Triskelion

by Avril Borthiry

  Still chuckling, Crovan hoisted Kate over his shoulder and strode to the water’s edge. Then, he waded in up to his knees and dumped her into the waves. She surfaced, sputtering and gagging, to the sound of his laughter. He pulled her to her feet and drew a knife from his belt, pressing the point of the blade beneath her chin. Kate locked eyes with him, still determined not to show her fear. He grinned and moved the knife to her wrists, slicing through her bonds with a quick flick.

  “Witch,” he said, “your ship awaits.”

  Several pairs of oars slid from the hull and dipped square into the waves, slowing the vessel's approach. It halted a short distance from them, and a small anchor was dropped over the side. A gull, circling overhead, seemed to shout a welcome as a man emerged from the belly of the ship. With a commanding stride, he stepped up to the bow and surveyed the awaiting group. His presence spread out like the cast of a net, snaring Katherine. Her dreams of him flared to life, yet she knew this was no hero sent to save her.

  The Dark One.

  Hair, fine as silk and blacker than the night sky, hung past his shoulders. Despite the warmth of the day, he wore a long black cloak, which fluttered like wings in the slight breeze. Beneath that, his body was also clothed in black, his hips girdled by a wide sword belt studded with silver. The polished hilt of a sword protruded from a scabbard, his black-gloved hand resting on it.

  Sunlight flashed off a large circular silver medallion, which rested against his chest. Kate frowned, a memory tugging at her mind. She had seen that medallion in her dreams. It meant something – something important – but the memory slipped away before she could capture it.

  “Exiled from Hell,” Crovan muttered, making her jump. “Even the Devil will not have him.”

  Kate shivered.

  The man stood at the bow for a few more moments, appearing to scrutinize Kate. Then he approached the side of the vessel, drew his sword and, without hesitation, jumped overboard. Sword held aloft, he waded over to where Kate stood, his gaze never leaving her face. His intense grey eyes held hers captive. He reached her side, took her hand in his gloved one, and whispered a single word.

  “Katherine.”

  His touch lifted the hair on her neck and caused her heart to skip.

  Time, Kate thought, had ignored this man. He was ageless – his pale skin without flaw save for a hair-thin scar that ran the length of his right cheek. In her dreams, his face had always been obscured by shadow. In reality, he appeared almost unearthly, with features sculpted to statuesque perfection by a master craftsman. Strength, like an invisible light, emanated from him, and Kate knew it went way beyond the physical.

  “Were you violated?” He lifted his hand to her cheek, and Kate's gaze drifted to the medallion that hung around his neck. She tried to speak, but no sound came.

  “Answer me, little one,” he said, his voice gentle.

  “N…no. I was not.” Kate frowned at the design on the medallion, drawn to the mysterious spirals that glinted in the sun. Her eyes widened as an unfamiliar ripple ran through her mind, and the man removed his hand from her cheek.

  “Yet they did not treat you well.” He ran a thumb across the raw welt on her wrist, accusation evident in his voice.

  Crovan shrugged. “We did as you asked, Elric. You have the lass. Now pay us the rest of what you owe.”

  Elric's eyes narrowed. “Certainly. Your final payment has been split into four, so you will each get the same reward. Only fair, I think.” He stepped away from Crovan, pulled Kate to his side, and looked over at the little ship. “Archers!”

  Four men rose up on the deck, each one holding a loaded crossbow. In unison they let loose the bolts, which whistled a deadly song as they sought out their chosen targets.

  Confusion crossed Crovan’s face when the missile sank into his heart. He turned a puzzled gaze to the shore and watched as his comrades fell. Eyes widening, he turned back, uttered a curse, and plunged face first into the water. Bubbles from his final breath surfaced around his head, disturbing a ribbon of blood that unravelled beneath him.

  Kate watched, wondering why she felt nothing. Indeed, an inexplicable indifference had settled over her. A leather-clad finger slid beneath her chin.

  “Look at me, Katherine.”

  Her eyes met Elric's for a moment before drifting back to the medallion and the three spirals engraved upon it. The symbol also seemed to have engraved itself on her mind. Or had it, perhaps, always been there?

