The Beloved Dead

by Tony Hays

  I handed my reins to one of the soldiers and searched through the throng for Bedevere.

  “You are Master Malgwyn,” a soft voice said to me. I turned and it was Gwyneira. She was tall for her age and blossoming into a beautiful woman, with an already fine figure and the deepest blue eyes I had ever seen. For traveling, she wore a heavier tunic, dyed blue with woad, and belted at the waist. Her cloak, a deer fur with a rounded cut was pinned with a beautiful silvered brooch marked with her name. She smiled pleasantly, and it was the kind of smile that immediately endears one to its bearer.

  “Yes, my lady.”

  “My brother was rude to you the other night. I apologize for him. My father has told me your story. You are a man of much experience.”

  “I am a man, Lady Gwyneira. And not a particularly accomplished one at that, unless you count the amphorae of wine and mead and cervesas that I have drunk.”

  She laughed then, a little girl’s laugh, which made her all the more endearing. “Tell me of Arthur. If I am to marry him, I would like to know more.”

  I needed no looking glass to know that my face had turned a deep red.

  “Please,” Gwyneira said, touching me lightly on the sleeve of my tunic. “I know that his consort, Guinevere, is your cousin, and I know that you have fought against this match. That is why I ask you these questions.”

  “My lady?”

  “You will tell me the truth.” She had a habit of pursing her lips in such a way that the expression seemed a symbol of an earnest nature.

  “I could ask Merlin or Bedevere, but they will couch their answers so as not to cause offense. You will tell me straightaway what I wish to know, without embroidering Arthur’s virtues.”

  Despite her youth, she had an uncanny talent for assessing those around her and tailoring her questions to achieve the best possible result. I suspected that was the result of her father’s teachings. You did not rise to be the ruler of the kingdom of Dyfed without being adept at diplomacy.

  I looked about and saw a fallen tree, old and devoid of branches. With a wave of my one hand, I directed her toward it. “What do you wish to know?” I asked as we sat.

  “Arthur is renowned for three things—his devotion to the Christ, his prowess in battle, and the sense of fairness by which he reigns. But those are the things spread by his friends. You know the man. Who is he?”

  Her question was earnest and I could not lie to her. “He is all those things. He is also stubborn and certain that he is right even when he is wrong.”

  “Is he often wrong?”

  “He is often quick to make decisions when he should take more time for consideration.” My half-arm twinged, as it often did in the dampness of early morning, and I stopped long enough to massage it.

  “You received your wound in his service?”

  “Aye. On the River Tribuit.”

  “Is Arthur a good man, as good as my father tells me? Or is he just an ordinary man that fate has raised high?”

  In some ways, she reminded me of my Mariam. Her questions were blunt and asked as if she expected a lie in response, skeptical always.

  “He meets the challenges facing him in more than an ordinary way, and he looks beyond the obvious when seeking answers. Arthur has good and loyal men serving him, and they give him good counsel as well. Most important, he is not afraid to listen to his men. That, in this age, is exceptional in a king.”

  “And how do you serve him?”

  “I have served him in and out of battle, as the need arises. I have charge of preparing his documents, and I give him counsel when asked.”

  She cocked her head to one side as if displeased at my answer. “My father tells me that you are a man who serves a higher purpose, even if that purpose runs counter to your lord’s desires, yet you do not believe in the Christ.”

  “I thought we were discussing Arthur?”

  Gwyneira stood, facing away from me for a long moment. Finally, just as I was about to speak, she turned. “Soon after our wedding, my father will return to his home. I will be alone in a strange place, no real friends. I will need someone that I can seek counsel from, a kind of guardian. Of all the men in Arthur’s service, you are seen as the most independent, the one most willing to speak frankly, without fear of reprisal.”

  “Lady Gwyneira, I am humbled by your request. Have you discussed this with your father? What if Arthur objects? As your husband, he will be your guardian.”

  “You misunderstand me, Malgwyn. I am speaking of an informal arrangement, an understanding between you and me. But to answer your question, yes, I have spoken to my father. It was he who suggested you.”

