©
Matthew Burden, 2001
~25~
“Where is he?” the Count demanded, rising groggily from his
slumbers.
“He ran into the woods and
disappeared, sir!” Oswald explained again, pulling the Templar up.
“Disappeared?” the knight
shot a quizzical glance at him.
Oswald sighed, running a
hand through his short brown hair. “He was chasing after the brigand who joined
us, sir. I saw him enter a grove, and
saw at least one other man with him, but when I arrived only a few moments
later, there was no trace of anyone.”
“A grove?” the Count
repeated as he strapped his sword-belt on, kicking one of the other knights to
awaken him. “Was it an oak grove?”
“Yes, yes!” he said
urgently, practically pulling him along.
“It was an oak grove, with a ring of stones inside it! Come, we haven’t much time!”
“Wait, my young friend!” the
Templar shook his head. “I’m afraid it
will do no good. I can go look at the
site myself, but it sounds as though your friend has met the Druids that were following us from York.”
Oswald shook his head. “But they are men, even as we
are, sir! They can't vanish into the
air as they please. Come, they are still
out there! We can find them!”
The Count looked at him sympathetically. “Oh, be
assured that they are still out there.
But as to finding them—that is a different matter, a different matter
altogether.”
“Please, sir, come help me
search. It may do no good, but Sir
Malcolm is my friend and my leader. I
cannot leave him out there.”
The Count’s eyes
narrowed. “Do you know why he was
pursuing the brigand?”
Oswald nodded, but remained
silent for a long moment, uncertain of how much to reveal. Drawing a deep breath, he spoke at
last. “There was something stolen from
our camp…something of great value.”
The Count nodded, the
corners of his mouth turning up into a slight smile for an instant before
turning to his companions, who all nodded, knowing what the order was before it
was given.
“Well, we tend to leave the Druidae
alone for the most part,” he sighed, “and they do not cause too much
trouble. But I am an avowed defender of
the Church, and these are its enemies.
We will combat them, fear not.”
Oswald nodded slowly, hoping
he could trust the knights. “Come, then,” the
Scot prodded. “Let's go searching.”
“It’s no use now, my
friend. The Druidae can
move swiftly at night. They are at home
in the forests, and the woods will shield them.
It's best to wait until morning.
There are only so many havens they have in these parts.”
By this time, Edward had
risen and was standing near the dying fire, listening intently to the conversation. He had already seen the torn saddlebag and
the absence of his brother, and had realized in an instant what had happened.
“But will Malcolm be safe?” Oswald
asked.
The Count shrugged, settling
himself back onto the ground. “It is
said that in ancient times, the Druidae would sacrifice men, but I do not think
they still do such things. If he
cooperates with them, whatever their purpose, I am certain he will survive at
least long enough for us to find him. You Scots
are hardy men, bred strong.” He smiled whimsically. “Hard to kill off, I would imagine. We will pursue them in the morning.”
Oswald shook his head and
strode quickly back toward the main camp, where Edward stood ready. “Are you up for searching tonight?” the Scot
growled.
Edward nodded his silent assent. Hannah was awake, and
she began clearing the mess from the saddlebag, not willing to let her fear
to show to the two men.
“Follow me,” said Oswald,
retrieving his torch and marching back toward the trees.
“Be cautious, friends!” the
Count called out behind them. “The
Druidae have a cloak of darkness! They
will be watching you!”
The two men did not reply,
but continued their march until they vanished into the blackness of the forest.
~ ~ ~
The trees rose like
specters from the mossy ground, their gnarled roots stretching out like the
withered hands of an ancient giant.
There was no wind, no breath of air to stir the leaves as they
marched under canopy of foliage. They
had not taken more than thirty strides into the darkened wood before they saw a bright set
of white teeth flash a brilliant smile before them, and a clear voice greeting
them.
“Welcome, gentlemen!”
Oswald’s sword rang out in
an instant. “Who goes there?”
A laugh greeted their
ears. “Cedric! And you?”
“I am Oswald of Melrose. What do you want with us?”
A low whistle sounded from
before them. “Are the Scots invading the land?” the stranger chuckled. “I have heard so little from the news of the
world since last week, who knows what could have happened?”
“Please, sir! Are you...are you one of the Druidae? Where did you take my friend?"
They heard him laugh again. "A Druid? Are there Druids in these woods? Sweet mother of our blessed Lord, I must be more careful!"
"Did you not see someone pass by here a few minutes ago?”
“Of course,” laughed the voice. “I see everything. Yes, yes, including even your friend and the horridly ghoulish gentlemen who abducted him. I know them, of course. I know they like to play at their old pagan rituals. It's an amusing pretension. But it makes for quite a bit of action for a lonely night in
the woods."
He stepped forward so that the light of Oswald’s
torch fell on his face.
Edward studied the man's expression. The bright, carefree smile
seemed out of place in the dark forests.
He was a thin man, clad in a light suit of brown cloth, with naught but
a dagger under his belt to serve as a weapon.
His eyes were dark, but they glinted with a strange fire in the
torchlight. His face had deep lines of
wisdom, but without a touch of worry. He ran a hand over his short black beard, which
gave his face an angular impression and served to make him appear terribly
gaunt. His hair was black, but only
for a certain length. Nearer to the
roots it was showing a definite blond, which made Edward wonder if the man had
gone to great lengths to try to color his hair.