  Elric smiled. “Yes,” he said. “The Triskelion. You've seen it before, I know. Come with me, child. You have much to learn, and I'm the only one who can teach you.”

  Chapter 13

  Despite a buzz like a thousand bees in his head, Thomas heard someone calling his name. A man's voice - it sounded far away at first, fluctuating like an echo in a cavern. The voice, persistent and urgent, became so loud that Thomas could hardly bear it.

  Stop. For Christ's sake, stop.

  But it did not stop.

  “Thomas. Thomas. Wake up, man.”

  His body betrayed him and twitched at the command. Pain, hot and harsh, whipped through his chest, up his neck and down his arms. His subsequent gasp halted, incomplete, on his lips. God's teeth, it hurt like a bugger to draw breath.

  “Thomas, can you hear me?”

  Aye, I can hear you, damn it. The voice was loud enough to wake the dead. Perhaps I am dead after all, and this is Hell. It feels like Hell.

  His eyelids opened a fraction, but the invasion of light sent his head into a spin. He felt something grate against the back of his throat and heard a groan. His. Not dead, then. He blinked the fog from his eyes to see the familiar white-washed walls of his bed chamber and John Harrington's face hovering above him.

  What has happened? Why am I...? Oh, Christ. Another groan - this one of anguish as his memory sputtered to life. Katherine.

  “M...my...lord.” The effort to speak pushed tears to the back of his eyes. Or perhaps it was the sickening truth of what had happened. “Lady... Katherine. They...took her.”

  “Who? Who took her? Who did this? Did you see them?”

  “Nay...only a shadow. I...ah.” Another thrust of pain lanced through his chest. “Lord help me.”

  He heard John Harrington's weary sigh and felt the touch of a hand upon his.

  “Easy, Thomas. The arrow is in you still. The surgeon has been summoned.”

  The statement, while offered in a reassuring manner, only served to heighten Thomas's angst. He knew well that the removal of an arrowhead was both torturous and dangerous. Death beckoned to him in his mind.

  Another voice spoke. “I warrant that young priest is involved in this. I didn't like the way he looked at Katherine.”

  Edgar. Thomas snatched a painful breath. “Nay...nay. I do not think--”

  “Aye, I also suspect his involvement,” John replied, and began pacing. “Something about that young man didn't add up, with his fine horse and a sword at his side. Fool that I am, I should not have trusted him.”

  Edgar spoke again. “But why would he, or anyone else, take Katherine? For what reason, John? It's not as though you're able to pay a large ransom.”

  “I suspect Adela's people are responsible. Owen – if that is his name – is Welsh, and most likely one of them. They never approved of my marriage. After Adela died, they even had the audacity to suggest Katherine belonged with them, rather than with me. I suspected this might happen, although I'm shocked by the brutality of it.” John glanced at Thomas and parted with another sigh. “Adela's people were an impetuous bunch, but never vicious. Perhaps they somehow heard of Katherine's betrothal, and are against it. In any case, heads will roll for this, and by my own blade yet.”

  “Wait. You suspected this might happen?” Edgar's tone bristled with indignation. “I don't recall such a suspicion being mentioned when the marriage agreement was discussed.”

  “Edgar, I didn't think it likely to happen.” John paused in his pacing. “It's been many y
ears since I had contact with any of Adela’s people.”

  “How long have I...since...the attack?” Thomas stammered out the question.

  “An hour. Perhaps a little more.” John groaned and ran a hand through his hair. “Christ, where the hell do we start looking for her? She could be anywhere.”

  “If what you suspect is true,” said Edgar, “she's on her way to Wales with the priest, although I doubt that's what he is.”

  “Nay...” Thomas gasped at another stab of pain. “Owen...would not…”

  John frowned down at Thomas. “How can you be so sure? The more I think about it, the more it seems likely. I noticed, too, the lad appeared to be somewhat…attracted to Katherine.”

  “And she to him,” said Edgar, contempt in his voice. “In fact, it occurs to me that she might even be involved in this abduction. Perhaps she has eloped with this...this Welsh miscreant.”

  John growled, grabbed two fistfuls of Edgar's tunic, and slammed him against the wall.

  “You overstep your bounds, sir,” he snarled. “How dare you accuse my daughter of such impropriety?”

