CHAPTER 20
THE ARCH DRUID
It comforted Merlin to have his father lead him as they walked through the darkness to the village green. And through that slight touch on his father’s shoulder, Merlin sensed some excitement in Owain’s stride. The indecision was gone. Even if Merlin didn’t think Mônda would leave the druidow, he was happy his father wanted to try. And his father was proof that a person could be transformed. Who knew what God would do?
The bright smear of a bonfire appeared to his right, and voices drifted across the field.
“I don’t know what everyone is doing at this hour,” his father said. “I thought it would be quiet.”
“Do you see Mórganthu?”
“Too many people around the Stone to tell, but I would guess he’s here. The monks are just inside the gate. Let’s head in their direction.”
Merlin followed a step behind as they passed through the wooden gate. As they approached, his father hailed Dybris and explained how he had regained his faith.
“That gives me strength … for my task tonight,” Dybris said. His tone was cheerful, but with a hint of apprehension, and he proceeded to explain how he’d come up with a plan to Christianize the Druid Stone.
The more Merlin heard, the more alarmed he became. He reached out to Dybris, found his shoulders, and gripped them tightly. “You mustn’t try it!”
Dybris stiffened. “I’m not afraid.”
“There’s something deeper I don’t understand about the Stone. It’s evil.”
“How do you know?” Dybris asked, breaking Merlin’s grip from his robe.
“I’ve touched it. You must trust me when I say your plan is reckless.”
“Don’t you care about Garth? The others?”
Merlin’s face grew hot. “My back is still sore from my flogging. Don’t tell me —”
Someone stepped in between them. “Peace, Merlin … I think our enemy will bury us all if we don’t stick together.”
Merlin steadied his breathing and turned toward the voice. “And who is this?”
“Crogen, our new abbot,” Dybris said.
“May God bless your leadership,” Merlin said, pressing the back of his hand to his forehead.
“And may God give us all wisdom tonight.”
But was Dybris’s plan wise? Merlin weighed it in his mind, and it continued to gnaw at him. When he had touched the Stone by accident, he’d encountered a depth of evil and darkness he hadn’t known was possible. The Voice’s words still echoed in his memory. What would the Stone do to Dybris? Prontwon certainly hadn’t foreseen its power.
“Dybris?” Merlin asked. “Since you are firm in your decision, who is going with you?”
“No one.”
Crogen cleared his throat. “This is Dybris’s plan, and his alone. The others are more careful of the Stone’s power. And from what you say, rightfully so. As their abbot, I will stay with them, and we will pray.”
Merlin took a deep breath and looked at Dybris. “Then I’ll go with you.”
“What? You’re against this.”
“Even if it’s dangerous, you shouldn’t go without support.”
“But there’s no need. You couldn’t —”
“Help? My blindness is exactly why I want to come. I can’t see the Stone, and that makes me safe from its enchantment. You might need someone like that helping you.”
Owain took Merlin’s right hand. “Are you sure about this? I need to find Mônda. I had hoped you’d come with me. Help me know what to say.”
“Come with us, Tas. We’ll find her afterward, together.”
“I don’t dare.” His father’s voice quavered. “The Stone’s hold over me is still too fresh. Go with Dybris, and I’ll find Mônda. With the bonds broken, I’m strong enough for that.”
Shouting rose from the crowd across the field, and Merlin listened carefully. “What’s happening?”
“It’s Tregeagle,” Merlin’s father said. “He’s laughing as he walks from the Stone, and he’s holding a gold platter the size of two horseshoes.”
“Who are the warriors?” Crogen asked. “The High King’s men?”
Dybris pointed. “The tall one there that Tregeagle’s talking to is Vortigern —”
“I guess battle chieftains must be grim,” Crogen said. “But Tregeagle giddy? Never witnessed such from him.”
Dybris stepped forward. “I shouldn’t delay. Merlin, are you sure you want to come?”
Merlin paused. Was he sure? Like large black spiders, revulsion for the Stone crept up his legs. He wished he could forget the Stone and these people. He and his father could move away and start a blacksmith shop somewhere else. What had these people done that he should risk his life for them? Look how well that had turned out with Garth.
He wanted to refuse. The words were on the tip of his tongue. But all around the pasture, the druidow began chanting, then the voices of the villagers joined in. And the drums beat.
Merlin could feel it. Change. Change that would sweep across Britain, erase the name of Christ from the people’s memory, and bring suffering and bondage in its wake. There was nowhere to run. Bosventor was the place this unholy fire could be stamped out, and he might be the only one who could confront its flames.
So did Dybris’s plan have any hope?
Very little, Merlin guessed. Yet even a sputtering candle stub of hope was better than none. If the plan failed, then their actions would still make a statement. And for that alone, Merlin would take the risk.
