The Beloved Dead Read online

  “Vortigern believed in the Christ! And he went his own way.”

  “People are mistaken about the causes of Vortigern’s downfall,” Merlin spoke even more quietly than usual. “People think his gravest error was bringing in the Saxons to fight the Picts and Scotti. And that was indeed an error. But what brought Vortigern low was when he abandoned his wife for the Saxon woman. They viewed that as a betrayal. And when he most needed their support, the people turned from him.”

  “Will not Arthur’s betrayal of Guinevere cause the people to question their judgment?”

  Merlin shook his head. “He is not married to Guinevere. And if he were to marry her, David, Mordred, Melwas, Mark and the others would latch onto that and turn it against him. In normal times, there would be no questions, but these are not normal times, Malgwyn. And what would not be an issue elsewhere, his enemies will make an issue. They will sow seeds of doubt. So, tell me this, my dear, dear friend. Is Britannia better with Arthur at the helm or with some other?”

  I dropped my head at that. The old scoundrel knew all too well what my answer would be. “But what of equality and justice, of doing what is right, not necessarily what is the most expedient?”

  “Why,” Merlin laughed, “he has you for that!”

  “Malgwyn!” Bedevere’s voice broke across the camp. He saw us and tramped over. He was dressed only in his simple warrior’s tunic and iron-studded belt, his hands wrapped in scraps of wool.

  Twisting around, I heard a sudden gabble of voices in the distance. Merlin had stolen my attention and my ears as well, it seemed.

  As Bedevere approached, I took stock of him. Shorter and stouter than Kay, he was not a man to whom words came easy at any time, but he was just the sort to whom men turned in times of danger. We had warred over much of Britannia together, and he had blocked more than one battle axe aimed for my neck. And I for him as well. He was known too for his honesty and honoring his word, something that often annoyed me when I was seeking the truth of an affair. If he promised not to reveal a confidence, no number of Saxon warriors could pry it from him.

  I would never be as at ease with him as I would with Kay, whose bursts of temper and irritability were matched only by his kind heart, but, in his own way, Bedevere was just as dear to me. He had been with Arthur since near childhood, and no man loved the Rigotamos more.

  At his back were a half dozen soldiers, arrayed in their gray tunics and red cloaks, spears in hand.

  “What is wrong now, Bedevere?”

  He pulled up short, planted the tip of his sword in the ground and leaned on it. I saw the beginnings of a grin flirting beneath his beard and mustache. But I was in no mood for levity.

  “A group of the local people are seeking an audience with the Rigotamos. Arthur wishes you to counsel him as he treats with them.”

  My shoulders dropped then, and I surrendered to my duties.

  * * *

  The people gathered had committed a grave error from the outset of their mission. Leading them was a Druid, though bard or mere acolyte I could not tell. He was one of those men who could be young or old. His hair was white, to match his robe, but his face was mostly unlined. The robe was wrapped at the waist with a cloth belt; in his hand he carried an elaborately carved walking stick. The others were a mixed lot, in their faded and worn tunics, some barefoot, some wearing tattered sandals.

  During the Roman days, I knew, the Druids had almost been eliminated. I had heard some of the brothers at Ynys-witrin say that Julius Caesar, first of the many Caesars to come, had learned to hate the Druids in Gaul. I never understood it. The Romans had been pagan, idol worshippers for long years before they adopted Arthur’s faith. You could still see hundreds of abandoned shrines around the countryside dedicated to the many Roman gods. Many, but not all, had been converted to worship of the Christ. The Romans, my father had told me, did not like to waste things.

  Arthur joined me, and I saw him frown at the sight of the Druid. He saw Druidism as a blasphemy and sin, a false religion that sought human sacrifice to appease its gods. With a determined sigh, he crossed his arms and turned his head at the approach of the Druid.

  That was my signal to step forward and begin. “How are you called?” I ventured.

