Waking the Princess

by Susan King

  In her hands, Christina held his heartfelt effort to save Liadan's life. According to the legend, the princess had fallen into a deep and endless sleep. Sir Hugh's poem claimed that the princess had fallen victim to the evil enchantment of a rival king. Perhaps she had been ill or injured, Christina thought with a more practical bent.

  Now she sat reading the words he had penned in secret so long ago. Like a tangible force, Aedan mac Brudei's love for Liadan reached out, flowing through Christina herself, stirring her soul. In her mind, the prince's voice echoed across centuries—in Aedan MacBride's quiet, mellow tones.

  Stunned, she could almost feel the Druid's hand touch her own, like the brush of Aedan's own fingers over hers. She could feel, as if he were a ghost, his hand closing on her shoulder.

  Come to me, my heart.

  Her heart quickened, her head whirled.

  The magic in the old verses seemed to sweep through her, a profound, loving force, irresistible. She yearned so deeply that tears now streamed down her cheeks.

  Journeying upward, come again down

  Journeying outward, come again in

  No peril shall befall thee on hill or in heather

  Come again homeward, safe to me.

  Chapter 27

  Rousing from rapt concentration, Christina noticed twilight shadows gathering in the library. She turned up the wick of the little oil lamp on the table, its odor lightly pungent. Hearing footsteps, she glanced up.

  Amy, Edgar, and Lady Balmossie entered the room to gather by the fireplace, chatting. When Amy invited her to join them, Christina declined politely and returned to her work.

  Touching a hand to her brow, she began to copy the Druid's verses again, determined to confirm her translation. With other people now in the room, the poem's strange magic faded. But her conclusions had shaken her to her core.

  "Something certainly has your attention," Edgar said.

  She looked up. "Good day, Edgar. I'm working on the translation I mentioned to you."

  He came close to stand over her, hands folded behind him. Lady Balmossie and Amy were seated near the fireplace, and Amy began to read some poetry aloud to her aunt.

  "You missed tea, but Mrs. Gunn said you were studying in here, so I was not concerned," Edgar said. "I did want to tell you that I went to the excavation site today to tell the Highland workers to box the vases for shipment and bring them up tomorrow. We will transport them to Edinburgh by train, but they will have to be carefully wrapped first, of course."

  "I do wish you would not move them yet," Christina said. "I'd like more time to examine the pots in their original setting."

  He shrugged. "We've seen enough of the Dundrennan site for now. You have notes and sketches, and you can examine them at leisure once they are in the museum."

  She sighed. "This is not a good idea, Edgar." But she did not want to argue with him. She just wanted to be left alone with her translation and her discovery.

  "Is that the document from the Dundrennan Folio?" Edgar asked. She nodded, and Edgar shifted to look at the page over her shoulder.

  Murmuring over the parchment's age and condition, he leaned a hand on the table beside her own. "Interesting. A military roster. But there are some additional lines in the margin."

  "I've translated some of the lines. Not all of it." She would not show him what she had found. The verses were too precious, too intimate and personal, to share with anyone but Aedan.

  "Some of this is in Latin, I see," he said.

  "Gaelic—Old Irish, really."

  "That is Latin," he said, pointing with one finger.

  She stared at one of the cramped and indecipherable lines in the midst of the roster. Concentrating on the marginal lines first, she had not yet carefully studied the roster. "Yes, it is. The ink is blurred there. It is... D, U... X..." She frowned.

  "Dux bellorum," Edgar said. "This is a military roster, so dux bellorum makes perfect sense. It's a military commander's rank. A term used for a warlord in the early documents. Later it became 'grand duke.'"

  She nodded. "Of course. Dux bellorum was used by the ancient chroniclers Nennius and Gildas to describe Britain's greatest warlord, Arthur. Interesting that it is on this list."

  "It was used rather broadly for warlords in the early centuries," Edgar said. She knew he was an expert on knights, armor, medieval weaponry, although he was among the scholars who disdained Walter Carriston's theories about King Arthur's extended presence in Scotland. It remained a point of intellectual tension between Christina, Edgar and Walter.

