Berengar came to stand before the stone dais. “Laird Tierney.” He spoke before realizing the old man’s eyes were closed.
The lord did not stir until a younger man closer to Berengar’s age approached the stone chair and bent low, whispering into Tierney’s ear. He leaned forward and squinted in the warden’s direction. “You’ll have to speak up. I’m afraid my ears aren’t what they once were.”
“I am Berengar, Warden of Fál and Sworn Sword of High Queen Nora.” Tierney made no response at this, though the younger man at his side appeared alarmed by his words. “I come at the behest of King Mór.” Berengar reached into his cloak and withdrew the sealed letter. The younger man took it from his outstretched hand and offered it to Tierney.
The lord broke the seal and unfolded the letter but before he could read it, he erupted into a serious of violent coughs. He said something to the younger man too quietly for Berengar to hear, and the man took the letter and briefly glanced over its contents.
“I’m afraid Laird Tierney is feeling ill at the moment.” He briefly laid a hand on the old man’s shoulder, a gesture that was not lost on Berengar. “Perhaps we might continue this conversation elsewhere, away from prying eyes and ears.”
Berengar glanced over at the lord, who had already fallen asleep again. “Lead the way.”
The man led him from the chamber, and they walked together down a long corridor. “I am Desmond, Laird Tierney’s eldest son and heir,” he said by way of introduction, pausing as two noblewomen approached from the opposite direction. The women whitened at the sight of Berengar’s scars. The warden nodded politely in their direction as he passed by, and Desmond promptly resumed speaking. “As my father has grown ill, I have taken over many of his responsibilities in his stead.”
The pair passed under a white arch and emerged into the fresh air. They stood atop one of the wall’s corner towers, awash in bright light, and stared across the serene waters of the lake below.
“I trust you understand why I’m here.”
Desmond nodded. “I knew that before I saw you enter the keep. We are well aware of the high esteem in which our king holds his court magician, although I did not expect King Mór would send the High Queen’s executioner. Your reputation precedes you, Bear Warden.” The contempt conveyed by his tone was clear.
“I take it you’re not pleased by my presence here.”
“Lady Morwen is well known to us. She is a kind and decent sort and has provided her assistance to us on more than one occasion. I would see her safely returned to the king. I had hoped it would not involve the spilling of blood, but given what I know of you, that seems unlikely.”
Berengar chose to let the remark pass. He often received a similar reception from nobility. Some resented the authority he had been given. Others believed the stories they’d heard. Others still were worried he would discover their culpability. He wasn’t certain what category Desmond fit into, but it didn’t matter now, at least not for the moment. There were more important matters to tend to.
“Tell me what happened.”
“The lady Morwen arrived in Cill Airne two moons ago and was received at court. I assume she was on the king’s business, though she made no mention of her purpose. She then traveled to the monastery at Innisfallen, an island on Loch Léin, and dwelled among the monks.”
Desmond pointed at a speck of land in the distance, surrounded on all sides by the lake’s dark waters. Berengar could barely discern the outline of the monastery rising from the island like a tower.
“She was undisturbed for a time, until a crop of farmers got it into their heads she had placed a curse on the land.” Desmond stopped for a moment, as if deliberating his next words. “You must understand, there was an unusually poor planting season this year, and many of the farmers have lost cattle to disease. The old superstitions run strong here.”
Berengar turned away from the lake and cast a dark gaze over Desmond. “I understand superstition well enough. What I fail to understand is how Laird Tierney allowed this to occur when he has a sizable number of fighting men at his command.”
To his credit, the lord’s heir did not avert his eyes. He let out the protracted sigh of a man who had exhausted all options available to him and now found himself in an untenable situation. “The peasants took up arms and laid siege to the island, demanding the magician so she could be burned. The monks continue to refuse to hand her over. We’ve tried resolving matters peacefully, but the villagers won’t listen to reason. One of our soldiers was killed attempting to restore order.”
“You still haven’t answered my question.”
“There has already been one uprising in the last year. My father will not risk a massacre that could cause the peasants to revolt. We requested more men from the king, but you’re the only one he sent.”
The wind shifted, and a cool breeze came from the west, carrying the scent of the lake.
“By showing weakness, you’ve only made it more likely people will get hurt.” The warden paused, studying Desmond carefully. “Unless you have another motive for allowing the siege to continue.”
Desmond’s brow furrowed. “What do you mean?”
“Word has it that a group of déisi was seen traveling toward Cill Airne before this began.”
If Desmond was surprised by Berengar’s knowledge of the mercenaries, he gave no sign of it. “You’re correct. They stayed at the tavern for one night and day before moving on.”
“Long enough to spread more than a few rumors among the villagers about the presence of a certain magician, I’d say. Maybe even pay off one or two farmers.”
“What exactly are you implying?”
The warden leaned closer, and this time Desmond took a step back. “The déisi are hired killers—professionals. Their services don’t come cheap. Perhaps whoever paid them also offered your father something out of the deal.”
Anger flashed over Desmond’s face. “My father would never betray King Mór. Not for all the wealth of Fál would he do such a thing.”
