“You want me to cut a chunk from it? I can do that, though I’d need to do so later. I don’t have it with me.”
“No, no. I’m jesting. Don’t even think about marring such a priceless thing. Five screpallow it is.”
“You’re serious?”
“The rumor doesn’t need to say how much you paid us, does it? I’d dearly like to see Mórganthu’s face when he hears about it.”
“So you’ll help?”
“For the right to rub salt into Mórganthu’s wound, yes.”
A great weight lifted from Merlin’s shoulders as he handed over the five coins. “Thank you.”
“No promises, hear? We filidow are heavily outnumbered. More than likely we’ll all be dead before the moon sets.”
Bedwir was nearly giddy when Vortigern finally marched them on foot out of the Tor’s gate. Down the Meneth Gellik, through the village, and northeastward on the road, they eventually drew nigh to the road leading to the burned abbey. A shame, that.
From there, with the sun behind the mountain, Bedwir could see torches moving in an eerie circle a half league across the valley and through the woods.
The armed company advanced down the road to the stream and up again until they took a snaking path into the forest. Soon the noise of drumming reached their ears, and Bedwir began to sweat. Was it because of their long march or the closeness of the air? Or was it due to the coming battle? Enemy warriors in daylight, fine. But magical druidow in the dark amid an ancient pagan circle of giant stones — that was different.
When the druid’s chanting could finally be heard, Bedwir halted his contingent of men.
“Vortigern says we’re to wait in silence,” the man in front of him whispered. “The battle chief goes alone to scout out the situation. He says to listen for the sounding of his horn.”
Bedwir stood on his toes and craned his neck. About ten paces in front, the cloaked shadow that was Vortigern faded into the trees.
“This is Beltayne night,” Mórganthu shouted to the crowd, “when we light the wicker bonfires filled with the enemies of our gods. When we purify ourselves, our cattle, our children, and our spirits through fire and smoke from all that pollutes, in order to protect ourselves from witchcraft.”
What a hard time Merlin had listening to this. At any moment Mórganthu might give the signal to burn the monks to death or sacrifice Uther and his father, and what could he do? Nothing. Sure, prayers escaped his lips in continuous pleading to God, but Merlin’s soul, spirit, and body all urged him to action. He couldn’t just wait —
Boom! Boom!
Merlin’s throat closed up when he saw the blur of large torches being carried toward the wicker cages, ready to light the mounds of tinder on fire.
“You, my people, you have been bewitched by these practitioners of a foreign god! I ask you, what is done with witches?”
Mórganthu chanted now in the common language of Kernow, and all the people joined with him.
Flames blaze and burn the witches!
Fire! Flames! Destroy the witches!
Boom! Boom! smote the drums.
Behind him, Merlin detected a sound he had not heard in the druid glade before … the slight jingle of ring-mail. He turned and, out of the corner of his good eye, saw a shadowy figure marching into the circle of stones. Whoever it was pushed aside any druidow who stood in his way. Merlin’s heart flip-flopped as the man walked straight to Mórganthu and the Stone, a shining sword on his back reflecting the light of the moon. Was it Vortigern or one of the other warriors?
“A word, master druid!” the man’s deep voice boomed.
“You intrude here,” Mórganthu said in a sneering tone. “Your work is done. Begone!”
“I need assurance.”
“He is here, on the Stone.”
“Alive?” the man said, his voice rising in pitch.
“Yes. Yes, of course. We have our own ways.”
The hooded man paused, then asked, “The heir? Where is he?”
“Drowned in the marsh, his body lost. A trifle, I assure you … I cannot prove his death.”
“Trifle, you say? And Igerna? Where is she?”
Mórganthu turned his back to the man and lowered his voice so that Merlin barely heard his answer. “I am told she and the daughters are dead, as well as that chief offender of a bard.”
Uther let out a desolate cry, and Merlin’s heart broke for him.
Mórganthu turned back to face the warrior. “It seems one of these imprudent Eirish warriors could not control himself. But if it is of any comfort, the offender was slain by my own hand.”
