Divine Sacrifice, The (2 page)

In the Eighty-first Year from the
Adventus Saxonum

T
he 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. . . .

M
algwyn!”

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.