Chapter 16

Three of Abbotsford Priory’s stouter novices had spent the better part of the morning helping Daynin unload, catalog and store the bulk of the Blackgloom bounty in the catacombs. All were somewhat dazed by the amount of booty they had logged thus far. The cart contained more gold, silver, jewelry and intricately adorned goblets than anyone had ever seen in that part of the world. Books were in abundance as well with still more boxes to be examined.

“When you return from taking those coffers down to the vault, finish listing everything in these two crates and take them down as well. Leave the remainder of the booty in the wagon,” Daynin ordered the novitiates. “I’ll be taking all of that with me in the morning.” The three nodded in silence and went back to work finishing their impressive list of manuscripts and plunder.

Suddenly Daynin realized he had forgotten to deliver Sabritha’s breakfast. He made a quick pass through the refectory’s galley to find something—anything—to offer her. He dashed toward the hovel and backed in the door without knocking, his hands laden with a tray of fried bread and wine. As he turned to set the tray down, Sabritha stood there before the fireplace swathed in little more than a shocked look, a few soap suds and a modestly placed sponge.

“Damn, plowboy! Don’t people in your clan ever knock?”

Flushed and almost blinded by the blood coursing through his brain, Daynin couldn’t help but let his eyes linger a bit longer than he should have. The sight of her naked form was nothing short of stunning. Sabritha appeared even more beautiful than she did as the Seed’s mistress—especially since this time, he knew she was the real thing.

“I-I-I-uh,” Daynin stuttered, unable to even begin to think of a way to cover his blunder. The tray trembled in his hands, setting adrift the mug of wine.

“Better set that down before you lose my breakfast,” she snapped. “Then you can get yourself out of here until I’m done with my bath.”

“Of course—I—I’m sorry—the door—wasn’t locked or anything . . .”

“Who locks doors in a cathedral grounds, for ninnies’ sake?” came the sharp reply.

That sent Daynin on his way in a hurry. He didn’t remember closing the door behind him, although he was certain that he had. He didn’t even remember going down into the catacombs, yet that is where he found himself—standing in the entrance to the sepulcher. Treasure and books had been stacked against one wall, though he barely noticed, his thoughts lost in the glow of the candles he had somehow picked up in his blind rush from above.

“You fool!” he wailed. The cascade of echoes from a hundred directions seemed to mock him, making him feel even more ridiculous. “She’s never going to take me seriously if I don’t stop being such an ass!” A hundred S’s hissed back from the dark corridors around him.

Mesmerized by visions of Sabritha, the treasure and what the two combined might mean to his future, Daynin stepped inside the tomb wherein the Great Deceiver’s casket had lain for half a millennium. The boy’s mind went everywhere and nowhere, numbed by the cold and dampness. He picked up one of the ancient texts and placed it on the sarcophagus, allowing it to flop open to a velvet bookmark. Without thinking, he began to read aloud.

Daynin scanned down the page, stopping abruptly when he realized that he was repeating a conjuration likely written by a sorcerer’s hand. Stunned, his eyes immediately skipped from the book to several rows of pictographs carved on top of the sarcophagus. Shoving the book aside, he feverishly brushed away eons of dirt, decay and detritus, bringing the whole of a long hidden message to light. While his eyes scanned the markings, words formed in his head—almost like a chant—but different somehow, very different. Reading on, he could hear himself repeating lines left by an ancient Pictish priest who must have believed that Brude McAlpin would again walk in the land of the living, provided the right conditions prevailed.

“Prima urbes inter—divum domus Dalriada,” his chant began. “First among cities, home of the gods, Dalriada,” Daynin translated aloud. He read on, “Oh child of Scotia, set me free—spirit to live, all eyes must see.”

He swept the candles back and forth to decipher more, unsure exactly where his fingers were leading him. “Time and the teller’s craft thy tools—say the words and bring the one who was destined to rule; back to the light, so full of might—all his enemies will fear the night.”

