by Tony Hays
I scrambled in the loose leaves and vines, falling back twice before making it back to my feet.
“Bedevere!” But he had already gone back to the village, and it took me only a second to realize that I was alone too.
Whoever my assailant had been, and I could not help but believe it was the killer, he had been waiting in the forest. But why? And why had he not killed me?
My torch was out and the forest blocked any moonlight. I knew then how a blind man felt. “Bedevere!”
And almost as I spoke, I could hear his welcome voice calling in return.
But a hand touched me from the blackness, and I grabbed for my dagger.
“Malgwyn, it is me, Morgan!”
Ah, so the little medicus had finally arrived. Then I spotted the growing point of light from Bedevere’s torch and heard the low-hanging limbs tear at his cloak.
As Morgan helped steady myself, I shook his hand off.
“Next time … make yourself known, or you’ll find a dagger … between your ribs,” I snapped as sharply as my breath would allow, and immediately felt bad. “I’m sorry, Morgan. I have … just been attacked, and you startled me.”
“Malgwyn!” Bedevere was still searching.
“Here!”
He grew close enough then for me to make out his square figure. As he and Morgan looked me over quickly, his torch warmed us all.
“What happened?”
“Someone … was … hiding here, in this copse.” My breathing grew less ragged, more even; I could still feel my heart pumping in my chest. “He rushed me and knocked me to the ground.”
“The man who killed the girl?”
“Who else would fear discovery and hide here?”
“But why not kill you, too? The advantage was his.”
“I know,” I said, my head shaking almost against my will. “But that is not the most troubling thing.”
Even in the torchlight I could see the contours of Bedevere’s face take on a puzzled look. “How so?”
“The killer fled toward our camp.”
“Then we must follow!” he sputtered, making to leave.
“No, in the night we would not find his trail. And, if in our camp, by now he has had time to cover his crime. For all we know, he changed direction as soon as he toppled me.”
The lines at Bedevere’s mouth told me he was not satisfied with my answer. In truth, neither was I; too much time had passed now and answers would come slowly if at all. That was of little comfort to me and would be of even less to the people of the village.
And then I went to Fercos and his wife and told them what they needed to know of Hafren’s death.
* * *
A few hours later, we watched as two of Arthur’s men dug at the stone marking Bran’s skull. A dozen or so local people stood nearby, uneasy and restless, but Arthur’s assurances of the day before and the burial of Fercos’s daughter had deplenished their numbers and stolen their fear, of Bran’s revenge at any rate. The Druid was nowhere to be seen.
After a few minutes, one of the soldiers stopped digging and motioned for Bedevere. He trotted over, peered closely into the hole, and nodded at Arthur. The Rigotamos waved for Merlin and me, and we joined him.
They had discovered what appeared to be a square wooden box. There was only one thing it could be, and from the holes rotted at its joints, it was old enough. We all held our breaths as Merlin waved his arms about, mumbling what must have been some incantation. I laughed under my breath. Though Arthur did not believe in such things, he was obviously taking few chances.
Finally, my old friend struggled to his knees and recovered the dark box, handling it gingerly. He set it to the side and opened it. We all drew closer.
Indeed, there was a skull there, resting on what had once been a velvet lining. I tried to remember what I had heard about Bran’s skull, anything that would aid in identifying it. But it was not really necessary. After all, what other skull would be buried in a box on the White Mount?
Arthur moved to take it from its box and hold it high for all to see. Merlin stopped his arm in mid-motion. “Do not act as a champion. Simply remove it with humility. To do otherwise could be seen as belittling their beliefs.”
“You sound as if you would rather I not do this.”
Sometimes Arthur amazed me.
“I would rather you put that back in the ground and cover it up,” Merlin snapped, but softly. “I have told you, Bedevere has told you, even Malgwyn has told you that this is not wise. You should not challenge forces that you cannot see.”
“He’s right, Rigotamos,” I proffered.
“Why, Malgwyn, I thought you were a man of logic and reason? Surely you do not believe in such as the protection of Bran’s skull?”
