“But if ye refuse and rebel …” Lyrical turned thunderous when he spun to warn the archbishops. “You, Modred, and you, Cassian,” he said, pointing first to one, then the other, “ye shall be devoured with the sword: for the mouth of the LORD hath spoken it.”
Truly those housed in the white dun fort a knoll away heard the pronouncement. It settled in the minds of the listeners, leaving a sober countenance and midnight stillness in its wake.
“Good king, good people …” Alyn took on the manner of a father to his children with one of Kella’s favorite Scriptures. “God challenges us not to judge one another as these two judge not only each other, but those who do not believe. This is the type of judgment that causes men to stumble and fall, into dispute … and into war. God calls us to treat one another as we would have them treat us. Would you have war waged against you by friend while your foe nips at your heel?”
Drust considered the question. “What happened to these lands you spoke of?”
“They are no more, milord,” Alyn replied solemnly.
“But there are times we must fight,” Drust objected. “To defend our land and liberty.”
“But not for another man’s vengeance,” Alyn replied. “Modred’s princes are rebellious and companions of thieves—”
Lorne started at the accusing hand Alyn thrust his way.
Kella grew cold inside. Surely her husband would not expose her to shame.
“They are assassins and deceivers.”
“You dare speak to me, Priest?” Lorne rose.
Nearly two hands taller than most men, Errol’s prince towered upon the dais over Alyn. Chin jutted upward, Alyn met the prince’s ice-blue gaze, as unyielding as he’d been with Modred.
“If you feel the sting,” her husband replied, “the glove has rightly struck.”
Chapter Twenty-nine
Lorne shook off the restraining hand placed upon his arm by his dark-haired bride and strutted up to the edge of the platform. “You seek to trick us all with your wizardry, but Lorne of Errol does not fear you.”
Modred and his prince were certainly up to something.
“Not wizardry,” Alyn denied. “What you saw, sir, was a display of sciencia, knowledge of God’s creation. As Archbishop Modred will agree, the more one learns about creation, the closer one is to understanding the mind of the Creator.” Because Modred was a student of nature magic, or sciencia, the Lothian lord and his Celtic brethren might be the only ones who did understand.
“So you say,” Lorne mocked. “I say it’s black magic.” Lorne glanced back at Modred, even to Cassian. “What say you, sirs? You who are archbishops of the same God?”
A chill ran up Alyn’s spine. Wizardry … magic. The first wasn’t illegal, but black magic was punishable by death.
“Magic,” Modred pronounced, stone-faced.
Alyn’s estimation of Modred as a scholar plummeted to the same level as that of his church leadership. The man was blinded by his own designs.
Cassian hesitated. “I … I have never seen such a spectacle among our learned men of God.”
It was a fairer opinion than Alyn expected. What Rome did not discover on its own and understand was feared. And if it was feared or distrusted, it was heresy.
Alyn would gladly show all that no special power was needed to mix the plant oil and black salts, but there was no more. Nor was he certain exactly how Abdul-Alim had made the compounds, even if he wanted to duplicate them.
Discouragement assailed him. If Lorne and Modred pressed for another demonstration, Alyn’s credibility with this audience was lost. If only he had depended completely upon God to impress the multitude rather than relying on his own limited efforts. Hadn’t God purposely directed Moses to put the Israelites back to the Red Sea, that He could show His supernatural power to the Egyptians?
But God, why did I see the package—
“I challenge you, Priest,” Lorne announced. The thump of his arm slamming against his chest surely reached the far side of the arena. “I seize”—he grabbed dramatically at the air with his other hand—“the gauntlet of words you have thrown in the face of my lord Modred and myself.”
Alyn shot an incredulous look at Kella. How could she have fallen in love with this preening peafowl?
Lorne shrugged off his bright-blue mantle and tossed it to his wife. “I do not challenge the truth of God’s Word,” he declared with a modesty sorely lacking in substance. “I challenge that God Himself instructed you to speak so to us this day. If this priest wins the combat,” the prince told the crowd, “he speaks truth.”
