Divine Sacrifice, The (3 page)

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!”

D
id 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.