Triskelion

by Avril Borthiry

  “I'm waiting, young man.” John's voice cut into his thoughts and Owen took a slow breath.

  “I know you to be aware of Adela’s healing powers, my lord. She saved your life, after all.”

  John gave an impatient nod. “Aye. What does that have to do with Katherine?”

  “Are you also aware that all the women of Adela’s line, thus far, have exhibited similar gifts?”

  John shook his head. “I've never seen any indication of such a gift in my daughter, lad. Nor has she ever shown any interest in that regard.”

  “Not a gift of healing, perhaps. But Katherine has, it seems, inherited another...legacy from her ancestors. I believe this legacy to be the reason for her abduction.”

  John straightened his spine. “What in God's name are you talking about? Katherine never mentioned any such thing. She would have told me, surely, if--”

  “She was afraid to tell you.”

  “Afraid?” John blinked. “Why?”

  “She was afraid of your reaction.” Owen took another steady breath. “Katherine has what can only be described as visions. She sees...events. Actual happenings that have not yet occurred. There are those who would exploit such a gift, and aim to do so. That's why she's been taken.”

  Edgar gave a scornful laugh. “Christ almighty. 'Tis a veritable fountain of shite he spouts. The lad's mind has been touched by the heat.”

  John, his face paling, ignored the outburst. “And how do you know she has these visions, Owen?”

  Owen paused, his focus shaken by the fact John had called him by name. Did it indicate, at last, a growing measure of trust?

  “Lady Katherine told me of them herself,” he replied, “and I have been assured by others that her claims hold truth.”

  “And what dangerous claims they are.” Edgar sniffed and examined a fingernail. “Women have burned for less.”

  John threw a cold glance at Edgar before turning back to Owen. “But if you knew my daughter's safety was at risk, why did you not speak of it the other day?”

  “Because I only learned of it while visiting the abbey.” Owen shrugged. “My original mission was to prevent Katherine's union with Edgar. Until yesterday, I was not aware of any other threat to her.”

  “A threat? Me?” Edgar sputtered. “You insolent bastard. I should--”

  John interrupted. “And how, pray, did you know of the union with Edgar?”

  “Because Katherine has been...observed, my lord. Since her birth.”

  “Observed?” John's eyes widened. “By whom?”

  Owen cast a telling glance at the unconscious man lying on the bed and John drew a sharp breath.

  “Thomas? A spy?” He uttered a curse. “Betrayed by a man I trusted. To the Devil with him, then. Perhaps I should finish what the archer began.”

  “Please understand, my lord. Adela's people were only concerned for Katherine's well-being. They believed she would be unsafe with Edgar.”

  Edgar snarled and, once again, Owen felt the prick of a blade at his throat.

  “Sir Edgar to you, you son of a whore. I should run you through.”

  Owen gave a thin smile. “That would be unwise. You'll never find Katherine without me.”

  “Lower your weapon, Edgar.” John's command snapped with impatience, although his eyes never left Owen's face. “So, I take it you know who has abducted my daughter?”

  “Not precisely.” Owen shifted on his feet, knowing his next words would hit John hard. “But I've been led to believe Crovan may be involved.”

  “Dear God.” Sure enough, John dropped into a nearby chair and pushed his fingers to his temple. “Oh, dear God. I pray you're wrong, lad. Crovan is the devil incarnate.”

  “Aye, this entire situation stinks like the Devil,” said Edgar. “By Satan's balls, what was I taking to my marital bed, John? Some kind of witch?”

  There came a moment of silence in which Owen imagined Edgar's head separated from his body. The mere thought caused one corner of his lip to twitch in satisfaction.

  John rose to his feet, hissing through gritted teeth.

  “Get out, Edgar.”

  “What?”

  “Get out, I said. I'm rescinding our contract.”

  “But...you can't do that.”

  “I just did.” John pointed his blade. “You will leave now, sir, or I swear I'll separate your head from your body.”

  At that, the corner of Owen's mouth lifted, while Edgar's curled into a snarl.

