Triskelion

by Avril Borthiry

  Like an answer to an unspoken prayer, Father Stephen came striding along the path, his face lit with a smile. “Owen! You've seen Madoc already this morning? How is he today?”

  Owen returned the smile. “Less troubled I think, Father. He's resting now, and I'm trying to remember the way to the refectory.”

  “I'll take you there myself and join you at the table if I may.” Stephen gestured down the path. “This way.”

  Owen soon ploughed through a plate of cold mutton, a thick slice of freshly baked bread, and a generous tankard of ale. Sated, he pushed his empty plate away and leaned back, catching the amused expression on the priest's face.

  He shrugged. “I was hungry, Father.”

  “I noticed.” Stephen chuckled. “I've rarely seen a meal devoured with such relish.”

  Owen's answering smile was short lived. His need for food had been fulfilled, but his need for answers still gnawed at him.

  “Something on your mind, lad?” The old priest, it seemed, missed nothing.

  “Actually, there is.” Owen glanced around the room and lowered his voice. “I wish to ask something of you. In confidence.”

  A twinkle came to Stephen's eyes. “If it's absolution you seek, we should perhaps head to the chapel.”

  Owen grinned. “I fear that would take up most of your day. No, Father. I wish only to enquire about one of the monks who resides here.”

  “Of whom do you speak?”

  “Brother Michael. He welcomed me yesterday and escorted me to the guest house.”

  Stephen gave a slow nod. “Yes. I know the man. He's fairly recent to our order. He arrived...oh... maybe a month ago.”

  A month? So, just after William's visit.

  “What do you know of him? Do you know where he's from?”

  Stephen shook his head. “Not precisely, but judging by his speech, he's certainly from these northern parts. He's quite fluent in Welsh too - I've heard him conversing with Madoc - but I believe he's of English origin. Why not ask him yourself?”

  “I have my reasons.” Owen digested the priest's words. Fluent in Welsh? Interesting. “In truth, I suspect the man might not be…all he seems.”

  Father Stephen raised a brow. “Indeed? May I ask what aroused this suspicion?”

  “Nothing specific.” He didn't want to mention the meeting in the woods. “Just a feeling. One I can't shake.”

  “A feeling?” The old priest's face took on a sober expression. “Very well. I'll make some discreet enquiries, but I must ask you to let me know if you discover some justification for this feeling of yours.”

  “I will.” Owen fought to suppress a yawn. “Thank you, Father.”

  Stephen grunted. “You'd do well to get some rest, young man. And might I suggest you attend Vespers this evening? Your soul, like your body, also needs refreshment.”

  ~

  Owen sought out his humble bed and slept, only to be awoken several hours later by a revelation. An empty cup at his father's bedside plus the innocent words of an elderly priest had drawn an ugly picture in Owen's dreams. Demons? Aye, but only one, he guessed. One who spoke Welsh to a helpless old man in a contrived stupor.

  He headed for the infirmary to find his father seated as usual, staring out of the window.

  “Hello, Da.”

  “Ah, there you are,” said Madoc, twisting in his chair, traces of tears glistening on his cheeks. “You just missed your mother. She came to sit with me for a while. I'd forgotten just how beautiful she was.”

  Owen's breath caught. His mother, God rest her soul, had been dead for nigh on five years. His heart felt like a stone in his chest as he knelt and took hold of his father's hand. “Da--”.

  “Why are you still here?” Madoc's eyes widened. “You must leave now. To delay is dangerous.”

  Not wanting to show the pain of his emotion, Owen dropped his gaze to his father's hand and stroked a thumb across the parchment-like skin. “I'll be leaving soon, Da. Listen, I want to ask you about these demons. Tell me. Do they speak Welsh?”

  “Aye, but not very well.”

  “Do you see their faces?”

  Madoc shook his head. “I see shadows. They threaten me when I don't answer. They threaten to suffocate me.”

  Christ. Owen steeled his expression and lifted his head. “Tell me, Da. Does Brother Michael offer you a drink at night? An infusion of some kind?”

  Madoc nodded. “Tastes vile, but he insists it helps me sleep. Doesn't keep the demons away though.”

