CHAPTER 13
STANDING STRONG
Good people of Bosventor, hear me!” Merlin called.
The forms moving around him paused, and he sensed them turning to face him.
“Brother Prontwon spoke the truth to you last night. He told of the deception of this Stone and the curse of the old ways.”
No one responded.
“He told you not to give up on Jesu. He told you to —”
“Shut yer mouth, Merlin. We heard Prontwon last night. Nothin’ new,” someone bellowed.
“I’m not telling you anything new,” Merlin answered. He wondered if the speaker had been Brunyek. How could he follow the Stone? He was a hardworking farmer, and Merlin knew that he faithfully attended chapel.
“I speak of something older even than these gods the druidow worship. I tell you of the Great Ith’esov, the I Am who makes a covenant of peace. I’m telling you about His Son, Jesu, who made all things new. This is the God that created the whole earth and —”
“Be quiet, Merlin,” a voice shouted out.
“You be quiet,” another shouted nearby.
“Stay out of this, Allun!” the first man said.
The two scuffled, and someone cried out as he was thrown to the ground.
The first man spoke again. “You, Merlin, don’t tell us what to do. Let the heads of the families decide. Let Tregeagle decide, I say —”
The tall figure of Mórganthu stepped forward. “Steady, steady, my young man. This dispute is entirely between Merlin and the kind personage of myself.”
The man backed off.
“Now then,” Mórganthu said as he snaked his arm around Merlin’s shoulder. “What is the trouble? Does your head hurt from last night? Terribly sorry. Civilized men like us should settle things properly. How may I help you?”
Merlin wanted to pull away from Mórganthu and clout him in the head. Send him crawling away from the village never to return. But Mórganthu waved something in front of Merlin’s face that had a strong aroma, like pine mixed with bitter berry. After only a few whiffs, Merlin’s anger faded, and he couldn’t remember what he’d been about to say. He tried to speak, but only gibberish fell from his tongue.
“There, there,” someone beside him said. “We all feel a bit confused now and then.”
Merlin walked beside this kind stranger, who placed an arm over his shoulder. “Who are you?” Merlin asked.
“A friend” said the man with a gentle voice.
“Where are we going?”
“To the Stone, where you’ll be happy.”
The stone? The Druid Stone? That’s what he was speaking against. And the voice belonged to Mórganthu. A surge of anger flowed through him. Yanking away from Mórganthu’s arm, he turned and inhaled the fresh air.
Mórganthu pulled at his collar, but Merlin ducked and broke away. Now he could think straight, and he remembered his task. “Everyone, hear me! This man deceives you. Kifferow died because he worshiped the Stone. There is nothing but death where the druidow lead!”
Mórganthu snarled and threw Merlin onto a pile of musty leaves. The arch druid’s voice roared, “Hear me! Hear, my people. Ignore this son of a braggart. He is no leader of men! He is but a boy who is blind, cursed by the gods.”
Mórganthu pulled off his hood so the torc at his throat gleamed. He lifted his arms, allowing the sleeves to fall down and reveal the myriad of blue tattoos that Merlin knew to be there. Then Mórganthu shouted to the people, “Remember the song our ancient bards sang …
If ever one of six things you bear,
the folk will hear and follow you:
A harp whose notes hang in the air,
or druid-coppered scars of blue.
Fine cape and hood o’er brihem’s hair,
or knowledge wise of fili true.
King’s knife held at the back made bare,
else torc of woven metal hue.
“This boy,” Mórganthu said, “this boy is no chieftain of men! He has no torc or office that you should follow him. Ignore his doggerel, and let us begin our worship of the Stone.”
The villagers laughed as Mórganthu kicked Merlin.
“No torc! No voice. Get away from here,” the people jeered, mimicking Mórganthu. Some even spit on him.
Merlin brushed the dirt off his face. No torc? He felt the hard curve of metal hidden in his pouch. With new confidence he stood again before the villagers. “Give room, good people.” He swung his staff out in a gentle arc so everyone backed away. He untied his bag and reached in.
“All of you, listen to me! You have known me as Merlin, the blind son of your blacksmith, sport for your children, and one of no account. And so you ignore my words and follow this man, this liar —”
Mórganthu stepped up again and yelled “Silence!” but Merlin kept on speaking.
“Look and see what my God has given as a sign for you to follow me and turn away from this druid madness.”
