Stoc (A New Druids Series Book 3)

by Donald D. Allan

  "Afraid so," I replied. I looked at Nadine, but she looked away and frowned.

  "A friend of mine used to say 'Not on my watch'. Now, I think I understand him," she intoned. She motioned toward her with her hands. "Gather round. Come."

  The draoi hesitated and then moved to surround Gaea. A few reached out to touch her and she smiled.

  "Close your eyes," she ordered and when we did she hit us with her magic. It filled every pore and crevice of our being. With it came the faces of the many draoi who came before us. Faces beamed at us and smiled their encouragement for what we were. Stoc after stoc greeted us and smiled at us and welcomed us to the fold. Ceremonies played out. Quiet settings in moonlit glades. Animals from far and wide gave tribute and acknowledged the new stocs. Tears of joy streamed down our faces, and we clasped hands and basked in the memories.

  The images slowed and then stopped with the last of the draoi, my mother. She was the last to appear and smile her welcome and I sucked in a breath of sorrow at seeing her again. We opened our eyes and looked to Gaea. She was surrounded by light and the night was lit up like daytime.

  "Welcome my friends. I've waited a long time for draoi stocs such as you. You have your work cut out for you. Follow the words of the Freamhaigh closely. In time you will fully understand. We are all one. The world is in danger. Head to the crossroads. You will know what to do."

  With a flash of light she disappeared, and we blinked in the sudden darkness with the image of Gaea burned into our retinas.

  Nadine coughed. "That was much better than a simple congratulation."

  Laughter filled the night.

  Nine

  FOUR MONTHS AGO

  Portsmouth - February 901 A.C.

  JAMES SLOWLY ROSE from mental darkness to feel a weight pressing on his chest and a burning sensation like fire in his lungs. He coughed uncontrollably and felt water gush from his lungs and out his mouth in a torrent. Little air remained to cough again, and he struggled to draw in a breath. The burning grew worse, and he felt his abdomen clench painfully of its own violation and more water was forced out. He drew in a small shuddering breath and used it to immediately cough up more water.

  His head pounded in time with his heart and he felt as weak as a newborn lamb. He tried to open his eyes, but the pain that racked his body kept them squeezed shut. He heard a voice speaking to him, but it sounded too low and far away to understand. He cared only about the pain. He was on his side and could feel someone rubbing his back in a circular motion. He thought feverishly to remember what had happened to him. I had just left the boat, hadn't I? I was walking with Brent. Glad to be ashore. Then what? I drowned, but how? He tried to remember, but memories eluded him.

  For now, it was enough to just draw in breath and force water out of his lungs. The weight in his chest was almost gone and the burning sensation was greatly reduced. He managed to crack open his eyes and found himself looking into the concerned face of a stranger leaning over him. He was a man well into middle age with thick startling red curly hair. More notably he wore the black of a chirurgeon. The man was on one knee in front of him and holding him on his side while rubbing his back across his body. The man was soaked through. James could see he was lying in the mud in the shadows between docks right beside the water. The tide was out and the smell of who knew what invaded his sense of smell and he gagged at the odour of rotten fish.

  "Easy, sir," said the man. "Take it easy. You're out of the woods but you'll need to lie there a spell until you can breathe with ease."

  James nodded and drew in another breath. Before he could cough his stomach twisted violently and vomit and water gushed out in a powerful torrent. Immediately the pressure on his chest cleared, and he almost passed out in relief. His chest felt like it had been smashed, but it felt better than before. A coughing fit took him and water continued to force its way up and out of him in a trickle. That can't be normal.

  "Easy, there," soothed the man. "Vomit is good. It will ease the pressure on your diaphragm. Make it easier to draw in a breath. It will be awhile before you clear all the water in your lungs. Just relax and let your body do the work. Don't force it."

  James rolled his eyes toward the man and tried to think of something witty to say before his stomach clenched again and he vomited. The man was in a position to remain clear of it, he noted. Too bad I hate chirurgeons, or I might admire him, thought James. He tried to laugh but his lungs would only let him cough.