  And probably Ambrosius who had suggested it to him.

  I frowned. Not over displeasure at her request, but that I immediately favored it. Becoming this child’s guardian, in public or private, was like thrusting a dagger into Guinevere.

  I did not answer immediately, trying to sort out the conflicting emotions at battle within me. Though my heart was pained and my stomach knotted over Arthur’s treatment of Guinevere, this girl was not to blame. It was difficult not to be taken with her. She wore her beauty as she would an old, common tunic, comfortably and with grace. I suppose I fell a little bit in love with her at that moment. She would need a friend, of that I had no doubt.

  “If you desire it and your father has no objections, then I pledge to do what I can for you within my abilities.”

  Gwyneira smiled then. “I can go to Arthur now, confident that I have a friend. I know what I have asked is not easy for you personally—”

  I raised my hand to silence her. “You are not at fault, my lady. You are a good person, and that is enough for me.”

  Standing, I moved next to her and she wrapped her hand about my arm. We walked together back to the camp as Merlin and Coroticus cast quizzical looks at us and Aircol simply smiled.

  * * *

  With the dead buried and appropriate prayers given for their souls, we resumed our journey for home. I, for one, would be glad to put the land of the Demetae behind us, in favor of the relative safety of Castellum Arturius.

  PART THREE

  CASTELLUM ARTURIUS

  CHAPTER NINE

  “Are you ready for this?” Bedevere asked as we crossed the River Cam and Castellum Arturius came into view.

  “I do not know,” I admitted. My stomach was wrapped into a knot. Behind those rock and timber walls were Guinevere, Ygerne, and Arthur. And I did not want to face any of them.

  We headed straight for the main gate in the southwest. A messenger had been sent ahead the night before to herald our arrival, so the road to the gate was crowded with people. And I forced a smile as I looked up at the top rampart, the one holding the parapet for the guards, and saw little Mariam perched on a soldier’s shoulders yelling and waving at me.

  * * *

  The rest of our journey had passed uneventfully but for the general hazards of traveling, the roads in this part of Britannia being more treacherous than in others. Bedevere, reluctantly, sent to Melwas at Ynys-witrin for another troop of horse.

  We all knew Melwas, at least to some extent, but we were not certain of his loyalties. He had come of age only in the last years of Arthur’s push against the Saxons, and his prowess in battle had gone nearly unmeasured. I remembered him as a bold soldier, one who did not shrink from battle. Kay had once termed him reckless, but Arthur thought him just young and burdened by a young man’s enthusiasm for war.

  Command of the great Tor at Ynys-witrin gave him great influence in the heart of Arthur’s lands, called by some the “summer” country. That he was ambitious was assumed. The only real question was how far he was willing to go to realize those ambitions. Consorting with Druids, as we had seen him do, gave a hint to his intentions, but only a hint. There had been no sign of the Druid Wynn. Perhaps I had misjudged him. Perhaps not. I could not shake the thought that he had committed those horrendous murders at the White Mount and in Aircol’s city, but without a wi
tness or other evidence, I could prove nothing against him.

  At any rate, Melwas’s troop of horse finally arrived when we were but a day’s ride from Ynys-witrin. That we had sent for them several days before did not bode well for Melwas, but after the Scotti raid I welcomed any and all help as we brought Arthur his bride.

  We arrived at Castellum Arturius about ten days after the Scotti had attacked us. Our procession was a slow moving one, burdened as we were with three ox-drawn wagons and a larger than normal escort. In some villages our journey took on the trappings of a triumphant procession as word had leaked out about our purpose. Folk would gather by the road and shout well wishes as little girls threw flowers. It was strange to me, but I suppose that times had been so bad for our people that they would grasp any opportunity to celebrate.

