And he wouldn’t have visited Kernow at all if that contentious King Gorlas had simply joined him against the Saxenow. Their former rivalry for Igerna’s love made things difficult.
Nowhere had people refused Uther fealty. And they always loved Arthur! But here, they scowled. Refused him honor. Wouldn’t join the fight against the Saxenow. But why did it gall him so? Igerna chided him about his pride, but wasn’t he the High King?
Should he just depart? Spit on their mud? But he couldn’t afford to break the line of beacons. Not with the Saxenow building their strength on the eastern shore.
Maybe Tregeagle could … Tregeagle! That two-faced, money-grubbing druid lover.
Uther was in a precarious position. If he captured the Tor by force from Tregeagle, he could spare only a few men, and Vortigern said the place was a trap without better stonework and new timber. It would be simple for the druidow to take it over after he left.
And the Stone? Dreamlike feelings had come over him when he’d looked at it. A vision had appeared of himself conquering his enemies, even besieging Rome to take it back from the barbarians. Oh, how he’d longed for that since last year when Odoacer had conquered the empire’s capital and deposed Orestes and his young son Romulus Augustulus. Uther the emperor … Yes, the Stone had thrilled him!
But then he’d felt an icy claw begin to scrape his neck, the pain slicing into his heart. And if it hadn’t been for the vexations of Mórganthu’s son, that fool with the reeking breath, Uther might not have pulled his eyes away. Moreover, hadn’t he called out to the Christ? He could barely remember now. And if Colvarth was right, this village’s bewitchment was just the beginning of the arch druid’s plans. Uther needed a council. And quickly.
But first he needed to get away from the village. Set up his tents on some defensible hill. Give his horses room for action. And the sooner out of this cramped, smelly roundhouse, the better.
“Ho! Battle chief. Pack us up to move,” Uther called through the dark press of men.
Vortigern pushed through the warriors. “For the Tor?”
“No. We will find no proper welcome there. Our magister has left his loyalty in the dust.”
“Here isn’t bad. The horses have grass —”
“Not in the village.”
“Don’t you like it?”
“No. And you?” Uther said, arching his eyebrow.
“Eeeh.” Vortigern shrugged. “But it’s raining.”
“That has never stopped you before. Move.”
“Shall we head to the other side of the mountain? From the Tor, I’ve seen hills and a lake.”
“Fine.”
In less than half an hour, the whole company was on the move to the other side of the mountain. Once they arrived, Vortigern pointed to a flat hill between the lake and the marsh.
Uther surveyed the land and nodded. There, with the rain falling lightly, the warriors raised his campaign tent and soon had their own tents set up as well.
The rains quickened again, and before Uther closed his tent flap, he gazed out over the long marsh to the west. Out on an island, he spied a stone tower surrounded by ruins. It stood perhaps twenty-five feet tall, and at its top a single dark window opened eastward.
Peculiar. What was a tower doing in the marsh?
“Vortigern,” Uther called.
No answer.
“Vortigern!” Where was that slumber-loving battle chief?
Merlin, who had come with Colvarth, tapped with his staff until he stood behind Uther. “Can I fetch him for you?”
“There is a tower on that island yonder. Tell me its history.”
“No one knows for sure, my lord. It goes back further than the founding of the village.”
“How old is Bosventor?”
Merlin closed his eyes. “I am told that around a hundred years ago, monks from the coast escaped inland to avoid sea raiders. People followed, and they rebuilt the Tor.”
“Rebuilt?”
“The Romans had built the fort to run the tin and copper mining.”
“The tower in the marsh,” Uther asked, “is that Roman too?”
Merlin paused before answering. “Our lore says not, my lord. Some say it was built by a tin merchant before the Romans conquered Britain, but no one really knows. We call it Pergiryn’s, the tower of the pilgrim. The isle is named Inis Avallow. My sister and I have picked apples there.”
Uther parted the tent flap and gazed once more across the marsh. As Uther studied the tower, a light flashed from its window. “What was that?” he exclaimed. “Did you see it?”
