by Headlee, Kim
“Oh. Of course.”
He waited until the exodus had ended before motioning her to follow him into the church.
That this was another dwelling-place of the One God there was no doubt. In comparison with Bishop Dubricius’s church at Dùn Lùth Lhugh, this sanctuary was much smaller, lending it a more intimate feel. Holiness pulsed in the myriad candle flames, drifted on the sweet wings of incense, whispered in the air, nestled among the stones.
Reluctant to shatter the sanctity of the chamber, Gyan stopped. Angusel obediently followed her example.
Her gaze traveled to the pair of statues flanking the altar. One she recognized from her talks with Dafydd: Màiri cradling the infant Iesseu. The other statue, a man wrestling a great, dagger-fanged serpent, was unfamiliar to her. Both were crafted of unblemished snow-white stone with the same remarkably lifelike detail she had seen at Dùn Lùth Lhugh. Candlelight shimmered at each statue’s base. The man’s sandaled feet and the hem of Màiri’s mantle seemed smoother and shinier than the upper portions of the statues—why, Gyan couldn’t begin to guess.
Before the altar knelt an age-bent man. Two boys knelt to either side. Heads bowed, the figures were almost as still as their stone companions. Behind the altar loomed the wooden cross with its mortally wounded Prisoner, captured forever in dying agony.
The altar was draped with undyed, unadorned linen. On a gilt platform in the center, encircled by glowing tapers, stood a small, white cup. Whether empty or full, Gyan couldn’t tell. It seemed odd for the humble-looking vessel to occupy such an exalted position.
As she contemplated the mystery, the priest lifted his frost-white head. The boys rose as one to help him to his feet. With a trembling hand resting upon each young shoulder, the man turned.
Gyan stepped forward. Assuming a pace that pushed the limits of decorum, Angusel moved to catch her.
“Ah, Angusel, my son.” The priest’s ancient voice crackled like autumn leaves. “And—Morghe?” He squinted at Gyan, wagging his head. “No, you’re not Morghe. You’re much too tall. That much I can see. Who are you, my child?”
Gyan opened her mouth to speak, but Angusel said, “This is your new student, Father Lir. Chieftainess Gyanhumara.”
“Ah, yes. Of course. Now I remember. Welcome, my daughter. Welcome. I am Abbot Lir. The students call me Father. Pilgrims call me the Keeper of the Chalice.”
“The little cup on the altar?” She tried to curb the incredulity.
His lips stretched into a ghost of a smile. “It’s not just any cup, my daughter, however it may look. Come. Let me show you.”
Assisted by his acolytes, the Keeper of the Chalice stepped up to the altar to retrieve the relic. The aged hands, amazingly, did not tremble as he lifted the cup from its golden shrine. Sheltering it against his black-robed breast, he returned to Gyan and Angusel. He carefully placed it in her hands.
The smooth, cool vessel was no taller than the length of her palm. A host of strange symbols was etched around its bowl. If they represented a language, it was unlike any she had ever seen. The cup was empty. Its bottom was much darker, as though it had once held wine. Or blood.
Gyan voiced her speculation.
“Both, my child. That cup,” whispered Abbot Lir, “was the last earthly thing ever used by our Lord Iesu when He was a man.”
Gazing into the Chalice, she was smitten by the intense desire to partake of the miracle that transformed bread and wine into the Christ’s flesh and blood. She regarded the abbot, the question sitting on the tip of her tongue. Angusel’s presence was not the issue. What stopped her was a feeling, as she held the cup that had been sanctified by the touch of the Lord’s hand, of utter unworthiness.
She returned the Chalice to its Keeper.
But the mere sight of it filled her soul with unparalleled joy.
COMPLAINING OF stomach pains, Morghe’s tutor, Brother Ian, had not risen from his bed this day. Dutifully, she had seen to the preparation of his healing tisane, but there was no word yet on his recovery. Lucan, the only other monk who might have taken her under his wing in the interim, was occupied with his new pupil.
That suited her just fine. She sat in a small study room on the upper floor of the library, a copy of Horace’s Odes spread across the table before her. Ian preferred to combine Latin grammar lessons with history, subjecting her to such tortures as Livy’s A History of Rome. Worse yet, Suetonius’s The Twelve Caesars. Knowledge was knowledge, but she had serious doubts about the usefulness of studying the lives of men whose bones had long ago fattened the worms.
