by Anthony Hays
I wiped my hand on the young lord’s tunic. “Only Arthur has earned the right to take up the sword.”
Amid the clamor in the hall, Arthur took the sword from the stone and held it up.
Quickly, one voice rose above all others—David.
“Malgwyn assaulted a lord of the consilium! Arrest him!” cried David.
“Malgwyn assaulted a petulant child, a would-be usurper. He bears no guilt,” Ambrosius proclaimed.
And with a smile at Arthur and a wink from Ambrosius, Arthur became Rigotamos, high king of all Britannia. The ordeal was over.
Arthur looked then at me, and something passed between us, something warm and welcome. The past was finally buried.
You have earned your rest, Malgwyn,” Arthur said as the other lords, some happy, some disgruntled, left the hall. Kay nodded as Arthur took me by my one good arm and led me toward a servant’s door at the back of the hall. “First, you need a bath again. You will rest easier.” He shouted for a slave boy, who appeared as if by magic.
“I just need to sleep, Arthur!”
“Malgwyn, you are covered in sweat once more. Your clothes are soiled. You need to be cleaned.” Arthur stopped then. “You know you made an enemy this day.”
“I know I made many enemies. But if you refer to the boy lord, Celyn, I am just happy that I did not have to kill him as well. Too much killing in this affair.”
“Well, beware. You embarrassed him in front of his elders. He will not forget it. Now, off to be bathed!”
The prospect of returning to Arthur’s world was not as attractive as I had thought. These people had an absolute adoration of cleanliness. I sniffed my clothes and sensed nothing unusual. But the slave led on, and I went with a curse and a frown.
And that brought the affair to an end, for a while. Arthur and Ambrosius knew that Mordred, David, and the others would not go away. They would continue to be a thorn in their side. But the next morning, after a good night’s sleep born of the exhaustion of my toils, I stood with Ygerne and Mariam in the great market square and watched as Ambrosius and his company marched out of the castle, on their way to Dinas Emrys and a quiet retirement. As the last of the horse men departed the square, Ygerne and I, with Mariam in between, turned toward the house in the back lanes of Castellum Arturius, where my brother, Cuneglas, lay abed.
And I returned to the place where I had stood post on the night he was wounded.
And the vigil began.
He lay as if asleep for days on end. I spent most of my days and nights sitting by his bed, watching and waiting for any kind of movement, any sign of life beyond the rhythmic rise and fall of his chest. I prayed to the one God and the many gods, anyone, anything, that might open his eyes and set him on the path to recovery. Ygerne pleaded with me to get rest, but I could not. I had been a bad brother, leaving my own child to his care, seldom aiding in her support, rarely visiting at all, wallowing in drink, women, and self-pity, and now all I could do to remedy that was to be there and hope and pray. I lost so much weight that my clothes began to hang off me. Ygerne feared for my sanity; I feared for my soul.
Merlin came to see him every day, placing smelly poultices on the wound, which never seemed to heal. He cautioned me to have patience, and on occasion he forced some tonic or other on me. Usually I found myself asleep after taking one of his concoctions, and though I would berate him afterward, I felt the better for the rest.
Arthur came every few days, taking me aside and telling me of affairs across our land. His intent, I know, was to take my mind off Cuneglas, but his retelling of the various deeds and misdeeds of the other lords and the Saxons served only to distract me momentarily from the horror that was my brother. Still, I appreciated his concern. And some part of me knew that I must take up my duties for Arthur soon.
Mariam would often come to sit in my lap and lay her head on my shoulder. She still bore confusion in her feelings toward Cuneglas and me. Oh, she knew truly that I was her real father, but after so many years of thinking of Cuneglas as her father, the emotions she felt were complex and entangled. I hoped to help clear the fog that clouded her mind.
But the monks of Ynys-witrin and Merlin told me that even if Cuneglas did recover, he would never be the same. So I assumed the responsibility of providing for his family. It was a kind of responsibility I had once wanted more than life itself, but life regards us lightly at times. I realized that I had much to learn and the challenges were great. Arthur had helped by naming my brother’s wife and children part of his house hold. That would allow them to be fed from his kitchens.
