Triskelion

by Avril Borthiry

  Triskelion

  ~ a medieval legend ~

  by

  Avril Borthiry

  'A wolf, the last, as rumour saith,

  in England's spacious realm,

  is doomed that day to meet its death,

  and grace the conqueror's helm'

  from 'The Annals of Cartmel',

  James Stockdale. (1872)

  This tale is a work of fiction, and is a product of the author's imagination. All places, people, and events contained within these pages are either fiction or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, or to persons living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright 2014 Avril Borthiry

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever with written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

  Note from the author:

  Triskelion was inspired by the legend of the 'last wolf' of England, which I have known about since childhood. The wolf’s final battle with the knight who hunted him supposedly took place atop some cliffs not far from where I grew up. My story was also influenced by a little book called 'The Last Wolf', written by Mrs Jerome Mercier, and published at the turn of the 20th century. I have a first edition copy of that book, and I treasure it.

  Triskelion tells of events subsequent to the wolf’s death, his demise being the catalyst that triggers the start of an ancient prophecy.

  All the places in my book exist. For the sake of authenticity, I've used the original medieval names where applicable, such as the Lancaster Sands, which are known today as Morecambe Bay, Fowdray Island, which is now Piel Island, and Balla Cashtal, which is now Castletown.

  Wraysholme is also real, but it’s not a manor house. It’s actually a 15th century pele tower, and is, in fact, located on the shore close to the cliffs. I used to play there as a child.

  Sir John Harrington also existed, and his family actually built Wraysholme, but I don't think John ever lived there. (My third great-grandfather did, though. He was known as William of Wraysholme.)

  John Harrington's tomb is in Cartmel Priory, the 12th century church founded by William Marshal, and where I was christened.

  I hope you enjoy the read, and thank you.

  Prologue

  Morecambe Bay, Cumbria

  Present Day

  Professor Samuel Kellett's bifocals rested askew on his face, due in a large part to the piece of sticky tape that held the cracked bridge together. With a stab of his finger, he pushed them farther up his nose and tapped them into place. He studied the small piece of bone grasped between his fingers with the same reverence a jeweller might bestow upon a diamond.

  “Not human,” he murmured, setting the piece down amongst the other fragments. “Sheep, possibly.”

  He reached for the clipboard lying beside him and groped in his shirt pocket for his trusty Cross ballpoint. Sam's legendary illegible scrawl soon began to scuttle its way across the sheet of paper.

  Each archeological find had to be carefully tagged and catalogued, with its original location noted on Sam's scaled map of the cave floor. None of the items boasted great monetary value. There were no gold coins or silver brooches, not even a rusty nail. Sam didn't care. He didn't seek treasure in the raw sense of the word. Sam sought answers from a forgotten past.

  His current dig was in a yawning cavern that nature, many thousands of years before, had gouged into an ancient limestone peninsula jutting out into Morecambe Bay. The Wolf's Cave, as it was known locally, wore a cloak of mystery and legend. Supposedly, the last wolf in Cumbria had lived in the cave and been killed on the nearby shore several hundred years before.

  Whether a medieval wolf had actually lived there or not was of little concern to Sam. His interest lay with the human element. He'd already unearthed evidence of man's occupation going back millennia. Layers of ash from old fires lay buried deep beneath the earthen floor. Bone fragments, obviously aged, and some bearing the marks of butchery, had also turned up here and there. Each tiny piece formed part of a puzzle yet to be solved.

  Weary, but content with the day's findings, Sam sighed. With a deft flick of his thumb, he closed his beloved pen and returned it and his unfortunate glasses to the security of his shirt pocket. He looked over at the large round entrance, which framed a fading pink sky. The diminished daylight in the cave had not gone unnoticed.

  “Time to wrap it up, Emily.” He glanced over at the young woman sitting on the floor at the other side of the cave.

