“B-but —”
“No payment until receipt, I said.”
Tregeagle started pawing at Vortigern’s money bag, which hung from his right hip.
Contempt filled Vortigern, and he backhanded the man’s face, slamming him into the door. Tregeagle slipped in the snow and fell to the ground. “I-I was just making … sure … sure they were there. I —”
“Try it again and you’ll get no gold from Ivor, do you hear?”
Tregeagle’s right eyelid started fluttering.
What a wretched, skulking, skunk of a man, Vortigern thought. Vortipor should be glad he wouldn’t have him for a father-in-law.
Vortigern turned to his men. “Let’s get down there and purchase our cloth,” he said.
Mórganthu nearly jumped when Troslam opened the door with his sharp spear in hand. Did he know? Or was this his usual precaution? Perhaps Mórganthu hadn’t watched him quite enough with the orb.
Dybris raised his hand through the falling snow, “Peace, Troslam. It’s urgent we talk.”
“And who’s this?” Troslam asked, pointing his spear at Mórganthu.
“An old beggar who needs to rest his lungs by your fire. We need to talk.”
“What’s his name?”
“Ahh …” Dybris turned and looked at Mórganthu. “You’re not Muscarvel, are you?”
Mórganthu panicked. Why hadn’t he thought of a name? He shook his head no.
Troslam tapped his spear impatiently. “Look, of course he’s not Muscarvel. He doesn’t smell like a marsh rat, does he? The answer, Dybris, is that you don’t know this fellow.”
The first thing that popped into Mórganthu’s head was, “Hobble, my name is Hobble.” He had barely remembered to hide his Eirish lilt.
“That’s not a proper name … Where are you from, and who’s your father?”
Dybris was now waving his hand. “Troslam … I need to speak to you now.”
Any delay was good, and Mórganthu spun his tale quickly. “My name is Hoyt mab Hagan, but my friends call me Hobble. I am journeying to Isca from the northern coast. I have family there. My father —”
“— has lungs colder than yours,” Dybris interrupted. “Troslam, there is no time!”
Troslam nodded. “All right. I have to be careful.”
Mórganthu entered after Dybris, and Troslam barred the door. The room felt hot, almost stuffy after having been out in the cold wind. The aroma of a rich pea soup assaulted him, and he breathed it in with vigor.
“The fire’s back there,” Troslam said, pointing to a central room with a hearth. Mórganthu shuffled past Dybris and sat down next to the flames. He held out his good hand to warm it, keeping the false hand resting on his leg. The enticing pot of soup hung from a chain over the fire, and he was tempted to take up one of the nearby mugs and fill it — when three girls ran through the room, followed by a slow, somber Ganieda.
The three jumped up and down. “Dybris, Dybris, Dybris!”
But Ganieda did not. She sat near Mórganthu, looking at her shoes.
“Why are you sad, little one?” Mórganthu whispered in the druid language that only Ganieda would know.
She stood up, her eyes wide open. “Grandpa,” she whispered back to him in the same tongue. Then she sat down again and looked away, blinking rapidly.
He switched to the language of Kernow so as to avoid attracting attention. “You are wise,” he whispered, “yes, wise to not betray me. It is not safe here.”
She turned and stared at him. Her dark eyes were so deep. “How did you find me?”
“The orb.”
“I thought you might have died. Or left me. Or forgotten.” She looked down again and scuffed the heel of her shoe in the dirt.
“Where is the fang? Is it where you left it before?”
“I won’t tell, Grandpa.” She looked up then at Safrowana, who was walking quickly through the room in answer to her husband’s summons. “I-I think … I think I like it here.”
“Why? Why not with me, my daughter’s daughter? I have come to take you away.”
“I’m not afraid here.”
He arched his eyebrow and said in as insinuating of a tone as he could, “Is not Merlin behind this? Did not he arrange this?”
She swiveled toward him, and curled her lips. “No!”
“Are you … are you quite sure?”
“If he were,” she said loudly, “I would kill them all.”
