As they neared the top of the hill, Julian noticed people working furiously on three large wheels. They were weaving straw and heather around the huge wheels and coating them with pine pitch.
“They spin the morn out of night.” Tamlyn smiled at his perplexity. “The wheels of fire are meant to give our god of light more power to keep winter at bay. The giant wheels are swathed in straw and heather, then ignited and sent rolling down the hill. If it remains lit all the way down, and blazes for a time after it stops, an abundant harvest be expected. Once the fires of the wheel burn down, people will jump over the embers. Couples, holding hands, leap over it to bless their love. Others to cleanse them and give them good health. The young men take heather torches, light them from that, and run around the fields and through Glenrogha purifying everything.”
Several young lads came running to Tamlyn. “Hie, my lady! Skylar comes with the sacred fire. You must take it and light the fires.”
Julian watched as they pulled Tamlyn to stand before the wheels. The young Highlander who danced with Tamlyn before the balefire at Beltaine—his teacher of the claymore—came rushing up the hill, heather torch held high. He ran to Tamlyn who took the faggot and lit the three wheels, as the young man pushed them over the hillside. Julian watched the people cheering because all three wheels made it down the hillside still burning, signaling their Auld Ones blessed the coming harvest.
Warrior’s instincts kicked in, warning someone stared at him. He saw Tamlyn, still holding the torch to light the balefire. Spinning around, he spotted an old man a few paces away. Drawn, curious why this stranger would gaze so fixedly at him, Julian walked over to where he stood. The frail old man stared at Julian with eyes much like Evelynour, almost dead and yet still they saw more than normal ones.
Dressed in the manner of an ancient druid―the long robe, sandals― he used the staff, as tall as a man, for a cane. “Merry met, Julian Challon, Lord of the Glen.”
“I do not believe we have been introduced. Well-come to Glen Shane—” Julian paused, unsure how to address the stranger.
“Thomas Learmont of Ercildoune,” he answered in a quavering voice of age, offering his gnarled right hand to shake. When Julian shook it, the old man clutched it with a surprising strength and held on. “You have the makings of a king within you, my lord. Same force, same magnetism. Only, I sense this valley be the only kingdom you want. Pity, this land could do with a king of your mettle. Edward Longshanks would ne’er turn his eye to these northlands if you sat upon the throne, Lord Challon. Scotland’s loss.”
Then, it hit Julian’s thoughts. Thomas Learmont. “Thomas the Rhymer, some call you?” The man who has prophesied the death of the Scots king, Alexander, that had set Longshanks into claiming Scotland as a mere jewel in his crown of Britain.
“Some do. Others say True Thomas. A man is called many things within his journey...son, father, husband. You be called Dragon, Challon, or Julian. Now. Once, you walked these hills and answered to a name other—Fitheach, they called you.” Closing his eyes, he grew silent for a breath, then words fell from his mouth, “Time, time, tide and love that binds, the Dragon trods a path of ancient wynds.”
A chill went up his spine. Had Tamlyn not said as much before? I recognize you, but you do not remember me.
“Once, at the dawn of time, you were a great warrior-king. You are of this land. You belong to these Hills. You have walked them afore. You took a bride, one of the Daughters of Annis, and made your home, your life in this glen. The Auld Ones have granted you a rare gift, Lord Challon. Cherish a love that has come again. Keep it close, for there are those who would seek to steal it from you.”
A shout distracted him. Gervase galloped his horse up the hill, calling Julian’s name.
When Julian turned back to the man to ask more, he had vanished. His eyes searched about for the figure in the dark grey robe, but the wizard was not there. Prickles went up Julian’s spine. The man could walk away, but not fast enough to disappear from sight. Gervase stopped his horse, as Tamlyn, Damian and Aithinne came running. When his brothers saw them, they headed his way as well, immediately followed by Raven and Rowanne.
“My lord...a messenger,” Gervase gasped. “From himself…King Edward.”
Julian’s stomach suddenly experienced a sinking sensation. The mere mention of Edward’s name sent a cold dread through his heart. All eyes were on Gervase. Julian ordered, “Out with it, lad.”