  “Okay,” came the hesitant response. “I seem to be down to the rock here anyway. Could be a natural shelf in the cave wall I suppose, but it looks strange. I don’t know. Professor, could you come here please?”

  Emily McCallum sat cross legged on the floor, her rich brown hair swinging in a careless pony-tail over her shoulder. Her shirt sleeves had been pushed back and her khakis rolled up to mid-calf. Slender, lightly-tanned arms rested across her knees as she gazed down at whatever had caught her interest.

  The girl had graduated with honours from Oxford and Sam hired her as an assistant almost immediately. He knew Emily thought he'd based his decision on her academic prowess. What had actually impressed him more was that the lass had the rare distinction of being able to read his writing. But he'd never told her that.

  Sam stepped over to where she sat. “You've found something, my dear?”

  He crouched next to her, an errant strand of grey hair falling across his eyes. He stroked it back and scrutinized the few square inches of solid surface exposed by Emily's careful removal of the earth. A strange tingle ran down his spine as his fingers brushed the bared stone.

  “This isn’t limestone,” he said, more to himself than Emily.

  “No, it isn't. It looks like a slab of sandstone. And it has chisel marks on it.”

  “It does indeed.” The tingle ran down his spine again. “What's a slab of sandstone doing in a limestone cave? There's no natural sandstone in this corner of Cumbria.”

  “I'm wondering the same thing.” Emily glanced around the gloomy cavern, her eyes wide. “Shall I fetch the lanterns?”

  Sam thought of the steak and kidney pie and the pint of Guinness awaiting him at the local inn. But only for a very brief moment. Ignoring the aches in his joints and muscles, he stood, unable to take his eyes off the exposed piece of stone. His mind reeled with a hundred questions. It occurred to him that the sudden rolling sensation in his stomach wasn't hunger. It was pure excitement.

  He took a deep breath.

  “Yes, Emily. Fetch the lanterns.” He retrieved his glasses from his jacket pocket and balanced them back on his nose. “I've a feeling it's going to be a long night.”

  “It looks like the lid of a sarcophagus,” Emily said, some hours later. Her hand shook, evident by the trembling halo of lantern-light that graced the sandstone slab. “Do you think it's authentic, Professor? I mean, as in not recent?”

  “Oh, it's not recent. Steady with the lantern, Emily.” Sam traced his fingers over the inscription engraved in the sandstone. “This looks like an 's' and this is an 'i', or it might be an 'l'. It's hard to tell in this light. This symbol is obviously a cross. This one, though, is more ancient in origin.” A Triskelion. Odd. Very odd. “Judging by the lettering and the style of the cross, my guess would be late medieval, but this pagan mark puzzles me.”

  Why would such a thing be buried in a windswept cave?

  He sat back, cringing at the ache in his bones and somewhat concerned about the frantic rattle of his sixty-two-year-old heart.

  Eyes wide with excitement, Emily looked at him. “Should we try and remove the cover?”

  Sam shook his head. The stone would be of considerable weight – too heavy
for them to handle with ease. Besides, something about this strange find bothered him. It was obviously a grave site of some description and merited, he felt, additional expertise.

  “No.” He glanced at the entrance, seeing blackness beyond as a name slid into his brain. “There's someone I need to speak to before we go any further.”

  Chapter 1

  The Lancaster Sands

  Lancashire

  AD 1310

  The full moon stirred an ancient, ancestral instinct within the wolf. It hastened the beat of his heart and compelled him to howl at the star-strewn heavens. Yet he hesitated as another instinct, that of survival, cautioned against his wild compulsion.

  The forests seldom echoed with the songs of his brethren anymore. The dreadful silence spoke to him, warning him to stay quiet and out of sight. So the wolf offered only a gentle whine to the night sky before tearing his yellow eyes away from the allure of the moon's face.

  Ears pricked, he shifted his focus and looked out across the empty sands. The cool salt air surrounded him with an array of scents. Secure in his limestone haven, the wolf identified them all with complacent ease, until one emerged like a festering splinter from the night.