“No, my lord. I can see colors and things moving, but my vision is blurry —”
Uther felt the heat rise to his cheeks when he realized he’d asked such a question. “I see a light from the tower … from the window.”
Merlin paused. “Others have also sworn they saw a light in the tower, but no one has been to the top to know what it could be. There’s a floor up there, I am told, but the stairs have all rotted away.”
Uther, suddenly hungry, closed the tent flap despite his curiosity. He had no time for such mysteries. There was a rebellion to deal with, and he needed food.
“Fire and meat!” he called. “Colvarth, where is my venison?”
Garth couldn’t believe the druid wives were making him pluck chickens. Clean this. Pluck that. Chop these. Bring more wood. Always more wood!
It wouldn’t be half bad if they’d let him sneak a bite here and there. But after his second scolding, they refused to allow him near the roasting meat unsupervised again. Even Brother Loyt back at the abbey used to give him treats here and there.
“Stop yer dreamin’,” a greasy-mantled woman shouted at him as she plopped two more scalded chickens in the dirt. “Keep on pluckin’, or yer next meal will be a plate o’ piney cones!”
Garth sighed.
With a loud thunderclap, it started raining again. Muttering, Garth got up, pushed his bench farther underneath the pine tree and clopped it against the trunk. After retrieving the half-plucked chicken and the two new ones, he sat down again.
Two men interrupted his grumblings as they walked down the side of the tree-shaded hillside about three stone throws away. They had come from the circle, and Garth recognized Mórganthu on the left.
Ah, that’ll be my way out o’ this miserable feather tuggin’. The druid wives won’t dare yell at me while standin’ next to the arch druid. In his excitement Garth jumped up and poked his eye on a pine needle. He stifled a yell lest he attract the attention of one of the women, and rubbed his lid as he fell back to the bench. When he could see again, he looked out at the two figures talking in the distance.
Garth froze. The other figure was one of the monks! The brother stood with his back to Garth and had his hood up, making it impossible to tell who it was. But why was a monk talking with Mórganthu? Good thing Garth had been smart enough not to embarrass himself. The last thing he wanted was to talk to one of those bagpipe-stealing … Well, maybe he’d make an exception if it was Brother Loyt coming to bring him some steaming, buttered, and oh-so-perfect bannocks.
Better yet would be old Kyallna shuffling over with a steaming pot of her glorious soup. Then he wouldn’t have to bother with those monks at all. He needed to visit her house again soon. Real soon. Garth’s stomach gurgled as he picked up the chicken and slowly started plucking again.
Mórganthu and the monk conferred for quite awhile. Then the arch druid gave something to the monk, one of those bronze tubes with a wooden stopper. Just like the tube of oil Dybris used to anoint people. Didn’t the monk have his own oil?
And come to think of it, this monk was really tall. In fact, half a head taller than Mórganthu. Not like any monk I know. An’ why is there a strange bulge on his back? Looks almost like he’s hidin’ something under his cowl.
Soon they parted. Mórganthu walked back toward the circle of stones as the monk ran northward along the ridge.
But the abbey and village wer
en’t that way.
“Have them chickens cleaned?” The druid wife startled him. She bent down and snickered. He hadn’t even finished the first. “No midmeal for you,” she said as she stomped off. “What a lazy louse. No parents and won’t work a lick!”
Garth almost started crying, but he bit his lip instead.
“How much time has passed?” Crogen demanded as he closed the door to the chapel.
“Not long, Abbot. Two hours at most.”
“Two hours, Neot! Do you know what this means?”
Neot wrung his hands. “I know exactly. Herrik never came back with us from the meeting with the High King.”
“How could you have missed him?” Crogen said. “I know I’ve been visiting Troslam — and Dybris took off after Owain — but can’t you count, man?”
“I realized too late while preparing our meal at the chapel. Herrik could be anywhere.”
“But he was the one caught drawing the Stone!” Crogen beat his chest. “Oh, Jesu, forgive me, for I shouldn’t have taken him to the village green while the Stone was still there.”
“He’s been dragged away by his heart, and his blood will be on his own head.”