The words spilled from Daynin’s mouth as fast as his fingers could trace the runes. “Amal Matrach, Dein Bei, trappings of death fall away. Keen this crypt open, no time to delay; give Brude McAlpin his rightful sway.”

For a few seconds, the words and symbols rattled around in Daynin’s mind. He read the whole thing again, this time louder. He could feel his blood running hotter with each repetition, but there was no stopping. The words flowed like a song he had known since birth. Again and again he recited them, each time more rapidly and with more conviction until he reached a near frenzied state of mind.

The lid of the sepulcher grew hotter, or was it the mayhem in Daynin’s mind that made it feel that way? He shook off the effects for a moment, then realized the whole tomb seemed hotter. He felt sweaty, confused and light headed. By now, the candles had burned well below the halfway mark. Panic set in and he turned to leave, his imagination only guessing at the consequences of being trapped in that awful place without a light.

He managed one faltering step toward the opening before five hundred years of tumult erupted behind him. A crackle like that of a great oak rent by lightning ripped the silence of the catacombs. Instantly, the casket exploded into a cacophony of noise, dust and debris. Daynin flew head first through the open double doors and sailed across the corridor, crashing sideways into the wall. His candles flew hither and yon, snuffed out by the blast, throwing the whole chamber into the blackness of unmeasured time. Mixed with the dying echoes of the blast, only a single sound could be heard in the gloomy darkness—the creak of bronze armor left too long to the ravages of rust and ruin.

* Plumat’s Army *

The sudden splash of hooves thrashing across the Tweed river ford unleashed every waterfowl in the vicinity, sending them flapping in all directions. Plumat’s giant charger, Cauldron, led the troop with Miles Aubrecht, Earl deLongait and a score of Caledonians strung out behind them.

The troop had ridden hard and without halt since first light. Intent upon making good his boast of capturing the boy before the day was half spent, Plumat’s horses were beginning to show the wear and tear of haste.

“My liege,” deLongait roared, “we’d best be resting these animals, lest we lose some of our Caledonian minions.”

Plumat reined in his stallion, turning sharply on the track to stem the troop’s tide. “Damn these highland levies,” he snarled. “I hated them in Ireland and I’ve no better use for them now.”

DeLongait pulled up alongside and dismounted. “Aye, m’lord—a worthless lot they are, but we may have need of them. Most have little training on horseback, that’s plain to see. God help us if we meet any real resistance in this sheep strewn swinebay of a country.”

The rest of the troop straggled in, scattering to dismount along the river bank, paying less heed to their mentors than to themselves and their mounts. In no time, cooking fires sprang up and the trappings of a day camp appeared. Apparently, the Caledonians planned to go no further without their midday measure of bread and warm grog.

“DeLongait—take Miles with you and scout ahead as far as that yonder ridgeline. I want no surprises once we get this ragtag lot remounted and on the way again.”

“Yes, m’lord,” deLongait replied, snappily. He cuffed Miles by the scruff of the neck and shoved him toward his mount. “Let’s go, boy—and no lagging behind or I’ll swat you with Draco’s duller edge.”

It took the two riders an hour to reach the top of the steep ridge. Before them lay a narrow, rock strewn valley with Abbotsford Priory and the cathedral grounds at its center, still half a league away.

“Go back and fetch the troop, squire. That priory down there must be where our felons have taken refuge. Tell Plumat I have gone ahead and for him to follow in haste. And stay on the track, boy—these hills are full of brigands who’ll slit you from gut to grin just to steal your boots.”

Miles waved halfheartedly, wheeling his mount to head back down the ridge. Barely out of shouting range from deLongait, his mind quickly turned to thoughts of escape and freedom, but he couldn’t help dwelling on that image of being slit wide open by some blaggard in the bush. He kicked his mount hard and pressed on, clearly preferring the demeaning role of a live squire to that of a dead, shoeless freeman—at least for the time being.