Combat? Alyn’s spirit leapt. That he would welcome. Lorne was big and muscular, but Alyn had bested even Egan on occasion in the past. He had speed and agility on his side. Except—
“I cannot accept.” Like deeply rooted teeth, his words came out with painful difficulty.
A smug smile spread upon Lorne’s lips like a banner declaring Alyn a godless coward.
“The Word of God is the sword of a priest, and righteousness is my armor,” Alyn informed the court. “As all can see …” He held out his arms and turned full circle. “I carry no weapon save a dining knife.”
“You carry yon staff,” Lorne taunted him. “I”—he made a grand show of a bow—“will arm myself likewise.”
Beyond Lorne, Alyn saw Kella shaking her head at him in warning. He knew her thoughts. Lorne was a seasoned warrior. Alyn had not trained seriously for combat since he left for his studies at Llantwit. But for the recent attack on the way to Glenarden, he’d never done battle for his life.
God …?
“Glorify Me.”
Alyn knew what he must do. Validate God’s Word in the eyes of the excited clansmen and their king. Defeat Lorne … and spare him, no matter how much Alyn wanted to beat that cocky smirk off his face.
“I will not kill you.”
The words spilled out before Alyn could process all that flooded his mind. A few in the crowd snorted outright at the temerity of his statement.
Lorne reached down and fingered the strap of his satchel. “Put your magic bag of tricks aside, Priest, and I will kill you.” He opened his arms to the crowd. “For the people of the Pictish nation!”
The plethora of huzzahs erupting around them faded as Egan O’Toole walked over two guards, easy as stepping over a log, toward Alyn.
“Don’t worry, laddie,” Egan roared over the dying din. “I’ll kill the pretty buffoon for you and God.”
“Ah, the father-by-law,” Lorne scoffed as soldiers formed a shield wall in front of him.
Egan grinned, but something terrible glowered in his gaze. “Ye don’t mind me, do ye, ye filthy, lyin’ son of a sow?”
“Why would I bother remembering, old man?”
“Because I saw you lead men who trusted you into a trap. I held off yer Miathi allies till what was left of our men could cross the river to safety.”
Recognition overtook Lorne’s scrutiny. “That O’Toole.” The prince shrugged. “I followed my orders; you followed yours. This is war, Champion.”
“’Twas an unprovoked raid and a cowardly betrayal.”
Alyn rushed in before Egan charged the wall of men barehanded.
“Egan.” Alyn felt the rage heaving against the restraining hand he placed on his father-by-law’s chest.
“I’ll fight as your second,” Egan said. “’Tis no dishonor in that, laddie.”
“Trust me. I’ll be fine,” Alyn assured him. “I was taught by the best.”
“Many years ago, laddie.”
“God has given angels charge over me.” Alyn meant it. “Mind you, Elkmar saw their legions. Brisen got us past the guards. The explosion won the court’s attention.”
Egan’s red hedge of a brow lifted, studying Alyn from head to toe with the same sharp-eyed assessment he gave on the practice field. “Then it better be some big ’uns.” He leaned in closer. “Watch ’im when he drops to his knee like he’s fought out. He’ll spring up like a cat
and skewer ye … if ye fought with blades. With the staff …” Egan hesitated, stymied. “Don’t think I ever seen ’im with one.”
Alyn clapped his friend on the back. “Thanks for the warning.”
Did no one think he had a chance? he wondered, watching Egan return grudgingly to the sideline, the shield wall following.
“Your majesties, if I may,” Kella spoke up. She curtsied before Drust and Queen Heilyn. There was naught for Alyn to do but admire her beauty and poise, for he knew there would be no stopping her from having her say.
“It’s forbidden to kill priest or druid,” she reminded them. She turned a pointed look to where Lorne shed his gold rings, chains, pendants, and armbands to prepare for the combat, adding, “By penalty of death.”
“As if these heathens care,” Cassian denounced. “Look at them. They thirst more for combat than for God’s Word.”
“What’s wrong, Roman?” Modred taunted. “Do you fear your champion will fail?”
When would they learn? Alyn dropped his head to his chest, breathing deeply to calm his kindled fury at the futility of it all. But he could not. He raised his staff high over his head to garner attention.
