Triskelion

by Avril Borthiry

  “We'll lead the horses through the square, David,” John said as he dismounted. “'Tis a realm without order, and I've no wish to see a child tangled 'neath our hooves.”

  John's young squire nodded and slid from his saddle. “Aye, m' lord. I forgot it was market day.”

  “As did I, lad.”

  In truth, John had spared little time for such trivial pondering of late. Other issues occupied his thoughts; questions and answers that weighed upon the scales of his conscience, seeking some kind of balance. He had all but convinced himself that his worries were for naught, that his decision regarding Katherine was correct and justified. So why, then, did a small voice of doubt still whisper to him in moments of reflection?

  For now, John cast his doubts aside and stepped forward, steeling himself for the customary response to his arrival. They contrasted each other; the tall knight with his silvered Saxon fairness and sharp blue eyes, and the smaller dark-haired, dark-eyed squire at his side.

  Their entrance into the square - more specifically John's entrance - triggered a respectful parting of the crowds. Everyone in the village knew Wraysholme's legendary knight on sight, and regarded him with something akin to holy reverence. He answered their mumbled greetings with a smile and a nod, sighing inwardly.

  The legend of his victory over the wolf had attached itself to John like a shadow. Eighteen years had passed, yet the damn beast still refused to die. Aye, its presence remained, not in the cave any longer, but in the hearts of local people who continued to recount the weathered tale with great relish. John never encouraged the telling of it - he neither sought nor wanted the notoriety. Besides, it made him think of her. Adela. Dear God, the pain of losing her also refused to die.

  “'Tis like walking beside a saint.” David's quiet voice cut into John's musing. “They fair worship you with their eyes.”

  John scowled. “You walk beside a mortal man who does not wish to hear such blasphemy from your lips. Heed me well, sirrah.”

  David blushed. “Forgive me, my lord. I meant no offence.”

  The gateway to the priory loomed ahead, an arched barricade of timeworn oak. John pulled on the bell rope, his nose wrinkling at the stale smell of piss that rose up from the nearby gutter. A moment later, the ruddy face of a friar appeared at the small hole in the door.

  “Ah, Sir John.” The friar smiled, displaying more gaps in his mouth than teeth. “Come in, come in. The Prior is expecting you.”

  The door swung opened with a hollow groan and they stepped into the inner courtyard of the priory.

  “Wait here.” John handed his reins to David, who still wore an expression of misery. “This shouldn't take long.”

  “Aye, m' lord,” he mumbled, fidgeting on his feet.

  John's mouth twitched with a smile as he squeezed David's shoulder. The lad was a good squire, as loyal and obedient as a hound, with a heart chock full of courage. He'd make a good knight some day.

  “Find a little cheer while I'm gone, will you, lad?” said John. “I'll likely need it when I return.”

  The Prior's house stood at the far end of the courtyard; a fine two-storey building sheltered by the northwest wall of the church. As John mounted the stone steps that led to the door, he paused for a moment and looked up at the looming church tower. Atop it, the weather-vane still rocked back and forth on its metal mounting, proclaiming the direction of the breeze.

  It was common to see weather-vanes cut in the shape of a horse, or perhaps a cockerel, or maybe just a simple arrow. Ah, but not this one. This one had been cut in the shape of a wolf's head, its muzzle presently aimed dead into the wind. It was meant to serve as a reminder to all of what had taken place on the nearby cliffs so many years before. John's stomach tightened.

  As if they need reminding. As if I do. That damn wolf will haunt me till I die.

  Till I die.

  Still pondering, John lifted the heavy iron knocker and dropped it against the studded door.

  Thoughts of death had been visiting him for a while, although nothing suggested his end was nigh. On the contrary, he still felt vigorous and well. Thanks be to God. Not that he had any fear of taking his final breath. Nay, he feared only what would become of Katherine should his demise be a sudden, unexpected event. The child needed a protector, someone to care for her. She needed to marry, preferably with a man well placed, and soon. Heaven forbid she be left to the mercy of her mother's family, and dragged off to some remote Welsh valley to live the life of a peasant.