In great rage, the man lunged forward, and everything became confusion. It appeared to Merlin that the warrior picked Mórganthu up and threw him to the ground. “You tell me he is alive while my sister is dead?”
The warrior, whom Merlin now knew was Vortigern, reached down and snatched something from Mórganthu, and when he stood again, there shined in his hand the reflection of red, inlayed glass.
Merlin recognized what he held: the sword Merlin’s father had made and given to Uther.
“He will die now,” the warrior cried out, “but not by my blade.”
Merlin had up until this point sat in mute shock, listening to the two men argue. And all the time he was waiting for Caygek’s men to intervene and save Uther’s life, and the life of his father. But these filidow, cowards all of them, were waiting for who-knew-what signal, and Merlin could wait no longer. Vortigern’s threat drove Merlin to his feet.
He drew his dirk and rushed headlong at Vortigern, who leaned over Uther and the pulsing blue Stone — with the blade poised to kill the High King.
“No-o!” Merlin yelled, and he swung his blade wildly, hoping in the darkness to beat Vortigern back.
Uther musn’t die … he musn’t!
Vortigern swore. “Get back, druid!”
Their blades met, and the superior power of the hand-and-a-half longsword his father had made almost knocked Merlin’s shorter blade from his hand. But the weight of the longsword had caused it to swing too far, and though Merlin had every reason to fear death, a frenzy to save Uther drove him in closer. He grabbed Vortigern’s sleeve with his left hand and slammed the point of his blade into the man’s ring-mail.
But the tip didn’t go through, and Vortigern took the pommel of Uther’s blade and cracked Merlin over the head.
“Out of my way.”
Merlin’s feet failed first, collapsing out from under him as a great clanging and thudding reverberated through his head. He felt weightless, and the only knowledge he had of hitting the ground was the taste of dirt as he coughed and yelled in pain.
Blades clashed next to Owain, and one of the men stepped on his hair, making him flinch. When the fight was over, and one of the men writhed on the ground in pain, the warrior stepped over to the Stone where Uther lay. There, looking up at the man, Owain saw into his hood, and the shimmer of the torches revealed Vortigern’s bearded face. His neck bulged red, and spit frothed through his moustache.
“No!” Owain cried. “No!”
Without a glance in Owain’s direction, Vortigern plunged the blade through Uther’s heart.
Uther’s mouth opened in a mute scream, his eyes wide, his face wracked with pain. As he exhaled his last breath, he whispered, “Jesu, have mercy …”
Owain squeezed his eyes shut as furious smoke rose from the Stone and lightning streaked across the sky. When he opened them again, he saw Vortigern fling the bloodied blade away. Turning from the murder, the battle chief covered his eyes with his hand while great tears streamed down his face.
Owain tore his gaze from the traitor, and it fell on the face of his friend, lightless eyes staring in death. Great Uther. Dead. And the heir as well! Despair again threatened to take him, and he drew in great gasping breaths, struggling to keep it at bay.
Mórganthu, now on his feet again, rose to his full height and called out, “Druidow! Sons of the wood! Slay this man who
dares interfere with the divine rights of the sacrifice of Belornos!”
From all around Vortigern, the druidow advanced, holding blades, axes, and spears with shaking hands.
Vortigern drew his broadsword, brought his great horn to his lips, and blew long and loud. The dark woods echoed with thrumming feet, and in less than ten heartbeats, his warriors burst onto the field.
“Havoc! Havoc!” Vortigern shouted. “The king is dead. Druidow have slain the High King! Come to my aid, my warriors!”
CHAPTER 34
A LAMENT UNSPOKEN
Colvarth tore his tunic and wept until his vision blurred and he could no longer see the pale face of his dead queen. Eilyne and Myrgwen wept with him, hugging their mother and wailing.
The nightmarish images of the attack whirled through his head as he stood. He’d been so shocked with how swiftly Uther had been taken that Igerna’s cries barely reached his ears.
“Colvarth!” she’d shrieked. “They’ve taken Arthur!”
