The Beloved Dead

by Tony Hays

  One, two, and then three dots of light appeared below me as I burst through some brush and into the collection of houses, our peculiar kind of round-shaped huts so at odds with the angular buildings of the Romans.

  A half dozen or so people stood in their doorways, their shadows dancing in the flickering torchlight. Between two of the houses I saw the yellow globe of three or four torches illuminating a large group of people.

  As I drew closer, I recognized Fercos and one or two others from the afternoon. They were gathered around a lump on the ground, a lump covered by a gray cloak.

  From beneath the cloak, a dark blob shone under the torchlight. I knew it all too well. Blood.

  Pushing my way through, I could see by the ankles and feet poking beyond the cloak that they were those of a young woman or boy. I glanced around quickly and saw that Fercos was crying.

  Two men fronted me, blocking my path. “You are not welcome here! This is our affair!”

  “I mean no harm. I wish only to help.” The tightened muscles in their faces told me that the arrogance of a king’s councilor would win no battles here.

  One, an honest-faced man with the sadness of the ages written on his countenance, said softly, “How can you help? The maiden is dead by another’s hand, and one of your fellows probably did it. We know all too well how soldiers take what they want.”

  I cursed Mordred under my breath. His tenure in this region the previous year had turned many people against us. He wielded little control over his men, and they pillaged the land freely. Kay had most recently been in command here, but he had had too little time to set aright the relationship between our soldiers and the people.

  “He is skilled at such things,” a voice behind me said. Deep and gravelly, it yet conveyed a tenderness. I knew it well—Arthur.

  The group spread out then, surprised by the Rigotamos’s appearance. He had thrown one of his older tunics on, rushing, it seemed, as I had, to find the source of the scream. Behind him I saw Bedevere and another soldier, alarm written on their faces, but Arthur raised a hand to stop them in their advance.

  The man made to protest, but thought better of it. Arthur brushed past me and laid a hand on his shoulder. He turned to one of our soldiers. “Go fetch Morgan ap Tud.” To the poor villager, he said, “First, tell me what has happened here.”

  Another man, one who seemed more composed than the others, stepped forward. “Fercos’s wife had gone to throw some water out behind their hut when she found her daughter, Hafren, lying dead here.”

  “From what cause?” I asked.

  Fercos, tears still streaming from his eyes, saw us now, in truth for the first time. “No one can help her. Go and leave us. We must prepare her for burial.”

  “Do you not care who did this?”

  “And how would you discover that?” Fercos fairly spat at me. “Just leave us be.”

  Bedevere slid in between Arthur and me. “My lord, I am not certain we wish to involve ourselves in this matter. We have nothing to gain and much to lose,” he whispered.

  That decided it for me. I was tired of doing things because of what advantage they could or could not bring us. I did not even wait for Arthur’s reply. I stepped up to Fercos and laid my one hand on his shoulder. “I would do this because I too once lost a loved one to murder, and because I have some experience with searching out the doers of these deeds. Would you have this happen to another man’s daughter?”

  “He has handled these sorts of affairs before,” Arthur said. “I would consider it a favor to me if you would allow him to help you.”

  The Rigotamos was one of the most perceptive people I had ever known. He saw in a blink of an eye that this was important to me, and though he could have stopped me in a second, he allowed me to pursue it. I was appreciative.

  Fercos met my eyes with a look as intense as any I had known, searching for truth, honesty, something. Whatever he sought, he must have found, for his expression relaxed and he stepped away.

  “Has aught been touched?” I could not remain silent; my mind was already trying to grasp the situation.

  “Just a cloak thrown across to cover her,” someone answered.

  I knelt and tried to block out the noises of the gathered crowd: whispers, low exclamations, and grumbled curses. Pivoting on my heel, I searched out Bedevere and with my eyes and a shake of my head silently asked him to disperse the people. He looked to Arthur, who nodded his assent.