  Heaven forbid.

  He frowned, irritated by the same persistent whisper of doubt. Why did he feel so uneasy? Katherine had not flat out refused the match, although her response had not been as enthusiastic as he'd hoped. Indeed, she seemed disinterested, indifferent almost. For sure, the lass had been acting a little odd lately, sitting idly around the manor and daydreaming. Bored, undoubtedly, standing as she was on the cusp of womanhood. A husband in her bed would give her plenty to think about, as would a child in her belly. 'Twas the way of things.

  'Tis a fine match. Edgar is a wealthy knight, and will take good care of her. So what is this cursed voice that torments my conscience?

  The door opened a hand-span wide, and a pair of inquisitive blue eyes gazed up at him. They belonged to a young blond-haired boy, angelic of face, and surely no more than seven or eight summers.

  “Aye?” The boy blinked at him. “Um, I mean, may I know your name, sir?”

  John smiled. “You tell me your name, lad, and I'll tell you mine.”

  The boy's face creased into a puzzled frown. “My name is Henry.”

  “Well, good day to you, Henry. Please tell your master that Sir John Harrington is here.”

  The boy's eyes widened in apparent recognition and he pulled the door wide open.

  “Aye, m'lord knight. He's 'specting you. This way, if you please.”

  The stale air within wrapped around John like a cloak. He grimaced and followed the child through a small arched doorway.

  “Please wait here, m'lord knight,” the child said, with a nod of his blond head. “My master will be with you anon.”

  John smiled his thanks and glanced around the familiar study. An orderly man, he found the clutter of religious icons displayed on every available surface more unsettling than reassuring. Even the walls supported a gallery of moth-eaten tapestries, each one portraying a significant Christian event.

  His gaze came to rest on a tapestry depicting the Blessed Virgin holding the young son of God in her arms. As Mary's gentle eyes met his, John fancied they flickered with disapproval. He frowned at his rampant imagination, suppressed another twinge of guilt, and turned away from the Virgin's unwavering stare.

  Time passed in some quantity. John sighed and folded his hands behind his back, shifting his feet on the stark stone floor. He pondered whether the delay was intentional rather than excusable. Prior Cuthbert, despite being of the humble Augustinian order, was a somewhat arrogant disciple of Christ. Perhaps, John mused, the extended period of waiting was meant to intimidate. Few things under heaven, however, intimidated John Harrington - least of all Prior Cuthbert.

  So, he endeavoured to show no sign of impatience when the door at last opened. Cuthbert paused on the threshold, a nonchalant expression etched onto his chiseled features. The dark robes of his order accentuated his tall, slender frame. Well-groomed hair, more silver than brown, formed a neat halo around his tonsured head. A simple wooden cross, hanging from a leather thong, rested against his chest.

  John said nothing, but raised a brow and met Cuthbert's steady gaze with one of equal measure. The cloying smell of incense followed the prior into the room and the semblance of a smile found its way to his lips.

  “Sir John.” Cuthbert extended a hand. “I trust you are well?”

  John, noting the lack of apology for the delay, bent over the prior's ringed finger in a gesture of feigned respect. “Indeed I am, Prior, as are you, I hope?”

  Cuthbert grunted in response a
nd picked up a claret jug that stood on a desk. “My young postulant should have offered you refreshments. Apologies. The child is recently arrived to our order and has so far proven himself slow to learn.”

  “'Tis of no consequence,” said John. “I have no need of refreshment. I desire only to execute our business and be on my way. Did you post the banns?”

  “Indeed I did. A fortnight ago. Do you have the donation?”

  John pulled a pouch from his vest and pressed it into the abbot's outstretched hand. “I trust the poor will benefit from this,” he said, suspecting otherwise.

  “Rest assured,” Cuthbert replied, jiggling the purse as if to test the weight of the contents. He frowned. “It is all here?”

  “Nay. 'Tis but half.”

  “Half? Why only half?”