  “Forgive me, John.” Edgar's voice wavered, and Thomas allowed himself a satisfied smile. “I...I spoke out of turn.”

  An exaggerated cough sounded behind them, and everyone turned their eyes to the doorway. Thomas cringed inwardly at the sight of young David with the Priory Surgeon, who stood surveying the scene, a large cloth bag slung over his shoulder.

  John released Edgar and stepped back. “Forgive us, Brother,” he said, tugging down on his tunic. “This has been a trying day.”

  The monk nodded and stepped to Thomas's side, eyeing the embedded arrow with a frown.

  “I see that it has,” he said. “Have no fear. I shall work quickly.”

  Thomas could only groan in reply.

  ~ ~ ~

  Not quite three days had passed since Owen left Wraysholme for Furness Abbey. Now, once more within sight of Kate's home, he pulled Arrio to a halt on a stretch of quiet beach. Weighed down by sorrow and fatigue, he needed to gather his thoughts and prepare himself for a second meeting with John Harrington. This time the truth would be told – but a far different truth to the one he'd had in mind when he made his vow to Kate.

  While still a dubious arrangement, Kate's marriage to Edgar was no longer the principal threat to her well-being. Things were far more complicated than he'd ever imagined - far more dangerous. Due to the true nature of Owen's work, which he also intended to make known to John, he'd been well trained in the art of diplomacy. That was why he'd been chosen for this undertaking. But the challenge had intensified.

  It didn't help that he walked in Kate's dreams, or that the lass had compromised his heart.

  He glanced over at the cliffs. The rugged edges appeared softened in the warm haze. There was no sign of Lio. For a moment he considered calling the wolf. Comfort could always be found in the animal's unwavering loyalty, and one shrill whistle would bring him running to Owen's side. But he decided against it. A wolf, after all, was likely the last thing John Harrington wanted to see on Wraysholme's doorstep.

  So Arrio trotted unaccompanied into the cobbled courtyard, and whinnied a greeting to the three horses and one mule already there. Owen threw his leg over the saddle and dropped to the ground, the hair on his neck lifting in an unwelcome response. But to what?

  Three of the horses he recognized as belonging to John, Edgar, and David, the young squire. The mule, with its simple rope bridle and bare back, indicated an ecclesiastical visitor. The stable door stood open, but not a soul could be seen. Where was Thomas?

  Foreboding hung in the air like a foul mist, and Owen's hand drifted to his sword hilt.

  He stepped into the stable, his eyes drawn to a dark blemish on the earthen floor. The sight of it caused his gut to clench, and his hand tightened on the hilt.

  “Thomas,” he said, his voice disappearing unanswered into the shadows. He crouched and ran his fingertips across the stain. His jaw tightened when he saw the true colour of what soaked the ground.

  “What has---?”

  A noise behind him brought him to his feet and he spun round, only to feel the sharp point of a sword at his throat. Face to face with John Harrington, Owen raised his hands in a gesture of surrender. Edgar stood at John's side, sword also drawn. At least the man appeared sober, which gave Owen a small measure of comfort.

  “So, our wandering priest returns.” John's hard expression belied the calm tone of his voice. “Did you forget something? Was my daughter not enough of a prize? Or are you here to state the terms for her release? I swear, if you have harmed a single hair--”

  “Release?” A jolt of shock numbed Owen to his core. He looked from one man to the other. “God's teeth. What are you saying? You mean Kate...Lady Katherine has been taken?”

  “I'm certain you know she has.” Edgar spat on the ground and spun his sword in an arc. “The bastard feigns ignorance, John. Let me cut the truth from him.”

  “Nay, he's mine.” John's blade pressed deeper. “Speak, lad. You may choose to do so with or without pain. What brings you back to Wraysholme so soon?”

  So soon? Owen, still trying to grasp what had happened, understood at least one harsh truth. He had arrived too late.

  As for Thomas...

  “Whose...whose blood has been spilt?”

  “Did you not hear me?” John's blade twisted and bit into Owen's skin like a steel tooth. “Answer my question, damn you.”

  “I'm of no use to you dead, my lord, nor am I any kind of threat while I live.” A warm trickle oozed from the wound on his throat. “Stay your weapon, and tell me whose blood is at my feet.”

