The Divine Sacrifice E-Book

Anthony Hays

• Herausgeber: Corvus
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 417

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2013

Beschreibung

Welcome to fifth-century Britain: the Romans have left, the Saxons have invaded, the towns are decaying and the countryside is dangerous. Malgwyn ap Cuneglas, an embittered former soldier who lost a limb in combat, is now a trusted advisor to Arthur, the High King of all Britannia. When a monk dies in horrific circumstances in Glastonbury Abbey, the Abbot calls for Malgwyn to investigate. His search for the truth will draw him into an intricate web of religious, economic and political deceit - and a conspiracy that could endanger everything Arthur has fought for.

Leseprobe

Anthony Hays is a journalist and novelist. He has covered topics as varied as narcotics trafficking, political corruption, Civil War history, and the war on terror.

ALSO BY ANTHONY HAYS

PRAISE FOR ANTHONY HAYS

‘A moving, gritty, intriguing take on the Arthurian myth with solid, well-drawn characters, and a fantastic murder mystery you can really sink your teeth into. The best of Ellis Peters rendered in the battle-tongue of Bernard Cornwell.’

– M C Scott

‘Stirring stuff, with plenty of intrigue and atmosphere.’

– Guardian

‘This author knows his history and produces a first class, page turning tale. We shall doubtless hear much more of Tony Hays.’ – Peter Tremayne

‘Powerfully told and atmospherically driven.’

– The New York Journal of Books

‘A fascinating blend of history and fiction … sure to engage fans of both Bernard Cornwell and Ellis Peters.’

–

First published in the United States in 2010 by Forge, an imprint of Tom Doherty Associates, LLC, New York.

First published in paperback in Great Britain in 2013 by Corvus, an imprint of Atlantic Books Ltd.

Copyright © Anthony Hays, 2010

The moral right of Anthony Hays to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act of 1988.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities, is entirely coincidental.

Maps by Jon Lansberg and Jennifer Hanover

10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

Paperback ISBN: 978 0 85789 066 5 E-book ISBN: 978 0 85789 068 9

Printed in Great Britain.

Corvus An imprint of Atlantic Books Ltd Ormond House 26–27 Boswell Street London WC1N 3JZ

www.corvus-books.co.uk

For

ROBERT DOUGLAS HAYS

(1917–1981)

and

CARL T. TALLENT

(1921–2008)

who sacrificed their youth so that we might be free

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Faced with the task of giving credit where it is due for this, the second volume of Malgwyn’s and Arthur’s adventures, I find that the list grows longer, not shorter. But the length does nothing to diminish the appreciation I feel toward each.

My agent, Frank Weimann, and his assistant, Elyse Tanzillo, are absolutely the best. My delightful editor, Claire Eddy, her assistant, Kristin Sevick, and all the folks at Tor/Forge have been wonderful. As always, Bo and Dee Grimshaw and Rich and Roz Tuerk have proven themselves true friends. Bill and Diane Pyron and their children, Amelia and Atticus, have been a constant source of encouragement. Thanks go to Clara Gerl, my lecture partner with DeVry, for her understanding and support. And no list would be complete without Brian Holcombe, who stood by me through some tough times.

I am forever grateful to Geoffrey and Pat Ashe for their willingness to share their vast knowledge of Arthur and his times as well as their friendship. Dr. Christopher Snyder was always happy to answer my interminable questions about the Britonic Age.

Much of my life has been spent overseas, teaching English and creative writing at a variety of places. And I am the richer for having enjoyed the friendship of Sonya Mitic, Lela Argus, Anita Reci, Todor Gajdov, Jeta Rushidi, Luizia Zeqiri, Jazmin Triana Durango, and Qenan Saliu in Macedonia. A world away in Tennessee, my classrooms were blessed with students like Tristan Daniel, Kassie Vickery, Allen Farmer, Taylor Holder, and more than I could possibly name here. Dear friends from my days in the Marshall Islands include Carolyn Laws, Max Voelzke, and John Tuthill. In England I enjoyed the hospitality of new friends Diane and Ross Bowman and Jane and Chris Lee and old friends Hazel and Nigel Garwell. I had great times with the folks in Reading at the Thames Valley Writers group, the Southampton Writers Circle, and Susan Down and her fine group in Salisbury.

The publication of The Killing Way brought a host of old friends back into my life. My first coauthor and childhood friend, Michael Greene, classmates Kathy Louvin, Mike Card, Jeff Harrell, Cindy Lamb, Dave Rizzuto, Dana Spinks, Steve Ellis, Doug Nall, Woodson Marshall, Sheryl Rennie Hall, Bruce Martin, David Vowell, Randy Tarkington, Matt Fischer, Jenny Roberts, Teresa Vaden, Laura Watts, Joan Howell, Lynn Jones, Jeannie Wagner, Debbie Vaden, Ron Estes, Anjanette Benjamin, and the list goes on.