  I was hit from behind, he suddenly remembered. I was walking behind Brent and heard a noise behind me. I turned to look, but before I could see who it was, I was struck on the head. With the memory came a shooting pain at the back of his head.

  James drew in a ragged breath and fought the urge to cough. "Wuh-what...?"

  "What happened?" asked the man. "I saw you attacked while your companions carried the sick man away. You were struck down and then held in a barrel of rain water before being thrown into the harbour between the docks. I saw it happen and rushed over to save you. Just in time I might add. I've some experience with drownings. I wasn't certain I could revive you. I'm pleased I was. It was a close thing. The coldness of the water helped, I'm sure of that."

  James nodded once more. Attacked and then drowned. Clean work. But whoever attacked me should have knifed me, he smirked to himself. Make sure the job is done.

  "M-my friends...?" he asked fighting a cough to speak.

  "They were taken away. The vicar went willingly. Very strange behaviour even for Portsmouth. One of your companions was a Sect brother, did you know that?"

  James shot a look at the chirurgeon. Bloody smart fellow, he realised. He has an air of familiarity about him. That red hair is something. He forced air into his lungs and spoke quickly. "The sick man is my friend. I must find him."

  "I've no idea where he went, I'm afraid. Bad news though, just before I jumped into the water I am sure I saw military men meet your companions in the alleyway. Are you in some kind of trouble?"

  James shook his head and then coughed for a while until his strength left him. "No, well, yes actually. But not what you think. Depends on your side of things, I suppose."

  "Side of things? I'm on no one's side. I'm a chirurgeon. Nothing more. I save people."

  James smiled at the words. "You sound like a person I know. A young man who aims to save the world." He winced as the pain in his chest stabbed at him.

  "Is he a chirurgeon, too?"

  "No, no, never that I think. He's a different kind of healer."

  "I would very much like to meet him, then. I am a little, um, unorthodox when it comes to my craft. I am always looking for new medicines and techniques. I've several theories I worked out. Using the Word that is. So true theories, not just some crackpot ideas. Speaking of which, can I leave you for a moment? I dropped my bag before I jumped in the water."

  When James nodded, he quickly left slogging through the mud. He was barefoot, and he squelched his way clear. James focused on his breathing and was starting to wish he was lying anywhere else but next to the offal that fouled the harbour shoreline. He heard the chirurgeon cursing as he picked his way back to James. He dropped next to him and carefully placed a large satchel on top of discarded old netting.

  "By the Word, you are starting to look much better! Your colour is coming back at least." The man grabbed one of James' hands and squeezed the fingertips and watched them a moment. "That's a positive sign. You are, I should mention, only the second person I've managed to revive from a full drowning. I worked on you for at least a quarter of an hour. Hard to tell time when you're all excited, but I think I am correct in that."

  "Thank you for saving me."

  "You are quite welcome. You won't thank me for the cracked ribs though. I had to manually restart your heart, you see. You apply pressure like a heartbeat to the rib cage right near the heart. It keeps the blood moving in your veins. And I forced air into your lungs. Repeatedly. Last person I revived was bed ridden for a month afterward
. Do you have anyone I should contact? A place to stay?"

  James tried to follow what the man was telling him but couldn't fathom the meaning. He understood now why his chest was spearing him from the inside. James had suffered many broken ribs in the past from sparring and fighting, but this felt different. He felt as if someone had smashed his breast bone with a sledge hammer. Each breath was tearing his insides. He looked at the vomit and water swirling in the mud in front of him and was glad to see no blood.

  "You died, you know. When I got you clear of the water your heart was stopped. Accordingly, to my craft that's it. No heartbeat, no service. I disagree with my fellow chirurgeons you'll be glad to know! Haha. Yes, well. I was lucky I didn't drown myself. I jumped in with my robes. Nearly pulled me down. Thankfully the tide was out. The water's only up to my waist. Fortunate that was. By the Word."

