The Beloved Dead

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  For Red and Carrie Nell Shelby, good and true friends

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Any novel that reaches publication owes a debt to many people. A novel is, to a certain extent, a giant collaborative enterprise, at least in terms of getting it through the necessary steps so it can be published. I will be forever grateful to my agent, Frank Weimann, and the folks at Literary Group International and to my editor, Claire Eddy, and her assistant, Kristin Sevick. Writers, by and large, have been labeled a jealous breed. But I am happy to say that the advice, encouragement, and friendship of fellow writers C. W. Gortner, Brendan DuBois, Rebecca Cantrell, Michelle Moran, Karen Essex, and all the great members of the Historical Novel Society have done much to see me through the challenges that come with writing historical fiction. Arthurian scholar and author Geoffrey Ashe has never failed to keep me pointed in the right direction. To everyone else who has played a role in getting these novels in print, a tremendous “thank you”!

  TONY HAYS

  Savannah, Tennessee

  CONTENTS

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  Maps

  Glastonbury

  Part One: The White Mount

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Part Two: The Land of the Demetae

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Part Three: Castellum Arturius

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Part Four: Ynys-witrin

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Chapter Twenty-six

  Glossary and Gazetteer

  Author’s Note

  Forge Books by Tony Hays

  Copyright

  GLASTONBURY

  In the Eighty-first Year from the Adventus Saxonum

  Superstition is a powerful thing. I have fallen victim to it myself on more than one occasion in my ninety winters of life. But with age has come skepticism, about almost everything. In truth, I have seen many things in my life that I could not explain, things not even Merlin could explain, and he was the wisest man I have ever known.

  Omens are plentiful in our lands and legends. Our people, in the dim past, looked to the stars for guidance. The Romans, it is said, studied the entrails of dead animals, though truly, I never understood what the white, pink, and purple bits could tell anybody about what was to come. I prefer that empty feeling in the bottom of my stomach when I know that something bad is going to happen. That is an omen I can trust, for it has proven its worth many times.

  But I have learned too that to ignore superstitions widely held by the people is to risk calling down some unseen power upon you. I do not believe in the shades of the dead, nor do I believe that the cry of a screech owl on a full moon is a harbinger of some disaster. But once, near the River Dubglas, I was directed away from a road and down a seldom-used lane by a strange old man with tufts of white hair poking from his ears. It turned out later that a Saxon party had lain in ambush down my intended path. When I tried to locate the old man and thank him for saving me from certain death, I could not find him, but was told that a man similar to that description had lived in the wood many years before. But he had been dead for ten winters or more. A shade of the dead? All I know is that I am still breathing because of that warning.

  A fortnight ago, I climbed atop a horse belonging to the abbey and rode to the chapel just beyond the bridge over the River Brue. It is grown over now, disused and derelict. The abbot had told me that he planned to have it demolished. He is a good man, if a young one. But then, at my age, nearly everyone seems young. He lets me live in a house owned by the Church, near unto the abbey. Occasionally he counsels with me when negotiating with the Saxons; I have dealt with them so often over the years that I can tell what they are thinking from the look on their faces. Some days, when the weather is not too damp, I go to the scriptorium and copy a manuscript or two.

  I have traveled far, from farmer to warrior to councilor to a king, and now I am just an old, one-armed man who has traveled many roads. I wanted to see the chapel before it breathed its last. I thought it an ill omen to destroy a place of worship, but then, my old friend Kay had destroyed a Roman shrine to build this chapel. I remember another place from those days, of worship, of sacrifice, buried deep in the woods of our land. I wondered what remained of that place. That had been a season of ill omens, among the worst of my long life.

  To this day, I believe that all the death and horror that accompanied Arthur’s marriage during his second year as Rigotamos could be traced to our journey to Londinium in the late summer. It was at the least an unwise quest from the first step and at the most a tempting of the gods, and each of us knew it. Yet we followed our high king, our Rigotamos, Arthur ap Uther, despite those misgivings, because above all else we loved him.

  PART ONE

  THE

  WHITE MOUNT

  CHAPTER ONE

  “This is not wise, Rigotamos,” I cautioned. “Not wise at all.”

  I pulled my fur cloak closer about my neck, my fingers brushing the crossbow fibula that Arthur had given me years before. A mist hung over the countryside, as thick as any I had ever seen. Early morning at Londinium was often like this, not that I had traveled much in these parts. The Saxons had encroached on our lands to the south, east, and north. Londinium was like a finger of high ground amidst the waters of the Saxon flood.