  No, thought Owen, it likely creates them.

  Some plants, such as nightshade, contaminated the blood and distorted the mind. Too much would kill a man. What kind of poison had the cowardly monk used in an attempt to loosen Madoc's tongue? And had the infusion also loosened his mind?

  “Listen to me.” He squeezed his father's hand. “When Michael gives you the drink tonight, you must refuse it. Do you understand me, Da? Do not drink it.”

  Madoc shrugged, his expression passive. “If that is what you want. But you must leave now, Owen. Katherine needs you.”

  ~

  Nightfall was some way off, but the sky had already darkened beneath a wall of massive thunderheads, which threatened to unleash their anger for the third day in a row. With the muted grumbles of a storm echoing in the distance, Owen returned to his room, his choice of action decided. At dawn, he'd leave for Wraysholme to speak to John Harrington about Kate. He only hoped the knight would believe a story that, in truth, beggared belief. For the moment, though, Owen had a mystery to solve and perhaps a man to kill. He placed the little wooden chair by the window and sat down to watch and wait.

  Darkness at last descended and Owen’s eyes strained against it, but his resilience was rewarded. Deep in shadow, a dark figure stole along the side of the church. Moments later, soft footfalls could be heard as they passed beneath his window. The figure – that of a cowled monk - disappeared into the woods. Owen grabbed his dagger, ran downstairs and followed the same path, keeping well back.

  As they neared the clearing, Owen crept off the track to crouch, unseen, in the undergrowth. Lightning, still distant, flickered across the sky. Although fleeting, the subtle flashes allowed Owen to make out the lone figure of Brother Michael in the clearing. The monk was not alone for long.

  The massive shape of a horse emerged from the backdrop of trees, snorting like a wild boar, the whites of its eyes glinting in the night. Seated upon the beast was a giant of a man; no doubt the owner of the footprints Owen had seen the night before. A tingle ran across Owen's neck. Something familiar about the man tugged at his memory. His vision hampered by darkness, he lifted his eyes to the skies. “I could use a little help here,” he whispered. “If it's not too much trouble.”

  The wish was granted a heartbeat later as a burst of lightning, as bright as the sun, skimmed across the heavens. Stripped bare of shadow, the giant's bearded face lifted skyward to witness the brilliant event.

  Recognition slammed into Owen like a jousting pole.

  Crovan of Innisfail was a legend amongst the people of the Western Isles, who called him the Red Giant. Owen had indeed seen him once before, when Crovan had been hauled before the council of Mann for violating the wife of a village leader. He claimed the woman had been willing, but her broken body told a different tale, and his defence was found lacking.

  While imprisoned in Castle Rushen awaiting sentence, Crovan had managed to escape from a keep with walls as thick as the height of two men. How he departed the stronghold with such ease had never been discovered or explained. The man was a heartless killer; a ruthless mercenary who swore allegiance to no one. The highest price might buy his loyalty, but only until payment had been made.

  Was he working for Elric? The thought of such a man being anywhere near Kate sickened Owen to his core. He crept forward, needing to hear the conversation, and sent up another prayer, this one for silent skies.

  Crovan's harsh voice cleaved the night. “Well? What have you learned
?”

  The monk's response was little more than a whine. “The window was closed, my lord. I tried to listen at the door for a while, but I had trouble understanding what was being said. But I must assume such subterfuge only served to hide a discourse of some importance.”

  “Has the son left yet?”

  “No, I don't think so.”

  “By the Devil's balls, you relate nothing of any use to me, Gavin.”

  The whine intensified. “I have been thwarted at every turn, my lord. I tried to give Madoc the infusion tonight, but he refused to drink it.”

  There came the creak of a saddle and the grating hack of expelled phlegm. “You failed to obey me, you useless wee shite.”

  A nervous laugh trickled into the air. “But, my lord, I have not. 'Tis certain the wench has the gift. Everything I've seen and heard indicates that.”

  Even in the darkness, Owen saw the giant bend and grab hold of the monk's robe. The smaller man squealed and Crovan snarled like a savage dog.

  “You misunderstand me, toad. Did I not tell you to bathe that stench off your skin? Aye, I'm sure I did. Yet you still stink of death.”