If Desmond were involved in treachery, he would likely have used the opportunity to defend himself. Instead he had chosen to defend his father’s honor. Coupled with the tender gesture Desmond displayed toward Laird Tierney in the keep, it was clear Desmond was devoted to his father. Still, people were capable of just about anything, in Berengar’s experience, and members of the nobility were especially susceptible to the lure of wealth and power.
The warden held up a hand in protest. “Calm down. My only concern at the moment is delivering the magician safely to King Mór. I’m more than happy to do it on my own.”
In truth, Berengar didn’t require Laird Tierney’s blessing, or even his approval. As a warden, his authority came from the High Queen herself. He was empowered to mete out justice as he saw fit. Although he could not make laws—that power belonged to the ruler of each kingdom—he answered to Nora alone, though he did feel a sense of deference to the kings and queens of Fál.
“You won’t be alone. They are my subjects too, and my responsibility. If you are on the king’s business, then you will have my father’s assistance. I will accompany you to the island.”
Berengar felt a growing sense of respect for the lord’s son. “Very well. But I warn you—if you get in my way, I will kill you.”
“I would expect nothing less from you. I suppose warning you against the folly of threatening a lord’s son would be pointless, so what now? I take it you’ve been involved in this sort of thing before.”
“I sail for Innisfallen at once and give the villagers the chance to lay down their arms.”
“And if they do not disperse?” Desmond asked warily.
“Then there will be blood.”
Chapter Three
An undercurrent of tension hung in the air.
The warden stared over the surface of Loch Léin—the Lake of Learning, named for the island monastery—from his perch at the head of the curach. The boat’s narrow wooden frame crea
ked under the whisper of the steady breeze. The small vessel sailed alone across the lake’s smooth waters, Cill Airne shrinking ever smaller behind them.
Berengar hated the water. He had almost drowned on three separate occasions. The first happened when he was a boy, in icy reaches far to the north. The last was during the Shadow Wars, when he fought on the banks of the River Shannon, weighed down by his armor and surrounded by stacks of muddy corpses. Even now water held a dark power over him, beautiful and treacherous at once.
A flag bearing Laird Tierney’s sigil flapped wildly on the deck, though it was the axe Berengar wore that sent the clearer message. No one had uttered a word since they set sail. The pair of oarsmen rowed in silence, their paddles striking the water in near-perfect rhythm. Faolán watched the others from where she lay at the back of the boat.
Desmond had kept especially quiet since their departure, no doubt troubled by those who remained behind, watching from shore. Berengar guessed many in the crowd were family or friends of the villagers taking part in the siege. Some had even attempted to follow, but Laird Tierney’s soldiers kept them from taking to their boats. Had Tierney not been so averse to a show of force in the first place, Berengar doubted his presence would have been necessary.
The island grew in size at their approach, a soaring colossus of volcanic rock and red sandstone emerging from the depths like a crown of stone. Near the center of the island, two peaks rose above the others, creating a steep ascent to a tower that loomed at the top of the lower peak.
“There it is. Innisfallen.” Desmond whispered the name with reverence.
The monastery was far larger than Laird Tierney’s castle, and much older too. With its lofty black walls, the monastery seemed more like a fortress built for war than a place for peaceful, learned monks. It was easy to see how a group of monks might endure a siege of armed men in such a structure, so long as their food stores endured. Its storied halls were where Brian Boru, first and greatest of Munster’s line of High Kings, had learned as a boy. Within the monastery were kept the Annals of Innisfallen, a chronicle of the entire history of Fál. Berengar didn’t want to know what the monks had written about him, though he was curious how they managed to separate fact from fiction.
Gulls circled the lower peak, perhaps interested in the outcome of the spectacle below. As the boat drew nearer to the island, he noticed a number of curachs and fishing boats abandoned along the shore. They ran aground beside the other boats, and the warden disembarked to inspect the area with a closer eye, glad to be on dry land once more. Faolán leapt over the side of the boat to join him. There were more than a few footprints in the dirt, all leading up the steep path to the monastery. Most of the prints were faded, suggesting the villagers had been there for some time, which accorded with Desmond’s account.
“They couldn’t have brought many supplies, given the small size and number of boats,” he said as Desmond made his way ashore. “They obviously didn’t anticipate a protracted struggle. I’m surprised they haven’t given up yet. They either truly believe in what they’re doing, or else external forces are involved.”
Desmond followed his gaze to the two oarsmen who remained seated in the curach. “They’re not coming with us.”
“Smart of them.” Berengar rose from where he had crouched beside the footprints. “If this goes south, you’d be wise to consider running yourself.”
“I’m not going anywhere.”
“At least you had the sense to bring a sword, even if you don’t plan on using it.” Berengar was pleasantly surprised that Tierney’s son had proved true to his word, though he doubted Desmond would have any better luck convincing the villagers to set aside their arms this time around. “Let’s go. We’ve a steep climb ahead.”
The two men started up the winding road, an uneven stair that looped around the island as it led to the peak, and the sound of waves crashing against the shore below soon grew fainter. Faolán easily outpaced them, occasionally glancing back with an annoyed expression, as if to say, what’s taking you so long? Patches of emerald grass and several varieties of wildflower sprouted from a thin layer of topsoil on either side of the stair and up the sides of the stone columns looking down on them.
