished, I watched as the great lords and ladies in their silk and fur took their seats and the serving girls began to bring the food around the table.
Arthur’s hall was a timbered affair, with stout wooden beams and posts holding it in place. Woven banners, most graced by the Cross, hung from the rafters. At the back of the hall stood a single doorway into Arthur’s own chambers. An open hearth had been built in the middle of the hall, dug into the hard-packed earthen floor and lined with rocks, and two suckling pigs were roasting over the flames. On a previous visit here, I was told, Ambrosius Aurelianus scolded Arthur for not having a proper mosaic floor. “Later, perhaps,” Arthur had told the old man. “But for now, earth will do.”
Though his floor was plain, Arthur kept a very Roman table. I could not say I minded though. To eat roasted pig was a pleasure I rarely enjoyed. Such an extravagance was not possible for me. To roast a pig or any meat in such a fashion required an iron spit, and that was beyond the means of most.
The two serving girls brought platters of the dark, flat, unleavened bread that was typical for our tables. I noticed that Arthur, ever mindful of hospitality, had kindly provided imported red bowls, piled high with mashed pork and chicken for those whose teeth were too worn to eat from the bone. Hanging over a steaming kettle was a large white cloth, bundled around vegetables. One of the servers would take the softened vegetables later and mash them into a kind of paste. Other platters appeared, laden with oysters steamed in their shells.
The hall smelled deliciously of the roasting pig, garnished with honey, but beyond that tantalizing smell lay the unmistakable scent of garum, a Roman sauce made of fermented fish. Like the soldier’s posca, the vinegary drink, garum was another of Arthur’s Roman affectations.
I knew that we were early, but I wanted to watch the others arrive. With that in mind, I took up station at the front of the hall, near Arthur’s chambers, facing the main door. Kay wanted to stay with me, but I instructed him to
mingle with the group and hear what gossip he could.
Bedevere was next to arrive, elegantly dressed in a mail shirt over a knee-length tunic, with a richly woven cloak draped about his shoulders and fastened with a fancy bronze brooch. Like me, a leather belt with iron studs circled his waist, although, as befitted his station, his belt contained twice as many studs. Iron was expensive, and you could easily judge a man’s position by how much iron he wore on his clothing.
Even as I thought this, Tristan entered with Mordred at his heels, and I took a moment to consider Mark’s son. He was tall, though not as tall as Kay, and handsome in a pale, protected sort of way. Mark doted on the lad, it was said, and he wanted for nothing in his lands. His tunic was as fine as Arthur’s, but his shield, carried by a servant, was not emblazoned with the cross as were all those who served the Rigotamos.
Tristan surveyed the hall haughtily, his mouth curved into a knowing smile. Behind Tristan and Mordred were two or three of Tristan’s men, arrayed in their war dress. They wore sneers on their faces to match anything Mordred could offer. Almost in unison, the pair studied the large white banner with the red cross hanging from a sturdy rafter over Arthur’s table, and they shook their heads in disdain. Two birds perched on the same branch, I thought.
The fat little Lord Lauhiir, new to the consilium, fell into deep conversation with Tristan. Gawain and Mordred also spoke quietly, apart from the others. That was not unusual. They were brothers, sons of Arthur’s uncle. The others mingled about, talking to first one then another, sipping from their wine and waiting for the feasting to begin.
Following them came Coroticus, the abbot of Ynys-witrin, clothed in his drab brown robes, his hood pulled back, and the cross of his office hanging about his neck from a gold chain. Though I thought Coroticus a good and decent man, Arthur was not fond of him, and he no friend of Arthur’s. They fought over silly things. The latest argument was over Arthur’s cruciform church, planned for construction near the center of the town. Coroticus said the shape was sacrilegious; Arthur said it was a tribute. Neither man would give. And, as I’ve said, the crux of the matter was lower taxes for the church. Despite their enmity, in a matter of this importance, Arthur had to include the church. For Ynys-witrin the election of a new Rigotamos was of as great a concern as for the rest of the land.
Gathered here were representatives of all the lands controlled by the consilium come to Arthur’s table to hear the suit of Tristan for a treaty of peace with the Saxons.
“So, Malgwyn. I see you have cleaned up quite nicely.” The oily voice of Mordred abused my ear, and I turned to see him standing at my shoulder. “Poor Coroticus. His day is done, you know. The people cry for the old gods.”
“And you shall lead them back?” I finished for him.
“It is what the people desire.”
“I am not a religious man, Mordred, as you know. I look at men’s actions for their motive. Some men’s motives are pure of heart. Others,” and I stared him straight in the eye, “have motives spawned by the devil.”
The smile he flashed chilled me to the bone. “Be careful, Malgwyn, that your investigation does not uncover affairs that you would as lief not know.” Mordred was drunk, I realized. He would not normally be so bold.
“And be careful, my dear Lord Mordred, that you do not get caught under my heel. For I will grind you into the dirt.”
His smile never faltered. “You are as courageous as you are insolent. ’Tis just as well,” he said with a mock bow. “We understand each other.”
“Perfectly.”
Arthur and Ambrosius stepped out of the chambers at the rear of the hall. Arthur was finely dressed in a crimson tunic, belted with brown leather and a shining gold buckle. He did not enjoy such trappings, but he knew that they were necessary for formal occasions. While the common folk honored him for his bravery and his fairness, others respected him only for signs of wealth and victories won.
