Merton smiled to himself, despite the cold — he knew this tree. He knew where he was and his path had been true. Up ahead was the Standing Stones. An ancient place that the Giants had created way before anyone had heard of the Pendragons and the du Lacs. This was the place where the Druids once gathered. The mysterious three large circles of stones had once been as sacred as a church altar. But the Druids were long gone now, slaughtered en masse, by those who spoke the words of the one true God. These stones were all that was left of the old ways.
Merton closed his eyes for a moment as he prepared himself to dismount. His horse wasn’t a particularly big one, but for someone in constant pain, it was still a long way down. Gritting his teeth, he dismounted slowly. When his feet hit the ground, he let loose with a string of curses, and he fell to his knees, waiting for the pain to pass. The long hours of riding in the cold had done the circulation in his feet and legs no favours either. Cursing again, he staggered back to his feet and stamped his feet alternatively on the ground, trying to awaken them. Once feeling was sufficiently restored, he pulled the reins over the horse’s tired head, and he began to make his way towards the Stones. The horse followed behind like an obedient dog. Perhaps the animal had finally realised that they were in this together.
Merton came to a standstill when he reached the Stones. He breathed deeply of the bitterly cold night air and concluded that this place was as good as any to spend the night. He wouldn’t be bothered by people here.
Merton had heard that a restless phantom haunted this moor. He had witnessed others swear on the Bible that they had sighted a large black cat whose unearthly eyes glowed yellow in the dark. Everyone knew better than to spend the night on Goon Brenn. And only a madman would approach the Stones when darkness descended, for the Druids may be dead, but their spirits were not. He loosened the girth of his horse’s saddle with difficulty, for his hand was stiff from the cold. He would have slipped the saddle off the animal’s back, but being as he was, he had to think in advance. If he took the saddle off now, there was no guarantee he would have the strength to lift it back on again in the morning.
He had stolen a tether before he had started his journey and he slipped the rope over the horse’s front hoof with difficulty, for the animal stubbornly refused to lift his hoof, and when he did so, he leant heavily on Merton. Merton then pegged the rope into the earth. The ground was soft, and it wouldn’t take much for the horse to pull the peg free if he was panicked. Merton hoped that the wolves, and the mysterious cat, would choose a different hunting ground this night because as much as he disliked his travelling companion, without the aid of the horse, he wouldn’t get very far.
Merton unstrapped a fur that was rolled tight and tied to the cantle of the saddle and shook it out. The fur was still damp from last night’s dew, but it was better than nothing. He hobbled over to one of the Stones, only to find that it had a pool of water at its base. So he followed the Stone Circle until he found one that was relatively dry. This wasn’t the best place to camp, it was open to the elements, but maybe if he curled up tight against the Stone, then it would offer him some protection against the wind. It wasn’t as if he was going to get much sleep anyway. In fact, he couldn’t recall the last time that he had slept through the night.
He sat down gingerly on the damp grass, bracing himself for more pain, but thankfully the knife stayed away. Cautiously he moved as he tried to make himself comfortable. He didn’t know whether he wanted to lie down or not. In the end, he found that it hurt him less if he sat up straight.
In the light of the moon, he watched the horse and tried to ignore the growing gnawing sensation in his stomach. He pulled up a handful of grass and put it in his mouth, chewing slowly. Maybe he could fool his stomach into thinking it had something to digest. It wasn’t as if this was the first time he had been forced to eat grass.
He wished Yrre were here with him. Yrre would have a fire going by now, and there would be something roasting over it. Looking back, it would have made more sense to have stayed these long months with his men, not with some monk whose sole purpose in life was to spread the good word, perform miracles, and one day, maybe, win a sainthood. But the day Garren had turned up after all those years of being lost, Merton had had to make a snap decision, and Yrre and his men had been out hunting that day.
Merton had no interest in seeing Garren. And he had not believed the outlandish story Garren had come up with to explain away his absence. Initially, Alden had been suspicious as well. He had even gone as far as having Garren tied to the cave — a place reserved for those who had committed High Treason — but James had convinced Alden to give the man a chance and Alden foolishly had. When Alden returned from his long talk with Garren, Merton had known, by looking into his face that Alden would favour Garren over him. Merton wasn’t going to sit around like an unwelcomed bastard-child. Sampson had offered him a quick way out, and he had taken it. But what hurt the most was the look of relief on Alden’s face when he informed him of his plans. Merton would never go back to Dor, not now, not after witnessing that look. He would never seek Alden out again. That life was over now, and Alden had Garren, what did he need some cripple for?
Merton pulled the fur up to his chin.
Yrre would understand, unlike Sampson. Yrre would help him seek revenge. All he had to do was find him.
9
“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph,” Merton awoke with a start and snatched at the walking stick that had jabbed him so painfully in the shoulder. He pushed it away from him with force and looked at his would-be attacker with panic. But the eyes that met his showed no signs of malice, only curiosity, and the face was not that of a killer. It was an old woman, whose threadbare shawl scarcely covered her head. A few strands of thin grey hair flew into her face, which she hastily flicked out of the way with the back of her hand. She must have been a beauty when she had youth on her side. Even now in old age, she was still the kind of woman who would turn heads.