  His hackles rose and his ears flattened.

  The faint but distinctive smell of wolf's blood wafted up from the jagged rocks below. The spatter was old, the bones long gone, but the remaining essence still spoke of a violent demise. His sensitive nostrils twitched and flared as they sensed another creature's blood mingling with that of his predecessor. This blood had also been spilled long ago, but the wolf let out a low, menacing growl when he recognized the source.

  Man.

  ~ ~ ~

  Kate rubbed the sleep from her eyes, pulled the bed covers up to her chin and curled into a ball. She shivered, frustrated by her isolation. Who, after all, could she turn to? Who could she tell about her vivid dreams, without being judged or ridiculed? They were so real. He was so real. Was she going mad?

  How can he be just a dream? People don't fall in love with their dreams, do they? A vision, then. A lover I have yet to meet. Ah, now, be careful of such a claim, Katherine Rose Harrington. Visions are a gift of the prophets, or summoned by the spells of witches. I'm sure I'm neither prophet nor witch. But what, then, of the other I see? The Dark One? What measure of devil is he and what is his purpose? God help me if he should be real. Aye. God help me indeed.

  She squirmed, her mind teetering on the edge of a domain she was reluctant to explore.

  The nightly occurrences began soon after her sixteenth birthday, several weeks earlier. At first, the dreams were unobtrusive and intermittent. She initially pondered them with some amusement, especially the attentions of the handsome young man who stole her heart while she slept. Something about him touched her very soul. But, to her growing bewilderment, the dreams had not subsided. In fact, like an approaching storm, they had intensified in their power and delivery. She tried to ignore a new and growing sense of foreboding, although it twisted like a knot beneath her ribs even while awake. What did it all mean?

  Grateful for the hint of dawn's pale light creeping into her chamber, Kate sat up, pushed the bed curtains aside and slid off the mattress. Bare feet tiptoed across scrubbed oak boards, carrying her to the stone window seat where she curled up on a thick sheepskin.

  A solitary bird began to sing outside the window, hesitant at first, then with more confidence as if challenging a response. One came, then another.

  Kate pushed the window open and allowed the symphony of birdsong to fill the room, accompanied by the sharp smell of salt marsh and sea air. Her lungs snatched at the pungent breeze and the knot in her chest eased a little. She looked out across the bay, enraptured by the delicate swirls of mist that floated here and there above the bare sands. Her rampant imagination half expected to see some wondrous sight emerge from the ethereal substance. A knight, perhaps, mounted upon his great white horse. She smiled at her foolishness, pulled her knees up to her chin and watched the approaching sun cast a gentle glow over the distant limestone peninsula.

  Part way along the cliffs, yawning like a mouth in its pale limestone face, was the opening to a cave. It had once been home to a wolf, the last of his kind in this small corner of England. Everyone in the county knew the story of his demise.

  Eighteen years had passed since the renowned battle between man and beast, yet the locals still spoke of it. Aye, and why would they not? The man - a knight who had since become a legend - still lived amongst them.

  Kate had an obsession with the tale. She'd spent many clandestine hours exploring the shore beneath the cave and wandering the trails where the beast once trod. Although tempted each time, she'd never found the courage to climb to his vacant lair, fearful of falling on the jagged rocks. Instead, she'd sit beside the Holy Spring, which gurgled out from the ground at the foot of the cliffs, and imagine the grey face of a wolf staring down at her from the dark entrance.

  Her obsession was not without foundation, for Kate knew well the man who had battled and killed the wolf. He was her father, Sir John Harrington, lord and master of Wraysholme Manor. Yet strangely, he had never spoken to Kate about what happened on the day the wolf died. Whenever she pressed him about it, his anger, so rarely seen, would rise to the surface. Worse, a shadow of pain always darkened his eyes. Most of her knowledge of the tale had come from the servants, but Kate always felt there was more to tell. The house, she sensed, shielded many secrets, her own included.

