Fortress of Mist

by Sigmund Brouwer

  She blushed. “Is it that apparent?”

  Hawkwood shook his head. “Only in little ways. The joy on your face as we discussed a method to reach Thomas during his march to the lowland plains of battle. Your sighs during those days after our midnight meeting, when we followed the army to the Valley of Surrender. And your trembling that morning on the hillside as we waited the outcome of his plan against the Scots.”

  Her blush deepened. “Thomas is worthy. I had much opportunity to watch him in Magnus. And now, perhaps my feelings will give me courage to help him as he needs.”

  Hawkwood suddenly struck a slab of rock with his cane. “No!”

  He looked at the now-broken cane, then looked at her. His voice softened. “Please, no. Emotions are difficult to trust. Until we are certain which side he has chosen, he cannot know of you, or of the rest of us. The stakes are far too great. We risk your presence back in Magnus for the sole reason that—despite all we’ve done—he is or might become one of them. Love cannot cloud your judgment of the situation.”

  She ran both her hands through her hair. “You were not there,” she whispered, almost to herself, “the day he attacked a man for insulting a poor, hideous freak. You did not see the rage in his eyes that someone so helpless should suffer. Thomas will not sell his soul. He will not be seduced by a promise of Druidic power.”

  Hawkwood sighed. “Beneath your words, you say something else. That you don’t want to be his executioner.”

  Katherine nodded. “It was bad enough becoming my own executioner. I do not want to kill him too.”

  At the entrance to the valley of Magnus, Thomas saw the Earl of York sitting on his horse beneath the shade of a tree well aside of the trail.

  The Earl of York waved once, then beckoned.

  Thomas slowly trotted his own horse to the tree.

  The noise of travel faded behind him, and when Thomas reached the earl, he was greeted with a silence interrupted only by the buzzing of flies and a swish and slap as the other horse swung its tail to chase away the insects.

  The blue of the lake surrounding Magnus broke through gaps of the low-hanging branches, and dappled shadows fell across the earl’s face. It was impossible to read anything in his eyes.

  “We part here,” the earl said. “I trust you will send me my son as soon as you are assured that I have not dealt in any treacheries by sending soldiers to Magnus in your absence.”

  “Come with me now,” Thomas said. “Meet him yourself and travel together.”

  “I’ve been away from my army too long already today. If you give my son an escort, he and the riders will catch us soon enough.” Then the earl sighed. “I should not deceive you in this. My son and I are like strangers to each other. He is not comfortable in my presence, nor am I comfortable in his. I tell myself I need to find a way to mend whatever is broken between us, but now is not the time.”

  “I am sorry to hear of your estrangement,” Thomas said.

  The earl shrugged, but it was a move that poorly hid his emotional pain. “I should not have burdened you with that.”

  “No burden,” Thomas answered. “I suggest that I wait until tomorrow to send him with an escort. When I reach Magnus, it will be too close to evening, and I would rather not risk sending him on a journey in the dark.”

  “Thank you,” the earl said. “You will receive an invitation from me soon to join me at a victory feast and a place of honor at my table.”

  “I look forward to it. Fare well on your journey home.”

  “Nothing else? No demand to force me to honor my vow in regards to your question?”

  “No demand,” Thomas said. “There would be no honor in that for me. Or for you.”

  “Yes,” the earl said. “You have the mark of a man who lets other men live their lives as they choose.”

  Thomas gazed steadily in return. “The man who betrays another also betrays himself. Often that is punishment enough.”

  The Earl of York shook his head. “From where do you get this wisdom?”

  “What little I have was given by a dear teacher, now dead.”

  More silence.

  By then, almost the entire small army, in its rush to reach home, had passed along the trail. Then final puffs of dust fell to rest as the last straggler moved on, and in the quiet left behind, the earl began again.

