Divine Sacrifice, The (19 page)

The young
monachus
seemed about to say something to Patrick, but he paused and turned the corners of his mouth down into a frown and left without a word.

“Forgive him, Malgwyn. He is young.”

“He is too certain of himself for a youngster. I wonder how much of his insolence comes from his father and brothers. They oppose Arthur, you know.”

“I know. But I believe that Gildas is not highly favored by his family. I believe that he wishes the church to replace them in his life. So, his devotion to duty must be encouraged. The
church needs such as young Gildas.”

“The church should find a way to beat the immaturity out of him before I do,” I grumbled, sipping the small beer. The
monachi
kept one building for the brewing of beer.
Despite my love for the product, I knew little about the process. I knew that they reused the ingredients and it had something to do with a double-bottomed pot. And the succeeding batches were of
lesser strength, ending with the small beer that we were drinking. Weak for my taste but satisfying nonetheless.

“You should be more tolerant,” Patrick chided me, sipping from his own beaker.

“You are different, much different than your reputation. Aye, than your actions yesterday would attest.”

The old
episcopus
winked at me and grinned. “A leader of the church must be stern when necessary. It is far easier to become more pleasant later, after one has established a
stern, demanding manner.”

I smiled at the admission. “One thing I do not understand. You were made a
servi
by the Scotti for six years, and yet you went back to work among them. Why?”

Patrick stretched his legs out and massaged his knees. “After I had made my way home, I resolved to never leave again. But I was troubled by visions. I will not bore you with the details,
but I soon understood that God was calling me to His service. I had not been religious before, but when I realized that God was speaking to me, I answered His call. I understood too that He wanted
me to return to Hibernia and convert the Scotti. But understand me, Malgwyn. I did not do these things for God. It was a gift of God that I could do them.”

“
Episcopus
, why would your God or any god send a man back to preach justice and peace to a people who had held him captive? I am sorry, but the miracle to me is that you survived
your return at all.”

Patrick leaned over and patted my knee. “My God protects me and keeps me safe. He protects you as well.”

I did not like all of this talk about gods. It made me squirm in my seat. Lifting my half-arm and waving it at him, I grunted, “Well, He did not mind His business on at least one
day.”

Half expecting Patrick to begin to chastise me for blasphemy, he laughed a belly-deep chuckle. Since he had confided in me, it was as if his soul were lighter and his worries fewer.
Unfortunately, at that moment Coroticus walked in.

For his audience with Patrick, the abbot had chosen to wear his formal robes, rimmed with fur. His fingers held gold and silver rings, and the cross around his neck was not the plain one he
normally wore, but a stone-encrusted, golden one that I suspected he had ordered specially made.

Patrick grimaced at Coroticus’s apparel. In my short acquaintance with the
episcopus
, I already understood that he was a simple man, prizing simple things. The richness of
Coroticus’s garb was not sitting well with my new friend.

“You asked for me,
episcopus
?” Coroticus was all innocent inquiry.

Patrick immediately straightened and cast a forbidding look at the abbot. “Why did you send Gwilym away today?” Without preamble, he launched straight into the matter.

In the pause which followed, I could smell the hint of cooking pork drifting up from the kitchen. Mixed with herbs, it flavored the air with its delicious scents. But I could not enjoy the
smell. My friend Coroticus had lied to me. I did not understand why.

“May I sit?”

Patrick nodded, and Coroticus adjusted his robes and lowered himself onto the chair.

“Why did you send Gwilym away from the abbey today?” the
episcopus
repeated.

The abbot did not answer quickly. He looked away for a moment, toward the timber walls of his hall. “By what right,
episcopus
, do you ask me such questions? This is not your
bishopric. You have no say in how I conduct the affairs of my abbey.” All of this he said without looking at either of us. Indeed, his voice held a distant, almost whispering quality.

Patrick studied the abbot carefully. He glanced at me. Coroticus’s voice had the sound of a condemned man, a man resigned to his fate. “You are correct, abbot. But Malgwyn holds
Arthur’s commission as
iudex
. Do you deny his right to ask questions?”

Then Coroticus turned and looked at us both. “If I believed that such questions were valuable to his inquiry, I would not challenge his right. But, as Gwilym has not been formally accused,
I saw no reason to limit his movements. And, as the
episcopus
knows very well, if Gwilym did commit this act, he is protected by this sacred precinct.”

“He is protected as long as he remains within its bounds,” Patrick corrected him.

Sanctuary. It was an ancient right. Anyone could seek sanctuary within a religious precinct. As long as they stayed within that precinct. They were protected from harm, and woe be unto the man
who violated this right.

“Where did you send him? What village?”

“I will not tell you, Malgwyn. And no one else here knows. I respect you greatly, but in this matter, I do not trust you to abide by the rules of sanctuary. Your obsessive pursuit of such
affairs might cause you to ignore such traditions.”

“And so you will keep him from me? Why in the name of your God did you send for me? You have known me for years! You know me!”

The pain on Coroticus’s face could be seen, almost touched. “When I called for you, I did not know what I know now. I reacted without thinking.”

“What do you know now?”

“I cannot tell you.”

“Why not?” I was beyond frustration. The conversation went in more circles than a wagon wheel.

“Was it in a
confessio
, abbot?” Patrick asked softly.

He nodded.

“He cannot tell you, Malgwyn,” Patrick said to me. “He said it in confession to Coroticus. Such confessions cannot be repeated.”

I turned and motioned to the soldiers. “Bring Bedevere to me as quickly as you can.”

