CHAPTER 25
MYSTERIES UNBIDDEN
Uther pushed his way behind a table at the back of the crowded meeting house, evicted a warrior from the bench, and sat down. The air stank of sheep manure and wet leather, but that was the least of his concerns. It was those druidow, curse them! They were behind this village’s impudence. Colvarth had told him about these meddlers, but Uther had never expected to run into so many. Certainly not in this wee village. If its mountain fort hadn’t been on the main line of beacons, Uther would have never even come.
And he wouldn’t have visited Kernow at all if that contentious King Gorlas had simply joined him against the Saxenow. Their former rivalry for Igerna’s love made things difficult.
Nowhere had people refused Uther fealty. And they always loved Arthur! But here, they scowled. Refused him honor. Wouldn’t join the fight against the Saxenow. But why did it gall him so? Igerna chided him about his pride, but wasn’t he the High King?
Should he just depart? Spit on their mud? But he couldn’t afford to break the line of beacons. Not with the Saxenow building their strength on the eastern shore.
Maybe Tregeagle could … Tregeagle! That two-faced, money-grubbing druid lover.
Uther was in a precarious position. If he captured the Tor by force from Tregeagle, he could spare only a few men, and Vortigern said the place was a trap without better stonework and new timber. It would be simple for the druidow to take it over after he left.
And the Stone? Dreamlike feelings had come over him when he’d looked at it. A vision had appeared of himself conquering his enemies, even besieging Rome to take it back from the barbarians. Oh, how he’d longed for that since last year when Odoacer had conquered the empire’s capital and deposed Orestes and his young son Romulus Augustulus. Uther the emperor … Yes, the Stone had thrilled him!
But then he’d felt an icy claw begin to scrape his neck, the pain slicing into his heart. And if it hadn’t been for the vexations of Mórganthu’s son, that fool with the reeking breath, Uther might not have pulled his eyes away. Moreover, hadn’t he called out to the Christ? He could barely remember now. And if Colvarth was right, this village’s bewitchment was just the beginning of the arch druid’s plans. Uther needed a council. And quickly.
But first he needed to get away from the village. Set up his tents on some defensible hill. Give his horses room for action. And the sooner out of this cramped, smelly roundhouse, the better.
“Ho! Battle chief. Pack us up to move,” Uther called through the dark press of men.
Vortigern pushed through the warriors. “For the Tor?”
“No. We will find no proper welcome there. Our magister has left his loyalty in the dust.”
“Here isn’t bad. The horses have grass —”
“Not in the village.”
“Don’t you like it?”
“No. And you?” Uther said, arching his eyebrow.
“Eeeh.” Vortigern shrugged. “But it’s raining.”
“That has never stopped you before. Move.”
“Shall we head to the other side of the mountain? From the Tor, I’ve seen hills and a lake.”
“Fine.”
In less than half an hour, the whole company was on the move to the other side of the mountain. Once they arrived, Vortigern pointed to a flat hill between the lake and the marsh.
Uther surveyed the land and nodded. There, with the rain falling lightly, the warriors raised his campaign tent and soon had their own tents set up as well.
The rains quickened again, and before Uther closed his tent flap, he gazed out over the long marsh to the west. Out on an island, he spied a stone tower surrounded by ruins. It stood perhaps twenty-five feet tall, and at its top a single dark window opened eastward.
Peculiar. What was a tower doing in the marsh?
“Vortigern,” Uther called.
No answer.
“Vortigern!” Where was that slumber-loving battle chief?
Merlin, who had come with Colvarth, tapped with his staff until he stood behind Uther. “Can I fetch him for you?”
“There is a tower on that island yonder. Tell me its history.”
“No one knows for sure, my lord. It goes back further than the founding of the village.”
“How old is Bosventor?”
Merlin closed his eyes. “I am told that around a hundred years ago, monks from the coast escaped inland to avoid sea raiders. People followed, and they rebuilt the Tor.”
“Rebuilt?”
“The Romans had built the fort to run the tin and copper mining.”
“The tower in the marsh,” Uther asked, “is that Roman too?”
Merlin paused before answering. “Our lore says not, my lord. Some say it was built by a tin merchant before the Romans conquered Britain, but no one really knows. We call it Pergiryn’s, the tower of the pilgrim. The isle is named Inis Avallow. My sister and I have picked apples there.”
