CHAPTER 14
A CHANGE OF PLANS
As Connek tensed his legs to lunge forward, the sound of horse’s hooves pounded down the road. Up the main village track from the east galloped at least twenty horsemen. The ones in front wore ring-mail doublets, while the rest were clad in thick leather jerkins. Many had longswords at their belts, and all carried spears and shields. Their steeds glistened with sweat, and the riders looked grim with their long whiskers and polished helms.
Seeing the large crowd gathered in the western half of the village pasture, the warrior in front raised his arm and led his band to the open eastern side. Right up to Merlin and Connek.
Rat bones!
Connek’s face grew hot with anger as he hid his knife once more. He shouldn’t have waited. If he’d killed Merlin instead of daydreaming, he could have run to the safety of the nearby woods. But not now. These warriors would gallop after him and spear him like a jousting dummy.
Four men lifted ox horns and let out a blast that hurt Connek’s ears.
The warrior in front had a dirty yellow beard that hung between the chains of a polished silver amulet — ripe for plucking, Connek thought. Then his gaze fell on the golden boar securing the leader’s dark-red cloak, the insignia of a personal soldier of Uther, High King of the Britons. That, too, would be excellent loot … But then Connek saw the two-handed sword strapped to the man’s back and decided that perhaps there were easier targets for his thievery.
Mórganthu, Anviv, and some attending druidow edged up to the mounted warriors. Connek could see Mórganthu’s stiffness as he surveyed the situation.
Trevenna, the magister’s wife, whispered in the ear of some little brat, maybe eight winters old, and handed him a cheap coin. The boy raced over the stone wall and disappeared up the path leading to the top of the hill.
The lead warrior swung down from his horse and laughed. “You’re a peculiar village with such a young chieftain.” He stepped up to Merlin, who had just descended from the Rock of Judgment along with the monk.
The monk whispered to Merlin, who thought for a moment and then shook his head. “I’m not a leader here.”
“Should I believe this?” the warrior asked.
“These people follow their own hearts.”
“Yet you bear a torc of such workmanship.”
Oh, how Connek wished to rip the torc off that neck! Soon, soon.
“But for your age,” the warrior continued, “I would swear that you feast our host this night. Where is your chieftain, then — Tregeagle — whom men here call Magister?”
“Tregeagle resides up the hill.” Merlin held out his staff toward the Tor. “His wife and daughter are in your presence, and you are expected.”
The man squinted. “You see well for being blind.”
“God has made up for what I lack.”
Trevenna introduced herself. “Are you his battle chieftain, the one called Vortigern?”
“I am that and more.” He turned away from her and surveyed the field, the village’s meeting house, and the spring beyond.
“As there is good pasture here,” Trevenna said, “and very little on the Tor, my husband will come down to greet you. But what of …” Her eyes searched among the men.
Vortigern cleared his throat. “The High King? Uther is coming … and Queen Igerna … along with their daughters and son.”
“How soon?”
“Morning. Kyldentor hosts them tonight, and Uther is inspecting their fortifications. We will hold a court of fealty here tomorrow when the sun stands over the trees.”
Mórganthu’s eyes opened wide and then narrowed into tiny slits. He shot Connek such a glare that the thief stepped backward and tripped over the feet of some pesky villager, who snarled at him.
The High King was coming? Not Gorlas, the king of Kernow? Not the king of Difnonia or of Kembry? But the High King? Fear tightened like a noose around Connek’s throat. To get the three gold coins, he must kill Merlin before the Beltayne fires next evening. Yet to commit murder while the High King’s warriors were here? He’d have to choose his place and time very carefully.
Shock hummed through the crowd at the news, but Tregeagle’s daughter appeared calm. Vortigern also noticed the girl, and his gaze lingered long. “Is this your daughter, Natalenya, whom I have the pleasure to meet?”
As Trevenna nodded, he yelled, “Vortipor! Get your mud muckers down from your horse and meet Tregeagle’s daughter.” He turned back to Trevenna. “Excuse my son while he finds his feet.”
Soon a young man stepped through the ranks. He was tall and thinner than his father, with russet hair, a flat nose, and dark eyes. His beard was patchy and short, and he wore a reddish-brown cloak sewn with silver threads.
“Vortipor, this is the harpist we’ve heard about.”
The young man bowed, took up Natalenya’s hand, and kissed it.
Connek almost laughed when her face turned white.
Trevenna quickly stepped between them. “My family and I are honored to have you and the High King as guests.”
At that moment, Tregeagle, followed by Lictor Erbin, rode into the pasture on the family’s white horses. They cantered around the group of warriors, rode up to Vortigern and Vortipor, and dismounted.
