Chapter 17

Those in the church heard the deep rolling rumble far below the floor of Abbottsford’s nave just before one corner of the pavestone foundation buckled. Violent shaking quickly spread from the floor to the huge columns that supported the roof of the church. Dust erupted from every crevice and corner, turning the yellow glow of a hundred candelabras to a ghostly brown and throwing the whole of the priory into the gloom of half-light.

“Saint Stephan preserve us!” Prior Bede bellowed, the quiet morning exemplum having turned to a maddened fire drill all around him. Novices and priests alike ran for the back door, fearing that the sanctuary’s towering slate roof would come crashing down on them any second. “Stay yourselves,” Bede ordered, his voice commanding their attention even as the rumbling from below subsided. “These walls will stand, but I cannae say for the roof of the refectory. If you go out those doors, you will likely be crushed.”

The throng of black robes pushed and shoved their way into a single mass near the back exit of the sanctuary, unsure what to do next. To their left, an unearthly wail began to echo from the catacomb’s wellkeep. A collective gasp filled the nave, the brethren turning in unison to focus on the Bede, their eyes pleading silently, “Protect us Father, from whatever Hell has sent forth to reap our doom.”

Prior Bede crossed himself, then shoved one of the toppled oak pews out of his way. “Get thee gone, all of you, brethren! I know not what comes from that wellkeep, but I know ‘tis nothing mortal that wails so mournfully. Take shelter in my hovel and wait for me there.” The Prior waved for the covey of frightened men to go, but before they departed, he added, “And pray, brothers—pray that whatever I find down there can be dispatched by prayers alone, for my cross of St. George may prove a pitiful shield against whatever it is the devil has sent from his realm to ours.”

From the crest of the jagged cairn overlooking the priory’s southern approach, deLongait heard the roar too, though he mistook it for thunder. He swept the visor on his helmet back, casting a curious glance at the darkening sky, but found nothing indicating an approaching storm. His charger neighed nervously as well, probably picking up the strong vibrations through its hooves.

“Bloody highlands,” deLongait swore. “The further we travel in this God forsaken wasteland, the more curious our tale becomes, eh Tantamede?”

At that instant, a great hubbub burst forth from the back doors of the priory church down below. It was as though a gaggle of giant blackbirds had all been released from their cages at once. More than a dozen monks broke out of the church’s rear portal, appearing for all the world like Cerberus himself flew hot on their heels.

DeLongait steadied his mount, looking on in amazement at the sight. Priests were, after all, a normally staid contingent, showing no emotion and very little excitement over anything short of an extra measure of beer after vespers. But this group seemed hell bent to escape that church, whatever the cause.

Tantamede reared briefly, suddenly driving hard down the slope with his rider slapping his flanks. If Plumat’s felons were in the vicinity, deLongait intended to be the one who claimed the reward for their capture and not some gang of robed rioters or Caledonian misfits.

Sparks jumped off the flagstone track from the horse’s hooves in the headlong dash to the priory’s gate, adding an entirely new threat to the already confused mass scrambling for cover in the Bede’s hovel. One novice looked up at the approaching specter and ripped off his coif as he ran, screaming, “God help us, the flaming minions of hell are upon us!” Others followed suit, first with their head covers, then tearing at their robes to speed their escape.

The first monk to reach Bede’s hovel burst through the door and toppled over a stool Sabritha had placed there for just such a sudden intrusion. Three more quickly added themselves to the confused heap on the floor, their surprise at seeing a woman only slightly less obvious than their fear of what loomed outside.

“Get out of here!” Sabritha screamed, dropping the pot of stew she had just readied for the fire. She was paid no mind, though, even by monks loath to enter a room with a woman in it, let alone one who screamed at them the way she had done.

A tenured monk reached the hovel last. Seeing the mass confusion, he tried to calm his flock and restore order. He gestured frantically for the men to quiet themselves, finally shattering a long unbroken vow. “Settle down, all of you!” Upon hearing Prior Stin’s angry voice for the first time ever, the huddled group fell silent. “Calm down, brethren. We must pray now. Prior Bede’s life is at stake.”

“What the hell is going on?” Sabritha snapped. “You people act like you’ve seen the gates of Gehenna open up.”

Prior Stin flipped a thumb back toward the sanctuary and whispered, “We may well have seen exactly that, my lady. God forgive us, we may have seen exactly that.”

The labored huffing of a charger could be heard just outside the hovel, bringing all conversation to a halt. Sabritha grabbed for her blanket, pulled it tightly over her head in the manner of an old woman’s shawl and growled “Well, is no one going to see who’s out there?”

Expressions of fear, anguish and complete dismay spread across the faces of the monks, ending with each one looking to Prior Stin to speak for them. “That may be the devil’s minion himself, my lady. His black stallion flew across the ground on a sheet of flame—I saw it myself—and that followed a great upheaval from the catacombs beneath the sanctuary just before the specter appeared.”

“Goat’s grunt,” Sabritha replied, instantly showing her disdain for the cowardice of the monkish mob. “If it’s the devil come to take us, why would he waste his time riding a horse in here? You people make me . . .”

