CHAPTER 31
BELTAYNE
Uther slashed the knife down again and again, then threw the softened dirt out of the ever-widening hole. There in the tower, alone, he could hear his panting breaths echo off the walls.
There must be something here. The man in blue wouldn’t have disappeared below the earth at this spot if something hadn’t been buried here. Hopefully it wasn’t just the man’s bones.
Uther continued digging until, with a start, he felt a tap on his shoulder.
“My … king, your queen stands here, and your … children. I have brought them.”
Uther looked up for an instant, and a wave of dizziness distorted his sight. When had Colvarth and his family climbed through the door? He nodded to his wife and took a long sip of mead, some of it sloshing off his chin and into the damp hole.
“Something here.” He pointed. “A man went into the ground.”
“You saw someone go into your hole?” Igerna asked, glancing sideways at him.
Uther blinked. Even if she thought him crazy, he had seen the man. He chopped again with his knife. Once the ground was sufficiently loose, he dropped the blade and scooped the dirt onto the growing pile at his right.
In the hole, his fingertips scratched the surface of a large rock. Ah, that will be trouble. Taking his knife again, he attempted to jab the surrounding soil, which was much harder and drier than the soil above. He strained to pull the boulder out, but the monstrous thing wouldn’t budge.
He looked up and remembered the pickaxe he’d tied up as an anchor for the boat. If he fashioned a handle for it, he might be able to break or wedge the rock out.
Uther stood, and a swirl of darkness engulfed him. His knees felt weak, and he groped for the wall of the tower, holding on to the rough stones until his sight returned. He’d experienced this before when he’d been prone too long. As expected, it soon passed. Just moved a little fast, that’s all.
“I’m going for the anchor from the boat,” he mumbled as he sat on the threshold of the doorway and swung his legs out. Maybe fresh air would help.
After walking down to the muddy bank, he stopped to view the rising fog and the sinking sun. If he wanted to find what the ghost man desired, it would be easier before the light failed.
He cut the pickaxe free from its rope and tied the boat directly to the tree. On his way back to the tower, he spied the dead branch lying next to the rock where Igerna had sat with Arthur earlier. Picking up the limb, he whacked it on the stone to test its strength, which didn’t disappoint. Next he compared its thickness to the hole in the rusty pickaxe and found that a little whittling would make it a perfect match.
Magnificent!
Back inside the tower, he joined his family and Colvarth, who were all sitting on a linen cloth in a corner, eating cold venison and barley bread. Taking a few nibbles of the bread his wife offered, he noticed the worry in her eyes — her brows two trembling arcs tethered tightly in the center. Ignoring this, he whittled the end of the thick branch until he could fit it in the hole of the pickaxe. Taking the branch out again, he worked a deep notch on the end with his blade. Fitting the pickaxe head on again, he chose three wedges he’d whittled off and hammered them into the gap with a rock. But his hand shook, and since Igerna was watching him like a concerned mother, he walked to the other side of the room to finish the job.
Why does my hand shake so? he wondered. Perhaps it’s only hunger. I simply need to eat more bread.
Colvarth joined him and studied the pickaxe with a curious eye. “My … king. What is the purpose of this … digging? You attack the ground as if to slay it. And now the pick?”
“You think I make a grave, eh?” Uther tucked his shaking hand behind his back.
“No, I do not.” Colvarth’s words faded, and his face contorted, eyes bulging out. His skin changed to blue and then white.
Was the world going mad? Uther closed his eyes and shook his head. When he glanced again, Colvarth’s face appeared normal. “Say this prophecy,” Uther whispered. “Whose grave is this? Who is buried here?”
“Speak not of such things!” And Colvarth turned away.
Garth’s feet were cold and wet before McEwan finally heaved their boat onto the gritty shingle. He tied the rope to a bent cypress tree that leaned out from the bank, its roots sucking at the mud and slime. Even though the island was quite large, finding the northern landing had been harder than Garth expected, what with the fog so thick. The white dampness filled his lungs, made his throat itch, and clung to him like the shreds of a ghastly cloak as he stepped ashore.
Although he loved to fish here, he’d never been on the marsh at dusk, and it was nothing like the open, and rolling ocean he longed for. Out of the mist, birds squawked from sharp beaks, their chirrups ethereal and their eyes unseen. The frogs croaked so loudly that surely each would be found and plucked from its hiding place by the bill of some gray heron of death. And all the while the insects wailed a song of mourning as the gloom sped its way over the marsh.