Horace—now, there was a man who knew how to entertain his readers. She smiled as she ran reverent fingertips across the yellowed scroll. How pleasant it would be to meet a man like him: world-wise and witty, unlike the monks, who were pious to a fault, and the soldiers, who together couldn’t boast of enough brains to amount to a hill of horse dung.
She sighed, gazing at the clouds scuttling past her window. The sea, driven by the same winds that herded the clouds, beat upon the rocks with relentless rage. The air was thick with salt spray and the sound of fleeing dreams.
The most laughable part was that Arthur thought he had exiled her for her own good, when in truth he could no sooner recognize what was good for her than fly to the moon. Her idea of “good” was to find a man with power to share with her—one who didn’t question her preferred avenues of study, including the arcane arts—and get on with her life.
Her thoughts returned to her meeting the day before with the Picti chieftainess. Gyanhumara had acted so aloof and evasive, and so damnably superior, it had been impossible for Morghe not to dislike the woman, especially after her servant had profaned Morghe’s attempt at kindness. Baiting the two of them after that had been sheer pleasure, although it had denied Morghe the chance to find out anything more about Gyanhumara, such as why an odd expression flashed across her face whenever Morghe smiled a certain way. No matter; this was a small island, with opportunities aplenty to solve this riddle.
Yet, despite how she felt about Gyanhumara, she had to admit the Picti woman had all the luck. A leader of the strongest clan of the Caledonian Confederacy, and betrothed to the heir of the most powerful clan of Dalriada…the potential of that union was staggering. Her lips twitched into a grin as she imagined what would happen if Gyanhumara and Urien ever decided to turn their combined forces against Arthur.
What a pretty picture that would make, and so easy to paint.
Painting herself into Gyanhumara’s place was just as easy, but Urien barely knew that Morghe existed. Perhaps she ought to devise an excuse to visit Port Dhoo-Glass more often and start fixing that problem. But surely Gyanhumara would never give up a prize that meant the doubling of her power. What sane woman would?
With another sigh, she gazed at the Horace scroll and found something she had not noticed before. She reread the passage slowly to be sure. Yes, there it was. Some careless copyist had omitted a phrase. Anyone with half a brain could discern the meaning despite the omission, which probably explained why Morghe had missed it the first time. Still, an error was an error and had to be reported. She giggled with delight over her discovery.
After rolling up the scroll with special care, she tucked it under one arm and all but danced from the room.
AS GYAN and Angusel walked from the church to the library, they passed several small knots of monks. The shave-pated men sat on the benches under the apple trees or strolled the grounds, arms waving to punctuate their discussions. Their language seemed vaguely familiar.
“Ròmanaiche, my lady,” Angusel responded, in Caledonaiche, to Gyan’s query. “It’s the first thing you’ll learn.”
She nodded, remembering the remark her father had made to her six months ago. Six months! The passage of time seemed more like six days, although the few days she’d spent at Dùn Lùth Lhugh seemed like years.
The library’s double doors swung open, and a pair of monks began a slow descent down the wide stone steps. The
elder of the two leaned heavily on a cane, while his companion helped to support his opposite side.
“The one with the cane, that’s Brother Stefan,” Angusel whispered. “We’re supposed to call him Stephanus when we speak in Ròmanaiche. He’s in charge of the library and the students.”
“The students? I thought Father Lir did that.”
“He’s the abbot, so of course everyone looks to him. But Brother Stefan does most of the work. Keeps records of everyone’s progress, and who’s studying what, and all that.”
“And the other monk?”
“Brother Lucan? He’s one of the tutors—” As the men neared, Angusel switched to another language to greet them. From the sounds, Gyan presumed it was this tongue called Ròmanaiche.
The monk Stefan regarded Angusel from under stern gray eyebrows, wagging a crooked finger, and asked Angusel something. When Angusel opened his mouth to answer, Stefan fired another querulous-sounding question. Angusel spoke a few words in protest, which were promptly rewarded by an apparent reprimand.
Stefan gestured with his cane toward the library doors and spoke again.