It all happened so fast. The men had stripped Arthur from Myrgwen’s arms and left the tower. All, that is, except for the one Uther had slain and the dark one guarding their escape.
But instead of joining his fellows when the rear was secure, this foul warrior had advanced upon Igerna and lunged at her with his sword, only to find two girls and their slim blades between him and his prey. The two daughters had defended their mother with all the fierce determination and inexpert skill they could muster, but to little avail.
“Get awa’!” the man had shouted, waving his sword as if to shoo away flies buzzing over his supper. “I’ll ha’ me reward o’ gold, nay matter the cost!”
God, pardon me for not acting more quickly. Treachery of this kind against women and children was against the ancient laws of the land — even the laws of the Eirish — and Colvarth, his bones shaking, simply had not fathomed the danger.
He should have acted sooner. My Father … forgive!
Eilyne snarled in righteous defense of her mother and had tried to stab the man. But McGoss, or so they named his fetid face, had clouted her with his fist and thrust her aside.
Myrgwen likewise had advanced to face him and was tossed into the rock wall.
“You whelps’ll die proper in a moment, once yer mither’s dead!” McGoss bellowed, circling her with blade thrusting and swinging.
Her own dirk in hand now, the queen defended herself fiercely, even slicing his elbow once, but the warrior simply outmatched her.
Only then had Colvarth woken from his fright. Grabbing the pickaxe, he wounded the murderer in the leg before being kicked into Uther’s freshly dug hole.
By the time Colvarth had crawled out, the queen, God save her soul, was dead.
And by grace alone had Colvarth and the unconscious girls escaped the man’s blade. For at that moment the other four Eirish warriors had returned, more quickly than McGoss had apparently expected. Caught in his despicable act, McGoss pled with them, but they hacked him dead in lawful judgment — and left again as Colvarth sobbed into his beard.
“Ah, God!” Colvarth cried as he kissed the wet cheek of little Myrgwen, now bereft of her mother … the queen who should have lived to see her godly lineage.
Eilyne still held her blade, and she ran at the mutilated body of McGoss, screaming. Colvarth grabbed her and held her back. “He is dead. Leave his … judgment to God, my lady.” He took her blade and held her sobbing shoulders tightly. Ah, she would have been a good sister-guide to young Arthur.
“Arthur,” Colvarth cried aloud, half scaring himself. “They’ve … taken him!” The heir was alive, and so might Uther be! A fool upon fool to abide with the dead queen while the living might be helped!
“Stay here with … your mother.” And he made them promise. “I will see what may be … done for your brother.”
He clambered through the door and clopped off into the night. Following the muddy tracks of the warriors, he passed the ruins, dodged through the forlorn apple orchard, traced his way through a forest of poplars and pines, and finally found his way to the northern tip of the isle.
There he found the warriors standing on the shore with Uther bound in a boat. They were pushing the lifeless body of a peculiar, wild-haired man into the bushes.
Colvarth hid behind a large tree and overheard them talking in anger about how someone named Garth had stolen young Arthur out from their clutches and slipped off with one of their boats.
Oh, when Colvarth heard this news, a song of praise almost burst from his lips! Stifling himself, he prayed that whomever this Garth was, he would take good care of Arthur until the old bard could find the young prince.
Hunching down on his aching knees, Colvarth pulled his black cloak close about him and waited until the warriors ferried themselves off the island in two trips. Standing again with difficulty, he went back to the tower with hopeful steps. Maybe God’s goodness remained despite the terrible evil of this night.
As it was dark, the girls would be afraid. He went to their camp and, finding the small metal fire chest, opened it and blew upon the coals until they glowed. Taking an oil-soaked torch they had brought, he lit it and climbed back into the tower.
“It is I,” he called but received no reply. The dim torchlight landed on the girls’ sparkling tears, bringing forth his own grief yet again.
The elder of them gazed at the appalling scene. “What will we do?”
“We should build … a cairn over her,” he said, his words echoing inside the tower. But with what? Stepping to the door, he peered out, and while there were stones aplenty, they were nearly all too heavy for an old man and two young girls to lift through the high doorway.