While McEwan was distracted, swinging his stout club, McGoss pinched Garth’s shoulder and whispered, “Remember, no tellin’, or I make fish bait out o’ yar guts. Hear?”
Garth held his breath and nodded.
The warriors in the other boat finally pulled ashore, disembarked, and began whispering to each other in low Eirish murmurs. Garth tried to draw close to them, but O’Sloan pushed him away. “Stay wit’ the boats.”
Alarmed to discover he’d be left alone, but equally fearful of going with them, Garth pulled his cloak more tightly over his shoulders. “W-when will you be back?”
“Soon enough. How far is the ruined tow’r? I canna see it.”
“Ten throws of a stone, I’d say. Take the trail through the apple trees.”
The six warriors walked off into the mist, and soon the only evidence of their existence was the fading sound of their footfalls.
Garth was utterly alone.
“Why?” Uther called after his bard. “Why should I not ask? You declared my digging a grave. Is it the grave of the man I saw?”
Colvarth turned back and, glaring up into Uther’s eyes, tapped his long finger onto the king’s chest. “Speak of what you hope to find … Tell me.”
“You ask what I do not know. Something unexpected. Something powerful, maybe.” With these last words Uther’s lungs felt smothered, and he took a deep breath.
“Are there not enough … strange things in Bosventor? Is the Druid Stone not … enough?”
“Maybe Jesu has sent something good.” Uther wheezed out the words. “Holy, even. Here in this very dirt where the man in blue drew the sign of the cross.”
“I saw nothing.”
“Are you my fool or my bard?” Uther yelled. “I have seen this!”
His words echoed through the tower, and Myrgwen and Arthur both cried. The fog had thickened outside, and Eilyne gaped at its sallow entrails leaking through the open doorway.
“Leave me alone, all of you. Go back to your meal. I am … digging.”
Colvarth bowed and, shuffling back to the broken circle of the family, sat in silence. But Uther could feel the bard’s eyes on him still.
In anger, Uther raised the newly joined pickaxe over his head and, with a mighty blow, split the rock into three pieces. Finding the iron head still tight, he swung in earnest at the harder soil surrounding the rock, and in no time he threw the pieces of the offending stone to the side.
After pausing for a long sip of the mead, he dug again in earnest, and within a short time, he’d deepened and widened the hole until he could stand in the bottom. There he alternated between digging and throwing the dirt up in great handfuls until his arms dripped with soiled sweat and his eyesight dulled with the failing light.
“Uther, cease!” Igerna said from above. “What madness has come upon you?”
Setting down his pickaxe, he swallowed a last, long gulp of the frothy mead and flung away the skin. Mead had never tasted so refreshing. He needed to reward the man who brewed it.
Climbing out of the great hole, Uther looked at his wife and beheld two of her standing before him. He moved his lips to tell her that something was buried here, but no words escaped. Igerna tilted toward him. The very air reeled, and Uther collapsed in the dirt.
His eyes dimmed, yet he could feel his hands shaking.
All around him, people shouted, yelled, and shrieked.
The brutality of the murder shocked Merlin.
Dybris fell to his knees.
Merlin’s father stood in front of Dybris and pulled out his dirk, tested its edge, and then returned it to his scabbard. “Who is it?”
“It’s our Herrik! Those cursed druidow took all the monks captive” — he spat — “and they weren’t satisfied with their victory, so they blazed the hillside with our blood.”
“Without his robe, I didn’t realize he was a monk.”
“The devils stole it. Left him to die cold and bare, and now the wolves have gnawed his flesh. Even his hands are gone …”
Owain knelt to examine the body. “That’s odd. I don’t remember long swords among the druidow, but this chest wound is sliced straight through. See the blade’s exit on his back, here? It’s a wide cut too. Not a slim blade, that.”
Merlin fumed at the injustice of Herrik’s death. Why did the druidow have to kill him? How many more bodies would they find on the path?
“Just last night,” Dybris said, “our new abbot had thought me excessive when I looped my old dirk onto my belt. And now look at this! O, God, protect them. Protect them all.” He rose and then hastened to a small spring gurgling from the hillside.
“What are you doing?” Owain asked. “We can’t delay.”
“I’m wetting a cloth.” And with it, Dybris came back and cleansed the blood from Herrik’s face. Next he took his bronze flask of oil and anointed the man’s forehead, Merlin assumed, with the sign of the cross.
Then the monk lifted his voice in prayer.