For ten years, I hung my hat in Savannah, Tennessee. I would be totally remiss if I did not mention Lisa Bevis, Ann Bain, Pat Prather, Jimmy Bain, Steve Bain, Billy Bain, Benson Parris, Diane Qualls, Deb Gray, Donna Davis, Stacy Carnal, and Tammy Cherry. Tommy Tallent, Mary Sue Vickery, and Becky Bain have been far greater and more loyal friends than I deserve. And that’s true too of Jana and Kevin Shelby.

And, I cannot forget to mention my newly rediscovered family, the children of my late brother Robert Joe Hays, Sr. His sons, Joe Hays, John Hays, and Jamie Hays. Their children, Amber, Morgan, Alex, and Katherine Hays. His daughter, Christy Dawn Langford, and her children—Ashley, Ryan, Sarah, and Caleb. And then there are the in-laws, Lisa Hays, Brad Langford, and Samantha Hays. Last but certainly not least, Shannah Vivian Farr, who was like a sister to me all those years ago.

To those who I have inevitably left out, I apologize. Their friendship and support are not diminished by their absence.

CONTENTS

GLASTONBURY

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

GLASTONBURY

In the Eighty-first Year from the Adventus Saxonum

The water is high again, transforming the marshlands into sea and turning this ancient place into an island. With gray mist coating the land like a thick fur, I often find my old feet taking me to the abbey, to the old cemetery next to the vetustam ecclesia, the original church. With my ninetieth winter upon me, I know more people buried here than those still aboveground.

One grave lies near unto the old church, aye, not far from the well. No marker tells of its occupant. Indeed, if you did not know it was there, it would seem just another bare plot of ground, a hollow place. But that is how he wanted it. Unmarked and therefore unpretentious.

I am not a brother of the abbey. Aye, I am not sure what I am, save an old, one-armed man in a world that does not value such. For a short while, many seasons past, I was a farmer, then soldier, then counselor to the Rigotamos, Arthur ap Uther. It is he who lies between the two stout pillars in the burial ground, interred with my cousin Guinevere. I come to this place often and sit on a rock, wishing that I could speak with them.

Though I am not a brother, my simple hut sits inside the vallum, the ditch that marks the abbey’s boundary. I take my meals at the abbot’s table; copy an occasional manuscript when my one hand is not too pained. The abbot still seeks my counsel when he treats with the pagan Saxons, who have now spread across our land like a vile disease.

On this day, I thought not of Arthur, of Guinevere, but of the man whose bones lie in the hollowed spot. I knew him, not well, but I knew him. He was a simple soul, too firm in his beliefs to allow for any change, and though he would have willingly died for his beliefs, it was not those that brought him to a violent end. Sometimes the best of us are brought low by the most worthless of reasons. So it was with him. But his was not the only death in that affair. And, it was not the first, but it became the most important.

I remember well the day on which his death began. Beyond the gods cursing our weather, it dawned without any portent of trouble. The most evil occasions often have the most innocent beginnings. That is the way of life. The water was high on that day too, and the Via Arturius, the road running from Castellum Arturius, was muddy, slowing the journey and tiring the horses. But such is not the proper way to tell the tale. And only I am now left to tell it. The others, Arthur, Guinevere, Bedevere, are all gone. But I must tell it in the proper order, to ensure that I leave nothing out. And, as with all days, it began with an awakening. . . .

CHAPTER ONE

Malgwyn!”

The voice came from the other side of that netherworld whence come our dreams. I ignored its call and rolled over, pulling my fur blanket tighter against me.

“Malgwyn!”

I resisted it still.

“Malgwyn ap Cuneglas!”

I pried one of my eyes open and squinted at Merlin, old and wrinkled, standing there with one of my finest tunics, dyed crimson, in hand. Owain, a little orphan boy who helped us with our tasks, stood next to him, holding my braccae and my caligae. A smile grew across my face though I wished only to frown. They looked like father and son.

“He is awake!” Owain cried. “Shall I get the water jug again, Master Merlin?” he asked with a smile that betrayed how much he would enjoy dousing me.

“Certainly you should, boy. He used to be a farmer, and farmers are renowned for rising early. I have a theory that rising early allows us to breathe the freshest air of the day. It is time that he went back to his old habits.”

Sensing the inevitable, I threw the fur back with my good arm and swung my feet around. “Which old habits are those, Master Merlin? Draining wineskins or killing Saxons?” In truth, I had done more than my share of both. After Saxons had killed my wife, Gwyneth, I turned from farmer to soldier, and at Arthur’s side, I reveled in the Saxon blood I spilled. Until I lost an arm at Tribuit. “What will you teach this scamp while I am away, Merlin?”

The old man, whose face resembled a dried grape, wrinkled it further in concentration. “He must learn more about herbs and how to use them to heal, Malgwyn. His education is wholly lacking. Now, come! Don your tunic and breeches. Arthur will be waiting.”

I wiped my stump of an arm across my eyes, hoping to clear away the cobwebs of sleep. “Arthur can wait. ’Tis only a two-hour ride to the abbey, and we are not expected before midday.”

“Aye, but I think the Rigotamos has a stop to make on the way,” Merlin said with a wink.

Pulling myself to my feet, I took the braccae and struggled to put them on. “Not on a formal trip,” I answered, with enough of an edge to let Merlin know that he was plowing in salted earth.