Merlin pulled the torc from his bag, and it flashed golden before their eyes. He bent the ends out and placed it around his neck. Taller he felt, and princelike before them. His blindness but a mystery, and his scars the marks of a true warrior.
Hushed murmurs weaved through the crowd as the villagers turned toward Merlin.
“All of you, come away to hear my words.”
Merlin oriented himself by the position of the sun, walked a good distance from the Stone, tapped until he found the granite slab that was the Rock of Judgment, and climbed upon it. And to his utter amazement, the people followed. He had expected one or two, but so many? Even Merlin’s father had come, his covenant armband flashing in the sun and his dark beard hanging down onto his chest. But was that Mônda pulling on his arm?
Mórganthu fumed as he, Anviv, Garth, and the druidow were left standing at the Stone. He turned to his son. “What is this? Where would Merlin get such a sign of power? Beyond the land of the Eirish, no torc has been made of that ilk since that cursed Agricola and his Romans stripped us of our treasures.”
“My father,” Anviv said, “may I go and taunt the blind one?”
“Ah, yes. I see, I see. Raise his bile. Let him make a fool of himself for wearing that torc?”
“Exactly.”
“No … this is a more serious puzzle than your renowned heckling can solve.” Mórganthu closed his eyes for a moment.
“Then, my father, I think it is time to call your friends to come help us. Let the silly blind one, shall we say, be seen no more among the people.”
Mórganthu sucked in air between his dry lips. “You are wise, O son! Our thoughts run in the same river.” He walked south across the village pasture and stopped at the stone wall that encircled it. Then he whistled down into the small tree-filled valley where the village spring ran.
Six warriors burst up from the brush, hair hanging past their shoulders and distinctive clothing showing through their traveling cloaks, which had been thrown back in the sunshine. Their tunics had been cut with a long slit in front, the sleeves tight to the elbows but billowing downward. Over these they wore embroidered leather jerkins. Their belts held swords with curved jeweled handles, and stiff boots covered their laced leather leggings.
Mórganthu addressed one among them who had a long, gray-streaked beard and a slim silver torc at his throat. “Welcome officially to the first of many villages we will rule, O’Sloan, my war-band leader.”
O’Sloan bowed.
Next, Mórganthu turned to a man at O’Sloan’s right who stood a head and a half taller than the others. “And you, McEwan Mor. I have need of your swift Eirish club.”
Another warrior, dark of hair as well as countenance, stepped forward and fell to his knees before Mórganthu. “Ard Dre,” he said with rattling voice, “fer a bit o’ gold, I’m willin’ fer thy deed, nay matter the blood!”
O’Sloan pulled the man up and yanked him back. “McGoss, ya were nay called for’ard. We should hear the task afore we speak o’ knifin’.”
Mórganthu spoke low of his mission, and McEwan looked out toward the massed villagers. “Ya mean that’un there standin’ on the slab? Ya wish us to knife that’un?”
“Yes, yes. He is the one.”
A warrior in blue snorted. “Ken ya believe it, O’Sloan? ‘Tis the bard ‘imself.”
“Och, man, we canna do it. ‘Tis against our law!”
“What? He is no bard,” Mórganthu said. “You are mistaken.”
“Nah, I canna be. He has the torc o’ a bard, an’ the harp o’ a bard, an’ he is speakin’ as a bard. In our view o’ things, we dare nay chance it. Isn’t that so, McEwan?”
The big warrior nodded. “We’ll nay touch ‘im, nay hurt ‘im. If ya try, we’ll oppose ya.”
“What of McGoss?” Mórganthu asked. “Surely he will do it.”
O’Sloan placed a hand on the hilt of his dagger. “We’ll slit ‘im first, we will. Such is our laws, an’ ya well ken the curse that would visit us fer even thinkin’ such a thing.”
Mórganthu swore. “So you break your oaths so easily, O’Sloan?”
“We’ll do as ya say in all else, but ya ken our ancient laws, and we daren’t grieve a bard.”
Mórganthu rubbed the bulging veins on his face. “I shall let this matter pass, but you will show your loyalty. Or else I shall send you back where you will eat the rags of your thievery at the hands of that two-faced Christian Eirish king!”
O’Sloan bowed before Mórganthu. “As sure as our lives depend on ya, we’ll do yar biddin’ in all else. Give name to the task.”
“Go, all of you! Go back to camp and await my orders there.”