  He bowed his head, his long, freshly brushed hair nearly touching the ground. “I am called Wynn.” His voice was gentle, befitting a man of peace.

  “I am Malgwyn, councilor to the Rigotamos, Arthur ap Uther. You wish to treat with him?”

  “Aye. The people of the villages hereabouts have asked me to bring their petition to the Rigotamos.”

  The Druid Wynn was not making it easy to reject his entreaties. He was acting very properly, very diplomatically, exhibiting no arrogance. “And what would their petition be?”

  He looked about, almost nervously, and then turned back to me with a grimace. “Is it permitted that we all sit? I injured my back some time ago and standing for long periods pains me.”

  “Perhaps I should look at it,” interrupted Morgan ap Tud, appearing suddenly at the Druid’s side. Arthur silenced him with a pointed look and the little physician slipped away.

  I turned to Arthur. “My lord?”

  Already the muscles in his jaws were twitching beneath the skin. This was not a good sign. He only did that when frustrated or angry.

  Finally, Arthur nodded his assent and we moved to a pair of oak logs placed opposite each other at the campfire. The local folk ranged behind the Druid as I took up my place next to the Rigotamos.

  “Now, good Wynn, what petition do your people have for Lord Arthur?”

  The Druid priest smiled. “They protest the removal of Bran the Blessed’s head from this his grave. To do so will only bring disaster to our lands.”

  I knew that no amount of pleading would change Arthur’s mind. But their entreaty could not be simply rejected out of hand. Arthur would not speak; he would leave this to me. It was my job—and sometimes Merlin’s—to communicate for him. This allowed us to explore alternatives without Arthur having to take a public stand. “And what sort of disaster do you foresee?”

  The Druid shrugged. “I do not pretend to see the future, Master Malgwyn. But I, like these good people, see only madness in tempting the fates.”

  I sensed rather than saw Arthur stiffen. This Druid, for all his smiles and obeisance, had just taken his life into his hands. To accuse a noble, let alone the Rigotamos, of insanity was more than a dangerous course; it was akin to placing a sharp, naked blade against your own throat. But I also saw the shrewdness of his action. Arthur knew that he truly courted disaster by killing this emissary before the people, no matter how low the esteem in which he held Druids.

  Despite his many disagreements with the Church, Arthur was a true believer in the Christ. Of that no one doubted. A simple glance at the crosses on the shields of his men told that story well. He believed too in ruling with a fair hand, a just hand. Yet, while he thought these things signs of strength, his rivals and critics saw them as weaknesses.

  With all of that said, what Wynn had done was force Arthur to deal with him directly and not through me. And deal he did.

  “Madness, is it madness to deal with reality and not superstition? Is it madness to look to the Christ for protection, not some rotten skull?” Arthur exclaimed. His blood was up, and I could see that the Druid’s head was still in danger.

  But the fool simply sat there and smiled, even as the people at his back grumbled warningly at Arthur. One thing I had learned over the years, you did not mock Arthur ap Uther. I rose quickly, to forestall the coming explosion.

  “Wynn, your quest is not one that will be successful.” Better, I thought, to bring this to a conclusion quickly than risk a number of summary executions. Besides, Arthur’s beliefs were widely known and these people had affronted him by presenting a Druid as their representative. “On the morn the Rigotamos will unearth the skull of Bran and proclaim the entirety of Britannia under the protection of the consilium and
the Christ.”

  The gathered throng sucked in air noisily, and even Arthur stirred nervously beside me. This was going further than he had planned, much further.

  One man stepped forward, his garments carrying the mark of some little wealth. Beneath his gray-and-black unruly hair, his eyes showed both fear and a quick mind. “My lord, I beg you not to do this. The Saxons will hear of it and will retaliate, and we are much closer to them than you. We will feel the bite of their battle axes.” He was well spoken for a common farmer.

  Arthur rose then and threw a quick smile my way. He saw immediately what I was about. The Druid was forgotten now. “How are you called?” he asked this new man.

