Divine Sacrifice, The (24 page)

This solved the question of Elafius’s murder. In helping Lauhiir’s efforts at tin mining and smelting, the old
monachus
must have discovered the forging. He would have felt
honor bound to report it to Coroticus, and so Lauhiir had had the old man killed to keep him quiet.

But now it had turned into something much more evil. For in this lame attempt to conceal a crime that could be forgiven, Lauhiir’s men had committed the unforgivable. They had killed three
of the Rigotamos’s soldiers. The punishment for that was death. And while the actual doers of this deed must be punished, so must their commander, Lauhiir.

I heard shouting and looked up. Bedevere was shouting orders to Illtud, to arrest Lauhiir, I knew. Other men he was dispatching to bring their dead comrades back to the abbey. My strength was
all but gone, and I rose slowly from my seat.

As soldiers mounted and rode around us in a bustle of activity, Merlin walked up next to me and hooked his wrinkled hand into the crook of my one good arm.

“Malgwyn?”

“Aye.”

“Did you see how deep were the marks those crates left?”

“Aye.” I spoke softly.

“They held far more coins than are needed for a bit of food and a few trinkets. And this would not have been his only or even his biggest hoard. That would be on the Tor. Something else is
happening here. That many coins call for a larger purpose.”

I nodded. He was right. And unless Lauhiir was quickly captured, sorting out that purpose might be beyond my abilities. Patrick. He would speak honestly and from experience about the ways of
nobles. I trusted Arthur, but in this I needed an objective mind, someone who did not hold nobles in awe. Yes, Patrick. I would seek his counsel.

But I never got the chance to put his counsel in play. For, not two hours later, when I arrived at the cell appointed to Patrick, no voice bade me enter, and when I pulled the roughhewn wooden
door back, I was met not by the greetings or the grumblings of the aged
episcopus
, but by his very dead corpse sprawled on the floor.

I
had noticed, over the years, that death diminished a man, stole his essence, left him small and pale. Not Patrick. Patrick looked as solemn and
dignified in death as he had in life. And as fierce. Even in death, he retained his size and dignity; even as his life’s blood soaked the ground darkly, he was formidable.

He lay on his stomach, his head turned toward the door, his eyes open. They stared at nothing, of course, but I sensed no reproach in them, only an acceptance. The old man had
seen his death approaching and did not flinch in its face.

I knelt on the hard-packed earthen floor, the buzz of the crowd outside the door hardly penetrating my confusion and my frustration. That his death was not connected to that of Elafius was
simply too bizarre a notion to even countenance. But, back in the glen, it had seemed clear that Lauhiir was responsible for Elafius’s death. And I could see no reason for Lauhiir wanting or
needing Patrick dead. But two childhood friends, both servants of the Christ, dead within two days of each other at the same place? How could they not be connected?

I rose and turned back to the door; I sent runners, a few of the brothers, to fetch Bedevere and Ider from their errands. Others I sent for Patrick’s attendants.

I should have foreseen this; my skin felt tight and my head seemed to burst with guilt. While I worried about goods bought and sold, about corrupt lords, something else, so much simpler, had
been going on. Patrick, no matter my own feelings, believed strongly in the Christ. And not just in the divinity of the Christ, but in those beliefs accepted and espoused by the church in Rome. Yet
he came to Ynys-witrin not so much to defend the church, but to apologize to an old friend for a horrible error in his youth, an error that was even now threatening his future.

I twisted my head and looked past the dark forms crowding the door and to the hills surrounding. They seemed like a cage to me now, a cage in which had been trapped men, and women, who believed
passionately in opposing theories, and I was trapped within a cage as well, a cage of arrogance. This puzzle seemed too much for my poor, addled brain. I had missed something, something I could not
fathom, and now another man, a great man, was dead.

“Malgwyn?”

Arthur’s voice quietly called me. I didn’t turn, just continued staring at Patrick’s silent form.

