Chapter 12

Sabritha stepped through the low arched doorway and down onto the dirt floor of the priest’s hovel. She seemed unfazed by the Spartan furnishings. It was the enormous hearth that drew her attention. It had an overly large opening with a cook pot hanging in it big enough to feed the Duke’s army. The odor of gruel mixed with wood smoke hung in the air, pungent, full of garlic and onions. She hesitated, as though wanting desperately to grab a trencher and dip it into the bubbling stew.

The Prior’s dark coif appeared in the doorway behind Sabritha, followed by his considerable girth. Daynin stepped through and closed the door, his haversack tucked snugly under his arm.

“Daynin, I confess I have little recall of yer last visit here, but I am very happy that ye survived that bloody business at Kinloch Keep.”

“Thank you Prior. If not for my grandfather, the McKinnon line would have surely come to an end that black night. I will never forget the smell of those books burning, mingled with the flesh of my kinsmen.”

The Prior shucked off his cloak, splattering the room with moisture. “Aye, the books! That was a bounty I had great stock in receiving from your clan. We may never see the likes of those books again.”

“Never is a long time, old friend,” Daynin said. He hefted the haversack onto the table, flipped it open and stood back so the Prior could have a closer look.

Sabritha cleared her throat loudly, then asked, “Can we eat? Or are you two going to spy those books all night?”

Tears welled in Prior Bede’s eyes and not from the strong scent of garlic hanging in the smoky confines of the room. He reached out to run his chubby fingers over the gold inlaid backing of the largest volume. He stared at the book before him, then at the others. “This is too great a treasure for me to imagine. These texts are like none I have ever seen, and you say it’s a complete set? Where did you acquire them?”

Daynin was almost ashamed to admit that they had been part of the Blackgloom bounty, but he knew the Prior would never accept them if he didn’t have the whole truth of their origin. “They come from a dark place, Father. Some would say a cursed place full of evils from which the worst nightmares must surely come.”

The Prior lurched backwards instantly, throwing his hands up as if the fires of hell had scorched them. He made the sign of the cross in the air, then bellowed, “Beasts and boogers, boy! Ye’ve brought the devil’s spoils into a House of God? What foul manner of deceit is this?”

Momentarily taken aback by the Prior’s sudden swearing and animated gestures, Daynin stood there, speechless. He looked at Sabritha, but she could only shrug.

“Father, I’m sorry! Truly I am,” Daynin offered. “I should have told you outside, but I refuse to believe these books are cursed. They contain knowledge, and knowledge is for good, not evil.”

The Prior slumped back onto the stone hearth, his bald head now covered with beads of sweat. “I need beer. Fetch me that pail, girl, and be quick about it!” he growled.

Sabritha handed him the heavy, three stone’s bucket and waited as the Prior gulped the contents without so much as a gasp of air. “I could use a draft of that myself, if there’s any to be spared for guests.”

“Guests is it, now, eh?” he snapped, wiping his mouth on his frock.

“Yes, Prior,” Daynin said, stepping between them to take the considerably lightened bucket. He handed it to Sabritha and added, “If we could but stay the night, I have important things to discuss with you. I want to help you finish the nave, in the name of my father.”

An enormous belch preceded the next words out of the Prior’s mouth. “Finish the nave? Indeed, boy! Then I hope ye’ve brought more than manuscripts, because I can’t pay masons and carpenters with words or books.”

“Aye, that I have, Prior. You shall see—that I have.”

* Galashiels, Scotia *

Galashiels was its normal bustling place on market day, full of the usual assortment of tanners, tillers, taletellers and thieves. Plumat dragged the heavy rumpbag off his steed, staggering slightly from the weight of the chest inside as he hefted it over his shoulder. He waved for his escorts to stay mounted, then headed for the Sheepstow Tavern.

Plumat’s stagger did not go unnoticed by the host of evil eyes watching him from inside the tavern. His black chainmail marked him as a nobleman, or a nobleman’s thegn, even though his maize and scarlet heraldry could not be seen by the watchful coven inside.

“Mark this bloody henchman well, lads,” came a raspy warning from one of the Caledonian clansmen. “He’s got booty in that ‘ere bag o’ his, I wager.”

“Aye, Scarba,” old Jack Scurdie agreed. “Him and ‘is lot be the ones who been postin’ those writs ‘long the frontier, fer sher. I seen ‘em wi’ me own peeper, I did.” That brought a round of raucous laughter from the drunken lot, one-eyed Jack having been the butt of many a bar room skit by those still possessing both their eyes.