  Turning back then, I surveyed the area without touching anything. She lay partially on her back and partially on her side; I could tell that from how the cloak was pushed out by her knees. Apart from the puddle of dark blood leaking from beneath the cloak, I could see the scuffs of sandaled feet and drag marks in the mud.

  I stripped away the cloak and stumbled back. A dirty strip of cloth had been tied about her head and across her mouth to keep her from crying out. Beneath her pale, pointed chin gaped what seemed another mouth, but I knew it was not that. Her throat had been cut and I needed no closer look to see that it was deep. Aye, any deeper and the blade would have severed her head.

  It was only then, when I had seen that horrible wound, that I looked at the rest of her. She was a pretty girl, long brown hair plaited into two strands and large eyes. I caught myself thinking how her pale tone suited her, but then I realized that ’twas the blood drained from her that made her appear as a piece of Roman marble.

  Her hands had been tied behind her back with the same sort of cloth, as had her ankles. Quickly, I took a knee and felt her head with my one hand. It took but a second before I pulled my hand away, bloody. Her attacker had struck her from behind, not fatally, but fiercely enough to render her senseless. She had been dragged, alive, to this refuge.

  Her dress, of a fair brown cloth, was torn and bloody. On each upper arm was a shale armlet, black and shiny. They were old and held the marks of many winters. Still, I thought it said much of Fercos’s prosperity that his daughter would have two such baubles.

  Too many people were yet about. I looked to Bedevere. “Have some torches brought and,” I added in a lower voice, “move these people away. I must needs examine her.”

  His eyebrows rose a bit, but he nodded and went about his task. He understood what I needed to do and why I needed privacy.

  Some minutes passed as the torches were gathered. I spent the time studying the earth around the body. Again, I noted the sandal prints, the two drag marks where someone had moved the maiden’s body to this place. I saw that the copse from which the marks led was near unto the houses, barely enough room for two men to stand arm in arm. Ultimately, I would have to search in the wood, but for now I restricted my investigations to the poor maiden’s body. For the first time in his short tenure with us, I wanted Morgan with me. I had learned much from the monachi at Ynys-witrin about our bodies, but Morgan had spent a lifetime learning.

  “Where is the medicus, Morgan ap Tud?”

  “He has been sent for,” Bedevere reminded me.

  Finally, all the people had been cleared and the torches put in place. Arthur had sent for a dozen men from our camp. He had not spoken to me since I had brashly thrust myself into this affair, but I knew he would not remain silent forever.

  As I approached the unpleasant task of inspecting the maiden’s body, I heard the raspy, abrupt sound of a throat being cleared.

  “Malgwyn, Bedevere is right,” Arthur began. “This is not wise. You did well in putting down this protest and eliminating the Druid as a factor, but I cannot spare you to sort out this crime, even if you can. And that is much to risk your purse on.”

  I turned to face him. “Yes, my lord, I understand the problems. And I do not pretend to believe I can find the killer of this girl before we leave tomorrow. But I should be able to learn much and leave that with these good people so that they can continue the search. It costs you nothing. And it may do you some good, or your reputation. In these lands, the people live with a fear brought by the Saxons. That you are seen to
be sensitive to their problems may bring their tribe closer to the consilium. It will cost me a sleepless night, but at least it will be one spent in a good cause.”

  “Malgwyn.” Bedevere joined us. “The father himself may have done this thing.”

  “No. I saw his eyes. They held true pain, Bedevere, not the evil of a man who would kill his own child.”

  The Rigotamos and Bedevere exchanged fleeting looks. “You make a strong argument, Malgwyn. And, as you say, it will be your night’s sleep disturbed. But be ready on the morrow.” Arthur turned to his Master of Horse. “Stay and provide whatever assistance he requires.” His orders given, he spun on his caligae and headed back up the path.

  “You can be an aggravating man, Malgwyn,” Bedevere grumbled. “The time is not long past when you cared for nothing but from whence your next drink and your next woman would come. Now, you care about so much more.”

  “Would you have the drunk back?” I asked, kneeling down beside the maiden’s corpse.