He cleared his throat and stepped forward. “Yes, I’m certain now.”
Owain watched Dybris and his son walk off in the direction of the crowd. How had Merlin grown so much? One day he was no higher than Owain’s belt, and the next he was a man. How many years had they lost in between? True, they’d worked together all that time, but Owain had pushed his son away on every level. Now he understood part of the reason, and he determined not to let the precious time they had left slip from his hand.
As Merlin and Dybris approached the outer edge of the mob that worshiped the Stone, Owain longed to rush after his son and support him. Yet he dared not go near the Stone — at least not yet — for its memory still burned in his mind.
He turned away. He needed to find Mônda. But anger toward her flared up in his heart like buried coals exposed to the air. Mônda had kept his spirit tied up — away from God — and as Merlin said, she had immediately run to her father’s side. Didn’t she deserve her fate?
But something nudged his heart. He had been guilty too. He’d pushed God away ever since Gwevian had drowned and so had made his heart ripe for Mônda’s plucking. Did he deserve God’s love?
Owain thrust his anger away. He had been given a second chance, and his shame was consumed in the heat of that love. God’s love. Merlin’s love. Now it was his turn to reach out.
Sending up a short prayer that he’d find Mônda at some distance from the Stone, he circled the throng and watched for someone with the dark, flowing hair of his wife, being vigilant to avoid any sight of the blue flames.
Passing by Uther’s warriors, he overheard Tregeagle and Vortigern talking.
“Did you ever see the like?” Tregeagle boasted. “This plate was tin! Made right here on the moor. But see it glitter now.”
Instead of answering, Vortigern sniffed the air through his moustache and turned to face the Stone. His eyes became glassy, and a leer spread across his face.
Owain turned away lest his own gaze be drawn toward the Stone.
He walked past the two men and saw Mônda standing near the back of the crowd. He called, but she didn’t answer. He stepped next to her and gulped at his mistake. This was some black-haired druid wife, toothless and dour. Her arms and face bore many scars, proof she’d partaken in many rituals. Owain shuddered as he realized this could be Mônda’s fate, or worse, if he failed to bring her back.
As he strode away, someone tapped on his arm.
He spun but immediately dropped his defensive stance. My Ganieda! She looked up at him, her pretty nine-year-old eyes filled with fear. “Mammu is sick. She’s over by the meeting house. Please hurry!” She turned and sped away.
Owain sprinted after her as she ran to the south edge of the pasture. She darted past a small cluster of men and approached a campfire that had collapsed into embers. There Owain found his wife sleeping fitfully on a bed of dried grass. Her face was pale. Too pale. He bent down and felt a burning fever on her forehead. “Mônda, it’s me … Owain.”
She opened her eyes halfway. “Wha’?”
“I’m here.”
She turned her head, and her hair fell near a live coal that had tumbled from the fire. “Owain?” she sputtered.
He scooped her hair back and flicked the coal away. “I came to take care of you.”
“It hurts.” She pulled up her left sleeve, and the skin was bloody where her covenant band had circled her arm. Pus wept from the sores.
Merlin held on to Dybris as they stepped through the now chanting crowd. How the villagers had learned this gibberish, Merlin could only guess.
Reaching behind him, Dybris handed Merlin a bag. “Can you carry this and hand it to me when I tap you?”
“Sure. Let me put my hand on your shoulder so we don’t get separated. Is it much farther?”
“Twenty paces.”
Merlin took a few careful steps. “Is Mórganthu near the Stone?”
“No.”
Merlin peeked past Dybris, and a blur of blue light shone from inside the Stone. “If possible, don’t look at it,” Merlin said.
“I’ll try not to.”
“And don’t touch it.”
“I won’t.”
“And —”
“Shah! We’re almost there.”
Someone stepped in front of them. “Halt! Why do you approach the Druid Stone?”
“We come to worship,” Dybris answered.
“A monk? Do you think I’m a fool?”
“We’re here to worship. Let us pass! Are not all welcome?”
The man paused, then shrugged his shoulders and waved them on.
“I didn’t say whom I was going to worship,” Dybris whispered as they stepped closer. “We’re before it now. Let’s bow and pray to our God. I won’t look until I have to.”
Merlin dropped down and kept his eyes shut so he wouldn’t see even a glimmer of the Stone’s fire. Alternating waves of heat and cold flowed through the ground under his knees, and he realized with rising panic how close the Stone lay. Remembering his last encounter, he brought his hand to the back of his neck and prayed for Dybris.
He also prayed that Garth and the villagers would have their eyes opened. That God’s Spirit would halt the mockery of the Stone. That Christ would be exalted.
Dybris double-tapped on Merlin’s knee.
Unstringing the bag he’d been given, Merlin reached in and drew forth a sealed ceramic pot and placed it, cool and heavy, in Dybris’s waiting hand. Next he pulled out a brush with a short wooden handle and passed that forward as well.