  Eyes narrowed, John tilted his head. “'Tis the stable-master's. He took an arrow to the chest not two hours ago.”

  “When Katherine was taken?”

  Edgar lifted his lip in a sneer. “And still he pretends to know nothing.”

  Owen's hands curled into fists. “Does Thomas live?”

  John frowned. “Of what import is that to you?”

  “Answer my question and I'll tell you what I know.”

  “Lies,” said Edgar. “He can't be trusted, John. For all we know, he's the one who loosed the arrow.”

  “Hear what I have to say,” said Owen, “then decide whether or not to trust me. I'm at your mercy.”

  John appeared to ponder for a moment before he lowered his blade. “I'll have your weapon, lad.”

  Owen gave a nod, unbuckled his sword, and handed it over. “Does Thomas live?”

  “For now, but the wound is grave. The surgeon is with him.”

  Alive. Thank God. “May I see him?”

  Edgar huffed. “By the Devil's balls, John. Surely you don't intend to humour the bastard? I say we string him up and--”

  “Enough.” John stepped back. “We'll hear what the lad has to say. 'Tis obvious he knows something of these events, and I have little else to lose at this point.”

  The arrow had been removed, but the ordeal had returned Thomas to an unconscious state.

  “He's in God's hands,” said the surgeon on his way out. “Should he awaken, please keep him still and quiet. I shall return tomorrow to redress the wound.”

  Should he awaken? Indeed, it didn't bode well. Thomas's chest laboured with short, shallow breaths, and his fevered brow told of the battle raging between life and death. Owen sent up a desperate prayer as guilt played upon his conscience.

  If only I'd gotten here sooner. If only...

  Ah, but what purpose did such reflection serve? None. It was time to apply reason and gather himself. The surgeon had spoken true – Thomas's fate rested solely in God's hands, whereas Kate's...

  “Did he speak at all?” Owen turned to look at John. “Did he see who took her?” Not that he truly doubted who had done so, but the thought of Crovan touching Kate was beyond bearable.

  “I saw them from afar. Four or five men, riding across the sands.” John glanced at Thomas. “But he sa
w only a shadow.”

  “Worried he'll rally and identify you?” Edgar sneered. “You play the innocent well, priest.”

  Owen kept his eyes on John's face. “I'm no priest.”

  “Hah!” Edgar spat. “As we thought.”

  “Then who are you?” John raised his sword and took a step forward. “And no more lies.”

  “I spoke the truth about my name. I am Owen ap Madoc.” An image of his father prompted a thrust of grief to tighten his chest. “I serve as personal assistant and emissary for Lord Weylin at the court of Mann.”

  Edgar snorted. “Aye, and I'm the pope.”

  John raised a brow, a brief expression of astonishment flitting across his face. “That is an outlandish claim, young man. If I'm expected to believe it, please explain why Lord Weylin's emissary would choose to visit Wraysholme.”

  “My father knew your lady wife,” Owen answered. “As did Lord Weylin.”

  “So.” With a sigh, John lowered his blade. “Adela's people are involved.”

  “Not in Katherine's abduction – on that you have my word.” Owen placed his hand over his heart, touched by the sadness in the English knight's eyes. Although, by all the saints, the lass would be better off with the Welsh than those who now held her. “We would never hurt Adela's child, Sir John.”

  “But who else would have reason to take her?” John's voice shook with obvious anguish. “It makes no sense.”

  “It might,” said Owen, “after you hear what I have to say.”

  “Then speak up, lad, because while we're busy exchanging pleasantries, my daughter is--” he waved a hand toward the door, “--out there somewhere, being held against her will. I cannot stand here for much longer, doing nothing.”

  “Surely, John, you're not going to listen to this...this reprobate?” asked Edgar. “Emissary to the court of Mann? Bollocks to that, I say. The man is naught more than a--”

  “Let the lad speak, Edgar.” John scowled. “I would at least hear what he has to say.”

  Owen cleared his throat and settled his mind to the task ahead. Legend and ancient rite had been part of his childhood - tales shared around winter fires or told to him as he snuggled into his bed at night. John Harrington was an English knight – a military man. How would he react to what Owen was about to impart? Had Adela, he wondered, ever shared the ancient stories with her husband?