  “I... I believe bathing to be bad for the health, lord.”

  Crovan grunted. “Disobeying me is also bad for your health, Gavin”

  Owen heard a sickening gurgle and saw the smaller man stagger and fall backwards. Moments later, the great horse turned and the sound of hooves faded into the trees.

  Owen emerged from his hiding place and stepped to the edge of the clearing, which was empty except for the body spread-eagled in the centre. The tonsured head, ghost-like in the gloom, was tipped back, exposing a gaping wound across the throat. Rain began to fall in a hushed cascade and a faint metallic smell drifted through the air.

  Owen felt not a shred of pity for the slain man. He allowed himself a satisfied smile, turned, and headed back to the abbey. He had to get to Wraysholme. He had to make John Harrington understand the danger - that there were those who sought to harm Kate. As the silhouette of the abbey appeared through the trees, he looked toward the infirmary, instinct pushing a sense of dread into his mind. Something was wrong.

  He broke into a run and collided with Father Stephen on the infirmary steps.

  “Owen! Thank the Lord. We've been searching everywhere for you. I'm afraid your father has taken a bad turn.”

  The words felt like a blow to his stomach. “May I see him?”

  “Of course.” He squeezed Owen's shoulder. “We've ministered the rites to him, my son.”

  Owen felt the blood leave his face. “The rites? You mean he's...?”

  Father Stephen gave a slight nod. “Hurry, lad.”

  Madoc lay on his tiny bed, eyes closed and breathing laboured. Beads of sweat stood out on his forehead. Owen took a cloth and wiped them away.

  “I'm here, Da.”

  Madoc's eyes flickered open. “Ah. My...son. I must take... my leave of you now.”

  Owen shook his head. “I think not. You're just tired, Da. Rest, and we'll talk in the morning.”

  “Son--”

  “You'll be fine. Do you hear me? You'll be fine.”

  “Owen.” Madoc closed his eyes. “'Tis...my...time.”

  Unable to speak over the lump in his throat, Owen shook his head again, struggling against waves of emotion that threatened to overwhelm him. He took his father's hand and lifted it to his lips. Madoc had always been so vigorous and strong; a tough teacher, a wise mentor, and a gentle parent.

  I don't want to lose you, Da.

  Madoc's hand tightened around Owen's. “Fear not. My spirit...will always...be with you, son.” Aye, and the man had always been able to read his son's thoughts as well.

  Owen bent and pressed a kiss to his father's forehead. “I am proud,” he whispered. “So proud to be the son of Madoc ap Gruffydd. I love you beyond measure.”

  Madoc smiled. “I know. Just...just take care of Adela's child. She...she needs you, lad. Treat her well. Love her.”

  “I will, I swear it.”

  The hand, resting in his, twitched and went limp.

  “Da?”

  Owen sat for some time at his father's bedside, thinking that silence had never seemed so loud. It screamed at him and made his heart ache with longing. All he wanted to hear was the sound of his father’s breath or the sound of his father’s voice.

  But there was neither.

  Father Stephen met him outside. “Take heart, Owen,” he said. “He's at peace now. Apart from his confession, Madoc told me about a certain young lady in need of your immediate protection. I understand it's urgent you leave. I'll take care of your father’s needs if you wish.”

  “Thank you.” Owen glanced toward the forest. “Father Stephen?”

  “Yes, my son?”

  “You'll find Brother Michael in the woods at the back of the guesthouse with a fatal wound to his throat. I can't explain everything now - I have neither the time nor even all the facts. But I swear before God and the Holy Mother, I played no part in his death other than to witness it from my hiding place. One day, when I can, I shall explain it to you.”

  The old priest studied Owen for a moment, his pale eyes soft with emotion. “Go with God's protection, Owen ap Madoc,” he said at last. “He has undoubtedly chosen you for a special purpose. Just know that if you ever need sanctuary you only need ask me. In the meantime, my prayers go with you.”

  Owen took Stephen's hand and kissed it. “I shall return one day, Father, so tell God to keep you here until I do.”