Standing on the outside of the circle near the drummers, Mórganthu spied a monk and Merlin wending their way through the crowd toward the Stone. Whatever that boy is planning, he shall pay dearly for the attempt.
Garth tugged at Mórganthu’s robe. “I’m all done with stackin’ firewood, Ard Dre. Am I free now?”
“More. More wood.” Mórganthu reached out to push Garth’s insistent hand away, but he missed as his gaze followed the two intruders.
“But Ard Dre, I’ve already gotten enough. The pile’s a great heap!”
“Get wood,” Mórganthu yelled at him. “Get wood, you stray dog!”
Garth shut his mouth and ran off.
“Anviv! What do you make of those two who speak with that ignorant guard?” Mórganthu pointed to Merlin and the monk as they were intercepted by one of his druidow.
“That, my father, appears to be a meddling monk and the blind beggar of the smith trying to make trouble.”
Mórganthu ground his teeth. “I had hoped today’s message to the abbot would keep them away. But they come again, and I dare not call the Eirish warriors here with these brutish men of Uther’s about.”
“Then what have you prepared for these pests, Father?”
“Our spies tell me that nearly all the monks are present. It is time to show our strength.”
Anviv licked his lips. “And if they do not respect us, O Father?”
“Tonight is the warning. Tomorrow evening there will be an end unimagined.”
Anviv laughed. “You mean —”
Mórganthu whistled. Immediately, two men walked up. Mórganthu whispered in the ear of the first, and he raced away.
The second man stepped forward, and the light of the bonfire fell upon his brown cloak and hooded face. Mórganthu smiled. It was crooked-nosed Connek, the perfect man for tonight’s work.
Speaking into his ear, Mórganthu pointed out Merlin.
Connek nodded and slunk into the darkness.
“Give me the armband!” Mônda said. “Where did you put it?”
Owain held out his empty hands. “It’s gone. Merlin destroyed them, and we’re free.”
“Nooo!” Mônda tried to scratch him, and he backed up.
Three druidow appeared out of the darkness and gazed at Owain.
Startled by their sudden appearance, Owain readied his hand at his dirk and locked eyes with the largest of them.
“Just lighting these,” the man said as he held three torches to the embers. “We’re not looking for trouble. We’ve a job to do.” The torches flamed up, and the men left, heading east into the darkness and away from the gathering.
Mônda screamed again, causing Ganieda to cry.
“Come with me,” Owain pleaded. “All three of us can heal. Jesu will help!”
“I won’t,” his wife spat. “I’ll never leave the druidow again.”
Connek slid closer to Merlin. Stopping just short of the inner ring, he concealed himself next to a twiggy druid with a gray tunic.
What are the fools doing? Connek wondered. Had Gold-neck and the monk started worshiping the Stone too? Or maybe they were just trying to make their own gold coins without permission. No problem, then, for Connek would steal those as well.
Merlin tilted his head slightly to the left, revealing the edge of the torc. The fine metal glittered in the stone’s blue flames. All it would take would be one prick of his blade in the right place …
Connek watched Merlin and the monk for several moments as they knelt in front of the stone. Then Merlin pulled some object from a bag and handed it to the monk. Connek wasn’t sure what they were up to, but he decided it was high time Merlin got what was coming to him. He smiled at the thought as he edged closer to his prey.
When Dybris saw the flames subside and sink back into the Druid Stone, he knew it was time. He stood and called out, “All of you, listen to me!”
The crowd hushed and the drums stopped.
“You have worshiped this Stone and turned away from the Living Christ who bled for you, but I now Christianize the Stone in your presence!”
Many of the people shouted.
Dybris uncorked the pot and dipped his brush in. Raising the wooden handle, and without glancing at the Stone, he stooped down to its dark surface and pressed the brush against it. Quickly, he painted a large white cross on the top, dipping three times into the colored pigment.
Dybris raised his arms, brush in hand.
“What you worship in confusion, I proclaim to you in truth. Christ is Lord of all. Your Stone has no power over Him, and this sign I have made confirms His Lordship. Continue to worship, but do so to God and not to the false powers of the earth or sky!”
As he finished speaking, a deep rumbling sounded from the Druid Stone, and Dybris eyed it cautiously.
Connek’s heart pounded as he pulled the knife from his sleeve. Just a moment more, and the kneeling fool would be dead. A knife in the back, a grab for the torc, and he’d run off into the woods. The opposite direction of those snail-footed warriors, who had stupidly left their horses tied up on the other side of the field and wouldn’t be able to catch him.
And then Mórganthu’s three gold coins would be his as well. Connek tensed his legs. With a burst of rage, he lunged forward. His clenched fist aimed the death point of the knife straight at Merlin’s back.
