The Stolen Bride Page 2

  “Perhaps Doged does not yet know either,” I pointed out. I paused and looked down the lane again, at the bloating, fly-buzzing corpses.

  “Then he will learn quickly,” Arthur concluded behind me.

  One body, one that I had not noticed before, caught my attention then. A man lay facedown in the middle of the lane, his arms outstretched as if reaching for something. I moved closer and saw that the killing blow had split the back of his head open.

  I pondered what Arthur had said, even as I went to lean against an old roundhouse. I smelled something truly evil in all of this too, but probably with less reason than Arthur. Coming along on this trip had not been my pleasure at all. Glancing at the sky, I saw that we had been on our journey nearly two days. And already we were deep in death and tragedy. I knew that Arthur could not have known that this village had been sacked, but it would have been just like him to direct us through such a place to marry me to his plans. Perhaps I was being unkind to him, perhaps not. But, as usual, I needed to plant my feet on solid ground. “Rigotamos.”

  And he stopped and turned back toward me.

  “I will do this not for Doged or you or the consilium, but for them.”

  Arthur studied me closely; he wanted to scold me, to reprimand me for my insolence. But that melancholy he felt was rooted too deep. “I will take you on whatever terms I must, but remember that this is not your village. And your Gwyneth is not among these unfortunates. That is behind you.”

  “That will never be completely behind me, Arthur.”

  * * *

  A few moments later and I was alone in the village with my escort, four of the older soldiers. Arthur chose well. Two of the four had been among those in my command during the rebellion two years past. Our respect for each other had been born on the battlefield; I did not need to prove my value with them in a world that held little regard for a one-armed man.

  “Scatter out,” I instructed. “Follow the blood trails. If you find anyone alive, be gentle with them. They have weathered enough fear. I will be here.”

  As the men separated, I returned to the body in the lane, the man with his head split open. Something about this one called to me. It was as if I had been there, watching him rush across the lane, until an arrow took him in the back and down he went. But that had not stopped him. I looked at his outstretched hands and saw the marks in the muddy lane where he had tried to pull himself further, his fingernails torn and dirty.

  Until a battle-axe, wielded by an enemy standing over him, halved his skull, ending his flight forever.

  Directly in front of this unfortunate man was a small hovel, hardly big enough for one person, let alone a family. I wondered what he would be rushing toward in such an unprepossessing house.

  Crossing the lane, I ducked into the entrance, covered over only with a fur. Once inside, I saw what the poor fellow had been racing for.

  A woman lay face-first on the hard-packed, earthen floor, an arrow protruding from her back. I crouched to see her better. She had been a handsome woman, if a bit young for the man in the lane. Perhaps she was his daughter. Perhaps not. I would never know the answer, and that saddened me.

  And as I squatted there, another daughter appeared to me.

  “Must you go, Father?”

  My darling Mariam was growing up. Once her hugs had hit me at knee level; now her head snuggled comfortably into the hollow below my breastbone.

  “The Rigotamos needs me to help him. You know he is quite lost without me.” A simple jest.

  Mariam looked up at me with her bluest eyes. “But so am I, Father.”

  And I hugged her ever tighter with my one arm. “Do not worry, little one. I will not let Lord Kay or Master Merlin use you for a sacrifice.” Another simple jest, one used too often, I feared.

  But it earned me the gift I desired; Mariam released me and slapped me in the stomach. “Oh, Father!” And then she stomped off into a back room.

  Then, I felt warm breath on my neck.

  Ygerne.

  “Why is Arthur so insistent that you attend him on this journey?” Ygerne asked me. She had been my brother Cuneglas’s wife, but he was long dead and we had come to love each other deeply. We stood in her house in Castellum Arturius. Her full belly stretched the limits of her wrap. She would deliver within a week at the most.

  “He wishes me to counsel him as he negotiates a peace between Doged and his rebellious nobles.”

  “Bah!” Ygerne’s red hair glowed in the flickering lamplight. “He wants you there so that he has someone to blame if the negotiations do not go well.”

