Chapter 11

D’Argent slammed his gauntlets on the table and swore, “I tell you Sire, I saw the whole thing! The wagon, men and horses—the lot carried away by a huge, greenish black cloud.”

“Picked up like chaff in the wind, eh?” Duke Harold scoffed. “After the way your troops let that boy escape the Al Cazar, I should have you flogged.” To emphasize the point, Harold let fly his tankard, sailing it past D’Argent’s helm, barely grazing his lieutenant, Geile Plumat.

D’Argent bellowed, “Sire! I will not be treated like some gatewatch nawdry!”

Three strides and the Duke was in the Captain’s face, his jeweled stiletto poised a mere blink from D’Argent’s chin. “Twenty of your men outwitted by an old fool and a boy and now I learn that towheaded waif is the one who sent my cousin to hell.”

Plumat stepped forward to mediate. “Had we known they were the Marquis’ assassins - ”

“Plumat, you and D’Argent never seem to know anything until every waif in the village has passed the word. Has there been no trace of these people and my treasure?”

Plumat took a long draw of ale, hoping the blade poised at D’Argent’s throat was just another of the Duke’s threats. “No Sire, we’ve seen nothing of them, though rumors abound of a keep in ruins and some kind of treasure.”

“Rumors? You think I should govern the north of Britain based on rumors, Plumat?” The stiletto found its way back into the hidden sheath inside the Duke’s leather armlet. The Duke turned on his heel to face Plumat.

“Of course not, Sire,” Plumat offered. “But neither can we launch a war into Scotia to find some straw-boy and a magician. You would be the laughing stock of Anglia were that to happen. King Ethelred would have to be informed and your holdings reinforced. All that aside, from what our spies tell us, the Scythian Stone was destroyed, along with the great wooden keep and its hundred men-at-arms.”

Duke Harold’s face turned scarlet. The loss of the Scythian Stone was almost more than his temper could bear. “This highlander and his wench bested a keep and a hundred men-at-arms? Then destroyed my magical stone? I think not, Plumat. Mayhaps your spies are a drunken lot with naught tales to spin.”

“Well, they did have a magician to help them, Sire, or so I was told.”

Captain D’Argent cleared his throat, probably overjoyed by the fact that he still had one. “Sire? There is talk of a treasure so it must be true. Might I suggest we post bounties along the border for news of it? Those Caledonians up north would sell their mothers for a handsome booty.”

“A plan worth its salt,” Plumat agreed. “The treasure and the boy won’t be far apart.”

The Duke plunged his fist into a wooden trencher on the table, still holding the Captain’s uneaten supper of barley wisp and hen meat. Debris splattered D’Argent’s hauberk. “We? Are you offering to pay this reward, Captain?” He wiped his greasy hand on D’Argent’s chainmail, then strode toward the round stone hearth in the center of the galleyway.

“We are merely brokering an alternative for you, m’lord,” D’Argent’s somewhat shaky voice managed to utter. “A plan which suggests, on the one hand, that you think little of this boy and his wench, and that you therefore choose not to invade the wilds of Scotia to find him. Whilst, on the other hand, the bounty you post sends a message to every great hall in the highlands that Duke Harold is a man not to be scoffed.”

Turning his back to the roaring fire, the Duke’s glare fell upon Plumat’s narrow frame. “Plumat, you will go to the Scotian border. Announce a one hundred talen bounty. Post it on every hut, hovel and whore’s haunt from the Tweed River Bridge to the Solway Firth. Is that clear?”

“Yes, m’lord,” Plumat answered smartly.

“Then proceed to Galashiels and employ a squad of men. Hire only those from that area, so they may travel unnoticed in Scotia. Pay them five talens each, with a further contract of twenty talens if they bring that boy back across the Tweed alive. Have him and the wench taken to Tendalfief. They will stand trial under the King’s Eyre and be hanged for their foul deeds. While you are it, offer a pittance for the old man—or wizard or whatever he is.”

Plumat grabbed his helmet in one hand and a cold hen’s leg in the other. “Immediately, Sire. That boy will find himself facing your jurists before the next moon or I will stand trial in his stead.”

“Just do as I tell you, Plumat,” the Duke growled. “I've no joy in the prospect of hanging you. Seize that boy and I will add two hides of land to your holdings. Bring justice to the slayers of the Marquis, and the Blackgloom treasure to me, and I shall grant you a Captaincy with a parcel of land from my own holdings.”

