Chapter 24

Abbotsford’s grounds lay as quiet as the graveyard Olghar had just felt his way through. The only sounds his keen ears picked up other than the hollow tip tapping of his cane were sheep bleating somewhere in the distance and the harsh grackling of birds feasting on something. Suddenly his guide stick thumped against an object that shouldn’t have been sprawled in the middle of any cathedral grounds.

“Hello?” he offered in a low voice, hoping the large body his cane had just outlined would be that of a sleeping person and not a dead one. There was no reply.

“Alms for a blind beggar? Is someone there?”

Again, no response. But Olghar’s raised voice seemed to have aroused the crows or vultures or whatever had been feeding in the distance. The birds raised a cry that could only be described as otherworldly, then abruptly left in an upward cascade of maddened wing flapping.

“Hallooo?” he shouted.

“Are they gone?” a male voice whispered, close by.

Olghar’s cane immediately touched on the body he’d found and sure enough, he felt rapid breathing. “All is quiet, whoever you are, but I cannot say if there are any others around. I’m blind, you see.”

“Yes, yes,” the voice said impatiently, “I heard you the first time.”

Olghar’s attention snapped to where the voice had just moved. The man was now partly upright, but still sitting on the ground. “Blaggards,” the voice swore. “I thought that first band of cutthroats would burn us out. Then a Saxon army came and they beat and tortured us again. I feel for that boy, with so many bad people bent on his capture.”

“Boy says you? One with a warrant on ‘im? And a woman, too, mayhaps?”

Having managed to stem the bleeding on his forehead, Prior Bede laboriously rolled onto his knees and pushed his considerable weight from the dirt. His hand reached out for Olghar’s shoulder to steady himself, but the blind man jumped back in fear, almost causing the priest to topple again.

“Hold still—I’m the Prior here! I mean you no harm. I need your help to get to my hovel. My head is spinning like a laundry maid’s loom.”

Obediently, Olghar stepped forward to offer himself as support for the much larger man. His free hand made a cursory examination of the Prior’s robes to ensure that he had indeed encountered a priest. “I’ve come a long way with some friends who are seeking this boy you speak of. They say he’s innocent.”

On wobbly legs, the pair made a dozen steps toward the hovel. Prior Bede said, “That boy is hardly innocent. Misjudged perhaps, but he admitted to murder with his own lips, though he did profess it to be a fair fight.”

“Aye, so say these others. And I believe them.”

Inside the hovel, Prior Bede loosened his grip on Olghar’s shoulder and collapsed onto his cot. “Believe this, old one. That boy—Daynin is his name—has more trouble headed his way than he can possibly imagine. You’d best tell your friends to head northwest toward Glasgow, and fast. That is where the boy and his enemies will meet and no amount of help is going to save him, short of the Almighty’s divine intervention.”

“Perhaps that is why I joined them, Father. Perhaps that is why.”

* South of Glasgow, Scotia *

Divine intervention wasn’t exactly at the forefront of Daynin’s mind at that moment. In a deep quandary over the squire, he couldn’t decide whether to leave the Saxon behind or not, even though that would virtually guarantee the Duke’s men would find them. Taking him along could mean they would be found out anyway, when and if a ship could be hired to ferry them all to Rhum. And doing the boy harm, he would not even consider.

“He has to go with us,” Daynin said, sighing.

“What? Are you talking to yourself again?” Sabritha sniped from behind him.

“The squire must go with us to Rhum—there’s no other choice.”

Sabritha climbed over several of the large chests to gain a spot on the wagon seat next to Daynin. “I could have told you that. He’ll tell the Saxons everything if you let him go. The only other choice is to tie him to a tree somewhere off the track and hope they don’t find him.”

“Cannae do that,” Daynin replied, his language again reverting to its familial Scotian roots. “The wolves would have ‘im afore we’re half a league gone.”

“Have who?” came a plaintive cry from the back of the wagon.

Sabritha’s head whipped around, her gaze seeming to throw fireballs at the squire. “Keep your mouth shut back there—or it might be you we’re talking about.”