  “I have waited here in deep thought and anguish,” he said. “I have two confessions to make to you. For the first I will not ask forgiveness. It was required for us to triumph against the Scots. I was forced to make a choice between two evils. Thomas, I was the one who struck you unconscious after you defeated the two men sent to kill you.”

  Thomas held his gaze steady as the earl continued.

  “The day they attacked, I was trying to join you to speak to you about tactics. Then I saw them following you, and waited to see what they wanted. When I realized they were going to attack you, I was too far away to help, and by the time I had arrived, you had won the fight and were demanding to know who sent them. I struck you to gain their confidence and learn the answer for myself, then left you there when I was satisfied you were not seriously hurt. Can you think of a reason why I did not want you to hear the answer from them?”

  Thomas gave it some thought and nodded. “Because once I knew, I would take action.”

  “We could not afford to have fighting within our own camp. It was Frederick, who feared you were gaining too much power and influence. He wanted you out of the way.”

  The earl paused. “He has paid the price, believe me. He will be losing his land and title, and sent to London for punishment. Edward II will not take it lightly that Frederick did not put aside his own interests to stay unified with the rest of us against the Scots. I would suggest you take this no further.”

  “As you wish,” Thomas said. And waited.

  “My ring,” the earl said. “My second confession is that the ring is a shameful secret, passed from father to son through many generations.” He smiled weakly. “Alas, the debt I owe and a promise made justly demands that now the ancient legend be revealed to one outside the family.”

  Thomas still waited.

  “The symbol belongs to a group of high priests with dark power. We know only their name, not the men behind the name,” the earl almost whispered.

  “Druids,” Thomas said.

  “How could you know? It’s not possible!”

  “From the isle of the Celts. Men now hidden among us.”

  “Thomas, your knowledge is frightening,” the Earl of York said quickly. “Most who speak that name soon die.”

  Thomas smiled grimly. “That promise has already been made. Why else do I drive you to answer me all?”

  The Earl of York sighed. “Then I shall tell all.”

  He climbed down from his horse and motioned for Thomas to do the same, then gazed at the far lake of Magnus as he spoke in a flat voice.

  “In our family, the ring is passed from father to eldest son, the future Earl of York. With it, these instructions: acknowledge the power of those behind the symbol or suffer horrible death. And our memory is long. Five generations ago, the Earl of York refused to listen to a messenger—one whose own ring fit into the symbol engraved upon the family ring. Within weeks, worms began to consume his still-living body. No doctor could cure him. Even a witch was summoned. To no avail. They say his deathbed screams echoed throughout the castle for a week. His son—my great-great-grandfather—then became the new Earl of York. When he outgrew his advisers, he took great care in acknowledging the power that had been passed to him.”

  Thomas felt the chill of the earl’s voice. “Acknowledging the power?”

  “Yes,” came the answer. “A favor asked. A command given. Rarely more than one in an earl’s lifetime. Sometimes none. My great-grandfather did not receive a single request. My father …”

  The earl’s voice changed from flat to sad. “My father obeyed just one command. It happened over twenty years ago. I was old eno
ugh to understand his pain. Yet he obeyed.”

  A thought clicked within Thomas. Over twenty years ago …

  “Your father stood aside while Magnus fell,” Thomas said with sudden insight. “Despite allegiance and protection promised, he let the new conquerors reign.”

  The Earl of York nodded.

  It explained much! Thomas had sworn to Sarah on her deathbed that he would reconquer Magnus to avenge the death of his parents, the former and rightful rulers of Magnus who had been dethroned over twenty years ago.

  Then Thomas drew a deep breath as he realized the implications.

  It cannot be. But he knew it was.

  “Having lost it,” Thomas gritted, “these Druids now demand Magnus be returned. The horrifying rituals plain to see along the march—a message for you perhaps.” Then came the implication he dreaded.

  “Or a message for you,” the Earl of York said slowly as he finally turned to face Thomas. His face showed the gray pallor of anguish.