None exist like the Almighty,
The goodly God of love and cheer,
Who rides in power upon the sky,
Bringing help in thy time of fear.
He forges gates of iron and bronze,
And fills thine heart with strength by day.
He is thy shield, thy swift spearman,
The sword sending pagans away.
He will drive out thine enemy,
And destroy thy foe in the land.
The living One is thy refuge,
Under thee is God’s kind, strong hand.
Blessed be thy soul, O my friend,
Go in God’s peace — safety be thine.
Rising from earth to high heaven,
Be morning dew wisped by sun’s shine.
Dybris choked out the last words.
Wash him, wash him — his soul, his sins.
Take him, take him — his heart, his breath.
Bend him, bend him — his way, his will.
Keep him, keep him — his life, his death.
Rising, he picked up fist-sized rocks and placed them around the body.
Owain grabbed Dybris’s arm. “We haven’t time.”
“Then we haven’t time for anything.” Dybris shook Owain away. Taking more rocks, he added them to the others.
“We can come back later,” Merlin offered.
“There may not be a later. I pray this is the last soul who dies this night, but we know not what awaits us. Help me.”
Merlin moved to help, looking to his father as he passed by. Owain shook his head at first but later joined the others. Together they quietly gathered and raised a small mound of stones over Herrik’s broken life.
“It’s enough,” Owain finally said, and Dybris slowly nodded.
Merlin rose, then followed the men up the hillside. He wiped his tears and tried to concentrate on the blurry path ahead. Dybris guided his steps as they approached the top of the hill and the circle beyond. The path widened, and Owain led them into the darkness of the dense woods, where they hid behind some bushes and observed the druid gathering.
Within the circle of gigantic stones, a large number of druidow stood murmuring.
“Tell me what I’m seeing,” Merlin said, hoping to learn something that would enable him to be of some small help later on.
“There are seven druidow in green robes,” his father said, “and they all have drooping hoods that conceal their faces. They’re chanting around Mórganthu, who is standing in the center of the circle near the Stone.
Near their hiding spot, druidow began to beat broad wooden drums.
Boom! Boom!
“Just beyond the ring,” Owain continued, “stand two large wooden constructions in the shape of cages, at least ten feet high and about five paces from each other. Young timbers serve as posts, and these have been interlaced with smaller branches. The druidow are depositing bundles of branches around the cages to build a pile of tinder.”
The judgment of wicker. Merlin had heard antiquated tales of Beltayne, when the druidow of old burned to death prisoners of war or any they considered criminals, all as sacrifices to their pagan gods. Then, leading cattle and followers between the burning victims and through the evil smoke, the druidow claimed cleansing and protection from witchcraft.
But who were in the cages? Merlin squinted, but it was too far away for his scarred eyes to see. “Are the monks —”
“Yes,” Dybris said. “Those accursed druidow have locked them up.” He let out a muffled sob and grabbed Merlin’s shoulder. “Do you see Mônda or my daughter?” Owain whispered.
The monk let go of Merlin and peered through the bushes. “There are hundreds of villagers milling about. I don’t know them well enough to pick them out.”
“Let me know if you do. Hah, there’s Tregeagle. In front of the villagers on that ridge.”
“We’ve got to do something about the cages,” Dybris said.
“We will,” Merlin said. “but not this very moment. We need to think.”
“They could burn the monks to death while you sit there pondering!”
“We have time — they won’t do it until it’s perfectly dark. And Vortigern hasn’t attacked yet.” Merlin turned to face west. The sun hid behind a thinning line of gray clouds, but from its position, barely half an hour remained before it would drop below the hills. “We have to get close to the Stone so we’re in position to take it when the attack comes. Then we free the monks.”
“Won’t Vortigern do that?” Owain said.
“We can’t count on it.”
In the center of the circle, druidow began to move.
“What’s going on,” Merlin asked.
Dybris quietly parted the bushes and looked toward the circle. “The green-robed druidow are holding up brass sickle knives and chanting. Now Mórganthu is raising a bronze cauldron, and one of the druidow is stepping forward. Mórganthu handed him the vessel, and he’s holding it aloft like Mórganthu and walking toward the west. He’s skirting the drummers … and pacing straight toward us!”
Boom! Boom!
“He’s coming. Don’t move.”
Chanting loudly, the druid found the path leading to the spring and floated past them down the hillside, his verdant robe billowing in the fading light, and the small bronze cauldron held out before him.
“Can you see his face?” Merlin asked.