Their best option was to bury her in Uther’s pit. Although less dignified than a cairn, it was far better than leaving her to whatever wild animals might live on the island.
Let that be the fate of McGoss’s bloody remains!
He glanced back at the girls and realized this was a task he would need to take on alone.
With tears clouding his vision, he climbed down into the hole to retrieve Uther’s pickaxe. There amid the soft soil, his foot hit something hard. Thinking it a stone, he paid it no mind until he stepped on it again and heard a hollow sound.
What’s this?
Kneeling, he felt the shape of the object and brushed soil from its surface to reveal silverish metal, which he suspected was pewter, for it had no tarnish or rust.
Shoving the torch’s handle into the dirt at the side of the hole, he dug and found a box no wider than two handbreadths. But the soil was hard, so he took out his small eating knife and chopped the dirt all around until he could pull the object free. Intricate patterns were inscribed on its sides, one of which held the sign of the cross surrounded by the likeness of two trees he did not recognize.
Realizing that he was studying the hinged side, he turned it around and saw on its front not a cross but words in an unknown script. The box was shut fast with some sort of mechanism loosed only by a missing key of clever design.
The box did not weigh much, but he heard faint jostling within. Had Uther been right that this was something holy? Surely the sign of the cross meant it had been owned by a Christian.
Climbing stiffly out of the ditch, he set the box down. His eyes traveled to the reason he had entered the pit’s depths. “Eilyne, Myrgwen, I need you to … stay near the wall.” How I wish they were not present for this task. With a heavy sigh, Colvarth lifted the queen and moved her into the makeshift grave. With great care, he folded her arms in a pose worthy of her grace and nobility.
As he climbed out and gathered dirt to place over her body, Eilyne screamed.
“Nooo!” She pushed Colvarth away, embracing her mother and weeping. Myrgwen stood at the edge of the grave, her face having lost all expression and her eyes glassy.
Colvarth tried to comfort Eilyne, but it was a long time before the girl’s furious grief was stilled.
Together, the three gently covered the
queen’s lifeless form, watering the earth with their tears. Colvarth was already composing a worthy tale of her life and a lament over her death.
“O God,” he spoke aloud. “Let Thy Day of … Judgment and Resurrection come! Yes, come, O Lord Jesu.”
As he scratched the last of the soil over the grave and picked up the silver box, he realized Uther may have truly received a godly vision.
But why had the king acted so strangely? And how had these Eirish warriors known the royal family was staying on the island?
Slow as Colvarth considered himself in his old age, his suspicions finally roused.
Picking up his torch, he searched the inside of the tower and found Uther’s discarded mead skin. Colvarth threw away the stopper, sniffed, and wrinkled his nose. Pouring a droplet of the liquid on his finger, he tasted it and was surprised how its sweetness preceded the slightest touch of bitterness.
Was there something wrong with it? A poison, perhaps?
Colvarth dropped to his aching knees in prayer, for Uther and his son, and when he rose, the light of the torch seemed brighter.
Who had given the drink to Uther? Ah, yes, now he remembered.
Vortigern.
Before he left with the girls beside him, Colvarth laid upon the grave a thick branch of old, weathered applewood, scrawled with a message written in both Latin and Ogham:
Here lies Igerna myr Vitalis,
High Queen of the Britons and the faithful wife
of High King Uther mab Aurelianus,
buried along with her two daughters, Eilyne and Myrgwen,
and her young son, Arthur.
“Why did you write that?” Eilyne asked as they climbed out from the doorway. “It’s not true.”
“Because,” Colvarth said, “though I am … old and slow, the nose of this fox can still smell a wolf. It is my plan that you two be kept safe, and may the … goodly God help our Arthur too.”
Owain wanted to weep at the death of his friend, to mourn, yell, and thrash about, but events occurred too quickly. As Owain lay tied next to Uther’s body, still upon the Stone, the last howls of Vortigern’s battle horn died, and his warriors stormed onto the field.
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