  “Thomas, I call you friend. Yet twice along the march, in the dark of night, I was visited by one of the ring.”

  Thomas did not blink as he held his breath against the words he did not want to hear.

  The earl’s voice dropped to little more than a croak. “Each time, Thomas, I received warning to expect that payment for my family’s power is soon due.”

  The chamber was so narrow and tight that Katherine was forced to stand ramrod straight. Even so, the stone of the walls pressed painfully against her knees and elbows.

  She had stood that way, fighting cramps of pain, in eight-hour stretches each of the previous two days, with rough stone pressing so tightly she scraped against it with the slightest of movements. In the tight confines of darkness and ancient stone, red, raw skin and rigid muscles were the price she paid to spy on Thomas.

  Unlike some of the other hidden passages in the castle, necessity of concealment here required the chamber be small, for there was no other way it could be hidden in a hollowed portion of the thick rear wall of the throne room. Tiny vents in the cracks of stone—at a height barely above Katherine’s waist and invisible to anyone inside the room—brought air upward into the space.

  The vents did not allow light into the chamber, only sound, carried so perfectly that any word spoken above a whisper reached Katherine’s ears.

  She had no fear of being detected. As Hawkwood had instructed before sending her back to Magnus, the entrance to the chamber was fifty feet away, hidden in the recesses of a little-used hallway. To slip in or out, she need simply stand in the recess until enough quietness had convinced her that entry or exit was safe.

  More difficult than avoiding detection, however, was navigating the twisting blackness of the tunnel that led through the thick castle walls to the chamber behind the throne room. More than once, she had felt the slight crunch from stepping on the fur and bones of long-dead and dust-dry mice and—she shuddered—bats. Her first time through, two days earlier, had been a gagging passage through cobwebs that brushed her face in the darkness with no warning and clung to her like eerie silk.

  Remember Hawkwood and his instructions, she told herself as yet another cramp bit into her left thigh. This is a duty we have performed for generations.

  Two days of petitions and complaints. Two days of the slowly considered words given in return by the lord, Thomas of Magnus. Two days of exquisite torture, listening and loving more the man who might never discover the secret of her hidden face. But not once, the expected Druid messenger.

  Yet the Druid would arrive. Hawkwood had so promised, and Hawkwood was never wrong.

  Katherine snapped herself away from her thoughts and listened to another verdict, delivered so crystal-clear into the chamber.

  “No, Gervaise, there will not be any more money supplied from the treasury for church charity. Unless you supply me an answer to something that keeps me awake every night.”

  “Another one of your questions about God and His mysterious nature?”

  “No. Even more difficult to answer than that. You know that the earl’s son escaped.”

  “Of course.”

  “How?” Thomas asked. “That is what I need to know. It’s as if the very castle itself is a mystery.”

  “I have no answer.”

  “And why would the earl’s son take such a risk? If caught, it would mean death. Yet he must have heard about our victory. Had he waited but half a day, I would have not only released him but sent him with an armed escort to protect him on his journey.”

  “I have no answer to that either.”

  “Then,” Thomas said, with what sounded like an attempt at light-heartedness, “I have no choice but to withhold money from the church charity.”

  “But my lord, you know both questions were impossible for me to answer.”

  Thomas’s sigh reached Katherine with as much clarity as his light-hearted tone had done before. “Gervaise, much as you pretend surprise, you expected that decision from me. You know, as I do, that many are now tempted to forsake work for the ease of charity meals.”

  Gervaise chuckled. “What do you propose? Every day, one or two more appear at the church doorsteps.”

  “Get the Father to deliver long sermons. Ones that must be endured as a price to pay for the meals.”

  Laughter from both.

  Then a more sober tone from Thomas. “I jest, of course. Instead, find work on the church building or its grounds,” he said. “Any work. Let those who are able contribute long hours, enough so that it is more profitable for them to seek employment elsewhere. You will soon discover who is truly needy.”