Plumat strode purposefully through the door of the tavern, brushing past a dozen well-armed men. He slung his heavy load up onto the bar board. “Ale for the first ten men who can read, quencher!” he crowed loudly. “And a pail of beer for those who can’t.”

A small stampede of ragged, stinking bodies rushed forward, almost toppling the bar board from its barrelheads. A loud “hurrah” swept away the silence of the room while a hefty five stone’s pail began passing from hand to mouth, not a single man taking the offer of ale.

Scarba pushed his way through his mates to stand tipsy toed to Plumat. “What’s yer doings ‘ere, Sir Fancy, if I may be so bold?”

Plumat grimaced at the man’s breath, which was almost as hideous as his pox ruined face and snaggle-tooth grin. “I’ve a handsome bounty to offer those who can handle the task.”

“Task is it?” Scarba growled. “We be Caledonians ‘ere, not some lot who be lookin’ fer a stint shoveling swine guts. Eh lads?”

Plumat allowed the grumbling and guffawing to die down, then replied, “I’ve a boy who needs finding and I’ve come with bounty enough to make it worth your while. There be five talens in it for the taking and a contract of twenty more when the boy is handed to the Sheriff at Tendalfief within a fortnight.”

“A boy, says you?” grumbled a gaggle of men, almost at once.

Scattering a pile of silver talens onto the bar board from his rumpbag, Plumat declared, “Aye, and his wench and the spoils they be hauling. And there’s another ten in it for the head of an old man they call ‘the Boozer’ who poses as a magician.”

“Magicians, mopboys and mizztresses,” one-eyed Jack sang out, having had the last heavy draw on the pail of beer. He fell backward in a drunken heap against his mates, bringing another hearty laugh from the Caledonians.

“What’d this ‘ere ‘boy’ do? Bespoil the virtue of some nobleman’s daughter?” Scarba demanded, his finger poking ominously into Plumat’s chest.

In the flash of a fly’s flutter, Plumat drew his dagger and thrust it dangerously close to Scarba’s left eye. “You cross me, blaggard, and there’ll be two one-eyed drunks on the floor of this haunt before you can say ‘aye m’lord’!”

That got the attention of the assembled masses. They backed away from Scarba to distance themselves from the carnage they knew a well-armed man could bring when wielding a Kensian blade as long as a forearm.

Scarba went limp at the prospect of his imminent blinding. His voice changed instantly to that of a whipped dog. “Meanin’ no harm, yer Lordship. I was just wonderin’ what this ‘ere boy is to you, and should we be needin’ a gang to grasp ‘im, or can a couple of me stouter mates do the job?”

Plumat shoved Scarba back. With a flick of his wrist, he stabbed one of the talens in its center. He waved it aloft and taunted, “This is all you need to worry about, knave. Bring the boy, and you get paid. Fail in the attempt and this blade may find its way to your gullet. Another thing—I have cohorts who watch my back constantly, should any of you think me the fool and try to gain your bounty with a foul deed. Now, which of you is man enough to step forward and best a towheaded boy and his wench?”

* The Scotian Border *

Mediah the Greek and Kruzurk Makshare rode a measured gait for two full leagues to the east of Lanercost Priory before drawing their steeds to a gradual stop. The ancient boundary of Hadrian’s wall marked the turning point for their journey north and was far enough east that any who might have followed would think they had continued on to the port of Tynemouth.

“Turn in here, Mediah,” Kruzurk ordered, waving toward the remains of a half hidden Roman fort that would offer them a concealed view of the road. “We should wait here, to ensure that no one follows. The horses need a rest, too, that we may make our dash for the frontier before it gets any darker.”

“As you wish, m’lord.”

“Mediah, you need not address me that way when we are alone. I have no regal lineage. That moniker is only to fool strangers whilst we travel together, you know.”

Mediah gathered his long robe, threw one leg over his steed’s head and slipped to the gravel, grabbing the halter of Kruzurk’s mount as he hit the ground running. “I know, m’lord, but it is the custom, even among my people. Besides, I owe you for saving me from that black hole of the Seed’s dungeon. If you and your friends had not come along when you did, the Seed planned to skin me alive. He believed me to be a daemon spirit, you know.”

Kruzurk dismounted, rubbing his sore backside to relieve the unaccustomed pain that was growing there. “I know Mediah. One does not see many travelers as dark as you in this part of the world. Your rather exotic heritage would tell another tale altogether, I should think.”