  John kept his expression blank, hiding a sense of pleasure at seeing disappointment written all over the prior's face. “You'll get the remainder after the marriage ceremony has taken place.”

  “But, my lord, with respect, this is not what we agreed upon.”

  John shook his head. “We agreed upon an amount only. There was no agreement as to when it would be paid in full. For now, you will inform me without delay should anyone ask questions about this marriage, especially if those who ask appear to be of Welsh origin. After the ceremony has taken place, you - or should I say, the priory - will receive the balance of my...charitable...donation.”

  Annoyance flashed across Cuthbert's face. “The poor of this parish rely on such charity. What assurance do I have that you will keep your word?”

  John smiled and rested his hand on the hilt of his sword. “You question the word of a knight, Brother?”

  Cuthbert flinched at the gesture and shifted on his feet. “As you apparently question the integrity of the church, my lord.”

  A small muscle twitched in John’s jaw at the audacity of the remark. Rumours had long abounded about Cuthbert's pilfering from the charity boxes.

  “I say again,” he said, glaring at the priest. “You will inform me of any visitors enquiring about Katherine and Edgar's union. I expect my daughter to be married in the eyes of God and the church without hindrance.”

  Cuthbert's lips thinned. “If proof of an impediment is brought forth, my lord, I am bound to investigate.”

  John's fingers tightened around the hilt. In truth, he longed to pull the weapon and set the point of it against Cuthbert's throat, if for no other reason than to see the bastard tremble. Surrounded by so many holy reminders of where he stood, he swallowed his rising temper.

  “You well know that there are no impediments,” he said. “'Tis a disruption I fear. My wife’s family may try to lay claim to my daughter’s future. I'll not allow her to be spirited away to a remote Welsh valley because of some ancient tradition. This union with Sir Edgar is a good match for her.”

  Yet, even as he spoke the words, a prickle of unease ran up his spine.

  “A good match, indeed,” Cuthbert said, inclining his head. “Edgar is a wealthy knight. I trust Katherine is a willing bride?”

  “Katherine will obey me,” John replied, finding the courage to cast a challenging glance at Mary's woven likeness. To his relief, he saw no sign of disapproval in the Virgin's eyes, and mentally scolded himself for his foolishness. “Unless events dictate otherwise, the ceremony is set for a fortnight hence, on Friday.”

  “A fortnight?” Cuthbert fairly squeaked his response. “By all the saints, you're in a hurry.”

  John frowned, wondering at the brief flash of panic in the prior's eyes.

  “I see no sense in waiting. Why? Is there some difficulty?”

  “Of course not. No difficulty at all.” Cuthbert cleared his throat. “Well, I have other issues awaiting my urgent attention. If that is all, my lord, I shall bid you a good day.”

  The prior lifted a small bell from the table and gave it a vigorous shake. Moments later, the door opened and the young boy peered in.

  “Show Lord Harrington out, Henry,” the prior instructed before turning to address John. “I'll be sure to let you know, my lord, if I hear of any unusual enquiries about the marriage.”

  “My thanks.” John gave the Blessed Virgin one last furtive glance and followed the boy through the doorway.

  ~ ~

  Before the door even closed, Cuthbert opened the small pouch and tipped the contents onto the table. Several gold coins tumbled haphazardly across the wooden surface. He picked one up and closed his fist around it. The precious metal grew warm in the palm of his hand, and a satisfied smile drifted across his face. The smile faded when his gaze fell upon the tapestry of the Blessed Virgin. Was it his imagination, or did it seem that Mary's gentle eyes looked at him with reproach?

  Cuthbert chuckled at the foolish notion, dropped the coins back in the pouch, and tucked it into his sleeve. His thoughts turned to John Harrington, the Welsh witch the knight had married, and the cursed child they had spawned.

  Katherine.

  Harrington, the arrogant fool, didn't know what kind of she-devil he had living under his roof. Others did, though, and they were willing to pay to acquire possession of her.

  They were willing to pay a great deal.