  “You should have more faith in the Rigotamos,” I answered, with none of the certainty my words implied.

  And she swept me about and pulled me against her breasts, and against our child. Her lips tugged at mine, pulled them into her mouth. “Go then, and see to your duty,” she said. “I do not welcome your departure, but I understand that Arthur does need you.”

  She paused, brushing her hair from her eyes. “But do not forget that we need you as well. You must hurry back,” she whispered, her hands exploring my braccae and reddening my face. “You will have much to make up for.”

  * * *

  The memory of the bittersweet leave-taking faded as something about the arrow in the poor girl’s back pulled me away from Ygerne’s warm house. The way the arrow was fletched was familiar. Holding her down with my stump of an arm, I wrestled the arrow free from her body so that I might study it in better light.

  But when I worked the point free, I fell back on my haunches in surprise. It was a Saxon point, of a kind that I had seen before, designed to penetrate chain mail. Aye, I had pulled an arrow just like this one from a victim of a Saxon bow, right before Arthur’s election as Rigotamos. The fletching, though, was not Saxon work.

  This was an unexpected twist, and I tried to fathom its meaning. But before I could begin to reason it, the hide door flew open and a soldier’s voice broke my thoughts.

  “Master, we have found someone.”

  CHAPTER TWO

  She was a woman of twenty or twenty-five winters. Her face was bloody from a dozen scratches, product of hiding in the underbrush, I supposed. The simple dress she wore was as torn and dirty as her face. The thing that haunted me the most was her eyes, cold, blank, vacant.

  “We found her huddling behind a tree down near the stream,” a soldier named Sulien explained. He was one of those who had fought beside me in the rebellion.

  Another of the soldiers had started a fire at the side of the lane. “Take her near to the fire,” I directed. “Bring her cervesas, some bread and cheese.”

  As I spoke, she looked at me, blinking her eyes and mumbling. She offered no resistance as a soldier led her away, just continued to mumble something impossible to understand.

  I did not know if I could persuade her to talk to me. Many times during my warring days, I had seen such as she. Their world as they had known it had ceased to exist, and the shock was so great that it rendered them silent. Sometimes, they never recovered.

  Following the woman and the soldier to the warmth of the fire, I squatted next to her as a soldier offered her some cervesas. She did not move, just kept mumbling.

  “What are you called?” I ventured.

  She stopped mumbling.

  “What is your name?”

  She turned her head and looked at me, still no expression in her eyes. “Daron.”

  “Can you tell me what happened here?” I spoke as gently as I could. Somewhere in the village, a dog barked, and that, more than my question, seemed to put a spark in her eye.

  “They killed us. They killed us all.”

  “Not all, Daron. You yet live.”

  She shook her head. “No.”

  “Who did this?”

  “They came in the night. Some spoke our tongue, but some did not.”

  “What language did they speak?”

  Daron shook her head again. “I had not heard it before.” Her eyes bega
n blinking and her head twitched. It was almost as if she had been brained with a club and was just then regaining consciousness. And, indeed, that may have been exactly what left her in this state.

  I reached out my one hand to see if there was an injury, but she drew back, the bright light of fear sparking in her eyes. “I do not wish to harm you. I only want to see if you have been injured.”

  Slowly, she returned to her original position, though she flinched ever so slightly as my hand again approached her hair. Her skin was pale, marked only by the blue veins that carried her lifeblood.

  I found no injury on her head, nor did I really expect to. Her hair was so fair that blood would have been obvious, but it could have been a glancing blow that did not break the skin. Yet my brief examination revealed no knots or swollen areas.

  “Do you have a man or children?”

  Tears welled up in her eyes at that question, and I was glad to see it. Tears signified that she was beginning to feel once again.

  She wiped her eyes. “I had a man, but he was one of the first to die.”

  “How came you to live?”

  “When my man, Deiniol, was killed, I ran and hid in the forest.”

  “Did others run with you?”

  At that, her eyes glazed over once more, and she stared off into the forest. “No. The children and some of the women were taken.”