Uther parted the tent flap and gazed once more across the marsh. As Uther studied the tower, a light flashed from its window. “What was that?” he exclaimed. “Did you see it?”
“No, my lord. I can see colors and things moving, but my vision is blurry —”
Uther felt the heat rise to his cheeks when he realized he’d asked such a question. “I see a light from the tower … from the window.”
Merlin paused. “Others have also sworn they saw a light in the tower, but no one has been to the top to know what it could be. There’s a floor up there, I am told, but the stairs have all rotted away.”
Uther, suddenly hungry, closed the tent flap despite his curiosity. He had no time for such mysteries. There was a rebellion to deal with, and he needed food.
“Fire and meat!” he called. “Colvarth, where is my venison?”
Garth couldn’t believe the druid wives were making him pluck chickens. Clean this. Pluck that. Chop these. Bring more wood. Always more wood!
It wouldn’t be half bad if they’d let him sneak a bite here and there. But after his second scolding, they refused to allow him near the roasting meat unsupervised again. Even Brother Loyt back at the abbey used to give him treats here and there.
“Stop yer dreamin’,” a greasy-mantled woman shouted at him as she plopped two more scalded chickens in the dirt. “Keep on pluckin’, or yer next meal will be a plate o’ piney cones!”
Garth sighed.
With a loud thunderclap, it started raining again. Muttering, Garth got up, pushed his bench farther underneath the pine tree and clopped it against the trunk. After retrieving the half-plucked chicken and the two new ones, he sat down again.
Two men interrupted his grumblings as they walked down the side of the tree-shaded hillside about three stone throws away. They had come from the circle, and Garth recognized Mórganthu on the left.
Ah, that’ll be my way out o’ this miserable feather tuggin’. The druid wives won’t dare yell at me while standin’ next to the arch druid. In his excitement Garth jumped up and poked his eye on a pine needle. He stifled a yell lest he attract the attention of one of the women, and rubbed his lid as he fell back to the bench. When he could see again, he looked out at the two figures talking in the distance.
Garth froze. The other figure was one of the monks! The brother stood with his back to Garth and had his hood up, making it impossible to tell who it was. But why was a monk talking with Mórganthu? Good thing Garth had been smart enough not to embarrass himself. The last thing he wanted was to talk to one of those bagpipe-stealing … Well, maybe he’d make an exception if it was Brother Loyt coming to bring him some steaming, buttered, and oh-so-perfect bannocks.
Better yet would be old Kyallna shuffling over with a steaming pot of her glorious soup. Then he wouldn’t have to bother with those monks at all. He needed to visit her house again soon. Real soon. Garth’s stomach gurgled as he picked up the chicken and slowly started plucking again.
Mórganthu and the monk conferred for quite awhile. Then the arch druid gave something to the monk, one of those bronze tubes with a wooden stopper. Just like the tube of oil Dybris used to anoint people. Didn’t the monk have his own oil?
And come to think of it, this monk was really tall. In fact, half a head taller than Mórganthu. Not like any monk I know. An’ why is there a strange bulge on his back? Looks almost like he’s hidin’ something under his cowl.
Soon they parted. Mórganthu walked back toward the circle of stones as the monk ran northward along the ridge.
But the abbey and village weren’t that way.
“Have them chickens cleaned?” The druid wife startled him. She bent down and snickered. He hadn’t even finished the first. “No midmeal for you,” she said as she stomped off. “What a lazy louse. No parents and won’t work a lick!”
Garth almost started crying, but he bit his lip instead.
“How much time has passed?” Crogen demanded as he closed the door to the chapel.
“Not long, Abbot. Two hours at most.”
“Two hours, Neot! Do you know what this means?”
Neot wrung his hands. “I know exactly. Herrik never came back with us from the meeting with the High King.”
“How could you have missed him?” Crogen said. “I know I’ve been visiting Troslam — and Dybris took off after Owain — but can’t you count, man?”
“I realized too late while preparing our meal at the chapel. Herrik could be anywhere.”
“But he was the one caught drawing the Stone!” Crogen beat his chest. “Oh, Jesu, forgive me, for I shouldn’t have taken him to the village green while the Stone was still there.”
“He’s been dragged away by his heart, and his blood will be on his own head.”
Crogen collapsed to a bench. “Oh, Neot, what have I done?”