But Merlin had spoken the truth, I acknowledged to myself as I donned my linen camisia. Once, many moons ago, I was a farmer. But the war against the Saxons stole my young wife from me and made me a soldier in the command of Arthur ap Uther, now the Rigotamos, the High King of all Britannia; he was then but the Dux Bellorum, the leader of battles, for the consilium of lords that held our fragmented island together. My zeal for killing Saxons raised me in Arthur’s esteem, and I quickly became one of his lesser lieutenants. But a Saxon sword cleaved my arm along the River Tribuit and took my bloodlust away.

Arthur stanched the flow of my life’s blood and saved me, when I wanted nothing more than to die. He took me to Ynys-witrin, where the monachi bound my wounds, healed me, and taught me to write with my left hand, gave me something of a trade since farming and warring were lost to me. Death still seemed preferable to all, and I bore Arthur a grudge for my salvation, a grudge that blighted my days and sent my nights reeling into a waterfall of drink.

Ambrosius Aurelianus was then the Rigotamos, having taken office in the wake of Vortigern’s disgrace. It was Vortigern who had been betrayed by the Saxons. He had first hired them to counter the threat of the Picts, but the treacherous Saxons turned on Vortigern and swept beyond those lands granted them. The war thus created made the threat of the Picts seem but a minor annoyance, swatted away like a fly. The Saxons hungered for our land, and their appetite was voracious. In the confusion that followed Vortigern’s fall, Ambrosius, a native Briton, but one with deep Roman roots, rose to leadership. He brought with him a group of young, valiant warriors, including Arthur ap Uther.

“Oh, did Lord Arthur not tell you?” Merlin continued to chide me. “He has reduced the size of his party. Only you and Bedevere will accompany him.”

Owain tied the rope around my waist that held the braccae up. He jerked it tight, too tight, and I yelped. “You should not eat so much, Malgwyn.”

I whacked the back of his head for his insolence and turned back to Merlin. “Only two in his escort for a formal visit? What is Arthur thinking?”

Merlin laid my tunic on a rickety wooden bench. “I think that Arthur is reluctant to pay too much attention to Lauhiir. Should he be accompanied by all his nobles, then it could confer upon the little oaf an importance he does not deserve.”

Now, that was reasoning that I could understand.

As Owain strapped my iron-studded leather belt around me, I smiled at the memory of the young, oh so earnest, lord.

Arthur, son of both Rome and Britannia, was a soldier above all else, and he fought the Saxons with courage and guile. I fought alongside him, until that day at the Tribuit when a Saxon blade left me bleeding. By the time my wounds healed, Arthur had stanched the flow of Saxons into our lands and positioned himself to become the next Rigotamos.

After a time, I returned to the old village near Castellum Arturius, taking an abandoned hut as my own. Little Owain, a boy of the castle, neglected by his own people, became my assistant of sorts, helping me with little chores. And thus I remained, copying manuscripts for the monachi, drinking and whoring, until the night that Arthur came to me and laid the death of Eleonore in my lap, on the eve of Ambrosius’s retirement and the election of a new Rigotamos.

I grabbed my leather pouch and checked the contents, my flint and tinder for starting fires, an extra dagger, and a small piece of dark, heavy cloth. I had found it in young Eleonore’s hand, when she lay ripped apart in the lane.

Eleonore had been the sister of my wife, Gwyneth. After the death of their parents, while I lay drunk at Castellum Arturius, she turned to my brother for aid, becoming both a beautiful and willful young woman and a serving girl at Arthur’s table. Her body was found in the lane in front of Merlin’s house, ripped like a slaughtered deer. Arthur came to me to solve the crime. The affair was sordid and nasty, peopled with Druids, true and false, Saxons, and grasping lords, and more deaths followed the first. Among the deaths were those of young Owain’s parents, leaving him an orphan in a world bereft of charity. But by luck and a stubborn persistence, I weaved my way through the maze, helping to place Arthur on his throne and keep Merlin safe from the machinations of Mordred, and keeping my own head firmly atop my shoulders. After that, all was different.

I became Arthur’s counselor, and I moved into Merlin’s house near the main hall in the castle. I had left my daughter, Mariam, survivor of the vicious attack that stole Gwyneth from us both, with my brother, Cuneglas, when I went to war with the Saxons. On my return, I was too lost in shame and drink to retrieve her. She had grown up thinking that Cuneglas and his wife, Ygerne, were her parents. Only during the affair surrounding Eleonore’s death did she learn the truth, but even now she lived with Ygerne.

Though I was now responsible for my late brother Cuneglas’s family—he died of a head wound some days after the election of Arthur as Rigotamos—it was not appropriate for me to live with them, though I had a yearning that knew no end for Ygerne, my brother’s widow. And, oh, how I wished I could break down the fearful barrier in my own mind that kept me from joining Mariam and Ygerne. Guilt is a powerful foe.

Marriage between widows and their husband’s brothers was not uncommon in our land, but the guilt I felt for leaving my daughter with them, ignoring them, overwhelmed all other urges. Ygerne, kind and charitable soul that she was, took Owain too into her home, though he spent as much time with me and Merlin as with anyone. And we needed each other, the three of us. Merlin, whose mind sometimes wandered, needed companionship. Owain needed people who cared about him. I needed people who needed me.

