The Beloved Dead

by Tony Hays

  Arthur led Gwyneira to the center of the market square and held her hand high between them. “This is my queen, and you will serve and obey her as you do me!” he proclaimed in a voice that swallowed even the loudest cries in its deep, bass timbre.

  Then the festival began in earnest.

  * * *

  “Come, Malgwyn! Our work has been done this day! We can at last catch our breath and relax! Arthur is married. The alliance made!” I had never seen Bedevere so happy. He didn’t even kick the dogs that were crowding the door to Arthur’s hall, baying for scraps from the tables.

  With a grin on my own face, I slapped him on the back. Indeed, we had done our work well. And while safeguarding Arthur and Gwyneira would always be our responsibility, a critical time had passed without the horror that we had feared.

  Cerdic had done his job well. While Arthur and Gwyneira had been greeting the people, he had been hurrying the servi as they arranged the hall for the feast. Hardly an inch of the giant room was unoccupied either by people or food.

  The lords of the consilium were blissfully celebrating, all animosity and intrigue set aside on this night. Even his chief rivals, David and Mordred, seemed genuinely happy. And that was cause to celebrate. Gwyneira fairly glowed. Aircol and Arthur laughed and joked with Gawain and Gaheris. Even Celyn seemed in a good mood, though he still glowered whenever his glance chanced upon me.

  With David’s company in attendance, Morgan had more old friends, and he had relaxed a bit, drinking his share of mead. I saw him at one point waving a roasted chicken leg in the air and trying to sing. He needed to remain a medicus.

  Despite my still rumbling belly, I gladly accepted a flagon of wine, intent, however, on moderation.

  Most of the night passed in a blur of songs and wine and food. Talorc and the other servi were kept busy simply refilling beakers and restocking the platters with food. Once I wandered out into the market square to catch some fresh air and saw the Druid Wynn, a smile on his face, taking a flagon from Talorc. I remember thinking that perhaps I had misjudged Wynn.

  Three bards, one from nearby, one from Aircol’s lands, and one sent by Lord Mark, regaled us with tales of our ancestors, of Brutus who first settled our lands and old King Leir, son of Bladud. Their words were prettier than their voices, however, and I wandered away from the entertainment to find Kay.

  Strangely, I found him on the rampart, looking off at the watch fire at Ynys-witrin, out of sight and nearly sound of the festival. “No interest in the celebration, Kay?”

  He looked down at me from his great height, and I detected a wan smile. “I have worked so much arranging this day that I find I have no energy to enjoy it.”

  “I understand,” and indeed I did. Many of us, close to Arthur, had been surprised when he named Kay as his Cup-Bearer. His temperament was ill-suited to such mundane tasks, and his anger flashed frequently when confronted with recalcitrant servi unused to a firm hand. But he had borne his responsibilities with honor and had managed the marriage with efficiency, if not skill. That his mood should be dark seemed natural.

  “Well,” I continued, “it is behind us now, and we can return to matters more fitted to our talents.

  At that he looked down at me and grinned. “That will be a pleasant change.” The grin disappeared then. “Did you know that Arthur plans to free some of the servi tomorrow?”

  “In truth?”

  “Aye.” He nodded. “Talorc and one or two of the others. Aircol has requested it.”

  “I understand Talorc, but what of the others?”

  Kay shrugged. “They have been attentive to Gwyneira’s needs or some such nonsense.”

  “You do not agree with freeing them?”

  “I think that some will see it as a sign of a weak character. Freeing old servi who have spent a life serving you is one thing, but to free the young who have yet to prove themselves is dangerous.”

  “Everyone knows of Arthur’s distaste for slavery, and his enemies already think him weak or they would not be his enemy. So I see no harm in it.”

  “It is of little consequence,” Kay said. “The girl will make a fine queen.”

  Something in his tone told me that he had left something unsaid. “What, Kay? Are you troubled?”