  “Fercos, my lord.”

  “Come, let us talk,” and Arthur draped his arm around the surprised farmer’s shoulder and led him away from the campfire into the decaying light.

  The remainder milled around aimlessly for a moment, until I spied Cerdic. “Cerdic! Some bread and cheese for our friends. And some skins of good wine!”

  He shouted for Talorc and the two of them fussed over the gathering, distributing, I noticed, Arthur’s best cheeses and wine.

  “You overstepped, Malgwyn,” Merlin said softly, appearing at my one elbow.

  I grimaced. “I feared that Arthur might do something rash. The Druid owes me his life.”

  “Aye, and so do the others. But,” he grudgingly admitted, “by threatening something that Arthur had no intention of doing, you have successfully used the Saxons to our advantage.”

  “Come, Merlin, you know that in a negotiation you always ask for more than you want.”

  But the old man just shook his head in amusement at me. “One day, Malgwyn, you may go too far.”

  I saw that the Druid, Wynn, was still seated on his log, looking for all the world like a satisfied man. He saw me appraising him and smiled. I took up a wineskin and cup and joined him.

  He waved off my offer of wine and considered me, still with that smile on his face. “You think you have accomplished something here.”

  I could not help but smile in return. “I did what it is my task to do.”

  “Your task is to create problems where none, in fact, exist and to ignore those problems that do lie on the table?”

  My stomach grumbled and I filled the cup for myself. “I serve the Rigotamos. My tasks are many.” I did not like his question.

  Wynn smiled yet again. “Tomorrow, just as you begin to dig, they will remember what brought them here. And by the time that you are striking your camp, the people will realize that they were tricked. Fortunately for your Rigotamos, the deed will have been done. But it will leave the taste of soured wine in their mouths, and they will not forget it. And that does not count the other.”

  My face showed my complete confusion. “What ‘other’?”

  “Why, tempting the fates by removing Bran the Blessed’s head. I doubt not that your Arthur will bring the wrath of the gods down about his head and on his people.”

  I did not like this Wynn. His Latin was good as was his grasp of our language, but I heard a Gallic accent in his words. A Druid from Gaul in our lands? ’Twas not impossible, but it made me ponder his history.

  He carried a walking stick or some such thing with three faces carved into it, symbolic, I supposed, of his religion. Of true Druids, I knew little. Of false ones, I knew my fair share. I knew too that Mordred, David, and others of the consilium were sympathetic to the recent reemergence of the Druids.

  The return of the Druids had not surprised me. Aye, it would have surprised me had they not spread across our lands. When the Romans had withdrawn our legions, ages before my birth, they left behind a confused and fragmented collection of tribes. The Dumnonii, the Durotrigii, the Canti, the Belgae, the Demetae, the Votadini, the Atrebati, the Dobunni and all the rest. And within each of those were clans. Some, like the Dumnonii, the Durotrigii and the Dobunni, had banded together in the consilium. But the Canti had succumbed to the Saxon invaders. The Atrebati walked a shaky plank, bordering as they did the Saxon lands. The Votadini were too far north to have truly felt the bite of the Saxon axe as yet, though they had their own difficulties with the Picts.

  Merlin once told me that the Druids had maintained a great school on an island in the north, but that the Romans had destroyed it. The Saxons, themselves pagan, welcomed the Druids and that, plus the feeling among the people that abandoning the old gods had caused our current miseries, made our island fertile ground for Druids.

  All of these things ran through my mind as I sat across from the Druid Wynn, still smiling. Many of us, Arthur, Bedevere, and myself, believed that a bloc of the Druids worked as spies for the Saxons. Few questioned them in their travels; fewer still wanted to challenge their right to travel. I suspected that Wynn was among these. He seemed too happy at the possibility of trouble for Arthur.

  “If you question the manner of Arthur’s rule, perhaps you should visit his seat on the River Cam.”