“What? No … His hood is pulled low,” Dybris said in a hushed voice.
“Now’s our chance,” Merlin whispered. “He’s getting water. Tas, take care of him and come back with his robe.”
“That’s crazy,” his father said.
“The sun’s nearly down, and we don’t have much time. You can get near the Stone.”
“Are you certain?”
“What else can we do?”
“Don’t rightly know. So I’ll give it a try,” Owain said as he unsheathed his dirk.
Dybris grabbed Owain’s tunic. “Don’t kill him!”
“Shah, get your hand off me. No time to talk.”
“Enough bloodshed. Are we no better than they?”
“What?” Owain asked.
Dybris untied his leather belt and pulled off his sheathed dirk. “Bind him instead. We are Christians.”
“Fine. I’ll do it if I can, but I won’t make any promises.” Taking the belt and a clublike branch that had lain next to Merlin, Owain snuck down the path after the druid.
Dybris slid his own dirk inside the waist of his pants.
Moments later, they heard a sharp crack down the hill.
Merlin winced. “Did the druidow notice?”
“They didn’t seem to.”
Boom! Boom!
Soon Owain returned, dressed in the green druid robe, and he held the bronze cauldron, now sloshing with water. “I stuffed a stick and moss in his mouth. Hope your belt holds.”
“We’ll slip around near the monks,” Merlin said, “and free them when Vortigern attacks. Once that’s done, we’ll come help get the Stone.”
“Be quick about it, and pray for me. I’m not strong near the Stone.”
Dybris nodded.
Owain stepped forward into the glade and walked toward the circle of stones.
Merlin placed a hand on Dybris’s shoulder. “How can we get to the monks?”
“It won’t be easy. Even in the woods on the other side of the circle, we won’t be close enough. If the druidow light the fire at the base of the cages, there’ll be no time to free the brothers before the flames are too strong.”
Boom! Boom!
Crouching uncomfortably, Merlin shifted his weight, and a dry twig broke under his foot. A branch! They could gather branches and bring them to the wicker cages. He told Dybris of his plan, and soon they had each scraped together enough fallen wood to make a bundle.
They were about to leave when Dybris grabbed Merlin’s tunic. “Wait! Your father just passed the cauldron to Mórganthu. He’s bowing, and now he’s joining the other green-robed druidow as they march around the Stone.”
“Mórganthu … what’s he doing?”
“He’s frowning. He might suspect.”
Merlin’s head began to throb. They had to act quickly.
An entire hour had been lost waiting at the Tor, and Bedwir drew his sword for the twentieth time, tested its edge, and shined its broad length in the gray light. When would that gluttonous Vortigern get off his backside, put out his fire, and set his welcome cup down? Bedwir wanted to kick him in the teeth.
So for the first time since they had arrived at the Tor, he plucked up his courage and approached Vortigern to complain. The lanky battle chief leaned upon a large pile of hay, sipping mead and wolfing down roasted goat. He tapped a small wooden chest resting at his side and then whacked his son, Vortipor, on the shoulder.
“You didn’t!” Vortigern laughed. “Never knew that’s what you did when I sent you to battle in Brythanvy. Be careful who you tell that to!”
“Vortigern,” Bedwir said, but the battle chief paid him no mind.
“Vortigern!”
The mead cup stopped midsip and the battle chief’s eyes turned to Bedwir.
“Vortigern, the sun will be down soon. We must attack.”
“And who says?”
“I do … and … and others.”
“Sit on your sword or something. My son is telling a grand tale.”
“But what of Uther’s command? What will he think of our delay?”
Vortigern stood and, dusting the hay off his cloak, drew his sword.
“Worry what I will do if you interrupt again.”
Heat rising to his face, Bedwir spun on his heel and stalked away.
Malicious laughter continued to swirl around Natalenya.
She spun and drew her small blade with a shaky hand. “Who’s there?”
The sneering voice of a man spoke from the darkness, “Welcome, rich rat spawn of Tregeagle! Despite the scratched one missing, I’m glad you’ve come.”
“Who are you? What do you want?”
The man stepped forward, and the fading light fell across his malevolent face. His hair was wet with sweat, and he had pockmarked cheeks and a thin, pointed nose.
Natalenya backed away. “I don’t know you.”
“But you’ve heard my name. Connek — robber among thieves, future master of thugs, and present slitter of throats.” He pulled out a long, rusty knife and rubbed his calloused, dirty thumb on its edge.