Kay reached for Guinevere’s hand. “He is coming for you,” the old man hissed.
“He doesn’t know I am alive,” Guinevere reassured.
“I don’t think we should stick around to find out. Can my father be moved?” Alan looked at Guinevere for an answer.
Guinevere shook her head. “It will kill him.”
“I am for the worms anyway. Leave me here,” Kay insisted. “I will only hold you up.”
“I’ll not leave you to be murdered by Saxon barbarians,” Guinevere said with passion.
“Then hide me,” Kay stated, his voice calm, resigned.
“There is nowhere to hide you,” Guinevere said, her voice thick with unshed tears.
“Now you know that is not true. I always fancied being buried under an altar,” Kay tried a smile.
“I’ll not bury you alive,” Guinevere’s face betrayed her horror at such a thought.
“You will not be burying me. You will be hiding me. It just so happens that the hiding place makes a very good crypt. And you,” Kay looked at his son. “This is yours.”
Alan reluctantly took back Draíocht.
“Do not let that blade fall into Mordred’s hands. I know you don’t believe in the legends, but they are true. You must find the others and then, and only then, will Briton see peace.”
Alan knew not what to say, so he just gave a short, sharp nod.
“Where will we go?” Guinevere asked with fear.
“Northumbria,” Kay said firmly.
Guinevere shook her head. “I cannot go there.”
“You can and you must,” Kay replied.
“Why Northumbria?” Alan asked.
“Because Percival is in Northumbria,” his father said, “and you must find him for he has the shield.”
25
Goon Brenn, The Kingdom of Cerniw
The storm raged outside, but inside Tegan’s house it was warm. The air held the tantalising smell of stew, which Tegan had taken off the fire and left to cook in its heat while she went outside to check on the animals. Tegan’s cooking was a wonder. The smell and that first taste were always mouth-watering, but Merton’s appetite, which had been so nearly restored, had now gone back to how it was before he had come here. Tegan was quick to assure him that this was just a little setback and with time his appetite would be restored in full. She had commented only yesterday that he no longer looked quite so gaunt in the face. She was lying. Merton could see that she was.
His pain was manageable now, thanks to Tegan’s tonics, although not gone. It would never be gone. He found that heat was his new best friend, especially at night. Heat and a strong sleeping draught meant that he could sleep several hours at a time without the damning nightmares that scared him witless or the blinding pain that drove him to despair. It also meant that he didn’t dream of Amandine. He wondered if that was a blessing or a curse.
“You are thinking of her again,” Tegan said.
Merton had been looking into the fire, and he had not heard Tegan come back into the house, so lost was he in his thoughts. He raised his head and watched as she draped her rain-soaked cloak over a chair and dried off her hair with a very frayed drying cloth.
“I can always tell when you are thinking of her,” Tegan continued as she rubbed her hair vigorously with the cloth.
Merton didn’t comment.
“It will get easier,” Tegan stated as she picked up a comb and tackled the knots in her hair that the high wind had caused.
“What is it like out there?” Merton asked, trying to change the subject, for he didn’t want to hear Tegan’s words of wisdom on grief. She had sprouted them to him enough times that he could probably recite them word for word. But promises that time heals and that things will get easier wasn’t what he wanted to hear. He wasn’t ready to hear those words yet, and he was beginning to wonder if he ever would be.
“It is not a day for thatch-wattles,” Tegan replied dryly as she hung the drying cloth over a thin but old rope that she had made with straw many moons ago. She had nailed the rope from one side of the house to the other, to act as a drying line for their laundry. Merton had almost garrotted himself on the rope on several occasions in the night when he had got up to get some water and forgot it was there.
“My husband used to say that what comes with the wind will go with the water. The storm will pass. Now, how is that stew doing?” Tegan crossed the room and dipped a spoon into the cauldron and brought out a heaped spoonful of meat. Fresh meat was still difficult to come by. This meat had been generously given by a murder of crows that so happened to find themselves in the wrong place at the wrong time.