Merton took a moment to gather his bearings and to still his racing heart. He had been right in his prediction that the night would bring a frost. The Stones sparkled in the weak red sunlight, and the grass looked white and brittle. The Standing Stone that he had slept leaning next to had been a cold and uncomfortable pillow. The temperature had dropped so low that he forgot what it was to be warm.
The night had brought him a companion, a lone wolf — a skeleton with fur who was riddled with mange and had lost an eye. The wolf kept a constant vigil in the hope that he would perish. Every so often the wolf would bravely creep closer on his belly and sniff for life. Merton would move his leg, and the wolf would scamper away, only to creep back again, lie down and watch in the hope of an easy meal. Unsurprisingly, sleep had not come. But when the night was at its darkest, a strange whisper had echoed around the moor — an ancient tongue that babbled as fast as a brook, but with a voice as gentle as snow. The wolf had limped away, looking back only once with disappointment. Merton had closed his eyes, leant back against the Standing Stone and listened. Not once did he feel threatened by this whispered conversation. In fact, he felt a strange sense of peace, something he had not felt since Amandine. He had hoped for peace when he ran away with Sampson, but the monastery did nothing to soothe his soul. Strange that this ancient site, which the Church condemned and feared, did. Eventually, he had drifted off to sleep, and for once, he was not plagued with nightmares or awoken by the knife.
“Jesus,” he said the Lord’s name again and rubbed his hand shakily across his face. In the back of his mind, he could hear Sampson chastising him for taking the Lord’s name in vain. But if Sampson knew what his plans were, then he would do far more than chastise him. Sampson would lock him up and throw the key into the sea.
“Revenge is for God to administer, not for man, and certainly not for you,” Sampson had once said. What did Sampson know? Merton wasn’t prepared to leave it up to God. He was the one who sought justice. And he would get it. There was nothing that anyone coul
d say that would make him change his mind. His course was set. Revenge was his for the taking.
“Oh, you are a Christian,” the old woman’s shoulders dropped, and she said the words in a way that demonstrated her grave disappointment at such a discovery. “I thought you being here meant…” she sighed and lowered her walking stick. She had two sticks, and she leant heavily upon them both. “If I had known, I would have left you well alone. Christians’ and their rules and their God,” she spat on the ground in front of her in disgust. “I have never met a race like them, so quick to judge each other, so ready to spill innocent blood. And oh, how they like their followers to live in a perpetual state of guilt. If you blow your nose the wrong way you are going to Hell,” she scoffed. “It is a religion of fear and condemnation. I am glad it is not my religion, and I am glad it is not my God. You don’t have Roman forefathers as well do you?” She didn’t give Merton a chance to answer. “Caesar was so quick to condemn us when he invaded all those years ago. He said we were murdering barbarians who practised human sacrifice and ate the dead to appease our gods,” she huffed. “All lies, of course. And then Caesar went home, back to his amphitheatres and circus’ where he watched, along with his countryman, as slaves battled it out in fights to the death. Tell me,” she looked at Merton earnestly as she spoke, “who really are the barbarians? The Romans or the Druids?”
For a moment Merton said nothing. Instead, he looked at her in bemusement. “You want to talk about Caesar and religion?” Merton finally asked. “This early in the morning?”
“Why not?” the woman answered. “Can you think of anything better to talk about?”
“I…” Merton didn’t know what to say. He had often found himself in some strange situations, but being awoken and practically ordered to debate history and the failings of the Church with a stranger was certainly a new experience. He stretched, trying to make himself comfortable while he thought of an answer to the old woman’s question. Some of his bones gave a very unhealthy crunch. The stiffness in his back was beyond bearing, but he would bear it because he didn’t have a choice.
“Were you asleep?” The woman queried, narrowing her eyes with suspicion as if she didn’t believe that such a thing was possible.
“Yes,” Merton answered cautiously. “I do it every night. It’s a routine you see.”
“And the Stones, they didn’t wake you?”
Merton warily shook his head. He felt a sudden urge to protect this sacred place. He did not want to share how the Stones had made him feel and how their song had eased his suffering.
“No one comes here after dark,” the old lady continued, a warning in her voice. “This is the most ancient place in Cerniw, if not the whole of our small island. They say this place is inhabited by lonely spirits,” she dropped the sound of her voice to a whisper as if fearing the Stones would hear her. “They live under the Stones during the day. But at night, they come out and sing a song that is so melancholy that it is said that any man who hears it will be driven mad with grief. This is an enchanted place. A haunted one. It is no place for a Christian. You shouldn’t be here.”
“I do not fear the spirits,” Merton answered.
The old woman looked at him critically, as if seeing him for the first time. “I don’t suppose you do. You have suffered. You have known loss. And you have never felt so alone in your whole life. You long for death. You think death offers an escape. Maybe that is why the Stones didn’t affect you. You are a friend to despair — yet you fear it. But I should warn you — the darkness that you seek will not bring you any comfort. It is not the answer. Your mother delivered you into this world so that you would have a life. She did not suffer so much pain for you to befriend death.”