  “Aircol and Gwyneira are good people, good followers of the Christ. But two of her servants do not understand their own station. With my leave, Cerdic asked them to help with serving the feast. I assumed he would approach Gwyneira first to secure her permission. But you know Cerdic, used to having his own way, he went to them directly. They did not take it well, complained to Gwyneira, who is now petitioning Arthur to replace Cerdic as chief cook.”

  I laughed, not at Kay but at the situation. “We must be prepared for more than a few changes. Guinevere’s likes and dislikes were so well known that we automatically took them into account. So, your trials are just beginning anew?”

  “I’ll weather this new storm.” He paused for a second and then put on a smile I was not sure he truly felt. “And you, Malgwyn? Now that your present task is finished, how will you occupy yourself?

  “I’m certain that Arthur will find work for me, and I have some unfinished business of my own.”

  “The dead girls?”

  “Aye. I did not have the time nor freedom to truly concern myself with those. I intend to take that time now.”

  “Now that so many days have passed, how can you come to the truth of it?”

  “I had no chance to question anyone about who or what they saw. That is how I will proceed, and I’ll look at the places they breathed their last as well. Ambrosius brought me word of yet another, killed near where our party passed on the road back.”

  He nodded. “I heard of this. Think you that this Druid did it?”

  “I can see no other logical answer, Kay. ’Tis not as easy to sort out as Eleonore’s death. We understood quickly that taking the hearts was to direct guilt to Merlin. But the brutality of these acts makes no sense to me.” I paused. “Kay, I have not had the chance to tell you how saddened I was by the death of Nimue. I know you had taken a fancy to her and perhaps envisioned making her your woman.”

  “True.” Kay nodded. “I have come to the conclusion that such a life is not for me. It seems I have the worst fortune in that regard.” Kay straightened then to his full height, looming far above me. “Come, Malgwyn! Let us store these matters away for tomorrow. Tonight, let’s help our friend celebrate his marriage!”

  * * *

  The fire in the center of the room roared, but not as loud as the gathering of lords. Ambrosius was declaiming on battles fought and won, although I noticed that some of his victories seemed as defeats at the time. David, Mordred, and Gawain were in deep discussion. Celyn was whispering in the ear of a common woman, a true meretrix, one of several around the room. Vortimer’s brothers, Faustus and Riocatus, were speaking to Dubricius. The envoy from Rome had retired for the evening. He was an old man who had not wanted to come, but in those days, a prudent man did not refuse a request from the emperor, whoever it happened to be that day.

  Arthur and Aircol entered from the private quarters. Gwyneira was not with them, nor was I surprised. I suspected that once the feast had ended we would see little of her on this night. Both men were cheered as they walked to the center of the room. In one motion, David jumped to his feet and snatched up a beaker of wine.

  “Let us drink to the health of Arthur and his new bride!” he shouted over the general clamor.

  We all stood and took up our beakers and other drinking pots. As one, we saluted Arthur and drank his health. The Rigotamos blushed, just a bit, but enough to show he was uncomfortable in this new role.

  Not to be outdone, Bedevere offered the next salute. Soon everyone but Merlin, who had fallen asleep in the corner, had paid homage. And we were feeling a bit more than tipsy.

  My legs gave way underneath me, and I fell into a sitting position on the hard-packed dirt floor, struggling to stay upright. />
  As the room began spinning around me, I heard, rather than saw, Mordred bounce to his feet and proclaim, “My lord Arthur! Before you enter upon the life of a devoted husband, a decidedly boring and unexciting life,” and laughter shook the posts, “I think you owe the consilium one last duty as a bachelor!”

  Gawain sprang to his feet as well. “A ride!”

  “A ride!” Bedevere took up the call.

  Soon, every lord in the room was shouting, “A ride! A last ride!” Even me.

  Arthur and Aircol had been no strangers to the drink on this night, and a broad grin walked its way across Arthur’s face. I was pleased for him. For the first time in nearly two years as Rigotamos, the consilium seemed as one. Even as he tried to stifle the cries, Aircol took them up, and Arthur was forced to concede defeat. It was an age-old tradition, usually tided to Beltane or Samhane, the ancient celebrations, and it was one that Arthur could not ignore.

