Intrigued, she cocked her head at him. “What then?”
Alyn hesitated. “The night at Lockwoodie, I dreamt I was the priest who conducted your wedding. But that wasn’t exactly how it happened, as you well know.”
Astounded into silence, Kella looked ahead at the rhythmic swish of the horse’s tail.
“Besides, I cannot believe Modred would be foolish enough to abduct Arthur’s queen,” Alyn argued on. “That same young Arthur slew Modred’s father, Cennalath, for his alliance with the Picts against Gododdin. It is by Arthur’s grace that Modred rules there now.” That, and Modred’s mother was Arthur’s aunt.
“What did you see of our wedding?”
“Besides,” Alyn thought aloud, absorbed with the mystery, “if the queen has been abducted, where did it happen? Where were the bodies of the Guardians of the Dove?” Unlike Arthur’s war-red dragon on white, Gwenhyfar’s personal troops wore the symbol of the white dove on peaceful blue. All men pledged to the Grail Church, they’d have died rather than give up their lady. There would have been evidence.
“Is that why you proposed marriage?” Kella persisted. “Because you dreamed it?”
“She must be safe somewhere between Carmelide and Strighlagh. An illness along the way … or a delay.”
“Alyn!”
Alyn drew up the horse, startled from his musing by Kella’s high-pitched shriek. “I proposed to you because I loved you,” he snapped, “not because of some untenable dream caused by indigest—”
Kella’s stricken eyes were fixed not at him but beyond the pony, where the road split to the right ahead. It led to the Ochill Hills and Dumyat, the Miathi capital.
And it was lined with pikes, each bearing a severed head—most likely those of the border guard who did not return to Strighlagh.
Like Egan and Lorne.
God’s mercy! Alyn drew Kella’s face against his chest. “Don’t look, ma chroi,” he said, smothering her moan. “I will drive past it and stop, so that you won’t have to see. But I will examine each one, just in case …”
He didn’t have to finish. Lord, how much more must she endure?
Such fences had been used since time began to warn off prospective invaders or lawbreakers. Rome hung the whole bodies of its enemies on crosses lining the roads to and from its cities. Had Joseph of Arimathea not had the favor of Pontius Pilate—and God a perfect plan—Christ Himself would have been one of them.
Before Christianity came to Albion, such fences were considered cursed by druidic priests so that ill befell any who crossed those lines. Though some pagan wizards still existed, Alyn did not think twice as he left Kella in the wagon and approached the gruesome sight. At least not of superstitious curses—or even demonic ones. Romans 8 echoed in his mind as he approached the shells of the men they had been.
“What shall we then say to these things? If God be for us, who can be against us?”
Ravens had pecked away most of the identifying flesh. Still, Alyn stopped before each one, looking past the dried blood-mangled hair and beards for a sign of Egan’s red bush of hair or the cornsilk likeness that Kella attributed to Lorne. As if a human could have cornsilk-like hair!
But for her, he looked, and despite his continued prayer for help, Alyn could not discern either of the men who meant so much to Kella.
Nor could he bring himself to leave any so exposed.
“We have to go back,” he told Kella upon reaching the wagon. He hated the idea of delaying the journey. But that was the least of his concerns.
“What?” Alarm razed her tearstained face.
“Neither your father nor your betrothed is among them, as far as I can tell,” Alyn assured her. “But each one is someone’s father, beloved, or son. I will fetch a shovel from the village we just passed and bury them, ere this day is done.”
Kella gathered breath for objection, but Alyn headed it off.
“No doubt you would want someone to do the same if it were your Lorne or Egan. And who knows?” He shrugged. “Perhaps ’twill loosen some tongues that may help us expedite our mission.”
Tongues, he prayed. Not tempers.
Once Alyn convinced the man that he truly was a priest of the Celtic Church, a local farmer at the bridge-side village was more than willing to part with a shovel for a piece of the Gaulish triens Alyn offered. The silver cross Alyn wore was not enough to convince the man, however. While Kella was glad Alyn declined to shave his hairline high in the Celtic tonsure, her new husband had to explain one of the symbols on his carved staff as well as the story behind it. To her astonishment, as he spoke of Jonah and the whale, man after man after woman after child gathered to hear the most marvelous words.