The boy turned a ghostly white, his fate suddenly all too clear. “I won’t make trouble for you, I promise. Please don’t make me go back! I-I-I can cook, and tend horses—and clean armor.” A dagger-like stare from the woman shut him up instantly.

Daynin eased the reins over, guiding Abaddon off the bumpy stone track and into a grassy meadow near the joining of two magnificent valleys. The smell of clover mingled lightly with the first hint of heather blooms in the cool air. Those smells generated powerful images in his mind, and reverie claimed him.

First, he thought of his mother, lost so long ago to an ague that still had no name. They had buried her in a place not unlike the one that spread out before him now, with clover, heather and teaberry vines growing up the slopes of two rocky cairns. She had always smelled of teaberry soap and that special kind of heather she used when washing their clothes.

His mother had never been replaced by his father, so special had been their bond. Daynin envisioned that kind of union with Sabritha, if only she would have him. She had spirit, and guile, and intelligence and all the other attributes he had come to expect of the woman with whom he would rebuild the McKinnon clan. She was perfect—except for one thing. She had never lived in the highlands. That might prove to be too great an obstacle for their love to overcome.

Only time would tell, for the highlands could be a harsh land, especially for women. Doubly so for those unused to the cold loneliness of clan life, highland winters and the constant deprivations so commonplace among his people. Sabritha would have one great advantage over others—if she chose it. She would call Rhum home. No other place in all of Scotia compared to the beauty and peace of Rhum with Kinloch Keep its crown jewel.

A large grain bag in hand, Daynin dropped down from the wagon to feed Abaddon. “The Duke’s men will have found their way through the Leech by now. Could be no more than half a day behind us, or less. We’ll rest for a bit, then break for the coast with all the speed Abaddon can give us.”

Sabritha’s gaze made a careful sweep across the valley road behind them. She observed no movement all the way back up the moor as far as the heavy mist would allow. “Is there nowhere we can hide, Daynin?”

For the very first time since he had met her, he heard a worried tone lacing Sabritha’s voice. Daynin smiled and said, “Our best chance is to find a boat and beat it to sea before they catch us.”

“I’m slowing you down,” the squire spoke up. “That old horse can barely pull this cart, let alone the three of us.”

“It might help if we all walked for a while, that’s true,” Daynin agreed. “I don’t know how far it is to the coast, but Glasgow is only a few leagues further on. With any luck, we can find a fisherman with a boat big enough to take us aboard. Then we’ll be safe. They cannae track us on water.”

Miles climbed out of the wagon to stretch his legs, but stopped abruptly, as though something evil flashed across his mind. “Daynin—I just remembered—Geile Plumat—my master—he sent for more men to join him at Glasgow. They could be coming by sea from Carlisle. The Duke has ships there, and men. They—they—could be there already—ahead of us!”

* Plumat’s Army *

Brude McAlpin’s heavily shackled frame had been carried face down across the bare backs of a wagon team, strapped tightly legs-to-arms like a load of sheep hides headed to market. He had seen nothing but the steady plod of the team’s enormous hooves, yet knew exactly where they were, even after hundreds of years entombed in the priory’s catacombs. Brude was home—on Cruithni land for the first time since leaving Loch Ness to war with the armies of Oengus, long dead King of Scotia and scourge of the seven houses of Scone.

What an undisciplined lot, he told himself, having yet to feel the need to actually speak aloud to his Caledonian captors. No wonder these black hearted thieves were so easy for my kin to defeat in battle. They love the drink far more than the taste of blood.

He knew sooner or later one of the bountiers would gain enough courage or drunken curiosity to come over and make a show of things. That’s when there would be trouble, for the band’s leader had yet to return and without orders to the contrary, no telling what the mob might do next. Give me a free hand, that’s all I ask—just one hand—free of these bloody chains—and I’ll make fish bait of this bunch.

Brude didn’t have long to ponder his fate. Bored with the wait for their taskmaster, one of the Caledonians took out a pair of dice. “First mahn to roll a thuu—teen, eh? Gets ‘is choice of that bloody giant’s armor. What say ya, lads? Who’s ta wager with old Billy Bones? Come on now, put up yer booty—ye’ve all got some of that Saxon silver and I aims ta collect it.”