  “Christ. You're a damn fool, John, to believe this...this...piece of scum. There's more to his unlikely tale, mark my words. Good luck finding Katherine. You'll need it.”

  He spat on the ground, spun on his heel, and left, slamming the door so hard, the walls shook.

  John flinched and gave Owen a grim smile. “Well, lad,” he said, “it seems your original mission has been accomplished.”

  Owen sighed. “Katherine would not have thrived with Edgar, sir.”

  “No, perhaps not.” John's eyes narrowed. “Are you somehow related to my daughter?”

  “No, my lord. Not at all.”

  “Do you care for her?”

  Taken aback by the question, Owen raised a brow. “Very much,” he answered, after a pause.

  “Good.” John sheathed his sword. “Then you'll fight for her.”

  This time, the response came without hesitation. “Till death.”

  “I pray it does not come to that, young man, yet I fear Edgar spoke true at the end.” John took Owen's sword from the table and handed it to him. “There is more to this tale, isn't there? I see it in your face.”

  “There is, aye. For now, I can tell you that, for the next while at least, Katherine will be unharmed. I'll tell you the rest as we ride.”

  John laughed – a sound void of levity. “In what direction? The men I saw looked to be heading northwest, but they disappeared into the haze. They could be anywhere.”

  Owen buckled his sword belt. “I happen to know of an excellent tracker who resides nearby. He'll find Katherine.”

  John shook his head. “I don't see how. The tracks have already been washed away.”

  “'Tis of no consequence. I guarantee my friend will find her.” Owen smiled. “You'll see. His talents are quite legendary.”

  Chapter 14

  The cave harboured the stench of death. Feathers and fur, still clinging to the gnawed remains of bones, lay scattered about the earthen floor. Flies buzzed a monotonous lullaby to their growing horde of maggots, which crawled over the rotting scraps.

  Such was the way of the wild. The weak had succumbed to the strong, and only the strong survived. The cave also harboured one of the strong.

  It was his lair.

  A shaft of sunlight poured through a natural hole in the roof, creating a bright circle on the floor. Sated, Lio stretched across it, his yellow eyes closed against the light, the warmth sending a shiver of pleasure through his large frame. It had been a busy day.

  He had sensed something different about the human female when he'd first seen her on the sands three nights earlier. Aware that his master pursued her, Lio had stood on the rock to block her path. Not that she was a threat. Had he judged her to be one, he would have killed her. No. Not a threat. Instinct told him she'd become part of his master's pack.

  And someone had dared to remove her from the pack that morning.

  Lio had smelled the female's fear from his vantage on the cliffs and followed her for some miles before turning back, uncomfortable with the distance between his lair and the kidnappers.

  His master, after all, had bid him wait.

  So he waited, anticipating his master's imminent return.

  * * *

  By the time John had prepared Wraysholme for his absence, the sun was at its apex. Owen knew they had to leave soon in order to cross the sands in safety. The tide, due in another hour, would give no latitude. Arrio, ever attuned to his master's moods, seemed to sense the urgency. Watered and rested, the stallion ap
peared none the worse for his earlier journey. He danced on the spot as Owen once again took to the saddle.

  David stood watching, his expression sombre.

  “I should be coming with you, my lord.”

  John, already mounted, shook his head at the young squire. “I need you here, David. It's a big responsibility, looking after this place, and not one I'd grant to just anyone. I'm relying on you to care of things while I'm gone.” He gathered up the reins and looked at Owen. “I'm ready. Where to first?”

  “The Holy Well.” Owen trotted Arrio in a circle, trying to calm him. “I need to fill my flask.”

  John lifted the flagon that was strung around the pommel. “I have ale here. Unless it's a holy blessing you seek.”

  “That, and I have a particular fondness for the spring water. Besides, the tracker I spoke of awaits us at the cliffs.” He cleared his throat. “His appearance will, I'm sure, invoke a strong response from you. Please do not draw your sword, Sir John. 'Tis not wise to threaten him.”

  John frowned. “How did he know where to meet us? And what fault in his appearance would compel me to draw arms? I don't understand.”

  Owen allowed himself a smile and slackened Arrio's reins. “You will, momentarily.”

