Chapter 20

Geile Plumat reined Cauldron to a stop near the edge of Abbotsford Priory’s stony south bluff. Pushing himself up in his stirrups to get a better view of the target below, he yelled back to his squire, “I see deLongait’s charger, but nothing else. Ride ahead to the church and tell him we approach. The Caledonians are scattered out behind us like pigs in a pilgrim’s parade. I’ll gather them up and come ahead when we can make a show of force these priests will pray about for a fortnight. If there’s trouble, bring deLongait here to regroup. And Miles, don’t do anything to start a fight—you are far from ready for combat.”

“Aye, m’lord.” Miles kicked his horse sharply in the flank as he guided him down the steep southern approach to the cathedral grounds. More than a little anxious to be somewhere that offered a roof, warm food and a semblance of safety, he pushed the horse harder. The boy’s thoughts of warmth only lasted an instant, for ahead of him a flurry of activity burst out in all directions.

Monks scurried hither and yon, driven by a fear Miles could only imagine. A miller’s cart raced out from behind the church and sped toward the front gate of the grounds, scattering a small herd of sheep in its wake. Then, just as Miles reached Prior Bede’s hovel, the biggest, most frightening figure of a giant his worst nightmares could have conjured barged its way out of the rear doors of the sanctuary.

“Whoa, beast!” he screamed, to no avail. Pulling hard on his reins, Miles almost catapulted over the horse’s head as the charger reeled in terror and confusion. The squire hung on for a second then fell sideways off his mount, one leg entangled in a stirrup. In a twinkling, the horse took off again, scared out of its wits. Dangling upside down, dragged along in the mud, Miles could do little except scream for his life.

* Abbotsford Priory Grounds *

Sabritha watched the courtyard scene unfold with something approaching amusement until she realized the charger had bolted straight toward her and the wagon. She knew what would happen next—Abaddon would break and take her and the cart along in his mad flight. She made the decision to jump, instead. Being crushed under an overturned wagon seemed considerably less enticing than staying to face the Duke’s wrath, whatever outcome that might present.

Having followed the giant up from the wellkeep, Daynin pushed his way around Brude’s hulking frame and stepped outside the church just in time to see the horse and rider dash across the courtyard in front of him. A quick survey proved what he already expected—the Duke or the Sheriff’s men, or both, were upon them. Whoever the rider had been, he presented little threat now, but that yellow standard on the bluff was another thing entirely.

“We have to go!” Daynin begged. “The Duke’s men are here. And in great numbers, it appears.”

Brude clanked out into the mist, drawing his broadsword in one enormous flowing motion. He waved it menacingly over his head, switching from first one hand to the other, all the while boasting to the sky, “Bring on the Anglish! Droongar of Dalriada, the sacred sword of my fathers, has much to avenge!”

Careful to avoid the whirling blade as he approached the giant’s back, Daynin pleaded again. “We can’t fight them all, Brude. I see at least a dozen horses. And besides, you agreed to go with me!”

“Go? You ask that I withdraw in the face of the enemy? This blade spilled the blood of the Ninth Legion when it fell to the Cruithni in the forests of Fortrenn. I will not sheath it now—not with the enemy in sight. You go, boy—take yer woman—I will join you later. After all, we are allies now!”

One look at that troop on the bluff convinced Daynin he had few choices. Demon or no demon, Brude could never stand against so many and without a bow or sword, Daynin would be of little help either way.

“The mouth of the Clyde—near Glasgow—that’s where we’ll be. I’ll find us a ship . . .”

In his flowing Pictish vernacular, Brude replied, “Get thee gone, Draygnar. Brude McAlpin will stand ye in good stead here. I will hold this ground at all cost.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Daynin caught a glimpse of Sabritha leaping from the cart, her coal black hair flowing in the wind. Abaddon reared up in his traces, almost tipping the cart over backwards on top of her. Daynin’s heart went into his throat “No!” he screamed, breaking into a dead run for the front gate.

Miles Aubrecht’s horse raced by the cart and out the gate. Tumbling for her life, Sabritha cried out, “God help you, whoever you are!” Obviously she could only offer the poor squire a few seconds of empathy with her own plight having taken center stage. Abaddon jerked hard against the wagon’s foot brake that kept him from following the charger on its mad dash to doom. Behind the wagon, events of an entirely different nature were about to turn the otherwise peaceful priory grounds into total carnage.

* Aboard The Shiva *

A howling southeasterly wind pushed the Shiva’s ancient mast to its limits, and Ean McKinnon right along with it. His worry about soldiers had been quickly replaced by a bout of seasickness in the choppy dash out into the North Channel that separates Ireland and Scotia. Ean leaned over the stern rail and heaved his guts out once more, to the apparent delight of the captain who seemed intent upon running his ship at right angles across every new ocean swell.

“This morning’s fish gruel ain’t so tasty the second time, eh old man?” the captain asked.

“Mind yer tongue, ya saltwater blaggard.” Ean’s weakened voice lost its sauce in the high wind, but not its intent. “Is nae but a wee job to cut yer bloody throat and toss ya to the fishes, ya know.”