“You ‘eard what the Saxon said, Spivey,” one of the new men argued. “No one’s ta make a move afore he gets back. You’ll get us all a floggin’ if’n ya stir up that giant.”

“Who appointed you sergeant-at-arms, Kendal of Sleek? You was nowhere to be found when that beast over there cut Jack Scurdie in half. We won the right to finish this big bastard and by God, I’ll have my vengeance! Now who’s with me?”

An uproar from both points of view spread rapidly through the ranks, threatening all out war amongst the bountiers. Several men rushed to the team of horses and cut Brude loose from his defenseless position. He fell with a resounding clank on the rocky ground, still bound from head to heel in ropes and chains.

“‘Ang ‘im says I,” Spivey bellowed.

“Aye, string ‘im up!” several others chimed in.

Just as Spivey bent over to jerk Brude’s helmet off, one of the camp lookouts broke into a dead run from his position astride the valley road down below. “The captain’s back! The captain’s back!” he screamed, trying desperately to stay his cohorts from their ill-conceived plan.

“Bloody hell,” Spivey and the others crowed, but they stopped anyway, having no desire to face Plumat’s wrath or that of the Kensington blade he carried.

No sooner had they turned from their mischief than Plumat and his standard appeared from down in the draw. Spread out behind him came a column of men—all armored—and all showing the maize and scarlet of Plumat’s master, Duke Harold of Anglia. The rumble of their heavy war horses literally shook the ground, bringing a tremble to the knees of every bountier.

From his tenuous position on the ground, Brude raised up enough to see the entourage heading his way. Aye! Now we’ve an enemy worth the killing, he mused.

* Abbotsford Priory *

“Why don’t I go and check on Olghar?” Mediah whispered. “There’s no warrant on me. They’ll just think I’m another beggar.”

Kruzurk shook his head in disagreement, his eyes fixed on Thor’s seemingly lifeless carcass. “Men who would kill an animal for sport have no soul—no honor. I think we’ll wait, Mediah. Olghar will come fetch us when the time is ri . . .”

Disregarding Kruzurk’s logic, Mediah was already on the move, dashing half way across the open ground between the ruined stables and the back wall of the sanctuary. He stopped for an instant next to the dog and quickly began gesturing for Kruzurk to come ahead.

“He’s still alive!” Mediah cried out as Kruzurk approached. The Greek then stifled his own voice with a hand over his mouth.

“I’ll tend to Thor. You go and find Olghar. We’ve no time to waste, if this dog is to see another sunrise. And Mediah—tell no one why we are here.”

Back at the Prior’s hovel, Olghar availed himself of what remained in the priest’s stew pot. “So there were many soldiers, eh Prior?” he asked, having licked his grimy fingers clean.

“Yes, and Caledonian mercenaries. At least a score of the blaggards, maybe more. Apparently the Saxon lord that Daynin murd—er—killed was a Marquis. There is a large reward for the boy’s capture.”

“Reward, says you?”

“Forget it, old man. You’ve neither the skills nor the courage to go after that boy. Aside from the soldiers, there is a demon in their midst. I saw it emerge from the catacombs myself. No man will stand against that creature. It made an unholy alliance with Daynin.”

Olghar reached inside his pouch for the St. Vladimir’s cross he’d promised to Kruzurk. He raised it to his forehead, touching lightly the dirty bandage that covered his eyes, then swept it left and right, up and down, as though making the sign of the cross in front of him. He whispered, “Derzhite nas v bezopasnosti ot togo, chto my ne mozhem ponyat.”

“What sort of blasphemy is that you’re spouting in my hovel?” Prior Bede demanded.

Olghar heard the sound of his host’s head lifting off the pillow, then falling back from dizziness. “I speak no blasphemy, Prior. Merely an ancient prayer from my land to keep us safe from this creature of the catacombs. I am a priest—like you. Or, I was—in the land of the Russ, many leagues to the East, where spirits and monsters are quite common.”

“The Russ have no priests. It’s common knowledge they are a godless lot,” Prior Bede argued.

Ignoring the slight, Olghar cocked his head to the right, turning it slowly to fix the sound. “Shhhh, someone is coming.”