And the gods chose to intervene once more.
One early morn, just before the sun’s rise, at that teasing of first light, I stirred from my stupor, stiff from sitting in a chair. I looked over at Cuneglas, but this time, he was looking back.
“Ygerne! Mariam! He’s awake!”
He blinked a couple of times, in a confused sort of way, as if trying to understand where he was. Ygerne and the children rushed in. I sent the oldest boy for Merlin and turned back to him.
He had not spoken, just looked from face to face. He looked so much like our father in his last years that the resemblance was frightening. His face was thin and drawn, and suffering was etched into every wrinkle. He noticed Ygerne and managed a weak smile. And he forced that smile to each person present.
But when he came to my face, his look grew bolder, younger somehow. He reached out a hand slowly and sought mine. I held his hand, the grip weak and weakening.
“Malgwyn, my brother.” The words came out in a sort of dry-throated croak. “Come closer.”
I scooted my chair next to his bed and leaned down.
“It is not easy to talk to you,” he said.
“Nonsense,” I said to comfort him. “We are brothers.”
“Aye,” he croaked. “We are that, but you are something that I have never been. You are a man of principle. You believe in the right and wrong of things, though your actions might say otherwise.” He coughed hoarsely and Ygerne hurried with a beaker of water. He smiled at her again and nodded. And when he began this time, his voice was clearer. “When they found Eleonore dead, you hesitated not. And when the crowd hungered for Merlin’s life, you stood your ground. As for me, I have always been about my needs, with no concern for others. I have not been a good father or husband.”
I started to protest, but he held up a weak hand to stop me. “This is an argument you cannot win, my brother. I am dying. I feel it in every part of me. I cannot undo what has been done, but I must beg this promise of you.”
“Anything.”
“Be a part of this family now. Do not return to that life you lived. God has given you a second chance. Use it to protect my family”—he coughed again—“your family.”
“I will do all I can, Cuneglas, but you will heal now and be well.”
“Ygerne.” He called for his wife weakly. She hurried over, wiping her hands on her dress and taking his in hers. Despite the scene before me, despite the death rattle in my brother’s throat, I still felt that hint of jealousy at her grasping his hand.
“I . . . am sorry, Ygerne. You deserved . . . a better . . . man than me.”
“Hush, Cuneglas. You are a good man. Even if you do not see it. Besides, there will be plenty of time for this later, when you have healed.”
He shook his head impatiently. “No. It is finished.”
At that, his body trembled and his chest fell and did not rise again. His eyes remained open, staring vacantly at the ceiling.
Merlin rushed in and assessed the situation. He moved swiftly to Cuneglas, moving his hands quickly around his body, squeezing his hand, listening at his chest, as Ygerne stood with his hand in hers, her moist eyes shining with the hurt.
Finally Merlin turned to all of us. “His soul has gone to its maker. There is nothing more to do.” He took two old and used copper ases, shut my brother’s eyes, and placed each coin on Cuneglas’s eyelids. It was an old Roman custo
m. The coins were meant to pay the ferryman who carried his soul to the afterlife.
I remember little after that except hugging and comforting Ygerne, Mariam, and the other children.
We buried Cuneglas the next day on a windswept hill where our parents had been laid. The day was cool and damp as were our moods. When the last stone had been laid on the burial cairn, I paused for a moment and considered the green land that was Britannia. It was a good land. It must be. For good people had spilt their blood to make the land fertile and worthy of such sacrifice. I turned, and, with Mariam’s hand in mine and Ygerne’s on my shoulder, we started down the hill to Castellum Arturius.