Connek cased Tregeagle’s finely tailored saffron tunic, his white linen trousers, and his amazing belt made from Roman gold coins. Soon, Connek would have clothes like that. And if he wore Merlin’s torc, then some other village far away might make him chieftain, which would mean that he could collect the taxes — hah! — and rob everyone legally!
Tregeagle grabbed the hands of each man in turn and greeted them with a grand smile. “Welcome to Bosventor. Come, shake off the dust of the road and let us fill the welcome bowl together.”
“Villagers of Bosventor! Distinguished guests!” a voice called from behind. Along with the others, Connek turned toward the Druid Stone, where Mórganthu stood, feet planted, both hands on his staff. How had he slipped away without keen-eyed Connek noticing?
“You who know me as the arch druid,” Mórganthu said, “and you who do not, I call you to come and see the Druid Stone.”
He struck the Stone, and it glowed dimly blue.
Once Connek looked, he felt an invisible hand grab him by the scruff of his neck so that he couldn’t turn away. Inside the Stone, a vision appeared of him smirking and wearing a golden torc while he stood over the mangled body of Merlin.
At the same time, one of the druidow beat on a drum. It pulsed throom, throom in his ears, and Connek found his feet moving forward against his will. By some unspoken accord, the villagers formed a wide circle around the Stone.
Connek could hear Tregeagle, that mealymouthed magistork, screeching at the villagers. He heard Vortigern’s harrumphing laughter cut short.
Mórganthu, that benevolent leader of men, called out, “Tregeagle, Magister, we have not had the pleasure of your presence. Come forward and see what brings your people happiness.”
Trevenna drew close to Tregeagle, but he ignored her and turned to his lictor, Erbin, who Connek thought was dressed like a clown in his Roman breastplate and red cape. Tregeagle, a frown on his chicken-thin lips, whispered to him with creased brow. But Erbin’s eyes gazed at the Druid Stone. Tregeagle couldn’t get his mighty lictor’s attention though he waved and called.
It would have been a great time to steal from Erbin if not for the two Vorti-whoevers.
Connek laughed when Tregeagle snatched the gladius from his lictor’s scabbard and marched up to Mórganthu. Hah! Tregeagle’s in for it now. Connek had seen what Mórganthu had done to the druidow who opposed him. He’d seen their bodies in the woods.
Tregeagle shouted and swore at the druid. “Cease this enchantment!”
“Calm. Calm yourself, orphaned son of the Romans. In the Druid Stone you will fulfill your deepest desires.”
“Stop your babbling. How do you know what I desire?”
“Magister,” Mórganthu said, “what you desire is power. But even more you desire coins. Gold coins!” Mórganthu raised Tregeagle’s belt and tapped a gold coin.
Tregeagle slapped Mórganthu’s hand away. “And you’ll give me gold? Hah. Take your rag-loving brigands and get out of my village.”
Mórganthu peered long into Tregeagle’s eyes. Then, glancing at the gathered warriors, he sighed. “A bargain. We will pack up and depart your village if I fail to make an iron coin turn to pure gold before your very eyes.”
Tregeagle whistled and, without warning, grabbed Mórganthu by the tunic, holding the flat of the gladius to the druid’s face with the blade edge up against his nose.
Mórganthu blinked.
Tregeagle smiled, his brows furrowed. “I accept. But know that I carve the noses off duplicitous imps.” He let go of Mórganthu, who staggered before catching his fall.
“Give me a coin, then … a bysall.”
Tregeagle drew forth a slightly bent iron coin. “Make it into gold!” he scoffed.
Mórganthu took the small coin and held it before the people. “Watch.” He struck the Druid Stone with his staff, and it blazed up. Mumbling some indecipherable words, he threw the coin onto the black surface of the Stone.
Tregeagle puffed his cheeks out, for there lay the same bent coin, but it was now pure gold.
Connek’s heart nearly stopped beating. It could make gold! He yelled and pounded his fist into the air.
All around him, the people shouted and stomped their feet.
Tregeagle fell to his knees. Not daring to touch the blue fire, he gripped his sword and flicked the glimmering coin off the Stone. He held it before his puzzled eyes, scratched the coin on the edge of the sword, and marveled at the gold shavings left in the palm of his hand.
“How did you do that?”
Mórganthu grinned. “Not I. It was the Stone. Try another coin. The Stone gives permission.”
Tregeagle pulled from his bag a handful of silver, brass, and iron coins and threw them onto the Druid Stone, each one turning instantly to gold. The magister’s hands shook as he swept the golden trinkets off the Stone with his blade. Gathering them up, he held them before his spinning eyes. And he laughed until all the villagers laughed too.
Connek didn’t join them.
His reveling turned to anger as the coins fell into the grubby hands of Tregeagle. Connek walked forward, fell at Mórganthu’s feet, and begged for coins to put on the Stone too.
Mórganthu bent down and whispered in Connek’s ear, “Begone! You shall not get crumbs from my plate unless you do my bidding before tomorrow night.” And Mórganthu kicked him.