“As a general thing, my lord, no. But there is no reason to do this, either. If you must, do not bash these people over the head with it. Honor their beliefs, even in dismantling them.”
“He’s right, Arthur,” Bedevere joined in.
Something in Arthur’s eyes grabbed at mine, a twinkle that I could not define. But he thrust Bran’s skull into the air anyway as all those watching, including some of our own soldiers, gasped, and the grumbles grew louder.
Until Arthur spoke. “We now place Bran the Blessed’s skull under our protection, so that it may never be taken by our enemies, so that it may forever be honored and respected.”
And the grumbles changed to murmurs of agreement, then of approval, but approval tinged with reservations.
“Worry not about Bran. He shall be revered.”
Without waiting for any of the ceremonies that we had planned, Arthur placed the skull back in its decaying box, handed it to Bedevere and remounted his horse.
He trotted over to where I stood. “This is better, faster. Let’s ride.”
We were off, our soldiers scurrying for their mounts. Cerdic and Talorc had already prepared the wagons for the journey back.
As we crossed the River Tamesis, a figure appeared on the far side, standing atop a bank above the road. As we drew closer and I could better see who it was, I cocked my head in surprise.
Wynn, the Druid.
He still wore his white robe, belted at the waist, and held his oddly carved staff. No smile graced his face as he clambered down onto the lane and stood in our path.
Arthur raised a wool-wrapped hand and halted our party. “What do you want with us, Druid?” No softness in his voice now. Wynn stood alone.
“You may have charmed the people with your words, Arthur, but you have disturbed the spirit of Bran and, in time, he will pay you for your sacrilege.”
The Rigotamos laughed grimly. “Bran the Blessed is long dead. The people will realize that only the consilium and the Christ protect their freedom. Now step out of our path before I take home your skull as well.”
“A curse is upon you, Lord Arthur, and the fools who allowed you to do this thing. They are as guilty as you, and you will soon feel its bite as well,” he answered, but he also moved to the side, out of our path. He was not stupid.
On down the road, but not far, I turned back in my saddle and saw his figure, still standing by the side of the road. I wondered about Fercos’s daughter, and the Druid, and his cryptic warning that his curse would wound Arthur “as well.”
PART TWO
THE
LAND OF THE DEMETAE
CHAPTER FOUR
“Father!”
My daughter, Mariam, her golden hair flowing behind her, ran across the market square and leapt into my arm. She wrapped her arms about my neck and kissed my cheek, giggling as my beard tickled her.
“And have you behaved?”
“Of course, Father. You have gained weight! Mother will be pleased.”
Events in the last year had taken their toll on me physically, and I was just now beginning to regain my health. Ygerne had insisted that I eat at least one meal a day at her home. I was living in a modest wattle-and-daub hut, across the lane and down the slope
a bit from Arthur’s hall, with Merlin, whose mind sometimes wandered and who oft needed a helping hand. After my brother’s death, Arthur had proclaimed Ygerne and her family as part of his household and hence they were eligible to draw from his kitchen stores. As his councilor, I too could eat from his table, but, in truth, Ygerne cooked better than Cerdic.
While Ygerne and I shared a bed now, we had yet to be married, more a formality than a necessity in those days. But she had been mother to my daughter since nearly Mariam’s birth. Gwenyth, my dear wife, had been killed by the Saxons when Mariam was but a year old. Obsessed by revenge, I had left Mariam with Ygerne and Cuneglas, my brother, and went off to join Arthur’s war. The loss of my arm and, I believed, my honor and dignity at the River Tribuit sent me spiraling into drink and self-pity, and I was ashamed to reclaim my daughter. It was not until years later that I came to my senses. By that time, Ygerne had become the only mother she had ever really known.
But holding her now, seeing those bright eyes, it was as if my Gwenyth were alive still. I swung her down and took her hand in mine. One of the young boys who lazed about Arthur’s stables or the barracks when not getting into other mischief took my horse’s reins from me, and Mariam and I started across the dirt-packed square toward the back lane where Ygerne’s house lay.