Nodding, Angusel murmured what seemed to be an agreement. In Breatanaiche, he said to Gyan, “I’m sorry, my lady. I must go.”
“I understand. Thank you for your help this morning, Angusel.”
After grinning briefly, he scampered up the steps. His slim form soon was swallowed by the gaping doorway.
Brother Stefan turned his critical glare upon Gyan. “Good,” he said in Breatanaiche. “At least we won’t have to start with teaching you the Brytoni tongue, as we did with Anguselus. Chieftainess…Gyanhumara, is it?” He glanced at Lucan. “That will be a challenge to translate into Latin, eh, Lucianus?”
Lucan’s brown eyes took on a faraway look. “I—I will have to think on it, Brother Stephanus. It’s an unusual name. And a pretty one.” His lips curved into a shy smile not directed at the other monk.
Stefan delivered Lucan some sort of warning before returning to Breatanaiche to address Gyan. “I crave your pardon for Brother Lucan, my lady. He has not been long among us and still suffers occasional lapses.”
Lucan became engrossed in a line of red ants parading through the dust past his sandaled feet.
Too late; Gyan had seen the glow of his embarrassment. To spare him further discomfort, she suppressed her amusement. “I take it, Brother Lucan, that you are to be my tutor?” He nodded, hesitant to meet her gaze. “Then, may we begin? I should like to see the library.”
“An excellent idea, Chieftainess,” said Stefan. “Please permit me the honor of conducting the tour. If I may borrow your shoulder again, Lucan, to get me up these blessed steps.”
Lucan positioned himself on Stefan’s right side. As Stefan reached for Lucan’s shoulder, the sleeve of his robe fell back to the elbow, revealing a sinewy forearm crossed with deep scars. Gyan moved to Stefan’s other side, and the ascent began.
“Please forgive a warrior’s curiosity, Brother Stefan, but how did you injure your leg? What battle were you in?”
“How do you know I wasn’t born like this? Or that a disease didn’t leave me this way?”
“I’ve yet to see a cripple born with scars like yours.”
Stefan nodded slowly. At the landing outside the doors, the trio paused. He lifted the hem of his robe with the cane’s tip to display a foot twisted at an unnatural angle, the legacy of a badly set break.
“You’re right, Chieftainess. I’ve lived with this condition by the grace of God for more than forty years. Fought under Germanus of Auxerre and got this wound during the Alleluia Victory.”
“The what?”
“Alleluia Victory—‘alleluia’ means ‘praise be to God.’” Stefan peered into the distance. “It was the Brytoni battle cry that day, and”—he grinned at Gyan—“praise be to God, it worked.”
And alleluia, she realized with a jolt of recollection, was a word someone—Merlin, probably—had used when she had kissed Urien during that farewell dinner. She got another jolt when it occurred to her what Brother Stefan was talking about.
During the incident known to the Caledonaich as the Great Disaster, some clans had drafted an alliance with the Scáthinaich and Sasunaich in an attempt to seize lands from the Breatanaich south of the South Wall. But the thunderous Breatanach battle cry had so terrorized the Scáthinaich and Sasunaich that they had dropped their weapons and fled the battlefield without striking so much as a single blow. The Caledonaich made a valiant stand, but without the supporting numbers of their would-be allies, it was doomed.
The slaughter led to a redistribution of power in the Confederacy. Since the leaders of Argyll and Alban had scented trouble from the beginning and had kept their clans out of the ill-fated operation—bearing the scorn of the other Confederates—they benefited the most in the aftermath. When the survivors crawled home to lick their wounds, no one was jeering.
But it ensured that no Caledonach would ever trust another Sasun or Scáth.
Brother Stefan’s robe whispered to the ground. As Lucan held open the door, he and Gyan stepped into the library.
The large chamber glowed with light cascading from the many tall windows. Reading tables and scribes’ easels were positioned to take advantage of the sunlight, where monks bent silently over their work. Between the tables stood row upon row of shelves, piled with scrolls of various sizes. Willow baskets stood everywhere. Carved wooden knobs of more scrolls peered over each basket’s rim.