  Arthur snagged a passing servus. “To the stables! Prepare our horses! We ride!”

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  The night was warm and quiet, the pleasing scent of wood smoke in the air, until we began our ride. The villagers must have thought a crazed pack of Saxon raiders had descended, so loud were our cries. In truth, if they were brave enough to glance out of their cottages, they would have seen a dancing parade of torches, lighting a band of drunken lords, swaying in their saddles and howling at the moon. Only Morgan and Merlin had failed to join us; both were besotted with mead and sound asleep.

  Drunk as I was, I kept a close eye on Arthur. It would not be difficult to create an accident—a jostling of his horse, a stinging whip to the animal’s hindquarters, sending the rider tumbling. Accidents happened, sometimes fatal ones. More than one lord had broken his neck in a fall from a horse. And Mordred and David would not mourn for long if such misfortune befell Arthur. But all seemed as it should be, all of us enjoying our ride.

  We rode out the Via Arturius, across the river Cam and out toward Ynys-witrin, passing small hamlets and villages. The summer had been dry, and much land that was usually underwater now lay revealed, damp and rotting. Sweeping to the west, we tore into the old Roman town at Lindinis.

  Pulling up to rest our mounts at an old, abandoned Roman villa, we eyed the broken-down house. “I believe,” Mordred shouted, “I’ll see if anyone is at home.”

  Snatching the reins quickly to the left, he aimed his horse for the entrance, intending, I supposed, to ride into the atrium.

  Almost immediately, even above the sounds of our raucous, drunken band, we heard an odd sound like that of an over-ripened squash exploding against a rock. Then, much to our surprise, Mordred flew backward from his horse, falling to the ground and rolling into a groaning bundle.

  We sat, stunned, until Mordred raised his head and we saw the blood running down his face. In his impatience, he had missed seeing the lintel and it caught him directly in the nose. Thrown to the ground, he cursed us, his horse, the long departed Romans, and his battered nose, now painted a shiny red in the torchlight.

  As Mordred struggled back to his feet and climbed back on his saddle, Kay whistled for our attention.

  “A race! To Castellum Arturius and once around the hill! First man to enter the gate wins!”

  “But what prize?” Aircol asked.

  “An amphora of my best wine,” replied Arthur, getting into the spirit of the affair.

  With a renewed shout of joy, we all kicked our horses and lunged toward home. At that precise moment, with the night air cooling the sweat on my face, and despite Guinevere’s sorrow and Ygerne’s anger, I had never felt happier.

  * * *

  I was mired well back of the leaders when the uppermost ramparts became visible, the wine clouding my eyes, judgment, and strength. From my position, it appeared that Bedevere and Celyn were battling for victory. A whiff of wood smoke from the campfires circling the hill flavored the air. I glanced up at the moon and guessed that we had been three hours on our ride.

  By that time, I was so far in the rear that I slowed my mount to a walk. Horse racing was for younger warriors than me. After a few moments, I heard the jiggle of bridles and the creaking of leather coming up behind me. Twisting about, I saw that Arthur and Aircol were joining me on either side.

  “Well, Malgwyn, it is finally done,” Arthur said.

  “Aye, my lord. It is that. What are your plans now, Lord Aircol?”

  “Home. To Caer Goch. Now that we are allied with the consilium, there are some changes I must make in my defense arrangements. And we have agreed to send an envoy to the northern tribes and seek better relations.”

  “Ready for another journey, Malgwyn?” Arthur asked.

  My head whipped around. “My lord, you cannot be serious! I have just returned from nearly a month away!” But then I saw the smile hiding behind his beard. Aircol burst into laughter.

  “A plague upon both of you!”

  Their laughter continued to ring across the flatlands. “Be at peace, Malgwyn,” Arthur counseled. “Your services will not be required this time. An emissary from Aircol will be better received than one from me.”