The squire held out a scroll. Julian looked at it if it were an adder. He did not want to touch it, and resented Edward’s intrusion into this idyllic glen. He snatched it, staring at the king’s seal.
Glancing at his brothers and cousin, he saw they were not thrilled with the missive, either. With a deep breath, he broke the wax and unrolled the parchment, his eyes scanning the words. They confirmed his worst fear. “All prominent Scottish landowners, churchmen and burgesses are summoned to swear allegiance before Edward. They are bid to assemble on the 28th day of August this year at Berwick,” Julian read aloud.
Destain snorted. “Has Edward got cork for brains? Gathering the whole of Scotland in that foul cesspit?”
“So, we all sally forth to the land of the dead?” Guillaume queried. Hands on his hips, his chest rose and fell, demonstrating he was less than happy about this directive.
“Destain and you shall remain behind and protect the valley. It seems Edward specifically requests the presence of the Lord and Lady Challon, Lord Ravenhawke, and Lady Coinnlear.”
Chapter Twenty-Five
Cha d’fhuair sùil ghionach riamh cunnradh math.
(A covetous eye never got a grand bargain.)
— Auld Scots Adage
As Julian approached the rise in the hill, he sucked in his breath. The sweet, sickening odor warned him his worse fears lay ahead.
“God’s breath! The air is fouled!” Damian snarled, clearly forcing himself to breathe shallowly through his mouth to keep from gagging.
Worried, Julian glanced over at the women riding in a pair behind them. Aithinne had lowered her head and picked up the hem of her gown, using it to cover her nose. She appeared pale, tinged with grey. Tamlyn, mounted upon Goblin, yanked back on her horse’s reins, trying to steady the animal, as it reacted to scenting the putrid odor that polluted the air. By the stiffening of her spine, Julian knew she was as affected as Aithinne.
Julian’s low bark carried only as far as Damian’s hearing. “We be downwind of Berwick.”
“I fail to see how...this far away, Julian?” Damian’s face grimaced from the putrid wind.
“Aye—this far. Remember to thank Edward for the coming experience.” Julian’s destrier pranced and snorted, spooked by the stomach-churning scent riding on the breeze.
Damian’s pale green eyes widened. “I cannot believe even he―”
“I do. ’Tis my festering nightmare. Not many Scots lived after three days of butchery. I had not wanted to speak of the vile atrocities to the ladies, thinking that surely the foul mess would be cleared by this time. The stench tells another tale, eh? Edward commanded the bodies should be left until Scotland was brought to heel. I fear it is precisely what has happened.”
“But this is August!” Damian stared at Julian in horror. “Not even Edward would subject us to this. Think of the ill airs. He cannot be that vile…no man could―”
“Edward’s mind has turned inward. They cleaned up part of the town, but the remainder was commanded to be left as it was. ’Tis his intent to rub the noses of Scottish nobility into this foul miasma. Make certain they shall never rise against him again.”
Julian’s mouth formed into a line of grim determination. “Be prepared, Damian. Heed this well—show no tender feelings toward the Lady Aithinne before Edward. None toward Tamlyn. Let him believe we are resigned to our fate, but not pleased. Tell Edward whatever he wishes to hear, offer no resistance to any of his policies. Let us make haste to leave this mockery of a parliament as soon as possible. Most of all―trust
no one. At all times hold close to the Lady Aithinne. Keep her safe. Then, mayhap we might escape Berwick with our heads.”
♦◊♦
The road turned along the steep bank of the river, and before them appeared to be all of Scotland’s nobility, making their way to Berwick-on-Tweed. Never had Tamlyn seen such a mass of humanity converging on one spot, and there was still more than a league to travel to the town’s outer walls. People—mounted, traveling in curtained brancards, on foot or in carts—formed a long convergence, snaking along the river Tweed. The air was oppressively hot, humid, and the August sun was not at zenith yet.
Miserable, a hot wave of nausea rolled through Tamlyn. She swallowed the sour taste, her mouth beginning to water excessively, as it did when she was near vomiting. Thus far, she thought Julian had not taken notice of her morning sickness, the bouts being so light. Howbeit, this was nearly more than she could stomach. She trembled thinking she would not be able to keep the sickness down long enough to move through this massive throng of people.