The days passed and soon Merlin was back at his inventions. Kay and Bedevere were out fulfilling the tasks Arthur had set for them. Arthur made his appointments, but not without some complaining. Kay was named his Cup Bearer or Seneschal. Bedevere became Master of Horse. Rumors reached us that Mordred was growing fat and lazy on the western coast, drinking away his miseries. Each day I had the pleasure of seeing a miserable Tristan, crazed to be released from his “imprisonment,” moping around the castle, but Arthur seemed uninterested in sending the boy home. I returned to my place at Arthur’s side, as his scribe and senior councillor. Owain had gone to live with Ygerne. I moved in with Merlin, and though I sensed that she would welcome it, I could not bring myself to move closer to Ygerne, yet I could not ignore her either. Something had grown between us, but Cuneglas was still too fresh in his grave. Perhaps, someday, it would not feel so much like a betrayal of my brother.
I walked through the door of Cuneglas’s house one eve, just before the sun set, and I sat down at the rickety table where Cuneglas and I had sat but weeks before. Mariam crawled into my lap and laid her head on my chest. A feeling came upon me at that moment, unlike any I had felt since Gwyneth’s death. Ygerne began preparing the evening meal. With my one hand, I stroked Mariam’s blond hair. I felt a hand on my back, and I looked up at the smiling face of Ygerne. The world no longer seemed so dark and cruel, and I too smiled once more, not the chilling smile of “Mad Malgwyn,” but a smile that warmed my heart and made life seem worth living.
Braccae—Breeches worn by both Saxons and the Brythonic tribes. The only extant examples come from peat bogs in Europe.
Brittany—That area of Gaul known as Brittany. Settlements by some of the Brythonic tribes were located there during the fifth and sixth centuries.
Castellum—Castle, but not in the High Middle Ages sense with thick stone walls, towers, and damsels in distress. Usually a defensive position with stacked rock and timber defensive rings.
Arthur’s Castle—For the purposes of this novel, Cadbury Castle at South Cadbury, Somerset, is the location for Arthur’s castle. Excavations during the 1960s identified it as having been significantly rebuilt and reinforced during the late fifth century by a warlord of Arthurian stature, although no explicit evidence linking the site to Arthur himself was discovered.
Castellum Mark—Castle Dore in Cornwall is believed to have been the site of King Mark’s headquarters. Nearby was found the famous Tristan stone, a gravestone believed to commemorate the historical Tristan, making it the one contemporary piece of evidence for the historicity of a character in the Arthurian canon.
Cervesa—The Latin name for the beer made by the local tribes during the Roman occupation. According to tablets unearthed at Vindolanda near Hadrian’s Wall, Roman soldiers were not shy about drinking cervesa.
Consilium—A council. Gildas refers to a consilium ruling pre-Saxon Britannia that ended with Vortigern hiring Saxon mercenaries to help put down the raids of the Picts and Scots. It is safe to assume that any warlord that exerted influence over large areas in central and western En gland would have done so at the behest and the agreement of such a council of lesser kings.
Dumnonia (Dumnonii)—A tribe residing in the area of Cornwall and throughout the west lands. Mark is thought to have been a king of the Dumnonii during the general period of Arthur’s life. Snyder suggests in The Britons that people in the post-Roman period referred to themselves by tribal designations
Durotrigia (Durotrigii)—A tribe residing in the area surrounding Glastonbury down through the South Cadbury area to the southern coast.
Fibula—A brooch or early “safety pin” used to keep togas, cloaks, and women’s dresses held properly together. Some were round, others in the shape of crossbows.
Iudex Pedaneus—A Roman official assigned to investigate crimes and offenses. It is known that such titles were still used in post-Roman Britannia.
Latrunculii—A term applied to groups of bandits that ran rampant during the fifth century.
Londinium—As would be expected, this is the Roman name for what is now London.
Peplos—A type of gown worn by women, having a Roman cut.
Tigernos—The Celtic word for lord, sometimes used to designate local lords, but believed by some scholars to have been combined with the word vor to produce the name “Vor-tigern,” or overlord.
Via Arthur—“Arthur’s Way.” A roadway or lane actually ran from Cadbury Castle to Glastonbury. It has become known as Arthur’s Way. Two major Roman roads near Cadbury Castle were the Via Fosse and the Via Harrow.