“Mmm, this meat is tender,” Tegan said with approval. She reached for a bowl in which she served a generous helping and handed it to Merton.
Lowen, who had been sleeping stretched out on the bed, suddenly awoke, and seeing that it was time to eat, he began to meow, until Tegan put a bowl of stew on the floor for him as well. The cat did an almighty leap from the bed and ran across the room. Soon he was contentedly lapping up the delicious juices while purring loudly.
Tegan pulled a chair up closer to the fire, sat down upon it, and began to eat. She commented every so often about how succulent the meat was.
The meal passed in companionable silence and when Tegan poured water into a big pot to wash up the bowls, Merton reached for a drying cloth. He was beginning to master the art of doing things one handed, and although he often dropped things, he didn’t want Tegan waiting on him hand and foot.
A flash of lightning lit up the house. “Taranis is overhead,” Tegan stated.
“A Gaulish god?” Merton asked with a hint of mockery for he liked to tease her and she always rose to the bait. “Or a Druid one?”
“One day, son, you will come to believe in the gods as I do. You will understand that the world is too big to be ruled by one all mighty powerful being.”
“If you—”
“Shh,” Tegan spoke with sudden urgency.
Merton carefully put the spoon he was drying down and looked towards the door. They stood in silence for several long minutes, but all Merton could hear was the storm raging outside.
“There is nothing there,” Merton said, turning his attention back to the drying up that still needed to be done. Being a warrior, he knew when danger lurked around the corner. He could sense no apparent threat.
Tegan reluctantly turned back around and finished washing up a couple of clay pitchers that had escaped her notice earlier this morning. She stopped again and looked back at the door.
“You must have heard that?” she asked.
Merton strained to hear what she heard, but he could hear nothing but the storm. “What am I meant to be hearing?” he finally asked.
“Hissing. Clean your ears out and listen, boy.”
Merton shook his head. “I can’t hear anything.”
“Well, I can,” Tegan stated, reaching for her cloak.
“Tegan you cannot possibly think to be going back out in this. The storm is overhead. It isn’t safe.”
She grumbled something that he didn’t catch, reached for her knife, and then made her way to the door.
Merton silently cursed all stubborn old women. Then he donned his cloak and followed her outside.
The rain had turned to hail, and it hit the sodden earth so hard that it bounced back up.
“Dear God,” Merton said, adjusting his hood and bowing his head in a bid to avoid the stinging hail from hitting his face. Merton wasn’t as able as Tegan was. He had discovered, much to his annoyance, that Tegan’s limp had been a ruse. She said that when faced with a stranger, it was better for her to appear vulnerable. Of course, anyone who tried to take advantage of her vulnerability would be in for a surprise.
Merton looked upon the hail and waterlogged ground with trepidation. If he were to slip over in the mud, he could do himself no end of damage, and he couldn’t afford to do that. But neither would he let Tegan take off in a stor
m such as this. Being careful where to place his stick, he followed her footprints.
Luckily, Tegan had not gone far but was stood by the paddock where the horses were. The horses had, in their stupidity, their backs toward their shelter — perhaps it made sense to them to stand out in the storm rather than seek the protection of an open stable. The horses’ heads were angled away from the worst of the weather, although their skin quivered as the hail hit their broad backs.
When Merton finally reached Tegan, the hail had turned back to rain.
“I be,” Tegan whispered. She bowed her head as if she was in the presence of a great King. “It is an honour,” she stated. “What brings you here?” she spoke in the most reverence of tones.
Merton looked to where she did and saw, in the small clearing, two snowy white swans. The cob had his wings raised ever so slightly from his back, and he regarded them both with beady, judgemental, black eyes. Tegan took a step towards him; the swan raised his long elegant neck, opened his mouth and hissed angrily, warning her to keep back. When she didn’t move, he stepped closer, flapped his wings aggressively and hissed again. Tegan held up her hands as if in surrender, bowed her head and took a few hasty steps back. The cob hissed and flapped his wings one more time in a show of power and then with a contemptuous glance at them both, he began to waddle rather unbecomingly away. His mate stayed close to his heels. The pen stopped, turned back around and looked at Tegan as if she wanted to add something to her mate’s belligerent dismissal. But she must have changed her mind, for she chose to follow where her mate led.