  “Ask me tomorrow,” my old warrior friend replied.

  With that, I turned my attention back to the poor girl. Pulling the dress away, I saw what I feared. She had been foully abused. But it was more than that. Great bruises marked the inside of her thighs, and that most private place was ripped and torn in a manner I had never seen before.

  “Bring a torch closer,” I ordered. Bedevere brought it himself and knelt next to me.

  “In the Christ’s name, Malgwyn!” he exclaimed. “What has been done to her?”

  I did not answer, but swallowed my disgust and looked closer. The flesh was torn and bloody. I gestured for the torch to draw closer yet. This was beyond belief! Splinters of wood and bits of bark were imbedded in those shocking wounds. That someone could do this to such a young girl was simply beyond my ken. What purpose could it serve?

  Then I realized that my backside had become damp. I had fallen backward onto my rump in my surprise and hadn’t even noticed it.

  “Bedevere, a hand please.” I felt very old then and willingly took his wool-wrapped hand in mine and struggled to my feet, letting the cloak fall back over the child’s mangled body.

  “Post a man here with instructions to allow no one near. I will not have anyone, including her parents, see the truth of this.”

  “But they will need to prepare her body for burial,” Bedevere argued, and rightly so.

  “Then bring me some water and cloth,” I paused, “and some ochre, chalk, and such as well.”

  The stocky warrior looked at me as if I were insane. “Malgwyn, where shall I find such as that? I keep it not in my bag.”

  “Please, Bedevere, just find some and bring it to me.”

  The water appeared in just a few moments. I had spent the time plucking the splinters and bark from her flesh. One splinter seemed odd, with a shiny, smooth surface to it, as if worked. The edge on one end was frayed; the other end was pointed as a normal splinter. I kept it.

  While I washed the dirt and grit from her, Bedevere appeared with the items I had requested. I wanted to ask him where, indeed, he had gotten them, but the grimace on his face stayed my question.

  Another few minutes and I had done all that I dared toward covering up her shame. She had not been dead long, nay her body yet held some warmth, and so I arranged it more pleasingly, removed the gag and smoothed the terror from her face and washed the blood from the ragged cut at her throat. The rest I left for her family. I wished only to hide the nature of her abuse; that was something even one so cynical as I found shocking.

  I took the chance to think about what had passed in the maiden’s last moments. This thing had not happened here. She had been bound and abused elsewhere, then, gagged, dragged back here and her throat slit nearly on her father’s doorstep. That left an odd question floating before me: Who was being punished (if anyone)—the girl or her father?

  After tucking the gag and two of the larger splinters into my pouch for later study, I walked slowly along the edge of the wood. That no one heard anything was not a surprise. The ground was carpeted in cedar needles, the residue of more years than I cared to count. My own footfalls were virtually silent.

  Finally I found what I sought—a broken branch, low-hanging and freshly-snapped—the point where the murderer slipped back into the wood. It was located on the side nearest our camp, but that meant nothing by itself. Or, I realized, it might mean everything.

  Bedevere reappeared with two soldiers and I directed them to remain on guard, keeping the folk away from the corpse for a bit longer. “Come, Bedevere. Let us see what we can find.”

  Each of us carried a torch, and we plunged into the darkness of the wood. Even in the torchlight it was too dark to see much by way of footprints and the ground was too hard to show much, much harder than the earth behind the huts. So, we looked for other signs, broken twigs, perhaps a bit of cloth torn from a tunic. Anything. Nothing. Beyond that one broken twig, nothing else hinted at his path of retreat.

  Would that the spot where he committed this foul deed be as easy to find, I thought.

  And it was.

  We came upon the clearing almost by accident. It was marked by a large boulder in the center, and it took but a few seconds to find the blood smeared on its surface.

  As I walked around the large stone, I could see how the affair had played out. He had either arranged to meet her here or had come upon her by surprise, but either way, he approached from behind. With Bedevere’s help, I found what I sought—a rock, flat on one side and curved on the other, and bloody on the flat side. He had slammed the rock against her head, knocking her senseless.