  Stephen smiled and shook his head. “I can't tell God what to do, but you're welcome to ask Him on my behalf.”

  ~

  Arrio, restless after almost three days in the stable, pranced and tossed his head as he was being saddled.

  “I know, old man. I know.” Owen led the stallion into the stable yard and looked to the east, where dawn's orange glow embraced the horizon.

  Unbidden, an image of his father slid into his mind and Owen blinked back a sudden sting of tears. Arrio snorted and pawed the ground with impatience, pulling Owen out of his reverie. He settled his sword around his hips, took a deep breath, and looked the stallion in the eye.

  “Arrio,” he whispered. “I must ask much of you today, my friend. We must fly. Fly like the wind.”

  The horse nodded his big head and, as soon as Owen climbed into the saddle, appeared to sprout invisible wings.

  Chapter 11

  Thomas sat on an upturned bucket just inside the stable door, whistling an indeterminate tune as he oiled the bridle in his hands. The heavy curtains of rain had lifted at dawn, allowing the morning sun to spill through the doorway. Its welcome heat soaked into Thomas's skin and thawed the stiffness in his joints.

  Lost in a maze of thought, he worked without focus, his fingers following a routine ingrained over many years. He wondered how Owen fared at the abbey, and how on earth John Harrington might be convinced to dissolve Katherine and Edgar's betrothal agreement.

  A shadow blocked the warmth and dragged him from his musing. He ceased his whistling, halted his activity, and lifted his head. For a moment, he was transported back to another time and place, looking at a young woman descended from legend and adored by her people. Aye, and here she was again, seemingly reborn, her perfect form a dark silhouette against the backdrop of sunlight.

  “Good day, Thomas.” Katherine's voice contained a hint of reticence. He knew he had always discomforted her, but had never been quite sure why. True, his natural expression was austere, and his voice had a certain gruffness to it. But, despite her wild ways, he thought well of Adela's child and would not hesitate to give his life to protect her. “My lady.” He rose to his feet. “You're well, I trust?”

  “Well enough, thank you.” She glanced beyond him, into the stable. “I'm looking for my father. Do you know where I might find him?”

  “Sir John went to Holker this morning. I'm not certain when he'll be back, but I do know Sir Edgar is likely to ret
urn with him.” He cleared his throat. “That being so, mistress, may I suggest you do not wander far?”

  Kate's wry smile indicated that she understood his meaning. “I've no intention of going anywhere.”

  With an air of hesitancy, she rocked on her feet and braided her fingers into knots. Her eyes, bright with hope, blinked at him from behind several errant wisps of hair. Thomas waited, knowing full well another question was imminent.

  “Um...actually, Thomas, I was also wondering if you'd heard...um... any news from...from Owen?”

  Thomas bit back a smile, for here was the real crux of her visit to the stable. The lass had been moping around Wraysholme ever since Owen left. Besotted, she was.

  “I regret not,” he replied, his gut tightening a little as the light in her eyes faded. He attempted to make amends. “Mind you, he's been gone but two days. 'Tis perhaps a little soon to be expecting word.”

  “Yes. Yes, you're right, of course.” She smiled through her obvious disappointment. “If, though, you should hear anything…that is--”

  “I shall keep you informed.” Then, as a balm, he added a gentle footnote. “Have no fear, lass. Owen will return, and soon. I guarantee it.”

  Her smile brightened. “Thank you.” She gave a nod and began to turn away, but hesitated.

  “Thomas?”

  “Aye.”

  “Have you known Owen for long?”

  “All his life.”

  “Then...I wonder if...if you would you tell me about him? Please?”

  Thomas chuckled and shook his head. “Well, now, my lady. There's much to tell, and I have work...”

  He paused, distracted by a sudden shift in the light. A shadow loomed up behind Katherine, absorbing her silhouette and filling the doorway. Katherine's hopeful smile dissolved, her eyes widened, and the expression on her face became one of confusion. Thomas found himself frozen by the slow realization of a frightening truth; a reality he could not quite believe, since it made no sense. Then a sound, like that of rope being stretched, reached his ears. Why so familiar? A heartbeat later he recognized its source, and in that same moment the air around him fractured with a violent hiss.