“We have been blessed with a visit from the gods,” Tegan said in wonder as the swans disappeared in the undergrowth
“I could have sworn they were swans,” Merton stated, trying his hardest to keep his sarcasm in check. No wonder the Old Religion was on its last legs if this was what their gods looked like. “My mistake,” he quickly corrected himself when Tegan walloped him none too gently on the arm. “What did they want? These gods of yours?” Merton asked humouring her, for when in Rome…
“I am not sure,” Tegan said, a frown marring her face. “I think they want me to follow them.”
“You can’t be serious?” Merton asked, shocked to hear such nonsense. “Upon my soul that swan was angry, he could have broken your arm.”
“Oh, what utter drivel,” Tegan chastised. “The swan wasn’t going to break anyone’s arm. He was protecting his lady as any husband would when faced with a knife.” Tegan raised the knife up slightly, emphasising her point. “They want me to follow,” she said with confidence.
“I didn’t take that away from your rather brief and fascinating conversation. I am pretty sure the swan wasn’t inviting you around to his house for dinner,” Merton stated. “Tegan, they were not gods, they were swans.”
“And how often do you see swans in a wood? Never. They land near rivers and lakes where the landing and the taking off are good. There is no river near here, only a spring. It makes no sense for them to be here. And besides, there was a silver chain around the pen’s neck. They were gods I tell you, and they want something from me.”
“I saw no silver chain. They were not deities,” Merton stated. “They were just a pair of swans, who no doubt have been forced to land because of the storm. Let them be.” Unless you want to put them in a pot. He kerbed his tongue, best not antagonise the old crone.
Tegan seemed to think on this for a while.
“Perhaps you are right,” Tegan allowed cautiously some moments later. “Let’s go back inside, for it is a truly terrible day to be out.”
Merton was relieved that she agreed with him and began to walk back to the house, thinking Tegan would be sure to follow. But when he turned back around to speak to her, she had gone.
“Oh by God, TEGAN!” he yelled. But she didn’t answer.
Yrre sighed deeply and contemplated taking off his cloak for it was pulling at his shoulders and making his arms ache. It wasn’t as if the cloak was doing anything, anyway. The material was saturated, and he was soaked to the skin. To make matters worse, his clothes were chafing. He dreaded to think what his thighs would be like when they finally got back to the inn.
“This is madness,” Sampson spoke through chattering teeth. “Surely you can see this is madness?”
Yrre shook his head. He didn’t know what to think, other than the fact that he was cold and hungry.
“I am beginning to suspect that Garren’s mind is unsound,” Sampson continued. “And we are not helping him by playing along with his fantasies. What are we doing here, Yrre?”
Yrre glanced up at the sky through the branches of the tree. Once the thunder had passed them by, he and Sampson had taken shelter under the mighty oak. Garren had remained in the centre of the Stones, seemingly oblivious to the weather. Seemingly oblivious to everything.
“We are waiting,” Yrre answered, turning his attention back to Garren.
“This is a fool’s errand. We are waiting in vain. There is no one coming. Merton isn’t here. We are wasting time. Merton is in Brittany and the longer we stay out here, the greater the risk there is to his life. I say we should go back now before we lose the light,” Sampson urged. “And before we catch our death from cold.”
“Garren seems convinced though,” Yrre observed.
“Don’t all madmen?” Sampson asked.
Yrre conceded that the monk was probably right. Still, he had been watching Garren these past days, and he had observed that there was something about him that… He sighed in frustration. Yrre couldn’t quite figure out whether he liked Garren or hated him, which was unusual, for usually, he could make up his mind about someone within that first moment of acquaintance.