“A council will be held after the feast, Malgwyn,” the Rigotamos reminded me, joining us from within the stables. “We have much to discuss.”
I tightened without realizing it. Aye, and there was much that I did not relish discussing. “Yes, my lord.”
“You are not happy with Lord Arthur, Father?” Mariam missed nothing. Her tiny fingers gripped my hand a little harder.
“The Rigotamos and I often disagree about things, Mariam. It is of no consequence.”
“Then why are you grinding your teeth?”
I squeezed her hand gently. “Little girls who ask too many questions are given to the Druids for sacrifices.”
“Father! You’re not going to give me to the Druids.” Her voice was confident.
“Oh, but I am. Ask Master Merlin. It was his idea.”
“Father! Master Merlin would give you to the Druids before he would me. Master Merlin loves me.”
My teeth were not grinding then. I was laughing. She knew us all so well. Just a few minutes in her presence and I was as relaxed as after a good night’s rest.
But as we turned from the market square and down into the by-lanes of town, an image of that poor child, so vilely abused, hardened my face yet again. I glanced down, but Mariam was not looking and I was glad.
* * *
The feast was a disaster. Cerdic had not had time to prepare the food as he liked, and Arthur’s face was strained, the muscles at his jaws working vigorously, a sign that something had gone amiss. Guinevere, wearing her favorite green gown, was with him, and she seemed disturbed, yet not distraught. They had fought, but not over the marriage. Something else had brought them to angry words.
As I chewed my roasted pork, I wondered at this. Like any pairing, they had their troubles. But for the most part, they were well matched and had few difficulties. Nimue, a young Gallic slave, smiled at me as she filled my beaker with wine. She was growing into a lovely lass and, Arthur willing, would one day be a good wife for some young man.
Our journey, some two weeks in length, had tired me, and I hoped that this feasting would end in a reasonable time. Though I loved Ygerne, I longed only for my own bed this eve. Merlin would have to put up with my snoring yet another night. But after listening to the squeaky refrains of the lyre player, singing some ancient song of heroes near the hearth, he would welcome it.
I chuckled in a grim sort of way. Here I denounced Arthur for not taking Guinevere to wife and for taking this child of the Demetae for only political reasons, and yet I took my pleasure in Ygerne but seemed unable to move into her house and enter into a marriage myself, something I knew she would favor.
Instead, I avoided the topic, sidestepped the issue. In truth, I had no acceptable reason for doing this thing. I loved her. Of that I had no doubt. But to marry her meant to move into her house, my brother Cuneglas’s house. And that was more than I would do. Perhaps once I had constructed a house of equal or greater size, I could. But Arthur’s business kept me so busy I had little time for such an undertaking.
And, still, there was Arthur’s offer to make me a lord of the consilium by granting me the lands of Dochu and Teilo, who had rebelled against Arthur with Lauhiir some moons before. I had not answered him as yet. To accept the title meant moving to their lands and establishing my own dominion, which also meant moving Ygerne, Mariam, and the other children there as well. I was not prepared to do that. Castellum Arturius provided a safety that a new fortress, long days away to the north, could not.
So I had avoided answering Arthur’s offer, and I think that he was glad of it. We had grown closer over the past year, nearly as close as we had been before I fell at Tribuit, and in some ways closer. But late at night, as I lay on my furs, and the stump of my arm ached in the damp air, I thought of the men I had left on that green hillock, their blood mixing almost festively against the new grass. I had not served them well.
I kept to myself this night. Normally, my charge was to observe the proceedings, watch any visitors, try to read the purpose in their eyes. But we were treating with no other lords. Indeed, the only “visitor” was Tristan, young son of Lord Mark at Castle Marcus, and he was not with us by choice.