Before she could finish the words, an enormous battleaxe protruded through the half open door of the hovel, followed by an even larger helm with an impressive black hauberk beneath it. “Yield, in the name of Duke Harold of Anglia!” the helm bellowed. “I have a warrant for three felons believed to be secluded here.”

Prior Stin stepped between deLongait and the woman. “M’lord, this is a house of God. We harbor no felons here—just those who come to us sick in soul and stature. They share our bread like this unfortunate old woman. Besides, your Anglish warrant carries no weight in the highlands or with the Church of Scotia. Now lower your weapon and sup with us in peace.”

“I’ve not come a hundred leagues for gruel and beer, monk,” the helm replied. A mailed hand shoved the prior aside. “Now get out of my way, or I’ll cleave that bald head of yours!” The man inside the helm gave Sabritha a cursory glance, turning his attention to the rest of the room. “Stand up you lot and remove the rest of those coifs that I may see your hair. You there—be quick about it.”

Two of the younger novices received a curious, but peremptory inspection. They were shoved aside as deLongait eyed each of the others closely. “Where are the rest of your people? And where is the boy—the one with long hair? I warn you now, if you don’t give him up, you will pay when the Sheriff arrives.”

A collective gasp went up from the men in the black robes, visions of a hangman’s noose looming large in their futures. “He’s—in—the catacombs,” one of the novices blurted out, a shaky hand pointing toward the sanctuary.

DeLongait grabbed the boy by the front of his frock and jerked him through the crowd, shoving him toward the door. “Show me, boy and you may yet live to see the morrow.”

* The Catacombs *

Three hundred steps down into the gloom of the wellkeep, Prior Bede stopped. He waved the candelabra ahead of him in a vain attempt to clear some of the dust that floated in the musty air around him. He could make out just the hint of a strange creaking noise somewhere below him, its metallic echo grating on his already thinned nerves.

“Who goes there? Show yourself, whoever you are,” he demanded, hearing nothing in reply but what sounded like a rusted hinge screeching in the wind.

“Ow,” came a mournful groan in the distance. “Damn the dark!”

“Daynin? Is that you, boy?” Prior Bede stepped down onto the large circular floor that led to the dozen hallways. “Gimme a shout, boy, that I may find you in all this dust.”

“Father—I’m here—uh—by the Pictish tomb. Something—uhm, terrible has happened.”

The candelabra’s light barely penetrated the heavy air ahead of him, but Prior Bede forged onward. “Stay where you are boy. Don’t move around. There are places in these catacombs where you can fall for half a day if you cannae see your way. I’ll find you—just stay still.”

Daynin rolled over onto his stomach, feeling all around him for solid stone to stand on and hoping to find what remained of a candlestick. Shattered bits of stone, mortar, rotten wood and shards of metal were all he found. He pushed himself to his feet, still dazed and confused by what had happened. A flash of light in the sooty darkness caught his eye. Bede’s candles reflected off what remained of the bronze plaque that had been attached to the doors behind him. One of the doors creaked on a single hinge, the sound sending chills up Daynin’s spine.

“Over here, Prior. To your right. I can see your light. Tread carefully, the hallway has changed from when last you saw it.”

“Aye, I can see that, boy. What the bloody hell happened Daynin? Did one of the arches collapse? We felt the rumble all the way up in the sanctuary. Are you hurt?”

Before he answered, Daynin felt around on his tattered clothing. He found a warm wet spot on one elbow, but other than that, he seemed fine. “I don’t know what happened, Father. One moment I was chanting the words written on the sarcophagus, and the next, some force threw me out here like a rag doll.”

“Threw you?”

Bede crept along only a few feet away, picking his way through the rubble. Daynin could see the sweat on his brow reflected in the candlelight. Never had he been happier to see a shiny bald head in his life than at that moment. “Yes, thrown, like a great force hit me. Like a—a—giant demon’s breath, or, or—maybe a . . .”

“An explosion—that’s what the Roman chroniclers called it, at any rate,” Bede added, his voice somewhat winded. “It is said there are people in the east who can make such explosions, with a mixture of magic, bat dung, and charcoal.”

Daynin stiffened when the light came near enough to reveal the carnage around him. “The big doors are splintered!” he gasped. “And the vault—my God, Father—the sarcophagus is split wide open and shattered into a million pieces!”

The Bede stopped in his tracks, viewing the damage in utter disbelief. “It’s a wonder the whole bloody thing hasn’t collapsed,” he whispered under his breath. “Are you sure you’re not hurt?”

Daynin turned in place, dusting off the debris as he allowed the Prior to look him over. The back of his leather tunic had been riddled and pitted with splinters, but none had penetrated. A small bloodstain spread down his frock sleeve and his boot lacings were all but gone. Other than that, the boy was in one piece, except perhaps for his nerves.

He took a step toward the Prior and stopped, turning and cupping one hand to his ear. “Do you hear that?” Far to his right, lost in the depths of the shadows and smoke, the noise arose again. This time, it seemed more measured—more alive. Daynin knew no hinge could make such a sound, especially since it was moving.