O’Sloan’s eyes lit up, then he seemed to hesitate. “We been sittin’ by the stream all mornin’, so we’ll gladly go back to yar vats o’ drink an’ victuals, but ya’ll have to promise us ya will nay hurt the bard.”
“Yes, yes. I promise I will not hurt him.” He waved them away. “Your copsed path is there.”
O’Sloan and his warriors descended into the small valley again and headed eastward.
When they were out of earshot, Mórganthu walked back to Anviv. “I promised I would not hurt him, and I will not. But I swear I will cut off my own hand if this meddling son of Owain An Gof does not die before the Beltayne fires are lit tomorrow eve!”
“O Father,” Anviv asked, “may I have this boon?”
“Not you. I cannot risk that. Cannot risk losing you. You must lead the druidow when my spirit departs to be renewed in the waters of the deep. Fetch our new friend Connek from where he loafs by the meeting house.”
Anviv nodded and headed back toward the village, returning shortly with the thief beside him.
Mórganthu whispered a long time in Connek’s ear. About halfway through, Connek grinned. Finally, Mórganthu held out three gold coins.
Connek groped for them, but Mórganthu knocked the thief’s hand away. Connek’s eyes followed the coins as each slid back into Mórganthu’s bag.
First the largest coin … clink.
Then a thick one with a horse pulling the sun across the sky … clank.
And finally one stamped with the head of the dead usurper King Vitalinus Gloui … chlink.
Connek licked his lips as he left Mórganthu, walking with determined steps to Merlin and the meeting of the villagers.
It appeared someone was arguing with the scarred fool.
“And why can’t we worship this Stone and your Christian God at the same time? None of the other gods seem to mind.” A low rumble — half laughter, half assent — went through the crowd.
“Priwith,” Merlin said, “you yourself have sat under the monks’ teaching. You know God commands us not to worship anyone or anything else.”
“But it is the most striking thing I have ever seen.”
“That may be true, but that doesn’t mean we should worship what has been created. That’s like confusing your goat and its milk, but the Druid Stone isn’t even like that. Pledging yourself to it is joining yourself with evil.”
“I sense nothing evil about it …”
“I understand you don’t feel its presence, but evil lurks there nonetheless. Go and see Kifferow’s body. Go ask the good abbot.”
“Kiff was a drunkard,” someone yelled from the crowd.
With wide eyes, Connek took note of Merlin’s heavy golden torc. There was more gold on that soon-to-be-cut neck than Mórganthu had offered him. He slid his rusted knife out and tested its edge with a sweaty thumb. Surveying the large crowd, he shook his head in dismay.
Some bloke next to him had a coughing fit, and half the crowd turned. Connek’s cheeks flushed red as he pushed his knife up his sleeve. He pretended to cough too and kept his hooded face down.
Soon the attention went back to Merlin, and Connek ever so slowly worked his way through the crowd until he stood just behind the inner row surrounding the Rock of Judgment. The gold torc peeked out from underneath Merlin’s thick black hair and dazzled in the afternoon sun.
Connek imagined how it would feel to slip the heavy torc into his own bag.
The silly talk seemed to go on forever, but to his delight, it finally became a confrontation. And if it turned to blows, then in the confusion he could —
“All of you, hear me,” Merlin called. “Don’t give your lives into the hands of Mórganthu.”
“We’ve heard enough of your monkish talk,” a man to the left shouted. “I’m going to the Druid Stone to see it again.”
The people murmured in assent and turned to walk back to Mórganthu. Only Tregeagle’s wife and daughter and a monk in his ridiculous robe now stood between Connek’s knife and Merlin, with that tempting prize. The monk had his eyes closed, foolishly praying to his god, and the women, conferring together, would never be able stop him.
Best of all, Merlin was blind as a worm and wouldn’t even flinch. Connek’s memory still burned with images of Merlin and his father wrestling him to the ground, trussing him, and sending him to Tregeagle for judgment. No more would he smell these spoiled rich people’s food. No more would he go around in near rags or sleep in the cold with nothing but his cloak. Gold to finally live at ease!
Connek slipped his hand into his sleeve and gripped his trusty knife. Just last month it had helped him secretly kill and rob a man in the woods outside the village of Meneth Garrow. Oh, how it itched to be used again. Just two more steps and he’d plunge it into the braggart’s chest, grab the torc, and run.