  She sat up, thoughts sparking. "Perhaps it refers to Aedan mac Brudei, the warrior prince who was the ancestor of the Dundrennan MacBrides. Thank you, Edgar. I missed that reference."

  "You've been working too hard, Christina."

  She frowned. "Perhaps." She put away her notes, feeling uncomfortable with his cool stare.

  "Sir Edgar, come listen," Amy called. "You wanted to hear some of Sir Hugh's poetry. Christina, do join us."

  "No, thank you. I'm rather tired." She smiled.

  "Just a moment more, Miss Stewart," Edgar replied, and turned toward Christina. "You were going to show me your excavating notes. Are they here?"

  "Yes, but—I do need to rest, and thought to read in my room this evening. May we go over the notes tomorrow?"

  "Of course, my dear. The work on the excavation has strained your fragile nature. I want to see your notes before the jars are removed, however. If you leave them with me now, I'll read them and we can discuss them later."

  Distracted, she nodded, thinking only that she wanted to get back to the Druid's verses, which she could not do with Edgar hovering over her. Reaching into the leather case that held her writing materials, she took out the journal that held her notes on Cairn Drishan, and then tucked the notebook with her translations back into the case, pausing to wrap the parchments up in silk. Edgar took the memorandum journal and wished her a good night before he joined Amy and her aunt.

  Returning the parchments to Sir Hugh's study and leaving her leather case in the cabinet with them, Christina left the library, bidding the others good night.

  Behind her, Amy begin Sir Hugh's epic poem about the Viking invasion of Scotland. Considering the poem's length, they would be sitting there for quite a while, Christina thought, glad she had not stayed to listen.

  Climbing the main stairs to her room, her thoughts raced. Dux bellorum... Liadan nighean Math-ghamainn... Daughter of the Bear...

  Then she stopped, hand on the banister. Dux bellorum... a great leader... and 'Artorius' in Latin meant 'bear.'

  Stunned, she set a hand to her heart, caught her breath as she stood on the stair, head down, thinking fervently. King Arthur had been linked to early Scotland—and there was evidence of his presence in the Dundrennan Folio. Dux bellorum, daughter of the bear. Mind racing, she knew there had to be more evidence on Cairn Drishan. What had she missed?

  A few clay vessels in the souterrain were decorated with a bear design, she remembered. She had not connected, until now, the bears on the pots with the Daughter of the Bear, or the alternate meaning of Arthur's name.

  She had to know, for her uncle's sake, and for the sake of Dundrennan and its laird—and its history—if she was right.

  Running upstairs to her room, she changed from black slippers to leather brogans and snatched hat, gloves, and cape. She had to get up to Cairn Drishan now. Edgar had ordered the pots to be moved in the morning.

  With Edgar well occupied in the library, her brother in the dining room working on his mural, and Aedan somewhere working on his road, she knew she could find time alone to search for clues.

  Hurrying downstairs, she grabbed her walking stick and left the quiet, dim house, striding out over the moor.

  * * *

  Under a pearl moon and purple twilight, Christina reached the top of Cairn Drishan. A pale flash brightened the sky, and she heard a distant rumble. Reaching the ancient wall, she felt a slight tremor underfoot.
<
br />   Not thunder and lightning, but a far-off blast, she realized. Aedan and his men must be setting charges along the new section of road. As the sound and the trembling faded, she heard the muffled chug of the steam shovel.

  Aedan must be on the other side of the massive slope, just a mile or two away. She felt tempted to go to him now, tell him about her discoveries, her hopes. But she had to look inside the souterrain first.

  Aedan might not share her excitement, with good reason. Because of his father's will and the ancient find, his hold on Dundrennan was already precarious. A discovery of this magnitude could topple his claim to the estate entirely.

  Frowning, torn between loving Aedan and loving her work, Christina walked to the souterrain to remove a corner of the tarpaulin. She climbed down the wooden ladder, stumbling a little in the dark pit below, groped for the candle and matchbox kept there, and lit the flame.

  Looking around, she sighed with relief. Angus and his sons had not moved the pots, which were stacked two deep against the wall. The rest of the little chamber was cleared, walls mossy, foor packed earth. The tarpaulin had kept it dry despite the rains over the past weeks.