“My mother was Persian, m’lord. I’m told my line stems from one of Alexander the Great’s cavalry commanders. My father came from Jerusalem. I know nothing of his lineage. But somewhere beyond Persepolis I have family, though I have never seen them. Those twelve years I slaved in the bow of a Silesian galley never got me any closer to them—or to home.”

“Perhaps we can remedy that someday, Mediah. I would very much like to visit the classic Greece I have only read about all these years.” Kruzurk rubbed his backside again and groaned slightly. “I also wish I had kept my wagon and old Abaddon. This riding through hill and dale like some knight errant is hardly to my liking.”

Mediah raised his hand, cocked one ear to the light wind, and whispered, “Shhh!” He hesitated for a few seconds, then declared, “Horses. Three, perhaps four. Two furlong, coming from the west.”

By then, Kruzurk could hear the rumble himself. They were heavy mounts, running at full gallop. He grasped his and Mediah’s reins and herded the two horses toward the blind end of the fortress walls, out of sight of the road, and waited.

* Abbotsford Priory *

Sabritha’s mind had wandered to the far reaches of a home she only vaguely remembered and of a father she remembered all too well, but never really knew. His had been the one shining image she clung to on the darkest nights, the coldest days and through the worst moments of her life. She had thought of him that horrible night in the Blackgloom keep, when it seemed the light of morning would only be a promise attached to the end of a lingering, but certain death.

A shiver went through her, even as sparks jumped out of the fire behind her and singed the flaxen blanket she had draped over her shoulders. Three heavy draws on what remained of the Prior’s beer bucket, combined with days and nights of riding in an open wagon had dulled her senses almost to a stupor. All but asleep, she sat upright on the hearth as a long, gratuitous belch from the Prior brought an abrupt end to the quiet.

“Yes, it was good stew,” she said, mocking the Prior’s disgusting mannerism.

The Prior waddled toward the door, turned and made the requisite sign of the cross, and chanted, “Te Deum, non nobis Domine, nunc dimitis.” He waved a meaty paw toward Daynin and added, “I shall be in Prior Peen’s hovel behind the chantry, if ye need me, boy. My brethren and I will decide in the morning what is to be done with that bounty. Until then, sleep well, if ye can, but do not go wandering in the grounds.” His disapproving glance toward Sabritha was all too clear.

As soon as the door closed, Sabritha let fly. “That old sot! Who does he think he is?”

Daynin ignored her for the moment, his mind already trying to resolve their next problem. The hovel was barely large enough to sling a cat over his head, let alone for two people to share. And it had only one straw cot. Sleeping close to her had not been a problem before, but now it seemed like an overwhelming issue. He hadn’t the first idea how to resolve it.

“What’s wrong?” she snapped, angrily. “You look like a miller’s mutt with no place to mess.”

“There’s only room for one on that cot. I should sleep in the wagon anyway. I don’t want to leave the chests out there unguarded.”

“Suit yourself, plowboy. I don’t intend to spend any more time shivering out in the cold than I have to. As for the chests, I can’t imagine even a thief would be out in this weather.”

Daynin stopped almost in mid-stride toward the door. “Sabritha,” he growled, his anger more than a little obvious, “if you call me ‘plowboy’ one more time, I swear I will leave you here with Prior Bede.”

She swept past him and rolled herself onto the Bede’s cot. “I’ve been in worst places, I guess. But if it bothers you that much, I’ll save that name for when you have made the biggest fool of yourself. And sleeping out in the rain tonight would be just such a time.” She rolled on her side and held the blanket up, then motioned for him to join her. “Now get you into this bed and be quick about it, before I change my mind.”

* Hadrian’s Wall *

The ominous rumble of heavy hooves swept by the fort within a stone’s throw, first one horse, then three more in rapid succession. Kruzurk breathed a sigh of relief that they had gone on, but couldn’t help wondering who they were and where they were going in such a hurry so nigh to dusk. “Are they well and truly gone?” he whispered.

Mediah crept out onto the hard packed road and dropped to one knee. He placed one hand palm down on the damp earth. “Aye, m’lord. I believe they have gone on toward Tynemouth. There are no tracks on the trail north.”

“Then we must be off. I want to cross the frontier before morning.”

“The Hogshead ferry only operates after daylight, m’lord. It is the only way I know to cross into Scotia without risking a challenge by the Duke’s men at the Liddle bridges. Unless you want to cross well to the east, that is.”

Kruzurk threw himself onto his mount the way a man half his age might do, then winked at his companion. “Let me worry about the crossing, Mediah. We’ve no time to waste. Daynin and Sabritha are in great danger. We must find them before the Duke’s men, else they come to a terrible end on my account.”