  I did not know what she was seeing in the darkening forest; perhaps her mind was taking her back to that horrific event of which she spoke.

  “Master?”

  Sulien was at my side. “If we are to reach Celliwic tonight, we must leave soon.”

  I nodded. There was little more I could learn here. “Very well.” Standing, I felt a tug at the bottom of my tunic.

  “You will leave me?” Poor Daron. To leave her in this village of death was punishment.

  “No, you will come with us.”

  Sulien looked at me as if I were mad. “What need have we of her, master?”

  “She is the only person who can identify those who destroyed this village. And I tell you now that I will find the devils behind this. Besides, she needs us as much as we need her. There is nothing left for her here now.” I paused and noted how much she resembled my Gwyneth. “She can ride with me.”

  * * *

  Somebody was speaking. Somewhere. My eyelids were so heavy that I could but barely open them. Nor did I want to. “Another word and I will drown the room with your blood.”

  “Malgwyn.”

  I reached for my sword.

  “Malgwyn.”

  But my sword was not there.

  “Malgwyn!”

  Groaning, I struggled beneath my furs. It seemed that I was forever being awakened by someone, anyone. The air was chilling. My nose twitched.

  This was not home.

  No hint of that horrible scent of woad making painted the breeze.

  Nor the smell of bread freshly baking at Arthur’s kitchen, across the lane from my house.

  And the voice was different. ‘Twas not Merlin, Ygerne, nor even young Mariam or Owain.

  I blinked an eye open, slipping the fur away just enough to see who I intended to kill.

  Ah. Morgan. Morgan ap Tud. Arthur’s new physician. I remembered then, the journey, the ravaged village, our late, late arrival the previous night.

  “Arthur has sent for you.”

  I looked out the door. “The sun has not yet arisen, Morgan, and I did not arrive until after the midnight. I fail to see why I should answer his summons.”

  “Malgwyn!” He was shocked, too fresh to Arthur’s service to understand my relationship with the Rigotamos. In truth, despite my fears that Morgan was a spy for David, I liked the little fellow. He was smart and eager to please. Merlin, with his enormous store of knowledge about herbs and healing, had done much of our healing work before, but David had persuaded Arthur that he needed someone trained. Hence, Morgan was summoned.

  Throwing back the furs, I stretched and yawned. “Why are you about so early?”

  “Arthur wishes to leave for Tyntagel within the hour. A rider came in last night. Lady Igraine is declining.”

  At that news, I truly shook the sleep from my eyes and rose. In the morning chill, goose bumps had arisen on my skin and I shivered. Morgan offered me a cup of watered, warm, spiced wine.

  I took it, telling myself that it was only to warm me. Once, I had nearly lived on wine and mead and cervesas. But at least it was not that horrid soldier’s drink, posca.

  A rustle sounded just outside the door. Then, a head poked around. A head topped with blond hair. For just a minute, I was confused.

  Then I remembered.

  Daron.

  “Here, child,” I said. “Take some warm wine.”

  She looked fearfully at Morgan and skirted the wall to stay away from him as she drew closer to me. A cloth-wrapped bundle was clutched in her hands and she proffered it to me. Bread. Cheese.

  “No,” I said softly. “You take your fill first.”

  For the first time, a half smile lit her face, and she sat back against the wall and took small bites from the food.

  Morgan watched us with the raised eyebrows of amazement. “She slept in the corner with but a single fur for cover, within arm’s reach of you.”

  “She has suffered a great shock. Have you any valerian extract? It might ease her.”

  The little doctor nodded and began rummaging in one of his leather pouches.

  “Any word from Doged?”

  Morgan shook his head. “No.”

  That was more than unfortunate. Mediating between these disgruntled factions in Lord Doged’s lands was more necessary now than when we had set out on this journey. And as we had recently learned, what had begun as a few provisioning raids had now turned to bloodshed.

  And upon our success depended much, for Doged, a staunch ally of the consilium, and for the consilium itself.