Was it because Alyn was her husband that he held even her spellbound, or was this his true calling? The words of so many priests seemed dry and old, but from Alyn’s lips, they were alive and moving. Perhaps she’d been wrong in thinking Alyn’s ambition to serve God was a waste. Heaven knew, she’d been wrong about God’s not caring about her. He’d sent Alyn to save her—and more important, the babe—from her foolish heart.
For another bit of the gold coin, farmer Lugh agreed to help with the task. “’Twas so moonie comin’ croos th’ bridge, I tought ’twould surely fall doon b’neath ’em. Me ’n’ the wife hid in the wood till the next day after the heads were hangit,” the farmer told them from the back of the cart as they returned to bury the unfortunates’ remains.
He and his neighbors had heard and seen the skirmish from where they’d sought refuge in the forest. The Dumyat army outnumbered the border guard at least two to one, though Lugh’s estimation of a thousand men locked in a battle for their lives stretched the man’s credibility, at least with numbers.
Kella waited with the horse and cart in the shadow of the tree line, while Lugh and Alyn set to work digging. She tried sewing to pass the time but found herself studying the landscape, trying to imagine what her father would have done. Sorely outnumbered, he’d have fought until none of his was left standing or perhaps would have helped the wounded into the trees. Dragged himself there if wounded. They’d have laid low till nightfall at the least. He wouldn’t have gone near the roads. Not in his right mind, that is.
But if he’d done all that, why wasn’t he home by now? ’Twas no more than a day’s travel. And Strighlagh had sent forces to collect the dead. Why hadn’t he—
She couldn’t think about it.
So she watched from a distance as Alyn gathered the remains, using rags the farmer’s wife had scrounged for them as gloves. After a short prayer for each departed soul, he placed the head gently as an infant into the mass grave. She should have known that, if her husband insisted on burying a man who’d tried to rob and kill him, he would feel more obliged to bury Arthur’s and the Angus’s men.
When he put it to her as he did—what if those heads belonged to someone she loved?—Kella could only admire his compassion and sense of duty to his neighbor. Although, how, with his weak stomach, he stood the pungency of decay that occasionally wafted Kella’s way on the whim of a breeze, she couldn’t imagine. Yet gore, like the gaping gash on Daniel’s leg, didn’t seem to bother him. To say Alyn O’Byrne was complex was an understatement.
Once the last grisly skull was interred, Lugh began to cover the lot with dirt, while Alyn fashioned a cross. Longing to do something for the lost men that would not fill her dreams with ghastly visions, Kella gathered wildflowers—white, purple, pink, and yellow blossoms that grew in the clearing along the forest’s edge—to place on the grave.
Just when she’d picked all she could carry, she heard the distant thunder of horses. Straightening in alarm, she saw a force of Miathi warriors bearing down upon them. Over a dozen, she guessed, as she dropped the flowers and rushed to the cart to coax the horse far enough into the woods that they wouldn’t be seen.
And then what?
God be with us. God be with us. The prayer was all her panicked brain could muster as the horse reluctantly g
ave up its grazing spot and followed her into the cover of the trees.
The weapons. She’d ready the weapons.
By now the party on horseback had surrounded Alyn. But the traitorous Lugh walked through the unfriendly circle and pointed directly to the spot where Kella hid. Two horsemen broke away, riding straight for her. Kella’s hand found one of the lances hidden among their belongings, but something checked her.
She wasn’t at war. She was the wife of a priest. One who’d felt duty bound to bury the dead he’d found along the roadside. Lifting her chin proudly, Kella stepped out of the cover of the wood and began gathering up the flowers she’d dropped.
One of the riders charged straight at her, pulling up his horse just short of running her over. Kella held her ground as the horse reared in protest and came down, circling full round until the rider faced her again.
“Good day for a spirited ride, sir,” she said, proud that she’d not cringed as he’d expected.
Ignoring the chuckle of his comrade, the intimidator, a large man with a leather tunic trimmed in fur, growled at her. “What are you about, woman?”