Although Gyan counted at least a score of monks in the room, it was nearly as quiet as the Sanctuary of the Chalice had been. Except for the occasional crinkling of parchment, or a muffled cough, or the soft slap of sandals on the tile floor as a monk went to retrieve or replace a document, the silence was complete.
If outside Brother Stefan had seemed infirm, in his element he was a different man. As he walked unassisted around the room, quietly revealing the order of the manuscripts, his limp all but disappeared. It was easy for Gyan to forget there was any reason for the cane other than to point out documents residing on the highest shelves.
At the far end of the chamber, a staircase led to the upper floor, where Morghe was descending. She carried a scroll tucked under one arm. Her gaze met Gyan’s, and a look of surprise crossed her face. Surprise yielded to determination as she approached Gyan and her escorts.
She grasped the scroll in both hands and began to pull it open. “Brother Stefan, look what I’ve found.”
“Later, lass,” said the master of the library. “Can’t you see I’m busy?”
“There’s a mistake in this manuscript. You said to report mistakes as quickly as possible, so they can be fixed.”
“It can wait, Morghe. Please set it in my workroom.”
Gyan saw the sparks gathering in that violet glare of hers. “Brother Stefan, you’ve shown me enough. I’m ready to begin my lessons.”
“I don’t need your help, Chieftainess,” Morghe hissed. She clamped her arm over the scroll and stalked toward the stairs.
As the sounds of her slapping sandals echoed into silence, Brother Stefan shook his head. “That Morghe. Quite a handful, she is. The man she marries will need divine help to keep her under control, I fear.”
Silently, Gyan offered a quick prayer for him, whoever he might be.
Chapter 18
ANGUSEL FLIPPED THE dripping currach belly-up onto the stack, stowed the paddle, and clambered up the rock-lined path to the fort. His head was throbbing. Images whirled in frenetic confusion: circles and triangles and squares and angles and weird symbols he only halfway understood. To escape, he sought his favorite refuge.
Sweet hay and the richness of oiled leather mingled with the pervasive scent of the horses to concoct an aura of welcome that embraced him like an old friend. The resident mouser, a huge ginger tom, lounged in a patch of sun. He acknowledged Angusel’s presence by opening one golden eye the merest fraction. The striped tail thumped once. As Angusel stooped to stroke th
e cat’s head, he was rewarded with a loud purr.
Straightening, he gazed down the line of stalls.
Most of the horses were gone. Since the afternoon sky carried no hint of rain, the horsemen of the Second Manx Turma were out drilling with their mounts. The draft animals were toiling in the fields. Too late for planting and too early for haymaking, their work at this time of year involved hauling logs and rocks for the construction of buildings and fences. The drayhorses, including Dafydd’s, were out on errands with their masters. Even Morghe’s black-footed white mare was absent, probably at Dhoo-Glass, since that’s where Morghe seemed to be spending much of her free time lately. Only two horses dozed in their stalls.
One was Chieftainess Gyanhumara’s Brin. Angusel half expected to find her in Brin’s stall, brushing the big gelding’s coat until it gleamed like polished jet. Other than the horse, though, the stall was empty, and it made him think. Aye, his lessons had finished early. What a mercy that had been.
He reached in to stroke the glossy neck. “She’ll be here soon, Brin.” Snorting, the horse tossed his head as though in agreement.
Several stalls away, a dappled gray nose thrust into the straw-strewn walkway. With a final pat to Brin’s cheek, Angusel grabbed a boar-bristle brush from a nearby ledge and hurried to join his horse.
Hefting the brush, he lifted the latch and stepped into the stall. Stonn greeted him with an enthusiastic nicker and began his customary quest for treats.
“Sorry, boy.” Angusel set down the brush to display empty hands. “No carrots today.”
Stonn answered with a loud whuff that sounded very much like a sigh. Ears back, he swung around to tug wisps from his hay crib.
“I said I was sorry,” he muttered as he began applying the brush to the stallion’s flank.
Stonn was an unusual Highland horse. Even at a distance, his black-accented gray coat marked him as a breed apart. He stood taller than his kin by at least two handbreadths. The birthing of the leggy colt, two springs before, had nearly killed his dam. Angusel wondered whether his mother regretted giving Stonn to him, since Clan Alban’s breedmasters were denied the stallion’s valuable stud services.