* Ravensport *

A steady westerly wind whipped Ean’s face, first with a measure of sand, then another of salt mist as he climbed up from the rocky Ravensport beach onto the boat. Troon was already aboard, the split in his thigh having been stitched together with cat tendons by a local butcher who passed for the village healer.

The sea remained in an uproar—far too menacing to allow the launch of the boat—even one as large as that McKinnon had hired to ferry them north to the mouth of the Clyde River in Scotia. It had taken all of Troon’s spare supplies as well as the horses to bargain a way aboard. Now they were stuck with an evil wind blowing ashore, land-locking every ship in the bay.

“How soon?” Ean hollered, trying the best he could to be heard over the gale.

“Maybe soon, maybe sunset, maybe Sunday,” came a well-practiced reply from the surly, self-appointed captain of the vessel. “You landlubbers got no ‘preciation for the treacherous nature of the sea and with this ‘ere Irish wind a blowin’, it could be days afore we get out of the harbor.”

“Och! We dinnae have days to wait,” Ean responded. “I paid you to get us from here to the Firth of Clyde. By God I expect you to deliver!”

The captain spat sideways with the wind, turning his weathered face back to McKinnon. “Aye, old man, you can mess in one hand and pile yer ex-pec-ta-tions in the other—see which one fills up first. But until this ‘ere wind lays down a bit, we ain’t gettin’ as far as the headland out there. Got it?”

Ean gestured his disdain with a time honored single finger salute, then slipped below decks. There, Troon slept off the wine the butcher-healer had offered so freely. McKinnon knew it wouldn’t be long before the Duke’s men sniffed out their trail. After all, how hard could that be? Not many flatlanders trekked through Ravensport and fewer still came pinned to their saddle by a Saxon crossbow bolt.

The wind had to change soon, otherwise Troon might have to be left behind and the long journey north made overland. Satisfied that he had done all he could for the moment, Ean slumped back against a hogshead and allowed himself to sleep for the first time in days.

* The Liddle River *

Wave after rolling wave swept down from the northeast, pitching the heavy barge up and down with each successive swell. The force of the water was doing its job, pushing the craft inexorably closer to the Liddle’s north bank and freedom. But it was all Kruze and Mediah could do to steady the horses and keep themselves from taking a fatal, end over end plunge into the foaming mass of turbid water.

“Just a little longer!” Kruzurk cried out, more to convince himself than to steady Mediah, who seemed almost oblivious to their plight.

“Reminds—me—of—the—ocean sea,” the Greek shouted back, his words rolling rhythmically with each new wave.

Kruzurk smiled despite the situation, causing a broad, mischievous grin to sprout from Mediah’s coarse black beard in return. Nothing short of outright death seemed to rattle the Greek. That made him an invaluable ally in a land with nothing but bountiers, blaggards and booty chasers roaming the roads north into Scotia.

When Kruze looked up, the steep, chalky cliffs of the north bank suddenly loomed closer, presenting a whole new threat to their survival. Unknown to him, the north shore of the Liddle sparkled with huge chunks of rock that had fallen from the cliffs above—a dead man’s maze of crashing waves, jagged tree trunks and massive shards of stone. And they had no way to avoid them.

Kruzurk untied his magician’s robe and stripped it off in one quick motion. In a second move, he shed his other clothes except for his breeches. “We’ll swim for it or those rocks will finish us. Tie everything to your horse. Jump whilst we still can!”

Mediah’s turban and robe came off first. In a heartbeat, he stripped naked except for his loincloth. “I’m a strong swimmer—you go first and I’ll follow, lest you should founder in that current.”

Having stuffed and tied his goods as best he could to the horse, Kruzurk nodded in agreement. Without standing, he edged toward the barge’s side and slipped quickly into the water up to his neck. The shock of the intense cold immediately overtook him. The old man lost his grip on the bucking barge and disappeared into the undulating brown mass without so much as a whimper.