Horses suddenly came crashing along the procession. The wild riders spooked other mounts, nearly causing several to break out of formation. Women screamed, and men began cussing at the ruckus being caused by the horsemen under the standard of a blue lion on white.
“Edward’s Lordling comes,” Damian smirked, “along with the rest of Bruce’s sons. They come to beg that Bruce lands be restored. Balliol took them when they refused to pay him homage as king. Annandale still expects Edward to set him in place of Balliol. He labors under grave misconceptions.”
“That pony shan’t prance,” Julian stated, as he guided his mount to act as a buffer between Tamlyn and the hard-riding Bruces. “Edward never makes the same mistake twice.”
“Unless enough gold and silver crosses his hand,” Damian pointed out.
“I doubt Annandale being able to raise coin enough for Edward’s price for the crown of the Scots. The king believes Annandale too weak to control Clan Comyn. Worse, the king’s far-seeing, Devil’s Breed eyes fears that Celtic blood in young Carrick, in spite of years of molding Robert to his liking. No matter how Edward looks upon him, favors him, the monarch never fully trusts any man. Our king wouldst cut off his little finger if he believed it knew his inner thoughts.”
Tamlyn flinched as the cadre under the pennons of Bruces spurred past, nearly causing her mount to shy. Julian reached over and took hold of the rein to help control the increasingly agitated Goblin. The dust the fast traveling riders kicked up, nearly choked her, hitting her eyes, nose and mouth.
Farther up ahead, a woman’s startled scream rose above the din. Heedless, the Bruces drove past the brancard under pennon of a red cross on gold―standard of Richard de Burgh. The alarmed jennets pulled against each other, causing the occupant to be unceremoniously dumped upon the ground. Her pale blue kirtle flew up around her hips.
“Looks as though Carrick and siblings run afoul of de Burgh’s party,” Julian commented. “That must be Elizabeth, his daughter.”
“What is de Burgh doing here? He does not like to leave Ireland these days,” Damian wondered aloud.
“Can one blame him? More of Edward’s machinations, to be sure,” Julian muttered, his eyes returning to Tamlyn, assessing her.
“Julian, what is that horrid smell?” She placed a hand on her waist fighting the urge to vomit. They pulled up at the crest of the hill, looking down at the mass of horses and people, come together on the once mighty town of Berwick. Never in her wildest imaginings had Tamlyn thought to see so many cattle and people in one place.
Julian’s mouth flexed into a hard grimace. “So it begins.”
“What?” Tamlyn’s head turned to stare at her husband.
Eyes straight ahead, he replied, “Mimes and mummeries.”
Her mouth opened to ask what precisely he meant, but St. Giles cut off the question, moving his charger up next to hers, so she was between the two men.
“What say you, cousin? All of Scotland comes to pay homage to their new English king. With all these people gathering on this side of Scotland, might the whole bloody isle not up end into the sea?”
Julian’s face grew grim as they neared the town’s outer wall. “Edward lost what little sense he possesses.”
“He has surrounded himself with angry nobles before. He means to―”
Julian looked past Tamlyn, across her horse to Damian. “He means to grind the nose of every personage of rank in this stubborn country in the...offal that is now Berwick. God’s teeth, does he not comprehend these people will only be strengthened by this outrage? He thinks this atrocity will break them, scare them into submission. By God, it shall not! He makes a martyr of the whole friggin’ town.”
“Julian?” Tamlyn asked growing scared. “What is wrong?”
Julian’s horse pranced sideways as he addressed them. “Tamlyn, Lady Aithinne, there is no way to prepare you for what lies ahead. I regret we must endure what comes.”
“By the Holy Virgin, what sort of brainsickness is this?” Damian gasped, trying his best not to breathe. The wind shifted and the nauseating stench that rose on it was revolting! “There are no words to describe this foulness.”
“’Tis no more than I feared.” Challon’s face set in hard lines as he glanced at Tamlyn with a worried expression.
As Tamlyn stared at her husband, everything began to darken and spin around her. Panic flooded her and without realizing it, she jerked back on the reins of Goblin, transferring her terror to the mare. This was the town of her dream! Only the reality was worse. Much worse. In her dream, she had walked the wynds and vennels during the battle.
