Divine Sacrifice, The (5 page)

The signs were all against us. From the strange summons on the death of Brother Elafius, to the sudden appearance of Patrick, to the hidden threat posed by Lauhiir. The old people would have
barred our departure, threatened us with the ancient gods. I pondered telling Arthur about Patrick as he and Bedevere drew near.

As if he were reading my mind, he hailed me. “What news, Malgwyn? Why this torrent of travelers?”

I grimaced. We were almost at Ynys-witrin and the word of Patrick’s arrival would not profit Arthur so late in our journey, so I decided to let him find out for himself.

“The country folk are turning your visit into a fair, my lord.”

Though he nodded and seemed satisfied with the answer, his eyes narrowed ever so slightly. I knew him too well and the look he gave me boded ill for the future. With that, we urged our horses
into the stream of people in the lane.

The great Tor at Ynys-witrin was part of a chain of hills, of islands most of the year. Rainwater swelled the great channel to the north and the lowlands around Ynys-witrin flooded often. Only a
narrow strip of land joined the island to the rest of Brittania, and it was across that strip that the Via Arturius led, right along the base of the little tor called Wirral, and on to the abbey
itself. Though, at some times, the water reached up and closed that route as well, turning the great tor and the little hills into a true island.

In days past, the old folk said that the sea itself came up to the tor. When I was yet young, my father took me once and showed me where the Romans had built wharves for the big ships to come up
the river. They were still there, at the edge of Wirral, though few ships made the journey anymore, and they were in poor repair.

As we drew close to the causeway that linked Ynys-witrin with the Via Arturius, I saw the silhouette of a single tree, a thorn tree, at Wirral’s summit. Coroticus swore that Joseph of
Arimathea, he who gave a tomb for the Christ, came to this spot from Judea with twelve companions. Exhausted, he planted his staff and it took root, growing into the twisted, gnarled tree I could
yet see. I knew nothing of the truth of it, but I know that it bloomed during the winter, around about the time that the old Romans held their Saturnalia festivals, and, as my father used to tell
me, the Druids held one of their rites.

As I say, I could not judge the story’s truth. I only knew that the old tree on Wirral Hill always seemed lonely to me, and somehow sad. If this Joseph did indeed come here from the lands
of Judea, many thousands of miles away, he must have been as the thorn tree, a solitary and lonely figure in his own way, twelve companions or not.

I breathed deeply, holding in my chest the smells of a place that was special to me in both good and bad ways. Never, in all of my travels with Arthur, had I found a place such as this. Wood
smoke flavored the air, but somehow it mixed with another, purer, cleaner air and acted as a balm to my soul. Explanations for this were weak and assailable. Yet it was true.

The village of Ynys-witrin consisted of a single road that snaked around the gentle slope beneath the abbey and up the hill beside it. The houses were all wattle and daub, an
oak frame with a mix of straw and mud and cow dung between the timbers. The odor in wet weather was not pleasant, and it left the road smelling like a herd of cattle. And this day was wet.

I saw quickly that word of our arrival and that of Patrick had truly spread. Our journey had taken but about three hours, and much of that because of the mud. It was a distance of but ten Roman
miles. In drier weather it would have taken an hour less. A man afoot, avoiding the sloppiness of the road, could often travel faster, as fast as four miles to the hour if he were unburdened and
disciplined in his march.

Merchants with their carts lined the sides of the roads and were tucked between the handful of houses in the village. They sold pottery, wine,
cervesa,
brooches, linen, and wool.
Colorful banners of red, white, blue, green draped from their carts. The lookers were many, but I saw few buying. We had little coinage in our country, some old coins of Honorius and Valentinian
that were still traded, and occasionally new coins from Rome and other places that came in through our western ports. Even the tin and lead mines were not really producing anymore, though one of
Lauhiir’s charges had been to make the mines active once more. So, we traded as we could, used coins when we had them. Taxes were collected in both coin and produce. Aye, that was one way
Arthur kept his table furnished. But of late, with the countryside recovering from the Saxon raids, times had been hard.

“You should have brought a proper escort, my lord,” Bedevere chastised Arthur.

“I did not know that there was to be a festival here. Now, I cannot risk sending either one of you for more troops.”

“Do I detect fear in the Rigotamos’s voice?” Any man but myself, Kay, or Bedevere would receive a strong rebuke, but Arthur allowed us freedoms that others did not enjoy. But
only in private, never before the people.

He frowned at me though. “Kings are but men, Malgwyn. And men die easily. I am not yet ready to enter the next life. Much is still left to be done in this one.”

I looked around, noting the people as individuals and not just a crowd. As I suspected, I quickly picked out a little figure lurking on the edge of a group pushing against a merchant’s
cart. “Llynfann!”

Like a trapped rabbit, the man crouched, his head whipping quickly around, searching out the man who called him. He saw Arthur first and nearly bolted, but then his eyes caught me and my missing
arm. Something of a twisted grin marked his face, and he strolled toward us.

“My lord Malgwyn!” With a cocky smile, he trotted over to us, bowing with great majesty to Arthur.

From the corner of my eye, I saw Bedevere reach for his sword, but my good hand held his. “This one is a friend of mine.”

“From your days hefting a wine jug?” Arthur grumbled. In truth, Llynfann looked more like an evil rat than a respectable citizen. But looks often belied the inside of a man.