  Chapter 4

  “Why are you here, Owen?”

  It was a simple question, but one that prompted Owen to think of a lie, or at least find a way around the truth. The real reason for his presence at Wraysholme he could not confess. Not here. Not yet.

  He looked up at Kate. By all things holy, this rhiain was sweet on the eyes. Her hair fell to her hips in a cloak of thick, dark curls. She had the touch of a rose on each cheek and the richness of red wine on her lips. The very sight of her, perched like a wild Welsh faery on Arrio's broad back, stirred Owen's body anew. All the horse needed was a single twisted horn thrusting through his forelock, and the lass a set of bright gossamer wings, and...

  Christ help me. Did I leave all my wits back there by the rocks?

  He cleared his throat and forced himself to focus on her question. “I am simply passing through, my lady. I crossed the bay in the night.” That much was true, for now at least.

  “Ah.” She smiled, yet Owen saw the same disappointment in her expression as he had before. It puzzled him. Had she expected a different answer? Or just hoped for one? “So,” she continued, “this shore was not your destination?”

  He hesitated. “It was my destination last night. 'Tis a long trek across the sands with only the stars to light the way. I was right glad to see those cliffs emerging from the dark.”

  “Where, then, are you going?”

  “I'm on my way to the great abbey at Furness. I must attend to some business there.”

  Also true, and it was a business he dreaded.

  “I see.” Kate fidgeted in the saddle as her fingers played with strands of Arrio's mane. Owen awaited another question, which he could sense forming on her tongue. He was quite content to simply gaze upon the lass, with the sunlight on her face and the breeze playing in her hair. Whatever spirit she had awakened within him still sang in his veins.

  “Do you have a wife?”

  His eyes widened in genuine surprise. “'Tis a fine measure of curiosity you have, my lady.”

  The rose darkened on her cheeks. “Forgive me, sir. I meant no offence.”

  Owen shrugged. “I'm not offended. No, I have no wife. You're not married either, I think?”

  Nor would she be, if things went as planned.

  “Not yet.” She sighed, and he heard resignation in the depths of it. “I am betrothed, though.”

  “Ah. To a good man, I trust?” Not good enough.

  “He is...wealthy and will take care of me. My father is happy.”

  The sadness in her voice tore at him. He tugged Arrio to a halt and reached for Kate's hand. “But you are not?”

  She smiled even as her eyes softened with tears. “All that really matters is my father's happiness. I'm all he has, and he just wants the best for me. That
's why he was pleased when Edgar offered to take me. Few men of worth would even consider it. My father is not a wealthy knight, you see, so my hand is worth little.”

  Owen looked to where it rested in his.

  Ah, lass, if you only knew what your hand is worth...

  “Please don't worry, Kate,” he said, fighting a desire to pull her from the saddle and hold her in his arms. “Everything will be fine. I promise.”

  “My dreams tell me the same thing,” she said, a small frown settling on her brow. “I pray they are not misleading me.”

  Owen frowned too, for he had a feeling she had just asked him another question. Of course, he could not answer in truth. What did he know of Kate's dreams?

  “I echo your prayer,” he replied, and led Arrio on, the stallion's polished hooves leaving a signature of deep crescents in the damp, rippled sand.

  Those same hooves soon rang on Wraysholme's cobbles, and Thomas emerged from the stables to see who approached. For a moment, Owen thought he saw anger on his friend's face, but it was a fleeting expression replaced by one of shock. Thomas's eyes widened, his jaw dropped, and his hand flew to his open mouth.

  “Good day to you, sir.” Owen gave his head a brief shake. Do not betray me, friend. “My name is Owen ap Madoc. Forgive my intrusion, but the lady had a little...mishap out on the shore. I felt obliged to assist and to escort her safely home.”

  “A... a mishap?” Thomas stammered. “Ah. And you were...well, then, aye...I see.” He scratched his head and turned his gaze to Kate. “Are you injured, mistress?”

  “'Tis nothing serious,” said Kate. “A sprained ankle. Has my father returned?”