“Bring me a skin of wine, Arthur.”

“No.”

“I know you mean only good things, my lord. But this man’s death lies at my door. I was blind. I am finished. No more playing with people’s lives, pretending I am more than I
am. Bring me wine and leave me alone.”

I heard the rustle of his tunic and felt it brush me as he knelt beside me, and then his hand fell lightly on my shoulder. “No, Malgwyn. You could not have foreseen this death unless you
were a wizard or a prophet. Guinevere and I were wrong the night before, wrong to lead your suspicions away from Rhiannon, wrong to try to divert your focus. It was not you who was wrong. I was
wrong.”

And that gave me pause more than anything else. For a lord, aye, the Rigotamos himself, to admit that he had been wrong about anything was rare. But Arthur was unlike any Rigotamos there had
been, and, I was reasonably certain, unlike any that was yet to come.

He grabbed my elbow and pulled me to my feet. “Outside,” he commanded with a jerk of his head, the brown hair flowing freely about his shoulders. I rose as he turned to the door and
the crowd parted before him. Bedevere, expressionless as always, stood near the door. “Let no one enter,” I told him. He nodded. Ider, at his arm, wore a look of sheer confusion and
abject depression. Poor Ider! His young life had left him ill equipped for so many shocks, so soon.

Once away from the crowd, Arthur moved close. “This may not be about my crown, as Eleonore’s affair was, but it is at least as important,” he said in a low voice. “Think,
old friend! Patrick carried influence greater than any other
episcopus
from our lands, greater than even Dubricius. If we do not resolve this matter, the church fathers in Rome will send
others to do so.

“Malgwyn, you know I love the Christ and that I worship Him. But you know too that Roman favor is often purchased with a purse, not devotion. One of the ways that I hold my power is to
keep new sources of power from arising. If Patrick’s death is not resolved, and someone like Germanus is sent here, my enemies may take the opportunity to marry themselves to Rome and hence
gain new power. Coroticus and I are not friends, but we know and understand each other. I do not wish to see him replaced. It could harm what peace we now have. Now, forget this talk of drink and
bring your focus to bear on this new problem. For I tell you most honestly that I am confused beyond all understanding.”

With that, I shook my head to clear it and gazed again at the green hills surrounding Ynys-witrin, a pall of morning mist draping around them. Off to my right, I could see the windswept summit
of Wirral Hill, with its lone thorn tree pointing like a finger toward the heavens, planted by Joseph of Arimathea the brothers had taught me; at that moment, I felt as alone as that thorn tree and
as weary as those pilgrims of long ago.

Arthur was right. Focus. I had to focus. This was not the killing of the young boy, aye, within this very place. Nor was it the killing of Eleonore within the unruly, messy lanes of
Arthur’s castle. No, whatever the source of these murders, it ranged from the distant Tor, through the village, and across the abbey and beyond.

I breathed deeply of earth-tainted air and turned back to the hut where Patrick lay. The brothers and others who were gathered round quieted their gossiping and, as they had for Arthur, made way
for me.

“Bedevere, send two of your soldiers and Ider to scour the abbey and the village. Ask if anyone saw aught of Patrick last eve. I’ll find you when I have finished here.”

With my shock behind me, I sent one brother for candles. While the flood of daylight exposed the area just inside the door, the corners of the room remained draped in darkness. Within moments,
enough light splayed in dancing fingers from the circle of candles to see inside the shelter.

Poor Patrick! Somehow I felt he was victim to his own beliefs, to his own faith. His had not been an easy life, nor a completely simple one. I knew without his telling me that Patrick’s
youthful error had contributed greatly to his seeking a life of service to the Christ. I chuckled a morbid sort of chuckle. Were killing someone all it took to send a man down the path of God, I
would have worn the cobblestones thin and brittle as cold bread, and I would undoubtedly be the most devout man in all of the world. Too many men had counted my face the last they saw.