Via Caedes—“The Killing Way.” Obviously, this is a creation for the novel, but skeletons were found along the main roadway entering Cadbury Castle. They were victims of an ancient massacre, probably at the hands of Romans and probably in reaction to the rebellions of Caractacus or Boudicca.
Vigile—The Roman equivalent, in a sense, of both a policeman and a fireman. In Rome, they watched for fires as much as any crime.
Votadini (Votadinii)—A tribe residing in what is now northern En gland and into the lands of the Scots border as far as the Firth of Forth. One story of a chieftain named Cunneda (Kenneth) suggests that part of the Votadini migrated to northern Wales, but, according to Snyder, that possibility has been discounted.
Ynys-witrin—According to some sources, this was the early name for what is now Glastonbury. It is believed that a Christian community resided there during the Arthurian age.
First of all, this is a novel, a work of fiction intended primarily for entertainment. It is not an attempt to establish history. Granted, the book offers my view of the time and place in which I think the historical Arthur lived, but this is not a scholarly attempt to prove he lived or not.
Those readers who have spent any time studying the Arthurian canon will recognize elements from a variety of scholars in my version of the Arthurian legend. I use Geoffrey Ashe’s scholarship frequently, but I’ve also heavily relied upon Christopher Snyder, Norris Lacy, Leslie Alcock, P. F. J. Turner, and a veritable library of archaeological studies of various sites in and near South Cadbury, Somerset, En gland, as well as all the extant early source material.
I am a great believer in oral tradition, and I believe in two traditions: the peoples of what was then Britannia (as named by the Romans) did not conjure up a mythical hero called Arthur, who was some kind of amalgam of pagan gods or ancient legends. Nor did they start naming their children after this fantastical concoction in the years immediately following this conjuring. I believe there was an Arthur, a man around whom other men’s deeds may have been wrapped, but who was extraordinary in his own right. It is our misfortune that Arthur lived in what, from a documentary sense, was indeed “a dark age.”
I admit readily that I have adopted Geoffrey Ashe’s identification of Arthur as the Briton leader Rigotamos mentioned in Sidonius’s letter. And if he were not the Rigotamos, he certainly could have held the title in the wake of Ambrosius Aurelianus or preceding him. From both the historian’s and novelist’s perspective, it fits as well as anything does. My Arthur is a Christian, more than nominally. He is also a man of passion with an innate sense of wrong and right. He rules by right of a precarious coalition among the Brythonic tribes, and intrigues and treachery are part of his everyday life. A compassionate man, to a point, his compassion is seen
by his enemies and rivals as his fatal weakness. The times would have dictated a certain brutality in any leader, and I’ve tried to add something of that trait to his personality as well.
As to the cultural and societal structure of the time, Snyder, in his Age of Tyrants, points out that it is almost impossible to reach any consensus on what life was like during the period 410 to 600 [sc]CE[sc/], but, Snyder asserts, there is much to be learned by attempting to reach such a synthesis. His own assessment, in his volume The Britons, tends toward a continuation of Roman cultural influence deep into the fifth century. I have chosen, after much reading, to view it as still partially Romanized. Most cultures undergoing major changes tend to think wistfully of the “good old days.” I cannot imagine that the peoples of Britannia were any different.
The withdrawal of Roman troops did not mean the immediate collapse of Roman institutions and civil structure. Ample evidence indicates the continuation of Roman titles and offices well into the following period. Also, evidence suggests that there was at least a minor resurgence of Roman influences in the middle of the fifth century. Some scholars have theorized that it was out of this resurgence that the historical Arthur emerged. The question is whether that theory rests on a desire to make the historical Arthur fit with the Arthur of romance or whether it is truly an attempt to analyze the history. I tend to support the latter. Sidonius’s letter to the Rigotamos, while certainly showing a fair amount of bootlicking, implies that his correspondent has a reputation as a compassionate man.