  * * *

  After the Romans had abandoned us, a group of nobles gathered together and formed a consilium to establish some sort of order. The first Rigotamos was a strong northern lord named Vortigern. Faced with a shaky alliance between the tribes and the constant raids by the Picts and Scotti, Vortigern hired Saxon mercenaries to aid us, granting them lands among the Canti for their service.

  And they did help with the Picts and Scotti. And they loved our lands, loved them so much that they betrayed Vortigern and the consilium and began expanding into other tribal regions. They were a savage people, worshiping the pagan gods and ignoring the Christ. I hated them with all my heart for what they did to my family.

  Ignoring the Christ; I shook my head at the irony. I was not ignorant of the Christ, but neither was I a believer. I found much good in His message and much good in His followers. But I was not yet ready to add myself to their numbers.

  At any rate, I joined the banner of Arthur, Arturius in Latin, who had once been a tax collector for Lord Cadwy. He had risen to command of all consilium forces, and was successfully pushing the Saxons back. I came to be known as “Smiling Malgwyn,” for the pleasure I took in killing Saxons. A chance encounter on the eve of a battle brought me to Arthur’s attention and soon I commanded my own troop of horse.

  Then came that horrible day at the River Tribuit. Surrounded on a grassy knoll, my men and I fought savagely, but the Saxons outnumbered us, and one by one we were cut down. I did not see the blade that struck my right arm at the elbow, but I felt the shock as I slid to the ground, the scent of new grass filling my nostrils. And I was content. I had sent more than a score to whatever life their gods provided for them after this one. I would die with my men, an honorable death. But that was not to be my last breath, no matter how much I wished it so.

  * * *

  “Malgwyn?”

  Morgan’s voice brought me back from that hateful day.

  “Yes.”

  “Is the Rigotamos always so angry?”

  “Why do you ask?”

  Morgan tugge
d with both hands to straighten his tunic. “He sent a boy to summon me, and when I arrived he fair cut my throat for being slow.”

  “You are still fairly new to Arthur’s service. It will take time for you to understand his moods and for him to accept you. But you should know that Arthur is always irritable when we come to Celliwic.”

  “Why? Are these people not of his own tribe?”

  “Yes, they are. He is said to have been born at Tyntagel. But I have never seen him in a more ill mood than when we come here.”

  Morgan started to ask another question, but I held my hand up. “And I do not know why.”

  In truth, Arthur was probably frustrated still with me as I was with him. Our history was a stormy one. I had not died on that grassy knoll at Tribuit. Just as I was about to join my men in whatever lies beyond this life, I was snatched from the ground, my stump of an arm bandaged to stanch the blood, and whisked away to the brothers at Ynys-witrin. By Arthur.

  One-armed men were seen as cursed in our world. Many believed that such a wound was a sign of disfavor by the gods. Since I could no longer farm, or thought I could not, the brothers taught me to write to strengthen my left arm and hand. They were good, charitable men. I did not view Arthur as such.

  In my mind, he had condemned me to half a life, and a life dishonorable. I should have died with my men at Tribuit. That Arthur saved me stole what honor I possessed. And left me as a pitiable creature. So, I hated Arthur with all the passion I had once reserved for the Saxons. And I dedicated myself to drinking and whoring my way into oblivion.

  Until, that is, my dead wife’s sister, Eleonore, was found murdered in the lanes on the eve of Arthur’s election as Rigotamos. I had had a hand in resolving a similar matter at Ynys-witrin, and Arthur came to me for help in this one. Like two hungry dogs we had circled each other, but in the end, though there were other deaths, I rediscovered respect for myself and reclaimed my daughter, Mariam. And I agreed once more to serve Arthur.

  Ygerne had been my brother’s wife, until he was killed in the affair surrounding the death of Eleonore. I had always been taken by Ygerne, and she with me apparently, but even after my brother was gone I delayed joining with her. Coroticus, the abbot at Ynys-witrin, often told me that I was sinning, that the Word of his God spoke against taking your brother’s wife as your own. I told Coroticus that his god was obviously not a Briton, as that was more common than not in our lands.