In blistering rage, Connek retreated toward the outer circle of villagers, but three women almost ran him down. That too-good-for-you Trevenna was first, followed by the bizarre Mônda and her daughter, Ganieda.
Trevenna ran to her husband and knelt beside him. She pulled on his shoulders and spoke in his ear. Tregeagle ignored her and braved the blue fire, raking newly made gold coins off with his bare hands and showing them to her. She, unbelievably, spurned them.
In contrast, Mônda and her daughter gawked at the gold coins and hugged Mórganthu, who greeted his daughter and granddaughter with a broad smile. They danced around Mórganthu and the Stone to the beat of the still-throoming drummers.
Soon the villagers danced as well, and Connek found himself moving in rhythm with the drums.
Bag it, why couldn’t he stop his feet? This hadn’t happened before when he looked at the Stone. He concentrated but could barely slow his steps for a moment before his feet danced off again. He wondered if he wore bewitched boots, but they wouldn’t hold still long enough for him to pull them off, curse them!
The warriors watched with fascination but did not dance. Once as Connek passed, he saw Vortigern’s mouth hanging open in a grin as he looked at the Stone. Each time Connek rounded the circle, the battle chieftain was the same, his glassy gaze fixed on the strange, mesmerizing, and ever-burning surface of the Stone. What was Vortigern thinking? What did he see in the Stone that made him waver there like a stalk of grain caught in a spinning, shifting wind? Another time around, and Vortigern had pulled out his blade and thrust it at an invisible foe. What enemy did he see? The fool! If Connek could just control his own boots, he could slip over there and rob the warrior blind.
But time blurred, and soon Connek knew only the movement of his feet and the forever dazzling-blue flames of the Stone. After hours of this, it seemed to him, the ground was littered with huffing and retching villagers. The Stone dimmed, the throoming ceased, and Connek’s legs collapsed beneath him.
Someone shrieked.
Mônda ran from the center looking everywhere among the people. “Owain!” she cried in vain.
If the blacksmith was gone, then where was his son with the pluckable torc?
The gate. They’d been over by the pasture gate! Alarmed, Connek tried to sit up but almost vomited. He lay down until the queasiness passed, then clawed to his knees and spied past the warriors to the gate.
Owain, the monk, and that wretched Merlin had disappeared.
Merlin feared for his father. He, Dybris, and Prontwon had all been talking with Owain in the chapel for half an hour, and his father still hadn’t made full sense of the situation.
At first Merlin thought it was hunger, so Dybris brought fresh bread from the table, and they’d all eaten. But Merlin could detect no improvement in his father’s condition. Even taking a cold, wet rag to his father’s face had not removed the stupor.
“Owain,” Prontwon rasped from where he lay, “when you were young, you claimed Christus … as your own. Tell us about that.”
“Told you before … Can’t you remember?”
Dybris paced back and forth. “We remember, but you —” He threw up his arms.
Owain stiffened under Merlin’s hand. “Want to see it again. The Stone is calling …”
“Tas,” Merlin said, “remember Kifferow. Don’t go back!”
Merlin’s father shook his head. “Kiff … That was a long time ago. Better now. Saw him just yesterday.”
Dybris stopped pacing and whispered in Prontwon’s ear, “Why are we wasting our —”
Prontwon shushed him. “Dybris, if we cannot defeat the power … this Druid Stone has over Owain, how can we have … hope for anyone else?”
“Why can’t we Christianize it?” Dybris asked. “Like the standing stone by the abbey spring?”
“A pagan stone … that the people formerly worshiped … yes, and we carved upon it a cross to point them to Christ. But how do you … propose to do that to this Druid Stone?”
“I’ve been thinking about it —”
“Some things cannot be changed,” Prontwon said, his voice weakening. “Owain, you’re a … respected elder in the village.”
“Respected?” Owain slurred. “Not the way my tas was. He saved the whole fortress once … Snuck up on those filthy Prithager.”
“Who is your enemy, father?” Merlin asked.
“Meddling monks. Mônda’s telling me … telling me to leave here! Where is she?”
Prontwon shook his head. “We need … to pray. Let us anoint Owain with oil and lay our … hands on him.” He fumbled through a bag and handed his oil flask to Dybris.
Dybris held the tube upside down, and not even a drop was inside.
“It must have leaked … Well, we can never run out of prayer, thank God.”
They bowed their heads and laid hands on Merlin’s father and prayed. After some time, Merlin thought he heard a noise beyond the closed chapel door. He turned his head to listen over the earnest words of the abbot but heard nothing more.
A moment later the chapel door creaked open a little.
Merlin concentrated on the sound. Something scraped.
“Come in,” he called, interrupting Dybris.
Outside he heard the fading sound of footsteps running away.