Plumat bowed from the waist, his risky gamble having won a great honor from the Duke. “Your command is my destiny, Sire. I leave tonight. The Blackgloom bounty is as good as yours.”

* Abbotsford Priory, Scotia *

Daynin’s first visit to the ancient priory compound at Abbotsford was seven years in the past, yet he could still remember every structure his father had pointed out to him from the top of the rocky cairn that marked the priory’s southernmost boundary. Despite the years, Daynin could tell that not much had progressed on the nave of the church or the score of outbuildings. Money was scarce, as were the skilled masons needed to move the work along. That will change, Daynin vowed as he slowed Abaddon and the heavily laden cart to a stop.

Abbotsford had been his father’s greatest ambition. All of the precious McKinnon library was to be brought to there for safe keeping once the nave of the church was finished. That ambition, like many of his father’s dreams, had been slain on the bloody slopes of Rhum on Daynin’s twelfth birthday.

Not only had the invaders nearly wiped out the family McKinnon that night, they had also burned all the books, maps, drawings and a hundred years of McKlennan Clan treasures which were destined for the priory at Abbotsford. None of that could ever be replaced, and Daynin knew it. But he also reckoned the vast wealth they had just liberated from Blackgloom presented a way to resurrect his father’s dreams. A dead sorcerer’s horde would educate a generation of Scotian clansmen so that one day Daynin’s kinsmen might face the Britons on their own terms.

His father had taught him well the value of words and education. Daynin had seen it used firsthand in his adventures with Kruzurk Makshare. He had vowed upon the ashes of Blackgloom that only good would come of the treasure they unearthed from that foul place. He would see to it that the cathedral was finished and at least some of the books provided that his people so desperately needed.

“This is the place my father brought me when I was a bairn,” Daynin half whispered to Sabritha, crouched beneath him in the back of the magician’s cart.

Sabritha snuggled closer under the heavy flaxen blanket that had provided her only protection from the mist and cold since leaving Blackgloom. After several long days of jostling, she seemed to care little where they were or where they were going, perhaps longing only for a fire to warm her tired body.

“So this is where you’re taking me? These are the great McKinnon lands? I see only rocks, gorse and more rocks. You highlanders seem to have a strange want for desolate places. I swear, if not for all the booty we took from the Seed, I might well have stayed behind.”

Daynin turned around to look at her, curled into a ball on top of the four large chests the cart contained. “I plan to give the priory some of the treasure. It is what my father wanted. I’m also going to have a stone raised for Cale and Toobar, even though I didnae know them that well. They paid a high price for our freedom.”

“Oh! Well, that just makes me warm all over, plowboy! If you had told me that before we left the Northumbrian forests, I would have saved us both a lot of trouble. Now, not only am I to be a beggar again, I’m destined to be carted around in this craggy wasteland with little more than a blanket to call my own.”

“We’re still many leagues from Rhum and what remains of Kinloch Keep. It may take a week or more just to reach Glasgow, where we will take ship to Rhum. But you will not be poor, Sabritha. Trust me.”

“Trust you? Oh, I trust you all right. I trust you to offer a long trip on a short rope, or worse, if the Duke finds us. What ship? You said nothing about that! I thought your home was in Scotia, not on the ocean sea. I’ve no desire to become a sailor’s wench, if that is your plan.”

Daynin couldn’t help but chuckle at her surly attitude. She had been through a lifetime of nightmares since the last moon. She had seen more death and destruction than a keep full of Caledonian mercenaries, and yet, she could still make him smile with her sharp wit and that tantalizing voice - not to mention her comment about being his wench.

“Rhum is a beautiful island off the northeast coast of Scotia. A boat is the only way to get to it. We will be safe there and with the part of the treasure I plan to keep to rebuild Kinloch, you will be very comfortable for a long time.”

Sabritha rolled on her side, grasping the blanket even closer. “I don’t suppose I have a say in this. And I don’t hold much stock in promises. All I know is, you better find me some place warm and in a hurry, plowboy, or I may freeze to death keeping your ‘booty’ warm.”

Daynin’s frosty cheeks reddened but, she was right. Colder, yes, and the day nearly gone. Abaddon’s stride had slowed to a half walk under the weight of the treasure. The huge solid wheels of the cart were almost completely caked in mud, making progress difficult. Flipping the reins over, Daynin guided Abaddon off the track, his target the prior’s hutch at the rear of the priory grounds. They would be welcome there and mostly unnoticed, of that he was fairly certain.