  As the day awakened, so did Wraysholme. Kate sniffed at the delicious aroma of baking bread wafting into her chamber, and her stomach grumbled in response. She heard the whinny of a horse and male voices echoing up from the courtyard. Kate recognized the deep, confident ring of her father's voice, the gruff responses of Thomas, Wraysholme's stable master, and the softer tones of David, Sir John's young squire. Moments later, she heard the sound of the hooves clattering across the courtyard cobbles before they faded into the distance.

  Kate frowned, searching through her memory for the previous night's dinner conversation. Nay. Her father hadn't mentioned anything about any errands or outings, and he usually kept her informed about his comings and goings. Strange. She wondered where he'd gone and for how long.

  The mournful cry of a gull pulled her from her musings. With a dash of white and grey, he wheeled past her window and headed out over the sands, no doubt to meet the approaching tide. Kate's gaze followed his path for a while before she turned it back to the cave. She gasped as a prickle of shock ran up her spine and lifted the hair on her neck. Dear God. Now she was seeing things in daylight as well. Had she just witnessed something standing in its dark opening?

  A creature. It looked like a... No... not that. It couldn't be that.

  In a blink it disappeared and her mind froze, refusing to acknowledge what her eyes told her. It must have been a reflection of light, or perhaps an errant swirl of mist. She squinted and stared at the spot, but saw only a gaping black hole. The cave seemed to stare back, beckoning her with its mysterious appeal.

  Aye, her weary mind was imagining things. Kate gritted her teeth, gave herself a mental shake, and pushed her troubled thoughts aside. Instead, she focused on the first rays of sunlight spilling across the land. Who could resist such a splendid morning? Especially a morning free from the watchful eyes of her father. Without waiting for her maid, Kate washed, dressed, loosely braided her long dark hair and hurried downstairs.

  Chapter 2

  Kate paused on the sunlit threshold of the stable door, nibbling on her thumbnail, hesitant to step into the gloom beyond. From the dusty interior came the sound of whistling and the soft scrape of a hoof-pick against a shod foot.

  She glanced over her shoulder toward the western side of the courtyard, where a wooden gate opened to the sandy path that led to the shore. The humble thoroughfare, while forbidden to her without an approved escort, enticed her with a promise of sweet freedom, albeit temporary. The mysterious cliffs awaited and K
ate would not be deterred from her intentions - not on such a glorious day. But how long did she have? She needed to know where her father had gone, and when he was likely to return.

  All at once the whistling stopped, and Thomas's broad outline emerged from the shadows. His skin, glistening with a sheen of sweat, reminded Kate of the horse-tack he so expertly cleaned. Darkened by sun and mapped by time, it had the look of worn leather. His hair, once a mass of dark curls, now entertained streaks of silver that framed his unsmiling face. He stood only a head taller than Kate, but what he lacked in height he made up for in breadth, all of it as solid as oak. The width of his shoulders and the thickness of his thighs told of the strength he possessed. Yet despite his rugged appearance, the man had a gentle way with horses. Kate knew her father valued him greatly.

  Although he had never treated her with anything but respect, something about Wraysholme's swarthy stable-master unsettled Kate. His dark eyes seemed to look right through her. She might hide her escapades from her father and the rest of the household by putting on airs of feigned innocence, but not Thomas. She had a feeling he always knew exactly what she was about.

  His gaze collided with hers and she resisted an urge to take a step back.

  “Is there something you wanted, mistress?”

  She nodded and threaded her fingers at her waist. “Good morning, Thomas. Yes. I was wondering if...um...if you know where my father is.”

  His eyes narrowed. “Aye, I do. He's on his way to Cartmel.”

  “Ah. Cartmel.” She nodded again. “So...um... when do you expect him to return?”

  “I could not say for certain, mistress.” He squinted up at the sky. “Surely not much before noon.”