“Shah!” he said, “Keep your voice down, they will —”
But it was too late. Troslam had heard, and, leaning in from the other room, was looking at them with wary eyes. “It’s the druid,” he yelled.
Mórganthu only had a moment to act. Ganieda would not go with him willingly, and this outraged him. If that was her choice, then fine, let her die with the dogs. But he could still recover the fang if he could get it from behind the loom shuttles on the windowsill. Then that devilish Troslam would pay dearly for his previous violence against his personage.
He jumped up and ran past a huge loom toward the back … but there were two doorways. Which one?
Behind him, Troslam shouted.
Left? Or right? He reversed the image in his mind and tried to picture the outside of the house and where he had stood.
Troslam thumped past the hearth and was nearly upon him.
Left it was! Mórganthu jumped through the door and flung himself toward the window. And there, still sitting in the dust behind the shuttles, was the fang — white, and sharp as death.
Troslam yelled behind him.
Mórganthu reached for it — but the weaver had grabbed him by the tunic. He was pulled backward.
Mórganthu’s hand swiped out, but he couldn’t reach the weapon.
“What are you doing here?” Troslam yelled.
Mórganthu leaned forward, reaching, but missed. In a last, swinging effort, he popped open the iron lock of the shutter just before Troslam yanked him away.
“You’ll not leave that easily!”
Mórganthu was dragged into the main room where the hearth lay. He kicked and scratched at Troslam, but the man pinned Mórganthu’s arms and tied a cord tightly around his wrists. Mórganthu struggled against this at first, but then realized the man wasn’t accounting for his fake hand. To make sure they didn’t realize this foolishness, Mórganthu clasped the fake hand in his good one.
Troslam had just finished tying up Mórganthu’s feet when Dybris rushed into the room, shouting. “They’re coming down the road … Vortigern and his men are coming!”
Merlin stood in the doorway to Atle’s private chamber. For the first time in many months he felt clean. They had all been offered baths and clothing, and Merlin chose a long blue tunic sewn with a thick sea-green thread, as well as black leggings, leather boots, and a broad sash of white fabric for a belt. And his sense of cleanness went yet further, for the awful monster of slavery had been pulled off of his back, slain, and thrown into a deep pit, never to escape.
Atle beckoned. “Kome in … kome in,” he said. “Ye haf refreshed yerself, I see, andd are now kome to dank me fer yer freedom.”
Merlin entered, and dropped to one knee before the king. “That I am, and most gratefully.” Atle’s dog came from around the corner, barked, and then sniffed him.
“Rise, Merlin, andd sit before me.”
Merlin took his place on a padded chair, smaller than the king’s, though of similar design, with fish and sea creatures carved upon its surfaces. Though it was only late morning, the room was without windows and very dark, and a white, tallow candle sat in a golden stand on the table directly between them.
King Atle leaned forward, into the light, and his eyes looked even more sunken, if that were possible. A torc lay upon his throat, but of different design than Merlin had seen before — it was made of solid gold, not twisted wire, and the two ends had been fashioned into disks, each like the giant eye of a silent, hungry sea creature. The thought of four eyes staring at Merlin u
nnerved him, and the bright candlelight had already begun to make his head hurt.
“King Atle … sir, I …”
“Enough formalities. We are family, ye and I. Ye may call me Atleuthun, or simply Atle.” The king’s words were soft, but his face showed little emotion.
The candle light still hurt Merlin’s eyes, so he reached out to slide its golden base to the left and out from between them.
Just as he touched it, Atle put his hand out and stopped it. Merlin tried to keep sliding it, but Atle was too strong.
“Ye are a guest here — no? We are family — ya? Does dat mean dat you vil inherit the tings of me house? Dat ye can touch dem as if dey are yer own? No.”
Atle’s arm lay skinny upon the table. How could he have such strength at his age?
“Loth ess me heir … He has served me vell, and participates vit me by blood. Ye are a beggar here, andd ye shan’t forget it.” The king withdrew his hand as quickly as it had come.
“Of course … of course. I did not presume I would inherit anything simply because you have freed my friends and me from slavery.”