  The White Mount, where we now stood, was on the eastern edge of the Londinium of Rome, above the flowing waters of the River Tamesis. Most of the wondrous buildings had fallen into disrepair. As we rode in from Castellum Arturius far to the west, our mood had been dampened by the decay of a once beautiful city, replete with baths, temples, a governor’s mansion, shrines to the entire pantheon of Roman gods. The great circus in the northwest now held pigs owned by a local farmer. Not far to the east of us lay a large temple, but our scouts said that the buildings had tumbled down and the altar destroyed, probably by a Saxon raiding party. But now yellowed grass grew out from the broken stones, and reeds smelling of snakes and mud crowded what had been a clean riverbank, and purple thistles grew where Roman soldiers had walked. And among those abandoned buildings, where once colorful mosaics and bracing baths held sway, were the wattle-and-daub huts of our people, of Britons.

  * * *

  I was not the first to caution him. All of his councilors had told him this. Aye, when word of his intentions had reached the other lords of the consilium, four of them sped riders to urge him against it. But he was much out of sorts with me (and I with him) and persisted in his belief that this was
a good thing. So, on this late summer morning, with three troop of horse in formation around the base of the White Mount, Arthur ap Uther brushed our arguments aside, dismounted, and approached the stone that marked the burial place of Bran’s head.

  Bran was a remarkable man, or god; no one was quite sure which. I had heard many stories about him as I grew up, spun by the old folk around the fire, late at night. The ancient tales had it that Bran was a king of all Britannia in the long distant past, long before Arthur or Ambrosius or Vortigern. He had gotten in some family dispute with a Hibernian king over the betrothal of his sister, Branwen. I could not keep all the details straight—he had a brother of unsound mind involved as well—but I knew that it prompted a war between Hibernia and Britannia, and that only Bran and six others were left of the Britons. They became known as the Seven, but curiously, only Bran’s head had survived. Even my old dad looked askance when told of how Bran’s head continued to live even after it had been parted from his neck, often regaling his companions with stories and jokes. But, in time, the head, like the rest of Bran, died and was buried here at the White Mount, facing Gaul to protect Britannia from foreign invaders.

  And so Arthur had determined to recover Bran’s head from the mount in order to show the people that they should depend upon the Christ and the consilium to guard Britannia’s shores, not old skulls.

  The Rigotamos was nearly alone in believing that this venture was wise. We had all tried to tell him, his foes, his friends, but especially those who cared little for Arthur or any noble but cared deeply for a people bruised and battered by decades of battle and death.

  I remembered the recent visit of Coroticus, abbot at Ynys-witrin, to Castellum Arturius. While I had my own differences with Coroticus, on this issue I agreed with him. “You do not stab a dying brother in the throat to hasten his death,” Coroticus had told the Rigotamos, referring to the chaos that still marred our lands, brought about by the Roman departure. We struggled yet with the incursions of Picts and the Scotti, and the more immediate threat of the Saxons. Our lords, at least most of them, were bound in a consilium, headed by a Rigotamos, or high king. First, we had had Vortigern, who betrayed the people and brought the hated Saxons to our shore. Then came Ambrosius Aurelianus, a tall, sturdy leader who cared for the people and carried himself with Romanitas, and, with the help of his Dux Bellorum, Arthur ap Uther, checked the Saxon advance across our lands. Now, after Ambrosius’s rather eventful retirement, we had Arthur, a man who deeply believed in the Christ and cared even more deeply for the people.

  “My ‘brother’ is not dying, abbot,” he had answered. “And you, of all men, should not encourage the people to look to an ancient talisman to protect them from harm. Rather they should put their faith in the Christ and the consilium to keep them safe.” And that had been his argument against all opposition. Bran’s head represented dependence on the old ways. The Church and the consilium (though it was not of one mind on the Church) represented a new path. Hence our quest to Londinium, where Arthur intended to dig up Bran’s head and move it to a more suitable burial place.

  For my part, I saw no harm in leaving the head where it lay. In truth, it was nothing more than a symbol, just as the Brutus Stone and the Diana Stone were symbols. That the people put faith in its protection was no different than having a favorite tunic or dagger. I knew of men who would not go into battle without their favorite brooch firmly affixed to their cloak. It hurt nothing and calmed their fears.

  But, despite all of this opposition and argument, Arthur was still the Rigotamos and we were still bound to follow his orders. So now we had arrived at the White Mount.

  * * *

  Arrayed beside me were Kay, Bedevere, Merlin, and Gawain. “Rigotamos,” Merlin began, “it is late in the day. We have almost lost our light. Perhaps it would be better if we camped and you completed your task on the morrow.”

  Merlin spoke the truth. The afternoon sun was fading in the western sky, and we had not had time to prepare torches. Word of our mission had filtered through as well and a group of the local folk had gathered, their faces grim and foreboding.