  The chirurgeon grasped James' hand and pressed two fingertips to his wrist and closed his eyes for a moment. He pressed the back of his hand to James' forehead and then looked into his eyes for a moment. James thought of Brent and struggled to rise.

  "No, sir. Stay still. You've only just returned from the dead. You need a moment. Did you see anything when you were dead?"

  James glared at the chirurgeon to see if he was serious and found him waiting for an answer. James shook his head.

  "Pity, I've a hypothesis about that. Life after death and all that nonsense. Just you rest for now. At least an hour I think. Then I'll see about getting help to move you somewhere. An inn perhaps? Do you have money?"

  James nodded. He had a purse stashed inside his tunic and could feel the bulge.

  "Good, good. Just rest. I'm Edward Hitchens, by the way. Pleased to meet you."

  Five weeks later, James was finally sitting up in bed and able to make it to the chamber pot by himself. The innkeeper had put them in a basement back room. Edward stayed with him and brought James food and cared for his return to health. The small fortune in coin James carried on him assured their privacy and the innkeeper could be trusted according to Edward.

  James fought to leave and race after Brent, but Edward refused to let him leave. His chest had been flailed around the breast bone. Fluid in his lungs continued to need to be aspirated and Edward worried about a condition he called water in the lungs. The condition claimed the young and the elderly. He said it was an infection of the blood that attacked the lungs. Despite James desire to leave, he found he had no strength to do so. He convalesced and griped instead.

  Edward had described the men he had seen carry off Brent. It hadn't taken much detail for James to recognise Major Gillespie had finally found them. James would never have given Gillespie the brains to figure out how to intercept them. Edward believed the member of the Sect who had accompanied them had been to blame for the capture of Brent.

  "The Sect is well known in Portsmouth and the land, I would hazard a guess. They believe to be hidden, but they are not. They have spent too many years bringing terror to the populace. Rumours here and a sighting there and it all adds up. People are not as daft as the Church would believe. That led to the Revolution in many ways, don't you know. The Sect were always more than a myth or legend. The man with you, with his black boots, and with the vicar you befriended. He was behind your capture I would suspect and well, honestly, your murder as it might have been."

  They spoke of many things in the small basement room in the inn. James found he genuinely liked the fellow, even for a chirurgeon and told him so. Edward had laughed hard at the announcement.

  "My mother hated the chirurgeons, too. Said they practiced in deception. Oils and watered herbs. Knowing nothing and saving no one except the money that goes in their pockets. Charging to heal people! That's the real crime if you ask me. We should only be paid enough to let us continue to do our work. Instead, the chirurgeons prey on the invalid. Hold them hostage to their pain and suffering and offer little in return until money passes hands."

  Edward explained he had been a chirurgeon for twenty of his forty-two years. His mother had been a healer of sorts. A midwife mostly, as the realm allowed, but in private she practiced the craft of chirurgeons. "A punishable offense if caught, but no one would dare turn her in," Edward had said with a laugh. He said half of Portsmouth had relied on her. Her rates had undercut the actual chirurgeons. As her son, he had helped and learned along the way. His mother, he had informed James, was exceptional in her skills and had followed a logic not normally seen today. She had discovered many truths about healing and her successes had been very high. Her success had unfortunately, at long last, caught the attention of the Chirurgeons Guild.

  When they came for them, to Edward's surprise, it was him they were interested in. He had methodically catalogued all their developments. His journals contained numerous recipes for medicines and techniques for curing common and uncommon illnesses. Edward told James the guild had informed him, during one of their many long talks in a gaol cell, to join the guild, or be punished. It was then, he admitted, he realised he knew more than them. He had accepted at once and soon found himself discussing much of what he and his mother had practiced with others. The scoffed at much of what he said but he had shown them his journals. All his research and findings recorded in detail. They had taken the books and returned them two months later. They awarded him the robe of a chirurgeon, released him from gaol with his mother, and charged him a joining fee.

  "That simple?" asked James in disbelief.