  Kneeling, Christina moved the candle slowly so that she could see the clay jars. Their shoulders were decorated in brownish paint with various decorations—chains, loops, swirls, key mazes, elegantly contoured animals. Some jars had fat clay handles. All were sealed with thick wax.

  Two pots, placed together, had depictions of bearlike creatures. Scuttling over to them, heedless of her skirts in the dirt, Christina examined the designs closely in candlelight. The abstract linear images were definitely bearlike.

  Setting her candle dish on the ground, she tipped one of the pots cautiously and found it heavier than she expected. Reaching into her reticule, she took out her little sewing scissors and attempted to carefully remove the waxen plug.

  Overhead, she heard the muffled sound of another blast on the other side of the hill. The ground under her knees shook a little, dirt and small stones shifting around her. The candle fell over and went out.

  In the blackness, she fumbled for the taper, inserted it in the dish, relit the wick. The souterrain bloomed with light again.

  Next time she saw Aedan, she would tell him that the blasts, even far away, were affecting the ancient site. But he would not be glad to hear that from her either.

  For now, the underground chamber was snug and well made, lined with heavy stones. She was not concerned about collapse, just damage. The walls had stood secure for centuries.

  After some tugging and a few inarticulate groans on her part, the plug cracked loose from the rim, allowing her to pull it up in one piece.

  Then she reeled backward. "Aughh!"

  The odor was awful. Holding her nose, she approached the pot tentatively, afraid to bring the candle close in case the substance ignited. Peering inside, she saw black muck and replaced the plug quickly.

  Turning to the second bear-marked pot, she began to work at the stubborn wax seal. Changing the angle of her assault, she saw a single word painted over one of the lugs.

  Or. In Gaelic—and Latin too—it meant gold.

  She sat back, hands shaking. This pot had been here all the time, with the others, and no one had noticed this tiny label. Gold and a bear. Had she found King Arthur's gold?

  Hardly daring to hope, she struggled with the seal, which finally popped loose. A sweetish smell wafted out—nothing fermented or rotted, she realized with relief. Leaning forward, she held the candle high and saw the glint of a golden substance.

  She poked at it with the tip of her sewing scissors. It was gluey and half translucent. She sat back.

  Honey. The pot was filled with honey.

  Gold indeed, she thought. Bears and honey—how apt. Sighing, she replaced the plug, sat staring at the pots for a moment, feeling disappointment.

  Crawling from one pot to the next, glad that she now had the knack of popping the seals without destroying them, she opened one vessel after another, peeked inside, and shut them.

  She found oats preserved, still dry, and folded cloths of a beautiful weave that she dared not touch. She discovered desiccated root vegetables, dried meats, and more honey. Several of the pots held wine and beer, only two of which smelled sour.

  But no golden treasure, no precious items, nothing further that linked this place with Artorius the Bear, dux bellorum, or Aedan mac Brudei and Liadan, Daughter of the Bear.

  Sighing, feeling that she had failed—but for the fact that she knew what was in the pots—she wiped her gloved hands on her skirt and rose to her feet.

  Blowing out the candle, she set it on a stone shelf and went to the ladder. As she put her foot on the bottom rung, she heard the crunch of stones above, near the lip of the opening. Wondering if the explosions had loosened something, she paused.

  Then she saw a man appear beside the opening of the souterrain, his lean form silhouetted against the violet sky.

  Edgar.

  In the darkness, he had not seen her yet. She moved carefully away from the ladder and stepped backward, shaking with sudden fear, though she was sure he was no real threat.

  Then she saw his boots and trousered legs as he began to descend the ladder into the souterrain. She had nowhere to hide, and soon he would find her.

  But it was only Edgar, after all, who was selfish and annoying, but never meant her harm. Lighting the candle again, she stepped forward.

  He leaped, startled, and nearly fell to the earthen floor. "Christina! I came as soon as I could."

  "How did you know I was here? I only came to—study the pots one more time before they are moved."

  He stepped forward. "I read your notes."