To the work at hand. I turned my attention away from the story that was Patrick’s life to the body that was Patrick’s house on earth. He had been stabbed from behind and allowed to
fall to the floor.

It had happened sometime just hours before. Without even moving his body, I could see that where his cheek touched the floor it was dark. And lifting his arm, I saw that it was yet stiff.
Casting about, I could see that little was disturbed. Not that Patrick had aught but a pallet on which to sleep. He did not. And his companions had been sheltered in a hut near unto his own.
Patrick was not wearing the long robes of his bishopric, but the shorter tunic favored by men for sleeping, tied with a cloth belt at the waist.

A thought struck me and I lifted him by the arm not without great effort. Beneath his privates, the ground was damp in a tiny circle, matching the dark circle on his tunic. I smelled the
unmistakable odor of urine, but just a bit, not what a man normally releases when his soul departs his body. Much, much less. Things became a bit clearer.

Rising, I held an oil lamp and studied the hard-packed floor. Despite the shadows, I thought I could discern small scrapings from behind the door. Now, I understood.

Whoever killed Patrick came to his cell to find the old
episcopus
gone to void himself. He hid behind the door, and when Patrick entered, he moved forward, stabbed him, and laid him on
the ground. A man loses all control at the moment of death, but Patrick had little to soil himself with. The killer had then left without touching a thing.

What all of this told me was that whoever killed Patrick was not looking for something among his belongings. This was the act of an assassin. His goal had been to kill Patrick. He had hidden in
the shadows and awaited his prey. As I squatted on my heels at Patrick’s side, I considered the why of it.

Random killing was no stranger to our lands. But even in those deaths, there was yet a reason—theft, rape, even mere cruelty, but a reason nonetheless. A man of Patrick’s stature and
disposition made enemies. The old
tyrannus
Ceredig would have especial reason for killing Patrick. The
episcopus
had written an open letter to his soldiers urging them to leave
the old devil’s service. They did not heed his advice, but that would not deter Ceredig from seeking revenge.

Ceredig’s lands lay far away from Ynys-witrin though, and he was an old and ill man now, living off the riches he had stolen from the people. No, Patrick’s killer lay close by. I
reached deep within my brain, trying to pry loose those things I knew about the old priest. Rhiannon might have reason to kill him, if she were guilty of Elafius’s death, or even if she
thought that Patrick might lay the old
monachus
’s death at her feet. But she had been with me.

My dear friend Coroticus was hiding something, but I could not fathom what would cause him to take Patrick’s life. Unless Coroticus
was
bedding Rhiannon and she had used her
charms to lead him to this. While I was no scholar of religious things, I knew from my days at the abbey that priests and bishops were discouraged from involvement with women. Some
episcopus
named Augustine had declared that when men entered the priesthood they should forsake such earthly pleasures.

Even given all of this, Arthur was still right. Should I be unsuccessful in finding Patrick’s killer, the church in Rome would send priests of Germanus’s stripe stomping loudly
throughout our lands, confiscating the abbey, stripping Coroticus of his position. To kill Patrick in light of that was illogical. All the same, he could not be assumed innocent. Men involved with
women were nothing if not illogical.

Setting those thoughts aside for the moment, I continued scanning the small hut. I noticed then a bundle of scrolls lying atop the single table. Unrolling one, I read the title “On the
Ruination of the Community of Brethren at Ynys-witrin.” Snorting, I turned to the last page and saw the signature of the young Gildas. So this was the epistle that had brought Patrick here. I
took a moment to scan it.

Among the more sensational claims by the pretentious little
monachus
, Gildas asserted that upon his arrival at Ynys-witrin he had found unfettered Pelagianism, men of God indulging in
pleasures of the flesh (I assumed this was a reference to Coroticus and Rhiannon), and, most interesting of all, an “unholy influence exerted by Arthur, the Rigotamos, and certain of his
minions.” I could only think that he was referring to Lauhiir in this, but I could not say for certain.