Kella held up the flowers, brandishing a smile. “Isn’t it obvious?”
“She’s too pretty to be a priest’s wife,” the other rider observed.
“And you, sir,” Kella addressed him, “are most gallant. But alas, Father Alyn is my new husband. We were on our way to Fortingall to King Drust’s court when we spied the remains of those poor souls. No Christian, no man or woman, in good conscience could pass by such a sight and not give them a decent burial.”
With an expression of utter disgust, the leader motioned toward his men. “Get down there with your husband. Athol, you get yon cart.”
So these were the savages who killed Lorne. Possibly her father, too. Kella wanted to turn on the horse breathing down her neck and whip its face with the flowers to unseat its rider. ’Twould only take a moment to spring upon him like a cat and bury the dining dagger sheathed at her waist in his heart. But for Alyn’s sake, she played obedient.
The circle of warriors opened to allow Kella to join her husband, but she made them and the two official-looking men speaking with Alyn wait until she’d spread her flowers over the freshly turned earth. Aware that every eye was upon her, Kella approached Alyn and hugged him.
“I would have found more, but my escort was impatient.” With that, she met the fierce glare of the chieftain. It was as sin-dark as his hair and beard, reminding Kella of the bear whose claw adorned the chieftain’s hat. With all the authority of the queen herself, Kella held her head high. “To whom do I have the pleasure of speaking?”
Her boldness took the chieftain aback. He glanced aside at the tall, gangly old man, whose gray hair shot wildly from a druidic tonsure like Alyn once wore. The druid gave him a barely perceptible nod, for the wizard could not take his narrowed eyes from Alyn. Kella wondered if his vision were clouded by age.
“I am Garnait, prince of Dumyat,” the chieftain announced. “And this is Dumyat’s chief druid, Idwyr.”
“Prince Garnait, Lord Idwyr,” Alyn replied, “as I was telling you before my wife joined us, we saw the remains of our fellow man by the wayside and, though we could not save their lives as the Good Samaritan did the victim found helpless and wounded upon the side of the road, we could spare their remains further desecration by the scavengers and send them back to the dust from which they were made.”
But did that loony old man even know the story from the Scripture? Kella wondered. These were pagans, by their look.
“We sought not to insult you or your kinsmen,” Alyn continued, “but to follow the Word of our God who loves all His children, those who believe and those who have yet to learn of His power and glory. The story I speak of—”
“How did you do it?” Idwyr interrupted. A picture of bewilderment, he stepped forward and felt Alyn’s smooth-shaven face, then the wrinkles of his own. His eyes glistened in wonder. “What youth magic do you practice, Merlin Emrys?”
Chapter Eighteen
Merlin Emrys?
Kella could have sworn even the horses held their breath at the mention of that name. But surely this old wizard didn’t think that Alyn was—
Understanding dawned on Alyn’s face. “Good friend,” he laughed, clasping the thin tattooed arm of the wizard and pulling him into an embrace. Undoubtedly the two exchanged a secret handshake, though the signal was not visible to Kella’s untrained eye. Druids, priests, or druidic Christian priests—they all were a secret order of knowledge with respect of one another. Knowledge was so valued that it was taboo to kill any of them, punishable by death. That was not to say it wasn’t done, which was why Kella was so concerned about Alyn. It simply wasn’t lawful.
“I assure you,” Alyn said, “that my youth is no disguise, though our late friend Merlin was ingenious at such. Still, I serve Emrys’s God and knew the great man so well that he passed the belt you’ve been eyeing so closely on to me, that I might attempt to carry on his legacy.”
Idwyr turned to his prince. “That is how they breached my spell,” he exclaimed, as though someone had lit the wick in his brain. “My spell of creation’s forces are strong, but this man’s power comes from the Great Creator. The Creator’s magic cannot be outdone by earthly means—either seen or unseen. The man who wears Emrys’s belt speaks for the old church, not this new one Arthur tries to force upon us.”
The Grail Church. Like its successor, the Celtic Church, it held the respect of the pagans because it respected their right to worship as they saw fit. ’Twas the church’s example and witness that won them over, not political enforcement.