Crogen collapsed to a bench. “Oh, Neot, what have I done?”
CHAPTER 26
ADVICE UNHEEDED
Merlin felt a cold draft of air as a warrior with a haunch of freshly killed deer entered Uther’s campaign tent. In no time he had it on a spit over the crackling fire.
Colvarth excused himself, and Merlin spent the next hour conversing with Uther, Igerna, and their daughters about life up on the moor. Eventually the conversation turned to Owain, but Merlin detected a hint of anger lingering in Uther’s voice and changed the topic to the recent appearance of the druidow.
Soon the meat was ready, and Merlin sat before the fire eating roasted venison, whose aroma filled his senses. The bone was so hot, however, that he had to hold it with the edge of his cloak. Eating it brought a warmth that eased the tightness of his stomach, and the grease felt good on his lips.
Nearby, Igerna spoke quietly to her husband. “You drink too much mead, and only on the eve of battle do I see you eat this heartily.”
“A battle? It may be. Colvarth’s prayers will soon be said, and we will hold council about these druidow.”
“And their Stone?”
“Yes.”
“What stone do you mean, Mammu?” Myrgwen asked. “Do you mean the rock you and Tas sat on today?”
“No, Myr, not that one —”
“The black one with the fire,” Eilyne said from beside Merlin. “The one the druidow dragged away after Tas … judged that scofflaw.”
“I didn’t see,” Myrgwen said, and Merlin heard her scraping a bone with her knife.
The whole family ate in silence awhile, except young Arthur, who babbled earnestly as he chewed his own meaty portion.
Even though Merlin knew better, he felt as if everyone must be staring at him and his scars. It was different to eat with a family not his own, especially the High King’s. And Colvarth’s absence only made it worse.
Eilyne broke the silence. “If that man had hurt you, I’d have —”
“Shah.” Igerna said. “Your father took care of it.”
“I’d have run to help with my knife, and —”
“Enough. Let’s not dwell on what might have been.”
Uther raised a hand. “Eilyne, your father was not in danger … but I receive your love, and who knows? One day we may need your protection.”
The tent flap opened once more, and cold rain blew across Merlin’s neck, sending a shiver down his spine.
“Colvarth, welcome!” Uther called. “You must be famished.”
The bard sat on Merlin’s left. “Not so much, my king. My stomach … is delicate tonight.”
“Eating like a bird again?”
“A bird with a … song I would say.” Colvarth’s harp strings hummed as he brought his instrument from beneath his cloak. “But first I have called your … battle chief and his chieftains here, my lord —”
The flap opened yet again, and a group of men entered.
“Merlin, I would like you to meet my war chieftains,” Uther said.
Merlin stood, reached out his hands, and greeted each warrior as he walked by.
“I’m Rewan,” the first said, and his hands tapped Merlin’s briefly before he walked on.
“I am named Bedwir, friend,” the second said, shaking Merlin’s hands.
“Sydnius, from the moor originally,” said the third, and his hands were thick and strong.
“Vortipor,” said the last as his wiry hands squeezed hard. A little too hard.
Eilyne and Myrgwen moved closer to Merlin to make room for the men, who found seats around the fire. While Merlin and the family hastily finished their meal, the men chatted about a score of flopping fish some warriors had just caught using a boat from the village.
“Did you see Sethek spear ‘em?” Bedwir asked. “He’s promised to smoke one for me.”
Sydnius burped. “Ah … been a long time since I’ve smacked lips with a good fish.”
“Vortipor,” Uther interrupted, “how long till your father comes?”
“Uh … I think he gets water down at the lake, my lord.”
Uther stood and began pacing. “Does anyone know if he received the summons?”
“Yes, my lord,” Vortipor said.
Uther swore. “Then where is he? A council of war, and my battle chief is fetching water?”
“My king?” Colvarth said. “I suggest we begin and … test his thoughts when he comes.”
“Obviously we have no choice. Daughters, time for you both to go.”