  The cliff's sunlit facade, topped by a thick welt of green summer grass, soon loomed over them. Owen dismounted by the spring and bent to fill his flask. Then he turned, only to halt, anchored to the spot by the expression on John Harrington's face.

  He had the look of someone haunted by old ghosts – someone forced to confront memories long buried. Still seated astride his horse, John's eyes were focused on a spot at the top of the cliffs. Owen watched as the man's gaze slid downwards, following a straight line to the rocks below, where a narrow ledge jutted out a few feet from the ground.

  He must have sensed Owen's scrutiny, for he looked over and let out deep sigh.

  “That's where I met Katherine's mother. Close to death, I was, and barely conscious, yet I could hear my horse screaming in pain.” He pointed to a spot on the rocks. “He lay right there, broken and dying. Few sounds in this world are more terrible than the screams of a horse. The wolf was over there...” he pointed again, “...draped across that rock, his spine snapped in two. Then Adela came to me. Dear God, what a vision of beauty she was.” A low groan escaped him. “Christ give me strength. I can't bear to think of losing our daughter.”

  Owen's resolve hardened. “You're not going to lose her,” he said, pulling a veil of blue silk from the saddle bag.

  John blinked. “What's that for?”

  “It belongs to Kate. It'll help Lio to track her.”

  “Lio?”

  Owen nodded. “His full name is Sandalio. Are you familiar with the language of Spain, my lord?”

  John frowned. “Not very. How will a piece of silk help to find my daughter?”

  Keeping his eyes fixed on John’s face, Owen let out a soft whistle.

  John glanced around and turned back with a scowl. His horse gave a nervous snort and backed up a step. “You're testing my patience with your riddles, lad. Where's this damn tracker of yours?”

  Owen raised his eyes to the cave entrance knowing John would follow his gaze. He heard the knight's harsh intake of breath, and saw his hand drift to the sword at his side.

  “Sandalio means 'true wolf',” said Owen. “Please – do not draw your weapon.”

  Pebbles showered down the slope as Lio descended from the cave. Upon reaching the sand, he paused, his yellow eyes scrutinizing John. Then, as if assured of no threat, he shook himself and bounded over to Owen, cavorting in circles, tail waving like a banner. Arrio whinnied, and Owen knelt to caress the wolf's head, scratching him behind the ears.

  “'Tis good to see you too, my friend. Aye, and I missed you as well. Did you behave while I was gone? We need your help today, alright?”

  “God's teeth.” John, trying to settle his uneasy horse, had turned as pale as the cliffs. “What kind of jest is this?”

  Unable to stop himself from grinning, Owen rose to his feet, his spirit gladdened by the reunion with his beloved pet. “No jest, my lord. This is Lio. He'll lead us to Kate.”

  John's lip curled. “A flea-bitten wolf ?”

  The snide comment erased Owen's grin and dulled his spirit. Deep down inside, something worn and weary finally snapped. He narrowed his eyes.

  “You, of all people, should respect the abilities of his species.” Owen gestured to the rocks. “From what I understand, the wolf you hunted without mercy took his own life rather than surrender to your blade. In truth, then, your legendary quarry was undefeated. Does that not prove the fortitude of his spirit?”

  John opened his mouth to speak, but said nothing. Instead, he glanced at Lio, and then looked out across the bay, wearing a thoughtful expression. A surge of remorse, humbling in its intensity, sent a flush of heat to Owen's face. By all things holy, he had surely gone too far with his defensive diatribe.

  “I... I beg your pardon, Sir John. I should not have spoken as I did. I had no right.”

  John regarded him with an air of nonchalance. “This morning,” he said, “as Edgar and I were descending the north lane, I saw what I thought to be a large dog running across the sands. It appeared to be following the horsemen who took Katherine. The way the dog moved stirred an old memory. Now I know why.” He sat up and gestured toward Lio. “It was him, wasn’t it?”

  Owen shrugged and looked down at the wolf. “It's possible. He seems to have taken to Kate. It could be that he followed the kidnappers for a while.”