  The smile became broader. “I care too much for my head to make such a journey. The word of how you deal with Druids has spread far and wide.”

  “You mean the word of how we deal with false Druids, for that is what they were. Arthur is no friend of the Druids, that is true, but he has not and will not ban them from his territories. Dictating what gods a man should worship is a path to trouble.”

  “Truly? Your Arthur believes this.”

  Not exactly, I said to myself, but I would not let Wynn know that. “Truly.”

  “Then perhaps I will visit you.” He stood and looked about at Cerdic and Talorc still feting our visitors with wine and cheese and bread. “It seems that my friends’ complaint has been successfully shunted to the side.” He squinted at me with curiosity. “You are skilled with words. I wonder if you have other abilities? I will take my leave now.”

  And with that, he turned and made his way out of our camp, Morgan ap Tud chasing after him, to offer him help with his injured back, I supposed. The Druid worried me, and I knew that I would see him again soon.

  * * *

  We shuffled the local folk off after Arthur had treated with Fercos, and they seemed happy now that the Rigotamos had given his assurances that we did not intend to spark a war with the Saxons on this journey. But I feared that Wynn had not been wrong in his judgment. Their old fears would return on the morrow.

  Cerdic and Talorc prepared a mighty meal. Someone had caught a great salmon and found some oysters to go with our deer stew. The salmon had been cooked up with some leeks and herbs. What had seemed a simple meal was turning into a feast. We ate silently at Arthur’s campfire, though the noises from the soldiers’ fires filled the night sky. Not even the screech owls could be heard above their din as they played at dice and drank cervesas. The breeze from the river was fresh and clean, though, and for an expedition near unto the edge of Saxon lands, we were relaxed.

  I spread out my cloak on the ground. We all slept that way. Arthur had been told once that Caesar slept on the earth with just his cloak for comfort. That had been enough to convince him that he should do the same. But, in truth, Arthur was never one to put his own comfort over his men’s. “War,” he once told me, “is not supposed to be pleasant.”

  The others had gone to prepare their own beds. Though the meal had been good and the atmosphere much less tense than before, no one seemed inclined to talk. Bedevere had gone off to see that the guards were posted for the eve. The night air had put a chill in Merlin’s bones. Arthur, somber and grimacing, kept his own counsel. Poor Morgan ap Tud cast about for someone, anyone, who welcomed his presence. I was melancholy at best, sad at being away from my daughter, Mariam, sad at being far from Ygerne, not yet my wife but the holder of my love.

  Our path had been stony. She had been my brother’s wife for many years, but he had been killed more than a year before, during the events surrounding Arthur’s election as Rigotamos. Our attraction had been swift and intense, but that she had been my brother’s woman was as a mou
ntain for me. And it took me many moons to climb it.

  It did not help that our journey was not of my choosing. And I did not like the way that I had treated with the people. It was not honest. I found myself serving not the truth or my patria but Arthur instead. This was not what I had bargained for, what I had told myself when I accepted Arthur’s commission as his scribe and councilor. I had hoped for some honor, but I was finding none. The task that Arthur had set for me when this journey was ended added to my melancholy as well.

  A rock beneath my cloak poked at my back. It did not hurt, but brought me wide awake. The soldiers’ fires were dying and the sounds of a marching camp fading. I rose and went to the edge of the mount, looking down at the River Tamesis below.

  Beneath the moonlight, it glowed and sparkled in yellow and white as it continued to the sea. A few farmsteads in the distance still had candles burning. Somewhere a dog barked.

  And then, close by, a woman screamed.

  CHAPTER THREE

  The cry had come from the west, near the settlement on the riverbanks. Something in the mournful bleating alarmed me, touched some part of me. I dashed back to my cloak and snatched up my dagger. Without even thinking, I ran down a path and out of our camp. Behind me, I heard shouts and the sound of leather slapping against packed earth.