  Edward laughed. "No, not really. Much worse than that actually. Mother and I were gaoled for a long time. Only the promise of letting them see my journals got us out. It was too late for mum though. She caught an illness in that cold and wet gaol cell. Water of the lung. Something you and I are concerned about, no? Nothing we could do about it. She died soon after. She died peacefully at least. I saw to that."

  "So you are a rather special chirurgeon, Edward. How fortunate for me that you found me floating face down in the harbour."

  Edward had been standing at the doorway when he said this and he smiled back at him. James lying on the bed looked up at him and his red curly hair and the feeling of recognition returned. "Do I know you, Edward? Have you been to Munsten?"

  Edward looked surprised and then struck a pose in the doorway. He placed his fists on his sides and looked up and away to the left. Framed by the doorway he looked like a painting for a moment. "Just your friendly town chirurgeon, I'm afraid!"

  James gasped in sudden recognition. "The King! By the Word, you look just like the King!"

  Edward looked startled and rushed to the bed. "Shush! Quiet!"

  James shook his head refusing to be quiet. "Edward, you look exactly like a picture of the King that hangs in the Church in Munsten! The same hair! The same eyes and chin!"

  Edward sat on the bed edge and shook his head. "You mustn't say anything! By the Word! What are the chances?"

  "What do you mean? What chances? You're the King's bastard, aren't you?"

  "My mother told me I was. So yes, probably. Maybe. I don't know. How could I know for sure?"

  "I've seen the painting. He looks just like you. Or you like him. Whatever. Few would know or remember what he looked like. Green eyes and curly red hair. That's rarer than you think. Almost all gingers are blue-eyed."

  Edward looked sad and hung his head.

  "You knew, didn't you?"

  "Yes, my mum told me when I turned of age. Thought I should know, just in case, she said. After the revolution, she realised she must keep it hidden. She told no one. She birthed me herself. Used to colour my hair. I stopped that years ago. Too much bother and who could possible link me to the mad King now? Except you, of course. Bloody hell."

  "How? How did it happen I mean?"

  "The usual way, I suppose."

  "You know what I mean."

  Edward smiled and looked down at the floor and away from James. "The King came into Portsmouth aboard his flagship a couple of years before the Revolution. He was in the market with h
is entourage. My mum was there buying herbs for her medicines. The King fell. Badly. Sprained his wrist or something. My mum was right there and rushed to help him. That was her way, you see. No common sense, or anything. She would see someone hurt and then rush to their side."

  "Kind of like you, jumping in the water after me."

  Edward glanced at James for a moment and then away again. "I suppose so. Anyway, the way she tells it, the guards went to strike her down for touching the King when two of the people with him, his advisor Benjamin Erwin and a learned woman, Anelise Bracewell, stopped the guards and let the woman tend to the King. She helped him and was invited to the King's residence in Portsmouth for dinner. And nine months later along came me."

  "The Benjamin Erwin?"

  "Yes, from the Great Debate. None other. What are the chances? Anelise was important back then too although many don't know her tale. She is attributed to the Word as it is today. Only the Wordsmiths seem to know what she did. I admire her and follow her teachings."

  James had never heard of her. From his dealings with Will Arbor and knowing what he knew now, he had no doubt Benjamin Erwin and Anelise Bracewell were the Freamhaigh and Cill Darae of their time. And now Edward was here taking care of him after a chance encounter with the King over forty years ago. Curse Gaea and her conniving ways, he thought furiously. What am I to do now? He looked up at Edward and knew at least he had to keep him close.

  "You are coming with me to Munsten. I have to free Brent if he still lives. I'm not sure what your role is in all this will be, but I mean to strike down the Lord Protector. Brent means to bring the Church back to its former glory. And now the heir to the throne of Belkin is hiding in chirurgeon robes in Portsmouth with the only man that can hope to get him inside the castle. If we strike down the Protector and Brent brings the Church back, both the realm and church will need a King. I'm yours to command, your Majesty."

  Edward stared at James in shock, his mouth hanging open. "Are you daft?" he sputtered.