“From the day that Kay and I kept Merlin’s head attached to his shoulders,” I shot back.

Arthur raised his eyebrows at that. “So this is one of Master Gareth’s men.”

Then it was Llynfann’s turn to show his surprise. And for a second, the little thief shrank a little, fright returning to his eyes. He was part of a band of
latrunculi,
living
deep in the forests and hills between Castellum Arturius and Ynys-witrin. Gareth, their chieftain, and I knew each other from a nasty affair here at the abbey. My work in that matter had kept
Gareth from the executioner’s axe. A friendship had been born at that time, and, in the matter of Eleonore’s death, Gareth and his men had come to my aid not once, but twice.

“Master Llynfann, I have need of you,” Arthur said. He had a way of making the humblest peasant feel as lofty as a prince. “Make your way to my fort at all possible speed. See
the commander of my horse soldiers. Tell him that I require a troop of horse, immediately. Show him this, but then keep it for your own purse.” He reached into a little pouch hanging from his
saddle and pulled out a bright gold coin. With a flick of his wrist, he tossed it down to the thief.

It was handsome payment for the errand. And it would ensure that Arthur’s command was heeded. Only the Rigotamos could afford to spend so much on such a task. Seeming an inch taller,
Llynfann saluted Arthur and darted back down the road.

“You will never see your escort on this journey, I wager,” Bedevere predicted.

“Have faith, Bedevere. Even the most disreputable men can rise high if given the chance.” He laughed, slapping me on the shoulder.

“My thanks, my lord, for your confidence,” I answered sourly. “Come. Coroticus awaits us.”

The community of the brethren at Ynys-witrin was an imposing sight, nestled into the slope of a large hill. Surrounded by a circular
vallum
ditch topped with a timber
palisade, the complex consisted of a number of austere wood huts grouped around the old church plus a larger dining hall and Coroticus’s own hall, a recent addition to the site, and a
kitchen. Most of the smaller structures were cells for the
monachi,
but others housed the herbarium, scriptorium, and places for other work.

Such communities were relatively new in our island. Before, you might find an isolated hermit or two scattered here and there, on land not coveted by a lord, asking only to be left alone so that
they might worship the Christ in their own way. But slowly, over time, the hermits gathered together, finding solace in forming a community. At this time, other than taking a daily meal together
and contributing to the vegetable garden and other chores, they were free to pursue their own interests much of the time. Before Coroticus arrived to lead the group, they did not even pray
together. Now, he had set some order, a meal and two prayers as a community, and I suspected he planned even more.

The old church at Ynys-witrin always mystified me. Always. A simple structure of wattle and daub, it was the centerpiece of the settlement. No one knew for certain who had built it or when. The
monachi
had old scrolls that said Joseph of Arimathea had built it all those years ago when he came to our island. But whether the old church we saw was the same as what he built, or just
built on the same site, I knew not. That it had seen more seasons than Arthur, Bedevere, and myself combined was obvious.

Arthur was always after the abbot to repair it, but Coroticus argued that to do such would desecrate a sacred place. Arthur then suggested covering the entire structure with lead to protect it.
Coroticus reminded Arthur that the lead mines were not yet productive. Such was one of the many disagreements between them. A burying ground lay near unto the church. Farther east sat the timber
hall of Coroticus and the monastic
vallum,
the ditch and mound that marked the abbey’s boundaries.

Near unto twenty brothers lived at the abbey. Ynys-witrin was the most ancient of such conclaves. Beyond the
vallum,
a five-minute walk from the abbey and just north of the apple
orchard, lay the community of sisters, a collection of some fifteen women who had pledged their lives to devotion and study of the Christ. This was the place where my cousin had first met Arthur;
this was the community that cast her out in disgrace when their liaison was discovered.

But the leader of that group was dead now, and a new woman had been brought from Brittany. I knew little of her but that her beliefs were said to be somewhat strange, and Coroticus was said to
have opposed her appointment. Yet, Dubricius, the archbishop for all of Britannia, desired her appointment and so it was done. I thought little more about the women as we passed through the gate
into the abbey precinct. It seemed unlikely that we would have reason to visit with them on this trip.

“Welcome, Rigotamos, to Ynys-witrin!” cried Coroticus, wearing his rough brown robe and the plain silver cross, the badge of his office, dangling from a heavy chain about his neck.
On either side of him were two of his primary assistants, but that was the whole of the gathering. Behind him I could see the brothers scurrying about the abbey grounds, going about their
tasks.

“Malgwyn, Bedevere,” he continued. “Please also accept my welcome.”

“Coroticus, what was the hurry?” I asked. “We were to be here today at any rate, and, forgive me, but Elafius will still be just as dead.”

The abbot’s eyes hardened. He did not like anyone talking glibly of the dead, and he knew that I knew that. “I was not certain that Malgwyn would be with you. This is a situation
that calls for his special talents. And it is a sin to mock the dead.”

“Enough, Coroticus,” Arthur interrupted, his dislike of the abbot marking every word. “You demanded Malgwyn. He is here. Show us this dead man.”

Coroticus swallowed deeply, and I saw the lump in his throat rise and fall. A man of just a few more years than I, he was the son of a powerful merchant from Aquae Sulis. His father’s
money had bought him the abbot’s seat more so than his devotion to the Christ. But in many ways that was a good thing. Coroticus was raised in the world, unlike most of the brothers, and he
understood things ungodly as well as those of God.