“Ya, ya, ya … ess true. Ye’f been bought vit me geld, and should be me slave. Never presume. Neferless, I haf freed ye, against de vishes o’ some, and alotted ye all a sum to help ye on yerr vay.” He threw a small bag of coins on the table in front of Merlin.
“Et ess not much,” Atle continued, “but de least I can do … considering yerr great help to me. But” — and here he wagged his finger — “nefer presume et ess as great o’ help as I daily receive from me son, Loth. I am most proud o’ him.”
Much of Atle’s words puzzled Merlin. He was grateful for the gift, but didn’t want Atle to think he was greedy for anything that belonged to the king. “You do well to be proud of Loth. As a faithful son, he will inherit all that you own when you die —”
The king laughed then, long and loud, and the dog barked too. “A good jokke, yes. Yerr muther must haf thought de same … or she wouldn’t haf run off. May I ask how she fares?”
Merlin paused. How could he explain that he’d thought his mother dead for fourteen years — drowned — only to find she was alive? That she’d been changed by the Stone’s enslavement so that she could only live in water?
“She’s fine,” was all he could think to say. “She’s … ahh … staying in Kernow.”
“She has drifted so far, den? And vat has she told … about me? And me house’s history?”
“Nothing … only your name and the name of your fortress.” She’d given him some vague instructions as well, but Merlin couldn’t remember them now. What had she said? The candle continued to burn, but Merlin’s headache had eased. The chair felt so soft, and Merlin’s limbs … so tired. He needed sleep after their long march.
“And yerr father? Vat has become o’ him?” Atle leaned forward and turned his head a little to better hear the answer. There was an odd, burning gleam in his eye.
“He’s dead … six months ago.”
“The judgment o’ de cursed always katches up vit dem, does et not?”
Merlin bit his lip and said nothing, though he wanted to defend his father and his heroic death. If Atle hadn’t just freed them from slavery, Merlin would —
“Ah, but I like ye. Ye have a different sort o’ pluck, and ye have also brought de child. I am indebted to ye. De villagers will be happy too, and ye haf saved me much trouble vith dem. So tell me about de boy — about his parents. I must know everything.”
“You mean Arthur?” Merlin blanched … for he realized he hadn’t consulted Colvarth about what to say. How much should he reveal?
“Yes, dis Arthur … How did his parents die?”
“They … uh … were killed.”
Atle clucked his tongue. “Both o’ dem? Yes?”
Merlin’s throat felt suddenly dry. “Yes.”
“Are ye sure? Derr couldn’t be a mistake?”
Merlin had to think. He hadn’t personally seen Uther die, having been blind. But his father had witnessed the king’s death, and Colvarth had witnessed Igerna’s. “No mistake. Why does it matter?”
“The boy has had lots of de anguish, and I vant an end o’ suffering ferr him.”
“Our slavery’s been quite hard. Arthur had it easier, though.”
Atle clasped his hands and smiled — each of his gray teeth had been worn flat as if he ate the shale from the cliffs for dinner every day. “Today at de mid-meal ve are having our ninth year celebration, and dis boy vit-out a father —”
“Arthur.”
Yes … de boy … and ye … haf come just in time. I am most grateful. Ye won’t leave until after de feast?”
“Of course not. We will be honored to be your guests.”
The dog yapped as if he wanted to be included as well.
“Ah, but ye are nott de guest o’ honor, and should nott presume such. Velcome, ya. Honored, no. De little one, Arthur, ess me guest o’ honor, and shall feast by me side in great finery. Et ess a ninth year celebration, after all.”
“Ninth year?” Merlin asked. The candle had burned lower now, and he could hardly keep his eyes open.
“Ah, but dat’s right,” Atle said, relaxing his smile. “Yer muther hasn’t told ye dese dings. Every nine years ve hold a vonderful feast. Et ess our oldest tradition on Dinpelder, we say.”
“I saw the preparations going on in the kitchen,” Merlin said. “It looks like you’ve been preparing for many days.”
Atle nodded to Merlin, then he leaned forward and blew out the candle. Merlin was blind for a moment and saw only a hazy floating outline of Atle in the darkness.