I fingered the scrap of cloth with my good hand, in wonder at the role it had played in making all of that happen. It had led me to Eleonore’s killers and a better life; I kept it now for good luck.

“Well, do not expect to arrive at the abbey by the midday,” Merlin said in a mischievous tone, “formal trip or not.” The old devil delighted in aggravating me. One of the things that bound Arthur and me was my kinship with his mistress, my cousin Guinevere, who lived in a house just off the Via Arturius, the road to Ynys-witrin. The story was an old one and known by but a few. When very young, she had been with the sisters near Ynys-witrin. Headstrong and beautiful, she had joined the sisters to avoid a marriage she did not want. But while there, she met the young Arthur and fell in love with him and he with her. And their love led them to break the boundaries between the sisters and men, and they were caught in an embrace.

Guinevere was driven from the sisters’ community in disgrace. But Arthur’s rising importance brought the consilium to his defense, and he was spared any sanction. Merlin spread the word that she was actually a powerful enchantress and had bewitched Arthur. The story kept people from bothering her, for they feared her magic, and Arthur arranged for the simple house. As the years passed and his prestige grew, he brought her from the shadows into the light of his court as his acknowledged consort. But a king’s wife had to be as perfect (in Arthur’s eyes) as the king himself, and Arthur knew that her shame in being exiled from the women’s community would always be with her. Though things were better, Merlin’s rumors of the enchantress followed her still. I had been pressing Arthur to leave the past behind and marry her, but he refused yet, and it remained a sore point between us.

In a more somber tone, Merlin added, “Be careful, Malgwyn. I worry that there is more to Lauhiir’s appointment than there would seem.”

With Saxons knocking at our eastern door and encroaching on our southern lands, Ambrosius had bowed to the pressure from the consilium and named young Lord Lauhiir, the choice of Mark and his faction, as protector of the Tor and Ynys-witrin. Many such lords peopled our land, ruling by brutality and greed. But Lauhiir’s father, Eliman, had been a lieutenant to Mark in years gone by. In truth, I liked Lauhiir not, and argued with Arthur about his appointment. To my eye, he was slimy and spoiled, a man who wore fancy clothes to mark his station whereas Arthur wore his station like clothes. But Lauhiir’s father had many friends on the consilium, and Arthur could not reverse Ambrosius’s decision. “Besides,” he told me one day, “by having him close to hand at the Tor, I can better keep an eye on him.”

I straightened my tunic beneath the belt as best I could with but one hand. “You think there is some evil in it?” I asked Merlin.

“Evil is a vague thing. Do I think it bodes no good for Arthur? Yes. I think with Mordred away on our western border, Lauhiir poses the greatest threat to Arthur’s seat. Mordred’s head should be gracing a post in the east.” Young Mordred was one of Arthur’s least favorite cousins. He was sly where Arthur was cunning. Though I had been unable to prove his guilt in the plot against Ambrosius, he had been exiled to our western coast where he could do less harm.

“You are a wise man, Merlin. You know that that could never happen. David, Lauhiir, and Mark would spark an instant rebellion. I did the best I could, but that wasn’t good enough to tie the noose about Mordred’s head.”

At the thought of David, a lord from the northwest, I stopped and frowned. He had challenged Arthur at the election, but lost, a loss he took not well. Aye, he had sought my punishment for striking the boy lord Celyn in some sort of petulant reprisal for his rejection by the consilium. Mark was second only to Arthur in strength as a lord. He ruled his lands from Castellum Marcus in the far southwest. Tristan, his son, was serving a kind of enforced servitude at Arthur’s castle for his hand in Eleonore’s death. He had come to Arthur’s castle for the election of the new Rigotamos, representing his father. And, we quickly learned, to counsel a treaty with the Saxons, a treaty he indicated that Mark was intent on pursuing with or without the consilium’s approval.

But once there, like many young men, he had fallen afoul of Eleonore’s charms and become possessed by the spirit of her beauty. But she rejected his bid and in the violence that ensued lost her life. Although Tristan did not kill her, his actions left her vulnerable to those who did take her life. I had let him believe, however, that he bore the greater guilt.

“But Ynys-witrin is great power to place in the hands of a newly made lord,” I continued. “I think that Lauhiir is not equal to it.” I did not tell him that I suspected Lauhiir as complicit in the plot against Ambrosius, and that had been at the heart of the matter of Eleonore’s death.

“I knew a great lord once,” Merlin began, crossing the room and settling slowly onto a stool. “It was long before Arthur was born. One day during the hot season, in the marshes near the water, he was bitten by a small fly. Within days, that small fly had laid the great lord low.”

“I take your meaning.” And I did, though I still believed that he gave Lauhiir more credit than he deserved. I finished dressing, wishing that it were Kay going with us. In so many ways, he was more aggravating than any of Arthur’s nobles, but, despite his temper, I had come to trust him completely. Unfortunately, Kay was off on an official inspection tour of our eastern border forts. Unofficially, he was checking to see what mischief Mordred, Arthur’s cousin, had inflicted upon the people when posted to the east. Although Arthur had set Gawain and Gereint to keep an eye on Mordred in the west, he desired that Kay should bring him a report from the east. It was while posted there some moons before that Mordred had let the Saxons into our lands, or so I believed.