Tall, handsome Tristan was a “guest,” or more appropriately hostage for his father’s good conduct. More than a year before, Mark had tried to force the consilium to treat with the Saxons, to give them free passage across our lands for trade. But then Tristan had involved himself in the death of my wife’s sister, Eleonore, a death which led to the discovery of a conspiracy against Ambrosius Aurelianus, then the Rigotamos.
Because of Tristan’s father’s mischief, Arthur had used Tristan’s part in Eleonore’s death to hold him as surety of his father’s good behavior. That made Tristan a very unhappy man, and it did my heart good to see him in such a state.
Once we had been punished by a bard’s song—some ancient refrain of a king who had gone mad—Kay, as was his duty as Seneschal, slammed his cup against the table, calling all to attention.
Arthur stood and held his hands out for silence. He was an imposing figure, cloaked in his crimson tunic and flowing robe, his hands wrapped in wool with those stubby fingers poking forth.
“I am not one for speeches, so I shall not bore you with one now. Nimue! Come here, girl!”
The serving maiden nearly dropped her pitcher of wine. Fear flowed from her every pore; her eyes turning from those of a girl content with her lot to those of a cornered cat, seeking escape. She stepped back.
But Arthur smiled at her. “Come, girl. You shall not be sorry.”
Nimue approached Arthur with head bowed.
“Kay has come to me on your behalf several times in recent months. My councilor Malgwyn has spoken well of you. Merlin, too, has oft mentioned you. The sum total of their advice has been this: you were wrongfully enslaved and you should be freed. All gathered here know that I will not buy and sell slaves. But I will free them when it is deserved. And this I do now for you. Your life is your own. Do well with it.”
As Arthur signaled for Nimue to rise, I saw the truth then. Guinevere and Arthur had argued about his decision to give Nimue her freedom. As I have mentioned, Nimue was quickly becoming a pretty young woman, and Guinevere did not like that Arthur showed her any favor at all, just as she had felt about Eleonore, my Gwenyth’s sister. Sadly, Guinevere was really more beautiful than Nimue or even Eleonore had been, but she would not, could not, recognize that. I dreaded the day that she found out about Arthur’s impending marriage.
I turned my attention back to Nimue then, and Arthur was advising her. “You may stay here or go as you please. Perhaps you would wish to return to Braga, in Gaul. I am told that you have fam
ily there. I can arrange safe passage and an escort.”
Nimue was still stunned by her emancipation, but she answered him quickly. “If it pleases you, Rigotamos, I would like to stay here and continue serving in your kitchen. What family I may have in Gaul are all but certainly dead. Here, I have friends, more, it seems, than I knew.” She kept her head bowed, but I saw a smile beginning. I was happy for her.
“If you are sure that is what you wish?”
She nodded.
“Then we have the added problem of a suitable guardian.”
I had not thought of this. An unmarried maid needed a guardian, someone legally responsible for her, not that laws held much sway in our lands in those days, but like many things, the appearance of structure and law was about all we could muster then, and as Arthur’s Romanisms comforted him, this illusion comforted us all. The obvious answer was that Arthur should serve, since she would be working in his kitchens, but he seemed a bit flustered, his cheeks reddening. And then I caught the look in Guinevere’s eye, a look as sharp as a Saxon axe.
Arthur was no fool. He had not navigated the politics of the consilium and the treachery of his fellows without being crafty. “As this is a special occasion,” he began in a rumbling voice, “I shall grant you a special favor. You may choose your own guardian.”
The scene before me was, simply, laughable. Guinevere did not know whether to be pleased or not. Kay preened, assuming, I suspected, that he would be her choice (and then her husband in a year or so, unless I missed the mark). The others at the feast, Bedevere and our friend Illtud, who had come down from Ynys-witrin, looked amused. Merlin was poking at something in his bowl of mashed pork, flicking some offending bit away. A dog had wandered into the hall and was nudging my leg for some food, completely unaware of the drama then unfolding.
I watched Nimue closely; I was curious whom she would choose. She raised her head then, adjusted her rose-colored servant’s gown, a peplos-cut like Guinevere’s but of less finely woven cloth, and faced Arthur.