A sizzling blue flame exploded from the Stone.
The next thing Connek knew, he had been laid out flat on the ground with an incredible weight across his chest and neck, with coarse wool stuffed in his mouth.
People yelled all around him.
Straining, Connek heaved the smothering weight off and found it was the monk. The Druid Stone must have blown him away from Merlin. Rat tails! There was still enough time to make a kill. Connek searched frantically for his knife, but it was nowhere in sight.
The bellowing increased even as the flames blazed up from the Stone. Connek turned to face it, and the freshly painted cross smoked away in one swift moment. Not even a trace was left behind.
Even without the knife, he could still steal the torc! He stood just as the angry crowd surged forward.
“Stand back!” Merlin shouted as he swung his staff to ward the people away.
Taking his last chance, Connek dove under the whirling stick and slid a finger under the golden torc.
But the mauling crowd thrust him down, and his prize was lost. A bare, smelly foot stepped on his face, and Connek fought to free himself from the mob. They beat Merlin and Dybris as the frustrated thief pulled his brown hood over his stinging face and slunk away, cursing.
Owain heard the uproar and looked with alarm at the sudden riot.
He handed some coins to his daughter, told her to take care of her mother, and ran toward the pulsing mob. A few steps behind the warriors, he dodged around Crogen and finally passed Tregeagle and Lictor Erbin, both of whom fumbled for the gold coins the magister had spilled in the confusion.
Vortigern blinked as the throng of villagers began to block his view of the Stone, breaking its hold upon him. His chest felt free now of the pincerlike vise, and he gulped in the air like a greedy man.
Someone tugged at his leather jerkin. “Highest Battle Chief, hear me!” a round monk shouted in front of him. “Stop this riot!”
He shook his head. He longed to punch the man’s face, plop his tubby form to the ground, and continue to look at the Stone and dream again about the glorious future. But the villagers were shouting now, kicking and punching. And thoroughly blocking his view of the marvelous Stone.
“Why should I meddle?” he demanded.
“Because I’m the abbot, and if you don’t, I’ll tell the High King of the beating, and that you did nothing to stop it!”
Vortigern snarled and pushed the insolent monk away. Who was he to tell Vortigern what to do? But then, the man made some sense. Uther would arrive in the morning to inspect the fortress — and to receive the fealty of these unruly people.
Rot. What a mess! It would go badly for him tomorrow if the people didn’t learn to respect his men, for they were truly his, even if not in name. Besides, he wouldn’t be able to stare at the Stone again unless he got everyone out of the way.
“Blades up!” he shouted as he pulled his hand-and-a-half sword from the scabbard on his back. All the warriors who had blades did the same, and the sound of ringing steel filled the air. Others brandished their spears.
Shouting a war cry, they rushed right past the monk and into the crowd. Pushing the people away like saplings, the warriors broke into the center.
Merlin huddled before the onslaught, covering his head and protecting his face, but it was no use. Time blurred as each blow found its mark.
Then his assailants inexplicably fell back, leaving Merlin dazed and bruised. He struggled for breath as someone blew a battle horn and the shouting died down.
His ears ringing, Merlin climbed to his knees just as his father arrived.
“I’m here, Merlin —”
Above, Mórganthu shouted, “My people, my people! Why harm these two? Cannot our Druid Stone defend itself?”
Amid the murmurs of the crowd, Merlin heard Crogen instructing monks to pick up Dybris and carry him away.
Mórganthu waved his arms. “Back now and sit, my people.”
The gathering quieted.
“Vortigern, I thank you for stopping this small altercation. You may withdraw your men. We are at peace again.”
Merlin’s father whispered, “We need to get away.”
As Merlin stood with his father’s support, he found his limbs sound, though sore.
The warriors tromped out of the circle, followed by Merlin and his father, who made it to the open grass beyond the crowd.
“Since you again see the powerlessness of our enemies,” Mórganthu shouted, “I call the uncommitted to join us. Come! Who will show their fealty to the Druid Stone and the safety, happiness, and treasure it offers?”
Merlin heard an excited buzz as many of the villagers went forward and, following Mórganthu’s instructions, bowed before the Stone.
“Who went?” Merlin asked as he discovered a bleeding scrape on his left forearm.
“I can hardly tell in the dark, but among the thirty or so who went forward, I saw … wait … it’s Tregeagle. Mórganthu’s welcoming him and Erbin, and they’re bowing down.”
Merlin’s thoughts went out to Natalenya. “What will Uther do tomorrow when he finds the magister has given his allegiance to the Stone?”
But before his father could answer, a man rushed onto the green from the road, yelling, “The abbey’s on fire!”
Merlin turned, and there beyond the dark eastern arm of the Meneth Gellik, he saw smears of an orange glow billowing out into the night.