Bedevere had been by Arthur’s side as long as Kay or longer. A handsome, strong fellow, he was quiet, unlike Kay. While I had warred as long with one as the other, I could not say that I knew Bedevere well. His father and grandfather had been nobles under Vortigern, and Bedevere had come to Arthur’s service while the Rigotamos was still young.

With a face that seemed cut from stone, he carried the look of a man with a hard heart. But the one secret I knew of Bedevere put the lie to that. Once on a scout for Arthur, Bedevere and I took our soldiers into a small village, not too distant from Londinium. The Saxons had been there before us, and we searched among the burning huts and the slain for any that breathed yet. Circling a small shed, I came suddenly upon Bedevere, sitting on the ground, his sword lying by his side. In his arms he cradled a small girl, her hair as blond as my Mariam’s, but her life’s blood soaking the ground.

The noble with a face of granite was crying. I returned from whence I came, and he never knew I had seen him. As long as Arthur could count on such men’s loyalty, he might have a chance in this maze of a world, a chance to do some good among all the greed, jealousy, and evil.

These were the things which held my mind as I finished dressing. Owain rummaged around in our storage pit, looking for bread and cheese. Merlin had already forgotten my journey and was busy working on some odd-looking project at his workbench.

“Father?”

She always did that to me! Like some little water fairy, my daughter Mariam could pop in and out of the house without making a noise. Blond, like her mother, she had a face as fair and pretty as the morning sun, with eyes as mischievous as Gwyn ap Nudd, the fairy king.

“Yes, Mariam.”

She edged closer to me and sat on the bench. Touching was still awkward for us.

“Mother says you are to come and eat your morning meal with us before you leave.” As always, when delivering a message, she was the soul of severity. “Father, why are you and the Rigotamos going to Ynys-witrin?”

I straightened my tunic before answering. “So that he and Coroticus may argue about the church.”

“But why do they argue? Do they not both believe in the Christ?” She was so like my dear Gwyneth, her true mother. Questions, always questions.

Pausing and taking a deep breath, I searched for an answer. How do you explain such a question to a child? She knew nothing of Pelagius and his heresy, of how seriously priests argued over unanswerable questions. Of how a priest could consider the shape of a building a blasphemy and a king could think it an homage and both could truly believe they were right. So, I made a joke.

“They argue over whether to sacrifice a little girl or a little boy to bless the building. I have voted for a little girl, and I know just the one.”

Mariam giggled, which was good to see. “No, you don’t, Father. You would not have saved me from those awful Saxons if you thought I would make a good sacrifice. And those who follow the Christ do not believe in human sacrifice.”

“True,” I agreed. “Now, run to your mother’s and tell her I will be there in a minute.”

She left with the smile still on her face.

“You should spend more time with her, Malgwyn. It would do you good and Ygerne would, I think, welcome it.”

A heat rose up in my neck. “Do not worry about what Ygerne would welcome! She is my brother’s widow, and he is but a few months in the grave! Besides, as part of Arthur’s household, she will want for nothing.”

Merlin cocked his head at me. “I meant that Ygerne would welcome that you spend more time with Mariam.”

I grunted and prepared to stomp out of the house as I could think of nothing clever to say. But then the door burst open and a man, wearing a rough brown robe, his face red from exertion, half tumbled and half ran into the house.

“Malgwyn!”

“Ider?” He was one of the brothers at Ynys-witrin, younger than most others.

He was panting heavily, and even the shaved strip from ear to ear, his tonsure, was red. He paused long enough to catch his breath, but when the words came out, they chilled me. “You must come quickly! Brother Elafius is dead, and the abbot wants you immediately!”

CHAPTER TWO

Did he die by violence, Ider?”

The young brother was sitting on one of our stools and gulping water from a jug that Owain had hurried to him. He shook his head. “It did not appear so to me, Malgwyn. But the abbot sees something strange in it.”

“Elafius was an old man, Ider. His death was bound to come soon.” I still did not understand why Coroticus had sent Ider to speed our journey. I remembered Elafius well. He was a kindly old fellow, skilled in the healing arts, but an irritating and argumentative monachus. He was truly ancient, and I would not have been surprised to have heard of his death anytime in the six years past.

Arthur stomped in before I could respond, and Ider rose to bow to him, but the Rigotamos waved him back to his seat. “We are preparing to leave now. Coroticus knows we are coming today. Why this haste?”

“My lord, I know only that the abbot did not expect you until the evening meal. He sent me to hasten your departure, or at least that of Malgwyn. Please, Rigotamos, the abbot is in a terrible state! Give Malgwyn his leave to depart now.”