“It’s raining outside, my love,” Igerna said gently. “Couldn’t they stay in the tent? The girls won’t bother anyone if they sit out of the circle.”
“Please, Father,” Eilyne said.
“Yes, please,” Myrgwen echoed.
Uther stopped pacing and considered. “One interruption, and you will have to leave.” He sat down next to his wife. “So, with Vortigern gone, my war chieftains will have first voice. What think you of our situation?”
Rewan spoke, flipping a gleaming knife in the air and catching it again. “I say we make the villagers bow.”
“And how do we do that?” Sydnius said with a mocking tone.
Rewan pointed his knife at Sydnius. “By the edge of my blade.”
“Is that what we want? Blood could turn more of them away, and a forced allegiance is no allegiance at all.”
“And if we don’t,” Rewan shot back, “they’ll ignore our High King. And then they’ll refuse to pay Tregeagle their taxes, and Tregeagle won’t pay his —”
“But won’t the druidow spread the news everywhere?” Sydnius countered. “Imagine … all through the land, the High King threatens Britons at knifepoint to force fealty!”
“How about the opposite?” Bedwir asked. “Give a feast. There’s plenty of game here.”
“Are you serious?” Rewan asked.
“Really, I am. We stay a few extra days and make ‘em happy. Get that harpist to play, the pretty one we heard last night — no offense, Colvarth. Find a few more musicians, and we’ve got a dance.”
“An’ you’ll pay for the mead, now won’t you, Bedwir?” Sydnius elbowed him in the ribs.
Uther held up a hand. “And what do you suggest, Sydnius? You do not seem to like any idea.”
“I say get out. It’s just a mood they’re in, nothing more. I grew up near Guronstow, and the people up here don’t think they need outsiders for protection, being so far from the coast and all. But they’ll come begging for your help the first time they’re threatened.”
“Hmm,” Uther said. “And you, Vortipor, what would your father say?”
But Vortipor was silent.
Uther sipped some mead. “Go on. I can tell you’ve been thinking about this.”
“He would say …” Vortipor began.
“He might say that we … we should make an example of one of the villagers. You killed a druid, so now take a villager who’s ignored you and let the birds eat his flesh.”
Uther laughed. “Tregeagle, yes.”
“No, no, not Tregeagle!” Vortipor said along with a curse. “Someone else. Lower down.”
“How is that different from what I said?” Rewan asked.
“You don’t force them all to give fealty. Just show justice to one and let that sink in —”
“And?” Uther interrupted.
“Maybe … after meeting with King Gorlas … we see if they’ve changed their minds.”
Merlin almost spoke but held his tongue. Vortipor’s idea was brutal. Yes, the people were culpable before God, but there was a power here that was beyond them. And how foolish everyone’s advice was. No one had considered the enchantment of the Stone.
“Colvarth,” Uther called.
The old man yawned. “Yes, my king?”
“What do you recommend? Share from your granary of wisdom.”
“From myself, but little seeds, my lord. But I have … prayed to the Almighty regarding this circumstance, and He has … reminded me concerning an old lay. I will share it, if it please you.”
Myrgwen shouted from the side. “A ballad! Colly’s going to sing a ballad.”
“Shah,” both her mother and Eilyne warned.
“What ballad will you give us?” Uther asked.
“It is … ‘The Lay of Tevdar, King of Kernow,’ ” the bard replied. “Do you … recall it, my lord?”
“I heard you play it once before. Many years ago in my father’s hall.”
“You would have been about … Myrgwen’s age.”
“I know the gist, but I have forgotten much. Go ahead. We will all enjoy it.”
“Yes, do sing, good bard.” Igerna said. “This has been a difficult day, and I would appreciate the wisdom God has given you.”
“Then,” Colvarth said, “this is how it wends.”
Merlin heard the harp strings pulse high to low as Colvarth tuned his instrument, humming. When the bard was satisfied with its sound, he began to play, and his method was unlike Natalenya’s. Where she would often comb the strings as if her harp were a horse’s mane, Colvarth struck them perfectly and with such vigor that Merlin could feel the vibration on his cheek and ear.
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