“Ye are tired from yer travels,” Atle said, “and now our audience ess at an end. I shall see ye shortly at de feast.”
Merlin rose, took the small bag of money, bowed in thanks, and left.
As Merlin closed the door, something fell into his hair. He shook his head and brushed it out — a small piece of wood. Rotten, it was, and it crumbled in his hands. He looked up, and, in the dim light coming from the main hall, noticed that the log above Atle’s doorway looked peculiar. He touched it, and sure, it was rotting away. In fact, as he made his way to his assigned room, he noticed other logs that had the same decayed appearance. Funny, but it seemed to him like the whole building might come down soon under its own weight. How old was the place?
He tried to put it out of his mind as he closed his door, wearily flopped onto his heather and fern stuffed mattress for a quick nap, and fell asleep. But visions of Atle’s face haunted him, and in his dreams he couldn’t get the king’s hand to let go of his arm.
CHAPTER 27
THE MORTAL THROAT
Panic ensued all around Mórganthu as he pretended to struggle against his bonds. If they would leave him alone for even a few breaths, he could slip his fake-handed-stump out of the cords and free himself. But no, they all had to run around in fear of Vortigern like the little fools they were.
At least Troslam had some wits. He gathered the others and presented a plan. “There’s five of them, and we’ve no choice but to escape.”
Safrowana could hardly catch her breath, and made it worse by covering her mouth and nose with her hands.
“But how?” Dybris asked. “They’ll see us climb your wall, and they’ll guard the gates.”
“Not if we go under the wall. We’ve never used the old kiln built into our land’s wall. The stones in the back are loose, and I can push them out.”
Dybris shuffled them all toward the back of the house. “Then go! I’ll guard the door and give you time to get away.”
“No,” Safrowana said, finding her voice, “I’ll stay as well — with Ganieda and Imelys. We’ll pretend you’re on a journey, and that the girls never lived here … won’t we?”
Imelys nodded.
Ganieda looked confused but nodded anyway.
Troslam took hold of his wife’s hands and shook his head. “I can’t let you do this.”
“You have no choi
ce. You’re the only one who can protect them.”
Troslam closed his eyes for a moment and then embraced her.
There was a knock on the door, and everyone jumped.
“And Mórganthu?” Troslam whispered. “He’ll tell.”
“I’ll gag him. Now go!” Dybris handed over the spear.
While Troslam and Uther’s girls snuck out the back door of the house into their high-walled pasture, the monk made good on his word and tied the gag firmly around Mórganthu’s head. It hurt, and so Mórganthu pretended to shake his head in protest, but knew he could take it off quickly when needed.
There was another loud knock at the door.
Safrowana set Imelys to spinning in the corner, told Ganieda to pretend to stir the pot of soup, and set herself on the loom’s bench and began unwinding the shuttle. She nodded to Dybris and took a deep breath.
Vortigern and his men were banging now. “Anyone home?!” they called.
“Pray,” Dybris said as he went to the door.
Mórganthu swiveled his body on the floor to get a better vantage point. Dybris had just begun to lift the bar when someone rammed into the door from the outside. One of the hinges cracked away from the frame, and Dybris fell to the floor with the bar on his chest.
Three men burst in — one with a spear and two with swords.
Safrowana screamed, and the girls both jumped.
Ganieda ran to Imelys, and the two held hands behind two wooden vats of dye.
The spear came within inches of the monk’s belly, and the monk flinched. “Peace!” Dybris yelled. “We are Christians here and mean you no harm.”
The two swordsmen charged into the room. One went straight for the girls, and they screeched as he cornered them. The other warrior sought out Safrowana, who, after her initial fright, stood up and held her arms out to show she held no weapon. Within moments the room was silent, a hushed breath against a blade.
Vortigern walked in, an archer at his side. “Tethion … check the rooms and the pasture.”
Tethion stepped over Mórganthu, who wanted to pull out his arm and release his gag, but found the scene playing out before him a delicious morsel upon his tongue. He would tell, and quickly, but not instantly. The girls could not get far.
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