Kella breathed a sigh of relief. If Idwyr only knew that the church’s very records lay hidden in their cart. They were all that stood proof of Albion’s equal authority to worship closer to the Hebrew-Christian ways established by Jesus and John. Rome claimed and insisted on Peter and Paul’s authority for its more formal mode of service and worship.
Yet, for all Idwyr’s regard for the Grail Church, Alyn and Kella dared not let anyone know of their quest. Certainly not this fanatic.
“Sadly, my friend, the old church has failed,” Alyn told the old druid. “It is removed to the Holy Land for safety with all its relics. We are but its remains in Columba’s fold.”
“You mean Arthur of Dalraida has failed the old church,” Idwyr said with disdain. “That Scot is no kin to us. Naught but a bull to get us a true heir by Gwenhyfar, and he’s even failed at that!” Idwyr made a vulgar gesture that caused snickers to erupt about them. “Even yer Columba says Arthur will fail.” Idwyr seized Alyn’s hand, holding it up so that Garnait saw the dove. “This is a fair man. A free man of God who sides with Modred’s church.”
The color rose to Alyn’s cheeks, and Kella held her breath, for she knew he would disagree. It was his nature to stand by the truth, not this convoluted version of it.
“I serve God alone, Lord Idwyr,” Alyn averred. “Not Modred, nor Arthur, nor any other man. My druid is Christ Jesus. With Him as my teacher and guide, I am on a mission to protect the integrity of the Grail Church.”
“A mission!” Idwyr cackled in delight and danced in a little circle. “And Christ Jesus supports Modred! I told you that we will win. Let them be on their way, Garnait. They serve a God of tolerance and justice, not the one whose priests come clad in Rome’s scarlet with the muscle of the empire hidden beneath it. Those men serve a dictator. A dictator, I tell you!” Idwyr slammed his oak staff into the ground, narrowly missing Garnait’s foot.
“Better yet”—the wizard sniffed the air as though it held information for him—“escort them to Crief. These woods and hills are full of brigands, and I’d have no harm come to this man or his pretty bride.” He poked his staff at Alyn, brightening. “And you can tell me all about your Jesus and them story carvin’s on yer staff while we ride.”
Alyn invited Idwyr to join them. Riding a mule alongside the wagon, the old man listened intently to each
story represented on Alyn’s staff. Though Kella had heard them before, her husband brought the stories to life as though he’d been there himself. All within earshot rode close to the cart, exclaiming in wonder. The remainder of the day passed so quickly that it seemed no time before they camped overnight in Dunblane.
After an uneventful but companionable evening, the stories continued through the next day’s ride to Crief. The endless string of trees and meadows, villages and farms, and burns and hills steepened as the day progressed, so that when the Knock of Crief rose before them, Kella was relieved. She was tired and looked forward to a hot meal instead of the cold bread, cheese, honey, and bannocks that had sustained them on their journey.
It wasn’t yet dark on the heather-dashed hill where the dun presided. Townfolk wandered down along River Earn, where a caravan of merchants bound for the fair in Fortingall were camped near some trees. There, selling and bartering took place as if it were the weekly market day. Alyn pulled their cart to the edge of the encampment.
Across the river, cattle dotted the hilltops where men guarded them. ’Twas to Crief that the highlanders brought down their cattle in the fall to sell at the tryst and trade with their lowland neighbors. According to Idwyr, the hills were black with livestock and rife with blackguards and thieves, men who followed the money, which, in the case of Crief, was in beef.
“I’ve a keen nose for trouble,” the wizard told Kella as he dismounted with his men. His dark eyes intensified, as though he were immediately gathering information.
At the start of their journey, Kella had thought him a bit crazy, but given his discussions with Alyn throughout the afternoon, she’d discovered Idwyr was surprisingly learned.
“Well,” Idwyr announced with a sniff, “trouble is always about. I advise you to ride with these merchants the rest of the way. There’s safety in numbers. Merlin,” he said, addressing Alyn, “I thank you kindly for an entertaining journey.”
“I am not Emrys,” Alyn objected, “but to be compared to him is a compliment. Thank you.”
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