This morning, before Ider burst in upon us, as Merlin and Owain abused me for a lazy sluggard, I was intended to ride with Arthur to Ynys-witrin. My old friend Coroticus, the abbot, was still battling with Arthur about his cruciform church in the castle. Arthur called it worshipful, reminding the abbot that the cross was a recognized symbol; Coroticus called it blasphemous, but offered no real rationale for his opposition. We all knew his motive; he wanted Arthur to reduce the abbey’s taxes. Arthur would not. Without the abbot’s blessing, Arthur had called a halt to the church’s construction. And now it was but a muddy foundation in the middle of the castle, caught between two stubborn men.

Our meeting would be the third and the only one held at Ynys-witrin. Indeed it was Arthur’s right to demand that all such parleys be held at Castellum Arturius, but this trip was special.

The Tor, a tall, steep hill among the small chain which made up Ynys-witrin, was a critical point in our alert system. So important did the consilium deem it that they insisted an armed presence was necessary, claiming there was too much of a gap between Castellum Arturius and the channel. So, Lauhiir had the charge of building permanent defenses there.

A watch fire was also kept at the Mount of Frogs, to the northwest, and it was much more defensible than the Tor, but the place itself was said to be enchanted, the home of three giants. Establishing a stockade there had become a problem. Though I believed not in such things, many of our soldiers did believe in giants and enchantresses and magic. Old superstitions die hard. Finally, Arthur ordered a minor lord, Teilo, to dispatch troops there. I believe some extra lands changed hands in the process. This despite the fact that David and another minor lord, Dochu, had troops closer.

The trip to Ynys-witrin then was for Arthur to inspect Lauhiir’s fortifications on the Tor as well as to argue religion and the unfinished church with Coroticus. While I minded not my job of observing Lauhiir, I found arguments about religion unsettling. My own beliefs drifted upon a stormy sea, while both Arthur and Coroticus had firm, strong beliefs in the Christ. That the specifics of those beliefs were often as different as words would allow was of little consequence to them, but kept me confused. More particularly, however, I minded how Arthur used me as a buffer between himself and Coroticus, allowing me to earn the abbot’s wrath by couching their differences as the result of discussions with me. “Why just last eve,” Arthur would say, “Malgwyn reminded me that the problem with that was . . .” Hence my reluctance to abandon my furs and face the coming journey. Until Brother Ider’s abrupt appearance.

Arthur twirled his beard with one finger while wrinkling his brow. “No,” he said finally. “We will both depart now.” He looked to Owain. “Fetch Bedevere, boy. Tell him that I have ordered our immediate departure.”

Merlin, who had been silent until then, left his workbench and faced Arthur. “Something lies hidden in this that I do not like,” he said, shaking his gray-bearded head. “Ider, when was Elafius’s death discovered?”

“Why, just after the midnight, master.”

“Who discovered him?”

“I do not know. I know only that Coroticus sent for me and dispatched me here.”

I nodded. “It must have been so for Ider to arrive so early this morn.”

“Both of you,” Merlin said, “be cautious. I see nothing good in this. Send for me if you have need of my services.”

Arthur patted him on the back. “We will, old friend. Come, Malgwyn. Let us find out what stirs the abbot from his peace.”

“Merlin must have cast a spell for rain,” Arthur grumbled as we rode our tired, wet horses along the muddy track. The Rigotamos was a tall man, solidly built, with chestnut-brown hair and a long, flowing beard. His fingers were curiously at odds with his body, being short and stumpy. One had been taken by a Saxon spear, but the others, protruding from the wool wrapped around them, were rough and red. A true believer in the Christ, he was also a magician at balancing the demands of the consilium and his devotion to justice, a devotion that most called a weakness.

“Be easy, Ider,” I told the young monachus whose eyes had spread wide at the mention of Merlin and spells. “The Rigotamos jests.” Though the peasants and townsfolk still believed that the old man was a sorcerer, he held no magic in his heart, just a bag of tricks that gave the illusion of magic. His pouch held herbal cures, and nuts, sometimes candies for the young. And, in truth, he had put them to good use in the past. Mostly, now, he was just an old man with a wandering mind, sharp and penetrating at times, fogged and clouded at others. But, we treasured him all the same.

Still, I sensed in Ider an uneasiness in such company. “By your leave, my lord,” he began in a stutter. “I would speed my own return to prepare the abbot for your arrival.”

Arthur glanced at me, his eyes hiding well those thoughts behind them. “As you will, Brother Ider. Tell the abbot that we will take our noon meal with him.”

With that, Ider prodded his horse into a slippery trot as if he could not leave us behind fast enough. “Better,” Arthur observed. “Now we can speak without caution.”

“This journey could have waited until the summer,” I pointed out, looking down and seeing how my horse’s hooves sank six inches into the thick brown mud. The Romans had planned one of their solid, cobbled roads here, and they had been responsible for clearing the lane on which we rode. But threats from elsewhere in the empire had stolen both interest in another road and the funds to construct it. So, we were left with a path nearly impassable in wet weather.

“No,” Arthur answered, shaking his shaggy head. “In truth Elafius’s death would have called us forward, or at least called you forward, regardless of when we had planned this visit. And the sooner Lauhiir understands that I will keep my eye turned in his direction, the better he will behave.”

“He is a petulant child,” Bedevere said, his voice gravelly and deep. “Better you should spank him than coddle him.”

“If necessary, old friend, I will do what must be done.”