  “Excellent,” Gervaise said. “I look forward to our evening walk and discussion. You may tell me more about Katherine.”

  In the chamber, Katherine’s ears began to burn from embarrassment. It was one thing to spy for noble purposes, another to listen to a private conversation. Yet she found herself straining to catch every word.

  “Yes. Katherine. If she were another, my world might be perfect …”

  Katherine could not help but feel a warm flush of hope at those words. Another … did he mean her? Was he thinking of the time she had been allowed to reveal herself to him in the moonlight? Or did he still dream of Isabelle?

  She was given no time to ponder.

  “M’lord. One waits here outside,” a sentry called into the throne room.

  Katherine, of course, could only imagine the silent good-bye salutes between Thomas and Gervaise, and the voice she heard moments later sent an instinctive fear deep inside her.

  “Thomas of Magnus.” Not a question, but almost a sneer. The voice was modulated and had no coarse accent of an uneducated peasant.

  “Most extend courtesy with a bow,” Thomas replied, immediately cold.

  “I will not prolong this through pretense,” the voice replied. “I am here to discuss your future.” A pause. Then the voice spoke quickly. “Don’t! You draw breath to call for a guard, but if you do, you will never learn the secrets of this symbol, nor of Magnus.”

  The Druid messenger.

  Katherine no longer felt the ache of stiff limbs. Every nerve tingled to listen further.

  “I grant you little time,” Thomas replied.

  “No,” came the now soft and triumphant voice. “I have as long as I like. Dread curiosity is plain to read on your face.”

  “Your time slips away as you speak. What is your message?”

  The sneering voice came like a soft caress. “The message is simple, as when you first heard it from Isabelle. Join our circle, remain earl, and gain great power beyond comprehension. Or deny us and lose Magnus.”

  “Why should I not have you seized and executed?” Thomas asked after a long silence.

  “For the same reason that you still live. After all, we have a thousand ways to kill you. An adder, perhaps, slipped into your bedsheets as you sleep. Undetectable poisons. A dagger in your heart. You still live, Thomas, because your death does not serve our purpose. Jus
t as my death now would not serve yours.”

  “No?” Thomas asked.

  “No. You and I, of course, are merely representatives. Your death would only end your life. It would not return to us the power over the people of Magnus, who—before your arrival—were sheep to be handled at our whim.”

  Short silence. Then from Thomas, “And you represent?” He said it with too much urgency.

  The messenger laughed, a cruel sound to Katherine in her hiding spot. “Druids. The true masters of Magnus for centuries.”

  “Not possible,” Thomas said. But Katherine heard enough of a waver in his voice to know he did think it possible.

  “Not possible?” the voice countered. “Ponder this. Magnus is an incredible fortress. A king’s fortune ten times over could not pay for the construction of this castle and the protective walls. Yet to all appearances, Magnus is located far, far from the bases of power. Why go to the expense, if not for a hidden purpose?”

  No! Katherine wanted to scream. Lies!

  “And,” the voice moved like an arched finger slowly scratching a cat’s throat, “why has Magnus existed so long without being seriously challenged by the royalty of England? The Earl of York leaves it in peace. So did the Norman kings. And the Anglo-Saxons before them. Would not even a fool decide great power lies within Magnus, great enough to deflect kings for centuries?”

  No! Katherine raged inwardly. Thomas must not believe this!

  “Why did the former lord, Richard Mewburn, take Magnus by the foulest treachery?” Thomas said with hesitation. “If you speak truth, it would seem to me that your circle would control this castle’s destiny.”

  “Of course,” came the snorted reply. “That’s exactly why Mewburn was allowed to conquer Magnus. He was loyal to us. The earl before him …”

  “Yes?” Thomas asked with ice in his voice.

  “Don’t be a child! We know you were raised at that forsaken monastery, but by someone who told you lies about Magnus.”

  “She did not!”

  “And what evidence do you have to prove it one way or another?”