“You know nothing about me. So keep your opinions to yourself,” Merton threw back at her.
“You want vengeance for a wrong done. You want to hold someone accountable for your pain. You think if you kill them, then the hurting in your heart and your body will stop. It won’t. It will make it worse, and you will not be able to live with it.”
“I never asked for your prophecies,” Merton spat out the words. “I am not interested in your words. Please, leave me be, old woman.”
The woman merely smiled and clicked her tongue a few times in a very irritating way. “Tell me, what do they call you, brave Christian who wants to die, but fears the Otherworld and what lies after?”
“There is no Otherworld, not in my religion anyway. You either go to Heaven, or you go to Hell,” Merton stated with impatience. Why couldn’t she just leave him alone? “And I do not fear death.”
“You lie to yourself and me when you speak such words. You should come back to the old ways, for you would do well in the Otherworld, more so than you would in Heaven or Hell. What is your name?” she asked again.
“Caesar,” Merton replied dryly, and he looked away from her for her gaze was penetrating. She made him feel nervous with her words. “Now go away Brutus so that I can go back to my amphitheatres and circus’ and sleep with the spirits and the ghosts of the Standing Stones.”
“Keep your eyes open, son, do not close them,” the woman warned. “The Ides of March is a breath away, and we all know what happened then. Caesar was like you. He did not believe the seer’s prophecy. He heeded not the warning. But the seer knew what he spoke of. You will seek the council of a man who is your enemy, and you will be betrayed by a friend. Be careful with whom you trust, young Christian. A friend’s betrayal always cuts so much deeper than that of an enemy.”
“Your prophecy comes too late. For everything you have said has already transpired.”
“Not everything. Whether you choose to listen to me or not, is irrelevant, for you cannot change destiny. But you would do well to heed my advice about the Stones.” The woman glanced away from him then, and it gave Merton the opportunity to study her more closely. Her clothes were that of a peasant, but the way she spoke and her strange topic of conversation betrayed her past. She was no peasant. A noblewoman perhaps, banished from society, as he had been.
“My name is Tegan,” she said turning back to face him with a smile. “I live just down the way,” she pointed vaguely to the right of her.
Merton turned his head to where she pointed, but all he could see was more scrubland, a seemingly never-ending moor. There was no sign of habitation anywhere.
“I have told you my name, now what is yours? And if you say Caesar, I may have to knock you over the head with my stick. I should warn you…I know what I am doing. I have had a lot of practice,” Tegan raised her walking stick threateningly in the air and then she chuckled with humour as she lowered it back down.
As if anything she could do would make him hurt more, Merton sighed sharply.
“Everyone has a name, son,” Tegan continued, “tell me yours.”
“Galahad,” Merton stated. Perhaps she would leave him alone once she got what she came for, and there was nothing wrong with giving her his name — his pretend one, anyway.
“Galahad?” A strange faraway look swept across her face as if his name conjured memories of another, and then she blinked, and Merton thought he must have imagined it.
“It is an improvement on Caesar, I suppose. Well, Galahad, it is a pleasure to meet you. If I were a good Christian woman, it would be my duty to scorn you, mock your scars,” she pointed to his face. “And be as unpleasant as I possibly could. But you are in luck because, as you may have figured out all ready, I am not a Christian.”
Merton self-consciously pulled up his hood, and he looked away from her face. For a moment while he was speaking to her, he had forgotten about how he looked.
“You don’t have to hide from me, boy. I don’t take no notice of how someone looks, and besides, I have seen worse.”
Merton didn’t know what to say, so he didn’t say anything, he sat there and stared at her uncomfortably. His father had spoken of the Druids. He had said that the Druids had been a peaceful people, for the most part. They kn
ew a lot, having spent many years in learning. They were healers, judges, and they believed in equality, a woman had the same rights as any man. But, they had been wiped out of existence by the new religion that promised salvation. Or so he had thought.
“Snow is on the way,” she continued, conversationally. “I can feel it in my bones and the corn on my big toe is jumping.”
“The corn on your toe?” Merton scoffed, he must be dreaming. That was the only explanation because this conversation was something his imagination would make up. It wasn’t something that would occur in his every day.
“Until you have a corn of your own then you can not comment,” Tegan stated with an air of wisdom. “My corn is always right. Jenna has never let me down before.”
“Jenna? Who is she?” Merton glanced around, but he couldn’t see anyone else, which was strange in itself. Why would an old woman be wondering around the moor on her own this early in the morning?
“The corn of course,” Tegan replied as if he was a stone short of a wall.
“You named your corn Jenna?” This was, without a doubt, the most ridiculous conversation that he had ever had.
“I had to name her something. Are you planning to get up anytime soon? I do have other things that need my attention.” The woman took a step closer towards him.
“I am not stopping you,” Merton said as he continued to glare at her. There was no way he was going to try to stand in her company — it would be too humiliating. It always took him a while to get his body working properly in the morning.
The Du Lac Princess: (Book 3 of The Du Lac Chronicles) Page 9