And Arthur was clever when it came to politics. His family traced its roots back to Roman senators, or so he claimed on those few occasions when he actually spoke of them. The Rigotamos was curious with regard to that. He said little of his family, in a time when family meant rank, wealth. I knew, though, that while his ancestry might have gotten him his first post, his rise in power was due to his own actions, his own victories, at which his cleverness rose to the fore again.

He fought with brains, with common sense. Where Lord Mark would send a hundred men headlong into an assault against the Saxons, Arthur would use fifty men skillfully and achieve the same result.

“And what of Coroticus and the church?” I asked. “Will this be the final tale on that?”

“Of course not,” the Rigotamos answered with a smile in his eye. “Coroticus will never give up his one point of leverage. He demands lower taxes in exchange for his blessing on my church. That, I will never agree to.”

In truth, Arthur was no friend of the clergy. As a young noble, he collected taxes for the consilium, and he earned the wrath of priests and monachi by not taking their bribes, forcing them to pay their taxes, something that endeared him to the consilium but did little for his standing with the church.

We met few travelers on the muddy road, almost impassable in places, rising and falling with the gentle slopes along the levels. Most moved to let us pass. Some bowed to Arthur; a few reached to touch him. I never understood that. It was most remarkable. I had seen many lords in my life, but Arthur was the only one that the common folk wanted to touch. Well, aside from those that wished to hang their lord for his cruelty. Arthur’s dealings could seem as cruel as any, but he used that weapon selectively and never without cause.

As we neared the bridge across the River Brue before arriving at Ynys-witrin, we happened upon a group of merchants, their wagons loaded with wares, headed toward the little village outside the abbey. I rode ahead of Arthur and Bedevere and approached the group.

“Fair morn to you!” I greeted.

One of the merchants, a chubby man with greasy hair and beard, turned and eyed me with a fierce look, probably expecting something other than a well-dressed, one-armed man. One-armed, aye, one-legged men were not unknown, but almost none were well-to-do. Most were beggars, shunned by the people as cursed. His eye was quick enough to catch the Rigotamos and Bedevere in the distance though.

“My lord, how may I assist you?” His voice was as greasy as his hair.

“Why come you to Ynys-witrin? Is there some festival?”

“Have you not heard, my lord?”

“Heard what?”

The man’s eyes grew wide. “Why, I would think the Rigotamos’s councillors would have heard.” I was growing quickly tired of this man.

Placing my hand on the hilt of my sword, tucked snugly in my leather belt, I smiled down at him. “If I knew, I would not be asking. Do not test my good manners.” The world would not miss one less merchant, and insolence to Arthur’s counselors was insolence to Arthur.

His eyes grew wider still and he gulped. “No harm meant, my lord. Patrick is said to arrive from across the sea today. With Patrick and the Rigotamos both here, it becomes a festival.”

I groaned. And the merchant hurried to catch up with his wagon, splashing its way through the mud.

Patrick!

This trip was ill-fated from the start. Patrick, though some called him “Patricius,” was the last thing we needed. Born to a local official in the last years of the Roman time, he had been stolen by the Scotti across the water when he was but a boy. After many years, the stories told us, he escaped and made his way to Gaul where he became a priest and had quickly become one of the most famous and important. He allied with Bishop Germanus in the Pelagian matter and earned great respect among the clergy.

Pelagius. Would that I had never heard that name. Pelagius had been a priest of our lands who had aspired to greater rank in the church. I tried to remember what I knew of Pelagianism, what the monachi had said in passing.

He had been a man of our lands, a deeply religious man, who traveled far and wide, yea even unto Rome itself. He was a man of great stubbornness, a man of stout beliefs, who argued that all man needed, for eternal life, were good works, not God’s grace. Rumors abounded that he had gone far to the east, beyond the Holy Land. Said to be a tall, friendly man, he refused to accept certain of the church’s teachings. I do not profess to be a learned man of religious things. All I can say for certain was that Pelagius claimed that man had complete free will and could choose between good and evil for himself. If I understood correctly, God’s grace and the sacrifice of the Christ had little meaning according to Pelagius. His beliefs made little headway with the church fathers, and he was eventually forced to flee, some said to the far east.

Patrick owed much of his power to his support of Bishop Germanus in the Pelagian affair. When a young sacerdote named Agricola, the son of a British episcopus, had openly championed Pelagius, Germanus and first Lupus, and then Severus, were sent to end the heresy. Patrick, himself a much younger man than now, gave homage to Germanus, earning the great man’s thanks and garnering a great deal of power for himself. And he was not shy about displaying that power. A great busybody, he frequently interfered with lords and their followers. Fortunately, he spent most of his time with the Scotti and rarely visited our shores. Until now.

The signs were all against us. From the strange summons on the death of Brother Elafius, to the sudden appearance of Patrick, to the hidden threat posed by Lauhiir. The old people would have barred our departure, threatened us with the ancient gods. I pondered telling Arthur about Patrick as he and Bedevere drew near.

As if he were reading my mind, he hailed me. “What news, Malgwyn? Why this torrent of travelers?”