“Do you know what? I think it has stopped raining,” Yrre said, pushing himself from the tree. There was a break in the clouds at last, and a blue-grey sky peeked timidly out.
“Yrre,” Sampson said with impatience. “This is ridiculous. I am going back.”
“Do you know your way?” Yrre asked, glancing at the monk.
Sampson’s face told Yrre everything he needed to know. Yrre wouldn’t let the monk go wondering off on his own, he would only go and get lost, and then there would be two people he would have to find. But Sampson was right — this nonsense had gone on for long enough. It was time to go back to the inn.
“You are right,” Yrre said feeling a weight settle on his shoulders that had nothing to do with his cloak. “I’ll go and tell him that we are leaving.”
Sampson’s face conveyed his pleasure.
“Garren,” Yrre called his name as he approached him. He hesitated when he reached the stone circle. Yrre felt uneasy about taking that final step inside. He knew that his suspicion was down to the fact that he had been listening to Sampson rattle on about how evil this place was for the better part of a day. Still, there was something here that made the hair on the back of his neck rise in warning.
With a quick breath, he closed his eyes and crossed the invisible boundary. When he opened his eyes again, he exhaled with relief. Nothing bad had happened to him. He was still in the land of the living.
“Look,” Garren said, pointing to the sky.
Yrre looked up and was surprised to see two swans in flight, their long necks stretched out in front of them, their wings cutting through the air like a boat cuts through a wave.
“Look,” Garren said again, pointing this time to the left of him.
Yrre could just make out the silhouette of what he thought was a woman walking towards them. Out of habit, he reached for his axe, for it was always better to play on the side of caution.
Garren ran a few steps towards him and grabbed him by the shoulders in joy.
“It is Tegan,” Garren said, “I knew she would come,” and then he ran to meet her.
“I have been worried sick, where the hell have you…been?” Merton’s chastisement faded into nothing as Yrre and Sampson followed Tegan into the house.
“They were gods. I told y
ou, didn’t I, boy,” Tegan looked very pleased with herself. “They led me to this sorry bunch,” Tegan’s smugness vanished from her face as she cast Sampson a scathing look. “Although why they would lead me to him,” she continued to glare at Sampson, “I have absolutely no idea.”
“What…?” Merton stuttered on a smile. “What are you doing here?” The smile vanished before it had properly formed as he realised that he didn’t want them here. He didn’t want them intruding on what he had found in a wood in the middle of nowhere.
“Looking for you,” Yrre answered, crossing the room and taking Merton into a warm embrace. “Alden is worried sick. As was I,” Yrre said quietly.
Merton pulled back from the embrace, uncomfortable with such a show of affection, and stepped away. He doubted very much that Alden was worried about him. Alden had Garren now.
“I feared you had gone to Brittany without me,” there was a hint of reprimand to Yrre’s words.
“As if I would dare to contemplate such a thing,” Merton said, but he didn’t look Yrre in the face as he spoke. “How is my son?”
“Missing you,” Yrre answered honestly, for the child did indeed miss his father. “And what with Emma being pregnant, he could do with his father in his life.”
“He is better off without me,” Merton said as he reached for a chair, for he couldn’t stand for another minute. Seeing Yrre and the monk had made his legs feel suddenly very weak and the pain in his back seemed intensified due to their presence. Seeing Yrre, healthy, undamaged, made him all too aware of his own body’s disfigurement and shortcomings.
Tegan, seeing his discomfort, reached for his tonic and without a word, she handed it to him.
“Brother Sampson,” Merton had learnt very early on that when faced with something disagreeable it was usually best to get it over and done with.
“I took you in,” Brother Sampson stated, his tone sombre. “I trusted you.”
Merton looked away from the monk and downed the tonic in one go. He immediately felt a sense of calmness.
“You took a knife to Brother Aiden’s throat. And now I find you here, in the presence of a pagan,” Sampson said the hateful word in Latin.
The Du Lac Princess: (Book 3 of The Du Lac Chronicles) Page 30