Berengar heard raised voices calling out as they neared the peak. He held a finger to his lips. “Quiet.” Faolán sank low to the ground in a stalking position.
A crowd of villagers had assembled outside the monastery. They faced the tower, their backs to the pair approaching from the road. The mob numbered no more than twenty men in all. Few possessed actual weapons. For the most part they carried pitchforks and torches, with a few bows tossed in for good measure. Berengar doubted the villagers had any real combat training. If it came to it, he could slaughter them with ease, regardless of their numbers.
“Give us the magician,” their leader shouted up at the tower, where a man in brown robes watched them from the safety of a balcony. “Hand her over, and we’ll be on our way.”
“I’ll tell you what I told you yesterday, and the day before that,” the monk said by way of reply. “She is our guest, and you will not harm her.” He was a large man—though not nearly as large as Berengar—and bald, with a short white beard. Were he not a monk, Berengar might have taken him for a former brawler. Though since the man was of Fál, such a thing was still possible. “Besides, I rather like her. She makes this old man laugh.”
The villagers murmured among themselves for a few moments before their leader spoke again. Berengar caught a glimpse of him between gaps in the crowd. The man was better dressed than the rest, and unlike the others, he carried a sword. If someone was in the employ of the déisi, he was the most likely candidate.
“The woman is a witch. She has cursed our lands and polluted our waters with her foul magic. Do you deny the poor planting season or the decline in fishing yields? Surely you can see that she must be burned, man of God. Are not the old ways of the devil?”
The monk laughed outright at that. “She is a servant of the throne. As for the other, how do you know her magic does not come from the Lord? I sense no darkness in her.”
“Enough,” Berengar said loudly before the villagers could offer a response. He pushed his way to the front of the crowd, Desmond following reluctantly behind. “This siege ends now.”
“And who are you, stranger?” the villagers’ leader demanded.
Berengar’s expression darkened, and the man retreated to the protection afforded by his ranks. “I come on the authority of King Mór. I swear to you that if one hair on the magician’s head is harmed, I’ll gut the lot of you.”
For a moment, there was silence as the villagers stared at the warden’s imposing figure. Like infants attracted to a shiny object, their eyes sought out his weapons. Then one voice sounded above the others.
“The Fortress of Suffering,” the villager said. “The High Queen’s Monster.”
Berengar’s first impulse was to frown at the mention of one of his less than savory monikers, but instead he put on a false smile. “So you’ve heard of me. Then you know I will kill every man here if it means getting what I want. And what I want is to return King Mór’s magician safely into his hands.” Berengar took out his battleaxe for good measure, positioning himself between the villagers and the tower.
Desmond held up a hand in protest. “It need not come to this. Laird Tierney will pardon any man here who lays down his arms. There is no need for bloodshed.”
“He’s lying,” the villagers’ leader declared, facing his ranks. “We’ve come too far to turn back now. Unless we rid the land of the witch, we will never break her spell.” He drew his sword, and several of the archers trained their bows on Berengar and Desmond. Faolán snapped her jaws angrily at the threat to her master, waiting to kill if Berengar but said the word.
“I’ve had just about enough of this.” Berengar’s gaze fell on one of the archers, a young man barely out of adolescence whose bow was pointed in his direction. “You ever fire that th
ing at a human before?” The bow wavered in the archer’s hands.
Berengar broke the young man’s nose with the flat of his axe. Before the others could react, he disarmed the archer with ease and grabbed him from behind as if to use him as a shield.
“What are you doing?” Desmond hissed.
“We tried things your way.” Berengar pressed his axe against his captive’s throat and raised his voice so the others could hear him. “Is this boy a friend of yours? Maybe you’ve traded goats with him. Perhaps he helped you with the harvest. Do you want to see him die?”
Terror was readily apparent across the sea of faces. Half the men lowered their weapons. Berengar had no intention of killing an unarmed prisoner, but they didn’t know that. Sometimes there were advantages to having a dangerous reputation.
Their leader waved his sword about. “Don’t listen to him. Whoever he claims to be, there’s only one of him.”
Faolán bristled, her fur standing on end, but did not yet attack.
“With only twenty men? I’ve killed more than that stinking drunk.” Berengar stared down the crowd, prepared to act. “I’m really not looking forward to picking pieces of you out of my axe, but I will if need be. One way or another, I’m leaving here with the magician.”
“My name is Morwen,” a woman’s voice declared, and every head—Berengar’s included—turned in the direction of the tower’s entrance, where the king’s magician stood outside the door. A flock of nervous-looking monks stood behind her just inside the tower.
The moment Berengar saw her, he knew at once his assumption about Morwen and the king was wrong. Morwen was barely fifteen, if that, much too young for even Mór’s liking. She had a round, earnest face framed by long, bushy brown hair. She wore elegant blue magician’s robes lined with the gold and white colors of the king’s house. There was something familiar about her appearance, although he wasn’t entirely sure why.
The Blood of Kings Page 4