  Arthur’s face was set in hard lines. The muscles at his jaws pushed at his skin, burnished a deep brown by long days in the sun in recent months. The tension among our entire company was as thick as the mist which oft coated our mornings. After the abortive rebellion by Lauhiir, Teilo, and Dochu (and Lord David, if the truth be known) more than a year before, Arthur no longer indulged his desire to avoid the trappings of rank and to travel, at least outside Castellum Arturius, with only the most modest of escorts. We had three troop of horse, enough to deal with any bands of latrunculi or marauding Saxon parties, but not so many as to worry the Saxon leaders that an invasion of their Canti lands was imminent. Vortigern had granted those lands to the Saxons for their help with the Picts and Scotti.

  Finally, his eyes softened a bit and he nodded to Bedevere, who commanded our horse. Barking orders right and left, our soldiers dismounted and began establishing a camp on the summit of the mount. Merlin and I climbed down from our horses as well and stretched our legs. Although Arthur loved his Romanisms, like vigiles and posca (that horrible vinegar and water concoction that soldiers drank), he bowed to reality and to the limits to which he could push his men when it came to making camp.

  As a lad, my father once took me to a field near our farm. There you could still easily see the double ditches, grown over and filling up with dirt and debris, that surrounded an ancient Roman marching camp. He walked me around the field and showed where the gates had been and how the defensive ditches had worked. I often wondered how he knew so much, as he had been but a babe when the legions left. He was long dead, though, and I tried not to ponder things that had no answer.

  As the men busied themselves with putting up tents and preparing campfires, Arthur motioned to me to join him. With a sigh, I answered his call. I knew what he wanted, and I had no interest in discussing it further.

  We walked out from the bustle of the growing camp to a point where we could look over the river. In the distance I could see the twinkling of lamps at a handful of farmsteads. The summer’s heat was oppressive, and my face and body were covered with dirt and sweat from our journey. The dampness in the air soaked through to my stump of an arm, causing it to ache and tingle.

  “Malgwyn, you know I have no other choice,” Arthur began.

  “My lord, I know that you are the Rigotamos, the highest chieftain in our lands. You have all the choices. No man has more.”

  Now it was Arthur’s turn to sigh. “You are smarter than that, Malgwyn. Do not pretend to be unlearned and ignorant. The consilium will not stay together without compromise, and compromise requires sacrifices of us all.”

  Sacrifices. I rubbed the remnant of my right arm, remembering that sacrifice. A long time before, I was a farmer. But then 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 but the Dux Bellorum then, the leader of battles, for the consilium of lords that held our fragmented island together. My knack for reading battlefields and 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, and 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 my only haven, 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.

  It was only on the eve of Arthur’s election as Rigotamos, in the wake of the deaths of Eleonore, my wife’s sister, and Cuneglas, my younger brother, that we were reconciled. But with that reconciliation came another with my young daughter, Mariam, whom I had ab
andoned, and that was worth all that had gone before.

  The current rift between me and Arthur had nothing to do with all of that, but it did concern family. While nobility had avoided my branch, another, distant line of the family was indeed noble. In that brood was a female cousin, a pretty young thing, but headstrong and temperamental. Her father had arranged a marriage with a brother of Lord Mark at Castle Marcus. But she rebelled at such a match and ran away to the women’s community at Ynys-witrin, pledging her life to the Christ.

  And true to her nature, that lasted nearly as long as it took for her to settle in to her new duties. She found the rules of the community stifling, aye found them threatening to choke the very life from her. The community was one that vowed poverty and chastity. Poverty was not a problem for my cousin; even the most noble of families in those days often had little. Chastity, as her young body matured into a woman’s, became a major concern, one that the sisters could not ignore.

  Of course, male visitors to the community were few, but among those was a young tax collector for Ambrosius Aurelianus, a handsome young officer. And he noticed my cousin as she toiled in the garden. Suddenly, he found more and more reasons to visit the sisters. Inevitably, the two entered into an affair, and just as inevitably, they were discovered. My cousin, Guinevere, was cast out of the community in disgrace. The young tax collector, Arthur, suffered little; his sin was but one of lust. Hers was the greater. It was not an uncommon story, but this one was different.

  You see, Arthur truly loved Guinevere, and she loved him.

  Determined to care for Guinevere, Arthur provided a good cottage along the road from Cadwy’s Castle (which Arthur soon inherited) to Ynys-witrin. The cottage was nestled off the lane far enough to be invisible to travelers. Merlin, even then protecting his young friend, put word about that it was inhabited by a sorceress, an evil woman with the ability to turn a man to stone simply by looking at him.