I grimaced. We were almost at Ynys-witrin and the word of Patrick’s arrival would not profit Arthur so late in our journey, so I decided to let him find out for himself.

“The country folk are turning your visit into a fair, my lord.”

Though he nodded and seemed satisfied with the answer, his eyes narrowed ever so slightly. I knew him too well and the look he gave me boded ill for the future. With that, we urged our horses into the stream of people in the lane.

The great Tor at Ynys-witrin was part of a chain of hills, of islands most of the year. Rainwater swelled the great channel to the north and the lowlands around Ynys-witrin flooded often. Only a narrow strip of land joined the island to the rest of Brittania, and it was across that strip that the Via Arturius led, right along the base of the little tor called Wirral, and on to the abbey itself. Though, at some times, the water reached up and closed that route as well, turning the great tor and the little hills into a true island.

In days past, the old folk said that the sea itself came up to the tor. When I was yet young, my father took me once and showed me where the Romans had built wharves for the big ships to come up the river. They were still there, at the edge of Wirral, though few ships made the journey anymore, and they were in poor repair.

As we drew close to the causeway that linked Ynys-witrin with the Via Arturius, I saw the silhouette of a single tree, a thorn tree, at Wirral’s summit. Coroticus swore that Joseph of Arimathea, he who gave a tomb for the Christ, came to this spot from Judea with twelve companions. Exhausted, he planted his staff and it took root, growing into the twisted, gnarled tree I could yet see. I knew nothing of the truth of it, but I know that it bloomed during the winter, around about the time that the old Romans held their Saturnalia festivals, and, as my father used to tell me, the Druids held one of their rites.

As I say, I could not judge the story’s truth. I only knew that the old tree on Wirral Hill always seemed lonely to me, and somehow sad. If this Joseph did indeed come here from the lands of Judea, many thousands of miles away, he must have been as the thorn tree, a solitary and lonely figure in his own way, twelve companions or not.

I breathed deeply, holding in my chest the smells of a place that was special to me in both good and bad ways. Never, in all of my travels with Arthur, had I found a place such as this. Wood smoke flavored the air, but somehow it mixed with another, purer, cleaner air and acted as a balm to my soul. Explanations for this were weak and assailable. Yet it was true.

The village of Ynys-witrin consisted of a single road that snaked around the gentle slope beneath the abbey and up the hill beside it. The houses were all wattle and daub, an oak frame with a mix of straw and mud and cow dung between the timbers. The odor in wet weather was not pleasant, and it left the road smelling like a herd of cattle. And this day was wet.

I saw quickly that word of our arrival and that of Patrick had truly spread. Our journey had taken but about three hours, and much of that because of the mud. It was a distance of but ten Roman miles. In drier weather it would have taken an hour less. A man afoot, avoiding the sloppiness of the road, could often travel faster, as fast as four miles to the hour if he were unburdened and disciplined in his march.

Merchants with their carts lined the sides of the roads and were tucked between the handful of houses in the village. They sold pottery, wine, cervesa, brooches, linen, and wool. Colorful banners of red, white, blue, green draped from their carts. The lookers were many, but I saw few buying. We had little coinage in our country, some old coins of Honorius and Valentinian that were still traded, and occasionally new coins from Rome and other places that came in through our western ports. Even the tin and lead mines were not really producing anymore, though one of Lauhiir’s charges had been to make the mines active once more. So, we traded as we could, used coins when we had them. Taxes were collected in both coin and produce. Aye, that was one way Arthur kept his table furnished. But of late, with the countryside recovering from the Saxon raids, times had been hard.

“You should have brought a proper escort, my lord,” Bedevere chastised Arthur.

“I did not know that there was to be a festival here. Now, I cannot risk sending either one of you for more troops.”

“Do I detect fear in the Rigotamos’s voice?” Any man but myself, Kay, or Bedevere would receive a strong rebuke, but Arthur allowed us freedoms that others did not enjoy. But only in private, never before the people.

He frowned at me though. “Kings are but men, Malgwyn. And men die easily. I am not yet ready to enter the next life. Much is still left to be done in this one.”

I looked around, noting the people as individuals and not just a crowd. As I suspected, I quickly picked out a little figure lurking on the edge of a group pushing against a merchant’s cart. “Llynfann!”

Like a trapped rabbit, the man crouched, his head whipping quickly around, searching out the man who called him. He saw Arthur first and nearly bolted, but then his eyes caught me and my missing arm. Something of a twisted grin marked his face, and he strolled toward us.

“My lord Malgwyn!” With a cocky smile, he trotted over to us, bowing with great majesty to Arthur.

From the corner of my eye, I saw Bedevere reach for his sword, but my good hand held his. “This one is a friend of mine.”

“From your days hefting a wine jug?” Arthur grumbled. In truth, Llynfann looked more like an evil rat than a respectable citizen. But looks often belied the inside of a man.

“From the day that Kay and I kept Merlin’s head attached to his shoulders,” I shot back.

Arthur raised his eyebrows at that. “So this is one of Master Gareth’s men.”

Then it was Llynfann’s turn to show his surprise. And for a second, the little thief shrank a little, fright returning to his eyes. He was part of a band of latrunculi,