Ambrosius approached the head of the table, and in ritual deference to his rank, all waited until he had seated himself before they joined him. Two male servants, one the recalcitrant boy from the morning, wearing plain dark tunics and Roman sandals, lifted the roast pig, still hissing and crackling from the fire, and, carrying it on the spit, placed it on a platter in the center of the table. Bowls of porridges and vegetables appeared from nowhere and platters of flat bread filled the empty spaces.
A pretty maiden circled the table filling cups with watered wine from a jug. Another worked from the opposite direction with a jug of ale, a brown, heavy drink that was replacing mead as the poor man’s choice. Soon everyone was busily eating pig and drinking. The politics would come later.
“How goes it with you, Malgwyn? We miss you at Ynys-witrin.” Coroticus sat next to me.
“All is not well. You have heard about the girl?”
He nodded slightly. “Great danger exists, my friend. Nothing is as it seems. Of that, be certain.”
With all my might, I kept my head from whipping around. “You know something of this?”
Smiling at someone across the table, he let his chin dip in that faint nod again. “Arthur is not my favorite person, as you know, but he is far preferable to the pagan Saxons and their murderous ways. I cannot say with certainty, but I have reason to believe that the girl’s death is part of a larger scheme to weaken Arthur’s position and grease the path for the Saxons.”
“By whom?”
“I am not at liberty to say.”
“How do you know this?”
“I was courted because of my dislike for Arthur.”
“Then tell me all of it. Tell Arthur. Merlin’s life hangs in the balance, and it seems the entire land’s future does as well.”
Coroticus smiled at me softly. “I cannot, Malgwyn. What happens to Ynys-witrin if I side with Arthur and Ambrosius and their enemies win? They have promised to leave us alone and let us continue God’s work.”
“They lie.”
“Often. But not this time, I think. It is in their best interests to leave us to our work.”
“What of right and wrong, Coroticus?”
His hand reached over and grasped my shoulder, pulling me closer as if sharing a confidence. “That is your task, Malgwyn. Arthur was hesitant to come to you for help. He feared your drinking and dissolute life had drained your considerable abilities. But I whispered a word in a certain ear, a certain female ear, and the message, that you, and only you, could weave us all clear of this maze, was delivered.”
I knew, of course, who the woman was. But the timing was all wrong. “How is that possible? Arthur came to me within the hour of Eleonore’s discovery.”
“Arthur was coming to you before that. You were to be here tonight had Eleonore been serving us at this very moment. He simply seized upon the opportunity to enlist your aid, just as others seized upon Eleonore’s death to turn it to their own advantage, I think.”
I smiled at him with strong aggravation lurking beneath the surface. “You are all plagues on the face of the earth. I should have sent him away with my foot up his arse.”
“You could not do that.”
“And why not?”
“You are a good man, Malgwyn. And good men always do what truth and right require.”
“And you are more a scheming lord than a priest.”
“An abbot has to be.”
On that cryptic note, our attention returned to eating. But I understood more of his comment than not. Followers of the Christ had been treated roughly by the departure of the Roman legions. Pagan worship, like that of the Druids, was returning to the land, and many people turned away from the Christ. They returned to burying their dead with grave goods for the afterlife. They returned to their feasting such as Beltain. In the east of our lands, rumor had it, they had returned to human sacrifices.
One of the serving girls, Nimue, carved some of the pig and placed the herb-laden meat on my platter. In so doing, she slid a bit of parchment into my hand. “From my lady,”
she whispered. I looked at Guinevere and she smiled. A bowl of the strained vegetables lay close at hand, and I alternated eating pig with my dagger and dipping a spoon into the green puree. Though I felt horribly awkward, a simple glance around at all the diners showed their faces buried in their platters and the sounds of teeth gnashing on meat filled the room. Even in a crowd, only I was witness to my own discomfiture.
Arthur’s fare was certainly better than that at my own table. And better served as well. The wine was imported from Gaul— I noted with a frown that mine was thinned till it was little more than flavored water—and the porridges were served in large bronze bowls, decorated with designs from our ancient past. Around the campfires, late at night, Arthur often said that to know our future we must know our past.
To that end, while we ate and while plates and jugs and bowls clattered, a bard sang an old song about ancient kings, one who went mad, betrayed by his own family. Brightly dressed in a red, white, and green tunic, the old fellow accompanied himself on a lute. Would that his voice were as sweet as the lute.
Just as the bard finished his song, Ambrosius, wiping his dagger on his sleeve and resheathing it, stood and held out his arms. “The consilium welcomes Lord Tristan from the lands of the Dumnonii.”
In his turn, Tristan rose and faced the group. “I bring you greetings, Rigotamos, from my father Mark, whose enemies flee at his approaching footsteps.” He stopped with that, and I was glad. Such greetings often lasted thirty minutes or more and encompassed the prowess of all his ancestors.
Having made their opening statements, Ambrosius and Tristan sat back down around the large round table, built of the stoutest oak. Arthur did not fancy long, rectangular tables. He told me once that with a round table it was easier for him to see his guests, easier to watch all their actions and easier to read their intentions. I saw now the truth of his statement.
Brushing a few bits of pork from his long beard, Ambrosius bowed his head to Tristan. “Please, begin.”
“I come before you and your great lords to discuss a matter of the utmost importance. We have, within our grasp, a chance to bring peace to this island and stop the incessant fighting with the Saxons. Their requests are small; they wish only to be able to freely traverse our lands to the western sea and to trade in our markets.” Tristan spoke with his arms extended and palms upraised, as if in supplication.