  With great ceremony, Coroticus and Ider had split off from our group at Ynys-witrin; they would rejoin us in time for the wedding in two days. We had stopped soon after crossing the River Cam to arrange our order of entry. Aircol and Gwyneira were placed in the vanguard of our column as befitted their rank. I, Bedevere, and Merlin rode behind with the great wagon containing young Vortipor following. The child had demanded to be allowed to ride with us, but his father denied him. The boy sulked inside the wagon, and I, for one, did not miss him. How Aircol could produce offspring as different as Gwyneira and Vortipor was something I would never be able to fathom. But then I did not understand how Mariam could be my child; she was so much more than I.

  * * *

  As we approached the gate, I saw that Arthur had had great banners posted on the ramparts, bearing a red cross against a white background. Obviously, he wanted no mistake about his devotion to the Church, at least not in the face of Aircol’s strong reputation as a believer in the Christ. Arthur’s faith was strong, of that there was no question, but I suspected the banners were more for Aircol’s sake.

  Because of the narrowness of the approach, Aircol and Gwyneira dismounted and walked the last leg of the journey, up the lane and through the massive double gates. Bedevere, Merlin, and I followed suit. I saw with approval that Arthur’s workmen had prepared and then covered over one of our best defensive measures.

  Rock cutters were kept busy, busting rocks into smaller ones with sharp, pointed edges. These were then embedded in the ground with their sharpest edge pointed up. Arthur had thin blankets of sod cut and laid over the points, hiding them from view. When horses were ridden, the sod quickly gave way, effectively hobbling the horses and often tumbling the riders to the ground. Only the lane was kept clear, greatly reducing the numbers an enemy could bring to bear on a single point.

  I did not know where Arthur would choose to meet us. Protocol dictated that Arthur be positioned in front of his timbered hall. But he was so obviously anxious to please Aircol that his enthusiasm might bring him to the very gate.

  And I was right.

  Arthur stood in the middle of the lane, framed by the open gates. He wore his best tunic and cloak. As was his wont, he had abandoned his helmet and his chestnut hair flapped in the ever-present breeze. To a new acquaintance, he looked strong, confident, and handsome. But I could see lines in his face and dark circles beneath his eyes that had not been there before. Whatever had gone on in our absence had worn on him. Of that much I was certain.

  Kay and Illtud stood behind, flanking him on the left and right. Their faces looked less worn than Arthur’s, and contrary to his example they wore their helmets of bone and leather.

  “Lord Aircol, Lady Gwyneira! Welcome to our home!” Arthur proclaimed in his deep voice.

  Aircol stepped forward and grasped Arthur’s forearm as Arthur grasped his. Smiles broke over both of their faces, and Gwyneira turned her head slightly and smiled at me. The message was clear; she was pleased. Now extricated from greeting Aircol, Arthur offered Gwyneira his arm, which she took, and the three of them walked along the main road, the Via Caedes, as it wound below the summit where Arthur’s hall stood.

  For some reason I resented the festival atmosphere, although I had no right to. My mind was still focused on those two poor dead girls that I had left along the road. There would be no more festivals for them, no husbands and no children. Some madman had ripped those possibilities from them as quickly and as cleanly as a well-forged sword could cleave a man’s head from his shoulders. And I had no more answers now than I did when I stood over their broken and abused bodies. At that moment, all the self-hatred and darkness and helplessness that had marked me as Mad Malgwyn came rushing back.

  The procession fell apart just inside the gates. The people who had climbed the ramparts for a better view now descended. Bedevere and Merlin followed Arthur and his guests up the lane and around the curve to the market square. I was left standing in the middle of the lane, just inside the walls, and I could not think of where to go next. Only the bobbing blond head of my daughter, Mariam, returned my sanity.

  “Father!” she screamed, running toward me. I scooped her up in my one arm as she wrapped her arms about my neck.

  “Have you been a good girl?” I asked, brushing her ear with my lips.

  “Of course I have, Father.” She leaned forward then, her lips planting a kiss on my cheek. “But Mother worries that you have not been a good boy.”

  “Well, let’s see. I did not drink. I lied only a few times and then for good reason. I only killed a couple of Scotti raiders. And I made a new friend, two really.”