  He spoke the truth. Arthur’s relations with our cousins to the north had always been precarious. It had been the Picts from beyond the great Roman wall in the north that had caused Vortigern to first send for the Saxons. They had raided across the wall and killed many of our people, stolen animals and food. Our mutual hatred of the grasping Saxons had brought an uneasy peace. Aircol’s relatively good relations with those tribes had been a major reason for striking an alliance with him.

  I breathed a heavy sigh of relief. I had other plans for the days ahead, and traveling to the land of the Picts was not among them. The most important puzzle facing me now was why Ygerne had turned so angry with me. I had never been very good at understanding women, and with Ygerne I seemed to be even worse. But I did love her, not in the same way that I had loved Gwyneth, but just as strongly. At that moment, however, I was exhausted and would settle for my own bed.

  We rode up to the main gate, where a mass of cheering men surrounded another whom we could not see.

  With the help of a guard, I climbed down from my mount and pushed my way closer to the gaggle of men. One, obviously the victor, was now being held up by the others. A blond head bobbed up above the rest. Celyn. I had to laugh. The boy lord had proved himself good at something.

  A handful of stable boys had arrived and were leading the horses away. Bedevere appeared at my side. “More drink, Malgwyn?”

  I waved him off. “The only thing I wish right now is my bed. And you?”

  He yawned and stretched. “I will make certain the guard is set and then retire to Kay’s house.” Slapping me on the back, Bedevere smiled. “You are not the only man whose patience and fortitude has been stretched to the limits, old friend.”

  “I know. Perhaps now we can get back to normal life.”

  With that, I wandered off through the lanes to my house, intent only in curling up beneath a fur blanket. Merlin was already abed when I entered, and I fell into a deep sleep almost immediately.

  “Malgwyn!” A bear was roaring in my ear, and I wondered how it got into my hut. I turned away and buried my head deeper in the furs.

  “Malgwyn!” If I ignored it, I thought it would just go away.

  But then I felt a hand on my shoulder, jerking me upright.

  I blinked and tried to focus. ’Twas Bedevere. And the expression on his face was one I never wanted to see again. Fear. And not just ordinary fear. The veins in his neck pumped angrily; the skin of his face was white.

  “What, Bedevere? What has happened?”

  “Come! Now!”

  I reached for my caligae, but Bedevere snatched at my tunic. “There is not time!”

  With that he dragged me through the door and onto the cobbled pavement barefoot. I hopped and limped behind him as the not always smooth cobbles tore at my feet.

  “In the name of all the gods, Be
devere, what has happened? You can let go.” I glanced up at the sky. I had not been abed more than an hour if that.

  But Bedevere did not speak, just pointed to the side door of Arthur’s hall, and then shoved me in.

  A handful of lords were lolling about, speaking in hushed whispers to each other while keeping an eye on the door to Arthur’s chambers.

  And then I stopped, my eyes growing wide as the realization hit.

  I brushed off Bedevere’s hand and walked cautiously to the open door.

  With a deep, deep breath, I stepped in, and then shuddered in horror.

  Little Vala had been right. Someone in that wagon had been marked.

  Gwyneira was dead.

  * * *

  By then I had become accustomed to the scene—the bloodless face, the splayed legs, the crimson stain painting her thighs. But for the room, I could be looking at the girl at the White Mount or the one at Caer Goch. Gwyneira’s eyes were closed. In the maelstrom that was my thoughts at that moment, I wondered if she had been found that way or if someone had closed them later. Having faced any number of the dead, I had noticed that they rarely closed their own eyes, especially those who died by violence.

  Arthur was there, pacing angrily with short, quick steps, his eyes reddened. Aircol, his long white hair hanging down over his face, sat in a chair, head bent, obviously stunned, seeming far more fragile than I had ever seen him.

  I wanted to close my eyes and believe it all a dream. The servants must have just cleared the feasting hall; I could still detect the hint of roasted chicken and vegetables in the air. Walking to the bed, I reached down and touched her face. Not cold, but no longer warm either.