The captain scoffed, “Aye and then who’d be steerin’ this scow through those headlands to the Firth of Clyde? None o’ this crew, that’s for sure. They’re as worthless as farts in a windstorm when it comes to navigatin’, wager that!”

Aside from the taste in his mouth, Ean could think of little except the outline of the coast scudding by off to his right. Scotia! he mused. Half a day and I’ll be home again at last. Now if only I can find Daynin before the Duke catches him. Then we shall see if he has his father’s pluck!

* The Hole Inn The Wall *

“Lights ahead, m’lord,” Mediah reported.

Kruzurk slowed his horse to a walk, overjoyed with a reason to stop after the long day’s ride on the trek northward. “Yes, I see them. Looks to be a tavern. We’ll stop and give the horses a rest, then move on before daybreak. Careful what you say here, Mediah. We’ve no friends in this country.”

“Aye. A den of thieves for sure, from the looks of it,” Mediah agreed. “I’ll see to the animals whilst you sup. Mayhaps there’s a swinekeep about who can pass the local gossip, but I’ll be careful what I say in return. Not to worry.”

Mindful of his backside when he opened the front door, Kruzurk was amazed to find a tavern built from half timber and half cave, seemingly sprouting from the solid rock face behind it. An ancient weathered sign out front had read The Hole Inn The Wall. Now he knew the reason for the label.

A long bar stretched across the whole of the cave mouth at the rear of the great room. Hollow echoes from every sound in the tavern could be heard bouncing back into the darkness. An ugly hulking quencher roosted behind the barboard, his stare more than enough to scare off even the surliest of visitors. There were no corners in the circular room for Kruzurk to settle in, so he decided to take a table in the middle, next to a round, crackling fire pit. Three scraggly men at the other tables barely gave him notice.

“We’re out of wine, if that be yer want, old man,” the quencher’s woman screeched from somewhere back in the smoky, pitch black alcove. “I can offer you cold beer and an even colder gruel, if’n ye have coin and can pay.”

“Beer and bread—how much, barkeep?” Kruzurk replied.

“That depends,” the keep was quick to respond. “If’n ye be stayin’ the night, I’d be chargin’ a quarter-talen for the food, booze and bed. You’d be sharin’ the bed with others o’ course.”

Kruzurk’s skin crawled at that notion. The floor of the inn was littered with dead roaches and rat droppings. He could only imagine how bad the beds were, not to mention the bedmates. “Just bread and beer, keep. And I’ll have the brew in a clean pail if you don’t mind.”

“If’n we don’t mind, says he,” the keep scoffed. “Would ya be needed a woman to keep ya warm, then? Or a sheep mayhaps? I’ve got both and only a tuppence for either.”

Mediah had just slipped in the front door. He quickly sized up the situation and eased onto the bench next to Kruzurk. “I’ve news,” he whispered. “A blind man in the barn out back heard some of the local henchmen talking about a bounty for a boy and a magician. The gang headed north to Galashiels at first light this morning. Seems the Duke is raising an army of mercenaries up there.”

“That tears it,” Kruzurk groaned. “We haven’t an hour to lose.” He stood up and approached the barkeep, three silver talens in his fist. “We need two fresh horses, keep—and I’ll take the bread and beer as well. How much?”

“Horses, says you?”

“How much, damn it? I’ve no time to dilly-dally with you,” Kruzurk snapped. He dropped two of the talens on the board and waited for a reaction. “We’ll be leaving two good horses in trade. What say you, now?”

The barkeep swept the coins off the board faster than a hog swoops an acorn. “Bloody hell, for two talens, you could ride me old lady, if’n ya wanted to, sire. Take yer pick of the beasts in the barn. And tell that old beggar out there to tend to your trade-ins.”

“Done! And one more thing. How many roads lead from here to Galashiels?”

A hearty bite on one of the talens was all the proof the barkeep needed to realize he had just made the deal of the month. “How many? Why, they’s just one o’ course. This ‘ere road leads to Abbotsford Priory, then over the Moorfoot cairn to Galashiels. But that ain’t no place for the likes of you pilgrims, ‘specially at night, if’n ya be catchin’ my drift.”

Kruzurk did not respond. He turned and motioned to Mediah, who by now had the pail of beer and a large haunch of bread in his hands. “Let’s be off, Captain Fludd. We must hurry if we are to join up with the bountiers.”

A confused look spread across Mediah’s face, then he took the hint. “Aye—uh—m’lord Beasely. These writs must be delivered.”

The two were almost to the door when one of the ragtags in the bar spoke up. “Pardon, yer lordship, but if’n ye be ridin’ all the way to Galashiels, ye’ll be missin’ the Duke’s party for sure.”

“And you would know this, how?” Kruzurk replied, skeptically.

“Fer one o’ them fancy silver talens, a bloke could be persuaded to show you where the Duke’s men are, if’n he had a good horse and a hefty swig o’ beer to settle his innards, that is.”

Kruzurk tossed a talen on the floor at the man’s feet. When the ragtag bent over to pick it up, Kruze planted his foot squarely on the knave’s hand. “A bloke could lose his innards meddling in the King’s business, my friend. Now where was it you said we needed to go?”