  “Who?”

  I carried her up the lane behind the great parade that now filled it. “Lord Aircol and his daughter, Gwyneira.”

  She pursed her lips. “We do not like them.”

  “And why is that?”

  “They have made Aunt Guinevere very sad. She has left us and gone to live elsewhere.”

  Obviously, I needed to talk to Ygerne and then Arthur soon. “Where did she go?”

  “To Ynys-witrin, Mother says.”

  So Guinevere had returned to the women’s community. It must have seemed the only course left to her. She could have remained in her cottage, along the road to the abbey, remained as Arthur’s mistress. It was not uncommon. But I knew my cousin well enough to know that her pride would not allow her to settle for that. Noble blood still ran through her veins, and the pride to go with it as well.

  “You must go and fetch her back. I miss her.” Mariam, like her own mother, the mother she had never really known, had the habit of deciding things for me.

  “We will see.” I put her down then and took her hand as we reached the market square before Arthur’s hall. A great crowd was still gathered, angling for a good look at Arthur’s new queen. The next few days, until the wedding, would be one great celebration. Were Arthur less respected, I doubt that many would care. But the people liked him, liked that he administered justice with an even hand, liked that he taxed the Church more than he did them.

  “Where is Ygerne?” I asked, searching the crowd for her welcome face.

  “She is at home. Mother said she would not celebrate a sin.” Dear, dear Mariam. She knew neither guile nor subtlety, and I hoped, forlornly I knew, that she would stay that way.

  “I would not say that where Lord Arthur can hear you, child. It would not be a good thing.”

  “Oh, but I already have, and so has Mother.”

  I winced. It sounded as if my troubles had only just begun. “Run along home, Mariam. I must go to my house and then to Arthur’s hall. Tell your mother that I will be there soon.”

  She squeezed my hand hard. “Promise?”

  “I promise. If you behave yourself, I will take you to meet Lord Aircol and his daughter.”

  Mariam puffed her lower lip out in a pout.

  “They are good people, Mariam. Guinevere’s pain is not their fault.”

  “All right. But do not be long.”

  So, with my marching orders in hand, I parted her company and crossed the hard-packed earth of the market square, elbowing my way through the crowd.

  “Malgw
yn!”

  The cry came from a gaggle of nobles near the front entrance of Arthur’s timber hall. I craned my neck, trying to see who called my name. A smile broke across my face as I saw the source. Kay.

  “How are you, old friend?” I asked, looking up into his face, looming far above. He was the tallest man I had ever known, a full head taller than I.

  Kay locked me in a tight embrace. “I have missed you, Malgwyn. You are spending too much time with Merlin and Bedevere. They love the traveling life too much.”

  “Believe me, Kay, I have dreamt of quiet nights here at home. Too much excitement is not good for my old body.”

  “Bedevere told me of the Scotti raid. Think you that there is more to it than a chance encounter?”

  I shrugged. “I do not think so, but I cannot say for certain. If it was but chance, then they were very unlucky.”

  “So I have heard,” Kay said with a bitter smile.

  “And did you hear about the part your friend, young Talorc, played?”

  I would have given one hundred Roman coins for the look on Kay’s face. He was disgusted.

  “Yes, Bedevere and Merlin just told me.”

  “Be at ease, Kay. With any luck, Aircol will convince Arthur to give Talorc his freedom and you’ll be rid of him forever.”

  “If Arthur had sold him a year ago, we would not be worrying with him now.” He stopped. “Tell me of Aircol and his daughter. Are they worth all of this trouble?”

  “Aircol is a good man, much like Arthur in his way, true to the Christ and worthy to be trusted.” I paused and considered my answer. “No. He appears worthy to be trusted. There has been no chance to test that judgment.”

  “And the girl?”

  “She is a daughter of nobles and her actions show it. In truth, she seems to hold a wisdom beyond her years and has an accurate understanding of her position. She knows of Guinevere and feels bad for her.”