This was the gruesome aftermath―four months gone—now under the hot sun of late August. “I…canno’…Challon.” Unaware she was pulling on the reins, Goblin began backing up, nearly crashing into the squires riding behind them. “Please, Challon, I…”
As they entered the town a sound, a humming arose. Thousands and thousands of blueflies buzzed, the horrific noise matched the drone inside Tamlyn’s head, as faintness whirled through her mind. Murders of ravens hovered nearby, their cacophony rising, warning them against going farther.
In response to her pressure on the reins, Goblin stopped backing up and bounded on its hooves trying to rear. Suddenly, the small horse jerked sideways, almost losing footing in the crumbling dried soil churned up by the heavy passages of men and animals.
“Damn it, Tamlyn.” Julian jerked Dragon’s Blood closer, so he could once more grab hold of the lead on her horse. “You panic Goblin. Have heed.”
“Challon...must…leave…I canno’…” In mindless terror, Tamlyn continued to jerk on the bridle, almost sending the animal into bolting. In the throng of people and animals it was madness, could result in injury or death. Yet, she had to get away from here!
Julian leaned across to grab her around the waist. He lifted her out of the saddle, pulling her sideways across his lap. Her whole body bowed, struggling against his hold and nearly toppling them both from the back of his mount. Only the high cantle and pommel prevented it. Dropping his reins and commanding Dragon’s Blood with his knees only, he used both hands to control her.
“Damn it! Hold still!” he growled, finally clamping both arms round her so tightly she had a hard time drawing breath. “Tamlyn, calm down. You shall see us both killed. Is that what you wish?”
His deep voice began to penetrate her terror, causing her unfocused stare to fix upon his face. Tamlyn’s reason reasserted itself as she stared into his dark green eyes.
“Challon, please I canno’ stay in this…this rotting Hell created by Edward Longshanks.”
His throat worked, the muscles in the beautiful column contracting. “I understand, Tamlyn. God’s wounds, I of all people understand.”
Tears rose as she shook her head faintly. “You canno’. This is my...nightmare...I have walked these vennels of death and blood before...in my dreams.”
His head lifted as his spine straightened. “No,
lady wife, you have walked the streets of my nightmares. Hear the words I speak to you. Though I wish nothing more, I cannot carry you away from this accursed place. In my dealings with Edward, I tread a narrow path, and must do as he wills—whatever he wills. He commands the Dragon of Challon to Castle Berwick, along with the new Lady Challon. We dare not disobey. Believe me, if there were any other choice I would walk through the fires of Hell to spare you this. By all that is holy, for the next few days you must place all trust in me, Tamlyn. Heed my council. Follow my every lead. Never allow what you feel to show. And most of all, your temper must stay hidden, lest you risk all. Look well upon the ugliness of Berwick. You do not wish this fate to befall Glenrogha. I shall do my utmost to shield you. Allow me this.”
Julian held his breath, waiting for her response. The air expelled from his lungs when she nodded. “Thank you,” The words were whispered under his breath so only Tamlyn heard.
He pushed her face into the curve of his neck. “Keep your face to me, Tamlyn. Take short breaths through your mouth, not your nose. Close your eyes and try to rest. I shall get through the foul murk as quickly as possible. Gervase!” he called.
“Yea, my lord.” The squire spurred his steed to catch up to his liege.
“Take the reins on Goblin and lead him. Ride in front of us with Vincent and Michael. Carry the standard high. Let everyone know the Dragon of Challon comes and to make way!”
Hard-bitten and dour-faced, Julian and Damian rode behind the phalanx formed by their squires, forcing their way into the fallen town. They spurred past women on foot, tearfully hiding behind their kerchiefs. Their haunted eyes pulled at Tamlyn’s heart. As they moved into the town proper, she spotted masses of half-rotting corpses—everywhere. Bodies hacked in half. Some hanging out windows of buildings. Parts of the town were burnt to the ground.
Leaning into the curve of Challon’s embrace, she closed her eyes and tried desperately not to gag at the overwhelming pall, choking the air like a black fog.
A Restless Knight (Dragons of Challon Book 1) Page 34