  "The excavation notes? But why come here, Edgar?"

  "Not just the excavation notes. I read your translation, as well. That cabinet is shamefully easy to open, you know." His tone was odd, unusually intent.

  "You opened Sir Hugh's cabinet?" Suddenly aware that she was alone with him in this strange, eerie place, she felt wary. When she had been here with Aedan, she had wanted to stay forever. Now she felt the urge to leave, and quickly. She sensed danger where she never had before with Edgar.

  "My dear," he said. "Did you think the true meaning of dux bellorum escaped me? I am familiar with your uncle's work. I know all there is to know about historical Arthur, the supreme dux bellorum of Dark Age Britain. I am an authority in the subject."

  "Yes—but you said there is nothing significant in this site."

  "I came here tonight for the same reason you did. To find the gold. King Arthur's gold."

  He walked toward her, and Christina eased toward the ladder. But Edgar reached out to snatch her wrist in a hard and painful grip, yanking her toward him.

  "Come here," he said, and pulled her to the far end of the dark chamber near the cluster of jars. Taking the candle from her, still grasping her wrist tightly, he moved the light over the vessels.

  "When I first came here," he said, "it was a disappointment. I hoped you had found something here, but you were fussing about with toothbrushes and new methods, delaying everything. I thought to take the vases back to Edinburgh and examine them at my leisure there. I knew you were looking for the gold, too—you had to be. Your uncle would have put the idea in your head as soon as he learned you were coming to Dundrennan."

  "Actually," she said, tugging, "he never mentioned it."

  "No? Sir Hugh himself told me about the gold. He was certain it was on his estate somewhere, and he regretted never finding a clue to its whereabouts. I convinced him that a codicil to his will would protect any treasure that might be found later. Of course, I was determined to find it myself, if it existed."

  She blinked. "The codicil was your suggestion?"

  "Of course. I had Sir Hugh's ear then. He was a brilliant man, but not practical. He was relieved to have a plan to protect the historical worth of his estate. When his son blasted through the hill and found the wall, I was delighted—I tho
ught it might lead to the treasure at last. But I could not appear too eager, so I sent you here first, to clear the way."

  "So you always thought the find was important?"

  "I had my doubts, until I read your notes tonight," Edgar said. "There are intriguing coincidences between the legend and this site, and now the ancient document you translated supports some possibilities. The meaning isn't clear yet, but I am sure it has to do with King Arthur. And the lost treasure."

  "There is nothing here. I have looked thoroughly. The jars are filled with ordinary goods. And my translation has nothing to do with any of this."

  "Perhaps not, but it names the Daughter of the Bear," he said. "Curious little document. I wonder why the MacBride ancestor wrote poetry on the roster. It was he, wasn't it."

  "I am not certain," she said. She wanted to keep the phrases written by Aedan mac Brudei a secret. Having felt a hint of their mysterious force, she knew she must protect the power and the purity of that ancient love from Edgar.

  "Why do you want to find this gold? You are a wealthy man, after all."

  "A man can always use more, my dear. Ask Aedan MacBride. He has little left of his inheritance," he added. "But it's not fortune I seek. Imagine a treasure hidden by King Arthur's own hand! It would be the most important historical discovery of our age." He smiled coldly. "I want the glory of that, quite simply. I do not want your uncle to have it, or you. God forbid a woman should take credit for this accomplishment. Nor should it be attached to the memory of Sir Hugh. No, this is my find. I have dreamed of it all my life, since I first read of King Arthur's deeds when I was young."

  "But you did not want to do the work of finding it yourself."

  "Of course not," he said easily. He considered the pots. "Now, tell me—you opened these? What did you find?"

  "Nothing of real interest," she said sharply.

  He sighed. "So I must look for myself." He glanced at her in the darkness, sardonic and suddenly dangerous.

  How could she have been so wrong about him? All her life she had trusted too well, too quickly. Aedan loathed Edgar, and John disliked him too. Both had tried to warn her. She knew how disagreeable Edgar could be, but had not thought him capable of real wrongdoing. She had refused to see Stephen's darker qualities, too, leading to ruin for both of them.