  Before she could recover, he had bound and gagged her. We found where he had lain her on the ground, and though I had not thought we would find it, discovered the branch with which he had abused her.

  One end was marked by jagged edges and giant, bloody splinters. I shivered. I could not imagine the pain and horror that the young girl had felt. What must she have thought? The evil of it struck at my heart.

  He must have knelt over her, staring into her face as he thrust it again and again into her. She had wanted to scream, but the blasted gag had dammed up her cries for help. Finally, she had lost consciousness; she must have. The blow to the head. The binding of her hands and legs. The gag. The pain. To have remained conscious throughout all of that was the act of no god I could ever worship.

  Why? Rape. I understood rape, if not the impulse then the act. I could never do it. It was about power, anger, but not pleasure, not in any honest way. I learned that long ago, at the first Saxon village we raided.

  * * *

  We had been told that two of the Saxon lords were meeting there to marshal their forces for a strike deep into the heart of our lands. Mordred and I were detailed to take a small detachment to attack them. Our orders were to lie in wait in a wood just outside the village, to strike them at dark when they would be tired after a day’s riding.

  It soon became obvious that only half a dozen Saxon soldiers were there. Mordred’s men and mine were tired as well, tired from hiding all day, hungry. I do not know who started it, but just at nightfall some of our men began the attack without orders. They dispatched the Saxons quickly, but then started in on the people.

  I found two of Mordred’s and one of my men having at a pretty young Saxon maid. It had nothing to do with sex. It was as if I could see the anger flash from their ears as they attacked her with a ferocity I did not believe possible. The looks on their faces were ones of unhappiness, not pleasure. The Saxons were not there for them to punish so they would punish the maiden.

  I still had both arms then, and I waded into their midst as a hot dagger into butter. One I backhanded against a hut. The second, one of Mordred’s, scampered backward, falling and blubbering for mercy. I kicked him beneath his chin with all the force in my leg. The last was my own man. He fell to his knees and bowed his head. He offered no apology.

  Without a pause, I grabbed him by his hair and dragged him
to where the girl lay whimpering against one of their odd, sunken huts. Though I knew it would frighten her, I held his face just inches from her own. I leaned over and whispered in his ear, “What if that were your own daughter?” And then I kicked him so hard I felt a rib break under my foot.

  * * *

  No, those men were angry, but they weren’t to be denied their pleasure, either. This killer cared only about pain and torture and fear. He did not even try to take any pleasure from the flesh, at least not in the way we had always judged such things. This was another creature altogether.

  Taking advantage of her state, he dragged her back to the place behind the huts, snatched her hair from behind and slit her throat. All that too had a purpose, though I could not reckon what it might be.

  “Malgwyn?”

  It was Bedevere.

  “Aye.”

  “Fercos’s woman wishes to prepare the girl for burial.”

  I nodded. Daybreak was but an hour away now. I could tell them much about how their daughter had died, perhaps a bit about the kind of man who had done the killing, but nothing about who he was. The odds that I would have been able to were not good from the beginning, but I had needed to try. I felt no sense of failure for myself, but a sadness for Fercos and his woman. In my heart, there had been no hope for success. Death was too much a part of our world and I needed to do something clean and pure. But the strangeness of this death made that sadness so much greater. I truly wanted to bring this killer to justice, but I knew that was not going to happen. It could have been one of our men, though I could not think of one capable of this brutality. It could have been a stranger passing by. Finding this beast was not going to happen. Though it gave me no comfort, I knew that, and I knew I would not be able to dismiss this affair from my mind.

  “Let them. While they are about their burying, Arthur can remove Bran’s skull. We should be finished by the time they are finished. Someone should gain something from this.”

  Bedevere slipped into the darkness.

  After a moment’s pause, I turned to go, holding the torch in my one hand, when it happened; someone rushed me from the darkness, knocking the torch to the ground and shoving me into the underbrush.