Coroticus’s eyes shot to me. Patrick’s reaction was somewhat slower. “What are you going to do, Malgwyn?” the old
episcopus
asked.

I stood, my half-arm hurting up into my neck. “Fighting with the church is not something I wish to do. I could let all of this go. But you, Coroticus, were the one that brought me into it.
And now that that is done, I will not stop. I will have Bedevere set guards around the abbey precinct and put patrols out to search the region. If I cannot take Gwilym here, I will take him before
he returns. Then, I will find out what has happened here and what you are hiding, my lord abbot.”

“Malgwyn, I beg you. You do not know what mischief you will bring down on us!” Coroticus too was on his feet.

“Then tell me who or what Gwilym is!”

He dropped his head and turned his down-stretched hands palms up, as if in supplication.

But before I could answer, I heard the odd clink of mail. Bedevere had arrived.

“I came upon your call, Malgwyn.” He glanced at Coroticus and Patrick. “How may I serve you?” I realized then that in some ways I had always underestimated Bedevere. In a
single glance, he took in the situation and addressed me in a manner intended to aid my task. No pause. No haughty expressions.

“Lord Bedevere, the
monachus
Gwilym has been sent away to a neighboring village.” I threw a grimace at the abbot. “I need him, and I need him before he can arrive here
and claim sanctuary. Please post guards around the
vallum
. Arrest him before he crosses into the abbey precinct. Send patrols out to search the surrounding villages and
countryside.”

“And when we catch him?”

“Hold him in the village. Let no one near him.”

Bedevere nodded. “As you order.” He did not question me; he did not challenge me. Bedevere nodded sharply and spun around, shouting orders to the soldiers already there.

“Malgwyn,” I heard Patrick say. “Forgive my words to you yesterday. For all that you may have been, you are now a different man. I suspect the death of my old friend Elafius
will not be a mystery for very much longer. Arthur has chosen well, and my opinion of him is changing too.”

Coroticus said nothing, but the expression on his face said everything. He was a most miserable man.

“Be of good heart, Coroticus. I have not had you arrested yet.” I tried to sound friendly, but the abbot was not interested. If ever I had seen a man at the point of collapsing, it
was Coroticus.

He stood up then and straightened his robes, his fingers adjusting the massive cross to the center. “I will go and see to our evening meal and to the preparations for Elafius’s
burial.”

“As you like,” I said. In truth, I felt strongly that once we broke down this wall surrounding the old
monachus
Gwilym we would know how Patrick’s friend died.

“Will he be sent to Bannaventa Taburnaie? We were born there,” Patrick said.

Coroticus shook his head. “Elafius once told me that he wished to be buried here, where he had made his home these many years. We will bury him next to the church. I have already set men
to digging his grave and the carpenter to building his coffin.”

“May I now view the body?” His words reminded me that we had already objected once.

“Umm, I—” I began, but a wave of the hand from Coroticus stopped me.

“Of course,
episcopus
, whenever you like.”

W
e all left together, Coroticus walking next to me. Apparently, he had had his men clean and dress Elafius for burial, obscuring my earlier
explorations. He seemed more comfortable now that he and I were both keeping secrets from Patrick.

Preparations were further along than Coroticus knew. As we approached the building where Elafius lay, all of the brothers save Gwilym and Coroticus were present. Rhiannon and the women had
wisely stayed away. The day had dawned to a clear sky, but gray clouds now blotted out the sun and I could taste rain on the wind.

I saw first the wooden coffin built for the old
monachus
. In our simple village, we mostly lined our graves with stone. Wooden coffins were seen as a rich man’s vessel. Death was
too common among the villagers, from age, disease, accident, and violence.

Four of the brothers were busied with placing the white-shrouded Elafius in his coffin. They chanted something in Latin as they hoisted their burden to their shoulders. The remaining
monachi
formed a line behind, young Gildas at the front, and followed their departed brother to the grave opened near unto the old church.

We followed along the muddy path, falling in behind the procession. Gildas recited something in Latin, but his voice was low and cracking, and the wind had risen and whispered around the wooden
cells.

For some reason, memories of my days here returned to me, and to my surprise, they were surprisingly pleasant. In past times, I had remembered those days as dark and unending, the darkest of my
life. But watching the brothers lay their fellow to rest, I suddenly recalled the kindnesses they had accorded me. Aye, even Elafius, annoying as he had been. I recalled the old man finding me one
day, in the midst of frustration over learning to do without my right arm. His eyes softened in kindness, he gently patted me on the back and said, “Patience, my son. You lived many years
with both of your arms. It will take you time to learn to live with one.”

And now, another part of my past was being buried. The gray sky and the somber occasion darkened my mood like nothing in a long time. But as Patrick moved forward, I stayed by his side. The
brothers laid Elafius’s coffin on the ground, the top not yet affixed. My companion knelt down and studied his old friend’s face as the others withdrew a step or two out of respect.

“He seems so old, Malgwyn,” Patrick said softly. “But I still see the boy I once knew, hidden behind all those wrinkles. Do I look that old?”

I did not answer. I knew Patrick was suddenly feeling the weight of his years in a way that he never had before. He was feeling the approach of his own death. I watched as his eyes closed and
his lips moved in a soundless mumble. I knew not whether he prayed for Elafius’s soul or his own, and, in truth, it did not matter.

He began to rise, stumbled, almost falling, but I moved to catch him with my good hand. Patrick looked up at me with a whisper of a smile, patted and then softly squeezed my hand, and rose to
his feet. I could feel a tremble along his old frame and so I kept his arm fast in my grip.