  John nodded and then frowned. “Wait. When did she meet him? That morning on the shore?”

  Owen cursed inwardly at his verbal slip. “Er...no, my lord. That night on the shore.”

  “That night?” John raised a brow. “Is this something I should know about, young man?”

  “Your daughter was in safe hands. I swear I would never--” Safe hands? His gut clenched. “Christ forgive me.”

  “What's wrong?”

  “I'm reminded how I've failed her. I promised her, you see. That same night? I promised to keep her from harm.”

  John's expression softened. “Ah, lad. I've failed her too. And in doing so, I've failed her mother. For that, I cannot forgive myself. Alright. Let's see what this wolf of yours can do. Right now, he's our only hope.”

  Owen crumpled the silk veil and held it to Lio’s nose. “Find her, Lio. Find Kate.”

  The wolf set his ears back and lifted his snout to the breeze, nostrils twitching. Then he whined, trotted around in a circle and, without a backward glance, struck out across the sands.

  John grunted. “I'll not fault a man for defending a friend,” he said, urging his horse forward, “so consider yourself pardoned. But I'll reserve judgement on the wolf.”

  Owen smiled, climbed into the saddle, and put his heels to Arrio's flanks.

  They did not get far. With its escort of scavenging seabirds, the incoming tidal bore forced them to turn north-east, skirting the inner estuary around the shoreline. Undeterred, Lio ignored the setback and trotted ever onward at a steady pace. The wolf's confident stride gave Owen a measure of hope, although he knew they faced another unyielding force – nightfall. The sun, he fancied, mocked them as it continued its downward trek.

  For a time, it seemed Lio was heading back to the abbey, albeit on a longer, less travelled route. Then, perhaps a mile before the village of Dalton, the wolf veered off the path and headed northwest along a desolate trail. Little more than a deer track, it meandered in a careless fashion, traversing the coastal scrub-lands that led to the western dunes. Hoof imprints were now visible in the soft earth. As they approached the dunes, the firmer path gave way to soft sand and Lio slowed, adopting the typical gait of a wolf stalking its prey. Owen whistled him back and pulled Arrio to a halt. John reined in alongside, both men silent as they surveyed their surroundings.

  The western horizon glowed with a blush of colour as the sun des
cended. A sea breeze played amongst the dune grasses and a distant tumble of waves could be heard rolling onto the sand. A lone gull soared on outstretched wings, its melancholy cry floating across an empty sky.

  It was a wild, beautiful place, that at any other time might have been soothing in its solitude. Instead, the isolation wrapped a chill around Owen's heart.

  “The shore lies just ahead,” he muttered, unwilling to voice his sudden fear.

  John voiced it for him. “And beyond that lies the sea. Why bring Katherine here, unless to continue on by boat?” His eyes drifted to the wolf. “He can't track a boat.”

  At that same moment, Lio's hackles rose, his entire body freezing into place like a statue, his nose pointing into the dunes. Both men drew their swords, readying themselves for whatever approached.

  A horse emerged from behind a nearby dune – a monstrous, riderless beast still saddled and bridled. It eyed them with something akin to relief, lifted its cropped tail and let out a loud fart. Arrio, dwarfed by this strange-looking newcomer, snorted a warning and bared his teeth. The big horse halted, rolled his eyes, and lowered his head.

  “What an ugly beast,” said John, looking around. “Where's its rider?”

  “That's Crovan's horse.” Running loose. Owen's hope evaporated into a fog of despair. We're too late.

  John, apparently thinking the same, uttered a curse and flew by Owen, sword raised. Moments later, they charged onto the shore, reining in at the sight of two bodies lying close to the water's edge.

  John dismounted and stood over the impaled corpses. “Straight through the heart.” He gazed out across the waves. “Shot from the water.”

  “Two men only.” Owen slid from the saddle, his eyes scanning the sea for a mast or a sail. But if there had been a boat, it had already disappeared beyond the horizon.

  “Obviously,” said John, “these two had served their purpose.”

  The men turned at the sound of approaching hooves to see Crovan's horse once again lumbering toward them.