Prior Bede had been the driving force at the great cathedral works for more than a score of years and a friend of the McKinnons for even longer. As Daynin pulled the cart to a stop near the swine bays, Bede appeared from an outhouse behind them. “Hold! Who goes there? This is consecrated ground, I warn ye!”

“Your raspy voice has changed as little as your girth, Prior,” Daynin cried out, laughingly. “You said the same thing to my father some years back. He paid as little mind to you then as do I, this frosty afternoon.”

For a man of sixty, who was considerably more portly than the average inn keeper, Prior Bede danced lively around the muddy hog pits to get a closer look at his unwanted guests. “Who is your father? And what business have ye here? I’ve no booty, if that be yer game.”

Daynin slid off the cart seat, flipped back his hood and stepped forward. “Perhaps your memory is better for faces than voices, Father. It is I, Daynin McKinnon, returned to visit.”

“McKinnon? Of the Clan McKlennans and Kinloch Keep? This cannot be. I was told you were all dead, slain by Caledonian killers.”

Sabritha pushed herself off the back of the cart. “Good, we’ve finally reached a place with a roof. Can we hold this reunion inside?”

“Caesar’s Legions!” the Prior howled. “Ye’ve brought a female into my priory? This is no place for a woman. Get thee gone, now, or I’ll be takin’ a staff to both of you!”

“Speaking of Legions, Prior, I have something for you in the wagon. It is an illustrated copy of Caesar’s Commentaries, complete with the seal of the Ordre de la Rose Croix Veritos.”

“Aye, and I suppose you will be telling me next that the Bishop of York is on his way to personally bless me next week."

“No Father. But when you see these books, you can invite him for prayers,” Daynin parried.

The Prior stepped closer to get a good look at Daynin. “Are these books of yours written in that awful hand of the Burgundian monks?”

Daynin retrieved the first volume from his haversack. “No Father, they are in Latin. You will have no need of a translator to read them.”

Both the Prior’s attention and his demeanor shifted from ire to desire with the sight of such an immense treasure within his grasp. He took the proffered manuscript and barked, “Come in, boy and bring yer ancillae. I have fish gruel and roots. We’ll have a draft and discuss yer needs.”

Sabritha’s face lit up in anger. “What’d he call me?”

“Ancillae, it’s an old word,” Daynin hedged.

“Do I look haggard enough to be your aunt? That old fool is blind as well as rude.”

One look at Prior Bede’s surprised expression brought Daynin a chuckle. “It means slave, Sabritha. Female slave - and I’m sure Prior Bede meant nothing by it. The Romans brought that word here a long time ago.”

Sabritha slogged past without saying a word. She was eager to get inside, despite having to share space with a man of The Cross. Having never understood their piety or their poverty, at the moment gruel and roots sounded very inviting, even from a humble prior’s pot.

* Lanercost Priory *

Twenty leagues to the southwest of Abbotsford stood the Lanercost Priory. Unlike the Bede’s modest holdings, Lanercost boasted the best collection of books north of York and had always been a magnet for learned men. Kruzurk Makshare had been there for two days, quietly studying among the manuscripts when the terrible news reached him.

“Mediah, are you certain this writ is genuine?” Kruzurk asked, his eyes never leaving the damp and badly smudged scrap of parchment.

“Yes, learned one. Word has spread through the whole of Anglia.” The other man leaned closer, so as to talk somewhat softer. “A friend of yours at Hawick sent this one as soon as he saw your name on the warrant.”

“I am not concerned about me. But this writ includes Daynin and the woman. I was afraid this would happen once the Duke learned about the Marquis’ death at the Never Inn. Those two are at great risk, and that is my fault.”

“Aye, to offer a bounty of this size is unusual. I fear for you here, with both Anglian and Scotian bountiers after you, there can be no safe place. You must quit this place, straightaway.”

“Can you get me a horse, Mediah? A good mount—one I can ride for a day and a night, without falter?”

Mediah’s eyes scanned the dozen or so scholars seated around the fire in the middle of the priory’s central reading room. None seemed to have taken notice of their conversation. “A boat, uh certainly uh, Thomas,” he said loud enough to be heard over the crackle of the fire. “I should be able to arrange passage to Normandy for you from Tynemouth, say, three days hence?”

Kruzurk winked at his olive-skinned cohort’s quick wit, then waved a small pouch toward him. “Excellent. This should cover our passages. You will go along, of course? I hear the tapestries at Bayeux are worth the trip, and being an artist, your ability with the brush should make for some interesting interpretations.”

“You’re most kind, m’lord. I shall be delighted to accompany you.”