“I champion no one but my Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ!” Alyn shouted at the top of his lungs. “Certainly not either one of these pretenders. I spit on them both!” He slung the leather bag toward the pit and addressed Drust. “No death. The first to have both shoulders pinned to the ground for a three count wins. Agreed?”
The king looked to Lorne, who nodded, his lips in a cryptic twist.
“Agreed,” Drust said.
A herald was summoned to announce to the onlookers the terms of combat, while guards moved the clustered clansmen back off the field.
“Alyn, this is crazy. You have every right to refuse,” Kella told him, meeting him at the edge of the dais.
He handed his adornment to her. A silver cross pendant and his dove ring.
“In the eyes of man, yes,” Alyn admitted. “But I have set my love and faith upon the Father, not my own power, Kella. He has never abandoned me.”
He stripped down to short black trousers hanging loose above the laces of his sandals. The queens Heilyn and Brisen caught their breath upon seeing the angry red scar on his chest. It had shocked him the first time he saw it in a mirror. As Alyn rolled his clothing into a ball, Kella embraced him.
“What did you tell me about vengeance? Is that what this is?” Her lips trembled against his ear. “Because I don’t need you to be my dead hero. I need a husband and father for my baby. He will kill you without second thought.”
“But will my words have steel in these people’s eyes if I hide behind these robes, rather than God’s promise?” Alyn shook his head. “Nay, I fight for the Word of God.” He caressed her cheek with his hand, wishing he could dry the tears welling in her eyes. “I give you my solemn vow, ma chroi,” he whispered. “This is not about vengeance.” God make it so. He squeezed her tight, not really wanting to let go of her or the future they’d planned together.
That alone gave him second thought. There had been no combat in his vision. Only Scripture, words revealed to him to speak to the kings as in the case of the prophets of old.
And God had protected them from much more than a pompous warrior with cornsilk hair.
Kella watched the cabled interplay of Alyn’s torso as he walked casually out in the arena, his staff slung over one shoulder as if on a day’s jaunt. She’d seen him fight and fight well. But his ribs had barely healed and—
A rattle of bones drew her attention to the edge of the area. Idwyr had stepped up to champion Alyn, though whether his support would help or hinder her husband, Kella wasn’t sure. The wizard danced at the edge of the crowd, drawing such attention that the guards soon allowed him just inside so that all might see his antics. He leapt side to side, front to back, moving in circles and singing.
Kella caught the words about a great warrior riding off to war to face a giant. Appropriate, she mused. Naught but a boy, Idwyr’s hero armed himself with a staff and three pebbles. Listening closer, she began to recognize the druid’s improvised version of the story of David and Goliath that Alyn had told him on the road to Crief. Except in this version Jesus sent David and a spirit to help the boy.
Though the facts were questionable, that canny old wizard knew how to grab an audience. At least they’d stopped smirking at Alyn. Mayhap she sensed some support. Or perhaps those who had not heard the story believed the hero to be Alyn. Regardless, hardly anyone noticed when Lorne stepped off the dais.
His tattooed torso and arms had been oiled, Kella realized with distaste. How could she have been swayed by such a vain man as this?
The prince of Errol strode toward Alyn, who waited calmly as if for a friend instead of a man intent on killing him. Lorne tossed a dark, polished rowan staff—Modred’s—from ringed hand to ringed hand. His men had replaced his gold adornment with iron. Though these trophies of battle were borrowed, Kella had seen Lorne bedecked in an ample share of his own, the result of his spending hours on the practice field or the battlefield. When not seducing foolish maids …
Who were forgiven, blessed be.
Kella focused on the combatants. If time could be measured by brawn, Lorne would outlast Alyn, even though her husband had the advantage of speed and agility. His armbands and bracelets made his biceps look even larger. A reassuring arm went around Kella’s shoulders. Brisen’s. The lady smiled as if all would be well. At the same time, Alyn winked across the distance, implying the same.
And then Lorne broke into a roaring charge.
Alyn blocked staff with staff, digging one end into the ground for additional leverage, but the bullish impact bowled him to the side and onto the ground, where he continued to roll, dragging his sturdy weapon with him. As Lorne lumbered forward off balance, Alyn sprang to his feet like a sprite and struck the larger man on the side of his head, exacting a roar … and first blood.
Chapter Thirty
Lorne touched the blood on his temple in disbelief and growled at those who dared cheer the smaller man’s speed and agility. Or worse, laugh outright as Egan O’Toole did.
Lesson one: brute strength alone is not enough. Though Alyn realized it was a short victory in what could be a long ordeal.
He assumed the on-guard position, staff at ready as Lorne did the same. This time the prince measured his step, lips fixed in a snarl as he approached … and calculated. He’d learned fast.
Watching for a tell in his opponent’s gaze, Alyn circled until Lorne struck right for his head. Alyn blocked, and again the crack of wood split the air. But as Lorne sought to use his other shoulder to knock Alyn off balance, Alyn freed his stick and danced away. But not so far that he didn’t catch the prince’s elbow with the tip of …
He hadn’t named his staff.
Lorne yelped as a thousand needles pricked along the length of his forearm. At least that was the case if Alyn had struck the sensitive spot where the forearm met the upper. And he had, rendering his opponent’s forearm, wrist, and grip numb enough that, but for help from his good arm, Lorne would have dropped the rowan rod completely.
Sting? Nay, that wouldn’t do for a priest’s staff.
“What magic is in that staff?” Lorne demanded as he rubbed feeling back into the affected elbow and arm.
“Magic? Tell me, laddie, this is not the first time you’ve struck your elbow and tingled to your fingers,” Alyn taunted for all to hear.
A few in the crowd affirmed Alyn’s reply with sympathetic huzzahs and ayes. And if he was any judge, their sentiments favored him, not the offended prince. Mayhap Lorne was offensive and arrogant to more than an upstart priest … with knowledge of the human body and its weak points, thanks to medical scholars from the East. The trick was to strike them accurately. So far, God’s grace was with him.
“But if you fear my staff has an advantage, I will gladly trade weapons with you,” Alyn suggested.
Gr
ásta! Grace was the perfect name for the staff. ’Twould surely be by grace if he survived this trial.
Suspicion vied with anger in Lorne’s gaze. “Nay, I trust it no more than you, Priest.” He paced like an angry cat beyond Alyn’s reach, waiting for his grip to return.
Alyn raised the staff over his head, aware that Lorne still suspected the length of oak carved by the hands of Iona’s holy men. “Father, I dedicate to Thee Grásta, symbol of Your grace and protection.”
Alyn returned to his defensive stance as Lorne assumed his. “Concede now, and I will offer you God’s grace, rather than this humiliation, Lorne. Repent. Seek peace, and God will forgive your vile sin, but—”
Lorne rushed him. Oak and rowan, neither forgiving, attacking again and again. Thrust, strike, parry to the outside, inside, middle. Alyn defended himself, waiting, watching until his opponent tired of using brawn to beat him, rather than leverage. And when the opening presented itself, Alyn brought the butt end of his staff down hard upon the prince’s instep.
No banshee howled so loud. No crowd guffawed so hard. Alyn’s was no trick of magic, but a fighting maneuver taught to peach-faced laddies by their fathers. And while the prince struggled to regain himself, Alyn smacked his kidney area hard. Another battle tactic. Not lethal, but a man might wish it were.
Lorne went to his knees, nostrils flaring, his oiled body shedding perspiration. He used the rowan for support. Still, the man had wits enough to turn that brawn against Alyn in hand-to-hand conflict. That’s what it would take to pin those wide shoulders to the ground. Grásta had to render that sweat-matted cornsilk head of his senseless.
“Concede. Receive God’s grace.”
Lorne swore an oath of rejection and brought one knee up. Before he could bring up the other, Alyn went in. Lorne blocked his strike and came up under it, catching his staff and wrenching it from Alyn’s grasp. Grásta flew a short distance away. Alyn dodged Lorne’s follow-up blow … almost.
Pain ripped and raged along his barely healed rib cage as he lunged for Grásta and rolled away. The hand he clenched to his side came away bloody, confirming what his flesh already screamed. The rowan had a blade in one end. Maybe both.
Rebel Page 26