“Yes,” he said in a low
voice that carried undertones of deep, sonorous quality. “Four of them, I counted, not including the
two poor fellows they apprehended.”
“Do you know where they
went?” Edward asked, shuddering suddenly against the chill of the night.
“Oh, certainly. They fled westward.”
“Can you help us?” Oswald
pressed. “We must search for them.”
Cedric, the lighthearted stranger, paused, looking at
the two men for a while without speaking. Then drawing a deep breath, he shrugged. “Best to go after them in the
morning. I know where
to find them.”
“Where?”
“They will be about a day’s
journey west of here, and they shall remain there for some time. It's one of their ancient holy places, and a
figurehead noble of theirs owns a manor nearby.
Your friend will be with them.”
Edward sighed. “Will you guide us in the
morning, Sir Cedric? This country is not
familiar to us.”
Cedric flashed his bright
grin once again and bowed at the waist.
“I would be honored to."
~ ~ ~
Alfred sat motionless, his
eyes fixed ahead. The hall he had been
placed in was of ample size and comfort, full of the most lavish decorations. It rose a good
thirty feet over his head in a grand dome held up by beams of lacquered timber. At the opposite
end of the hall, a fire burned brightly, shedding warmth and light over the
entire room. Hanging from one wall was a
large tapestry bearing the mark of the house: two white bulls and an oak tree,
set on a field of green.
Before him was a long wooden
table, set with four goblets of rich wine, one for each of the four men who had
taken him captive. He sat stiffly in the
chair, his wrists bound behind the tall wooden back.
He cursed himself inwardly for his lack of
perception the night before. Four men,
small men, had been able to take him away, and none of them were a match for
him physically. Accursed magicians, he thought to himself, staring darkly at
them. He had felt their power in an
unspeakable sense of dread the night before, but that day, as they sat together
in the well-lit manor, he could see they were only men.
The young one spoke,
after a nod from an older man with an iron-gray beard. “What is your
name?”
Alfred glared back at him,
his mouth shut. The robe he had stolen was
safely hidden away under his cloak, and he felt much safer knowing that they
did not have it in their possession.
“Come now, sir,” the youth
prodded, his eyes sharp. “We have ways
of learning what we need to know.”
“And tactful discussion will
not be one of them,” Alfred smirked.
The youth gazed at him for a
moment, then asked again: “Name?”
“Richard Plantagenet. Coeur-de-Lion. King of England.”
“I can see as well as anyone
that you are Saxon, sir,” the youth arched his eyebrows. “Come now, give us your name.”
Alfred shook his head.
Sighing, the youth stood up from his seat at
the table to see Alfred more clearly. “I
am Michael,” he said. “You will speak
only to me. Do you understand?”
Alfred turned instantly to
the man with the gray beard. “I’m not
certain I understand what he’s trying to say.”
Michael rolled his eyes and drew attention back by slamming his fist against the
table. “Do you know anyone by the name
of Justin of York?”
“Justin
of York? Yes, I recall such a man,” he said, and his
four interrogators sat up stiffly. “I met him…two weeks ago, I believe.”
“Where?” Michael asked,
his voice hoarse.
“Paris,” Alfred replied. “I was there to do business, you see. I’m a merchant of sorts, shipping goods back
and forth with a distributor among the Franks.
I was there to fulfill a contract on one particular shipment of vellum
sheets when I met him.”
Michael’s eyes
narrowed. “What was he doing in Paris?”
“He was making his way to
the Holy Land, or so he said. I’m afraid he will make it no further than
the Seine.”
“Why do you say that?”
Alfred flashed a slight
smile. “It’s quite a lengthy tale.”
“We have plenty of time.”
Alfred nodded. “Now, naturally, I've never
learned much of the French speech, so I had brought along my assistant, Warren,
who knows both French and Latin. I've
never been good at learning new tongues, you understand. Now Warren
had gone down to the docks on the river to oversee the unloading of the
shipment, so I made my way to a small tavern and managed to order a
drink. As I was sitting there, I saw
a man beside me, fitted out like a warrior.
Seeing I was Saxon, he greeted me in my own tongue, and we fell into a
conversation.”
Alfred smiled inwardly,
savoring his jest. All four men were
leaning forward in their seats, eager to catch every word.
“Well,” he continued,
huffing for emphasis, “it turned out that he was not in a wonderful
temperament, for he immediately began slandering my people, the Saxons. Now you must understand, I
have never favored Normans, especially ones who think too highly of
themselves. If any of you are Normans,” he smiled at
them, “I would be happy to slander your people as much as I
can. In any case, his remarks drove me to the point of anger.
And when I am angry, nothing can stand in my way.”
Alfred accentuated his point by frowning grimly, a crazed,
frenetic gleam appearing in his eyes.
“I challenged him to a duel,
and he began speaking of horses and lances and such, but I stopped him
short. I told him we would duel as
Saxons dueled. Two men, two swords. We both departed from the
tavern in a rage and left the town toward a field further from the river. Well, he was not as good a fighter as he
boasted, or so it seemed to me, for after only ten strokes he was dead. I suppose they buried him, but I’m not
certain. I left the city that afternoon
and returned to England.”
Michael nodded, leaning down
for a quick conversation with the leader.
He straightened and looked Alfred in the eyes. “How tall was he?”
“Before or after I chopped off his head?"
Michael frowned. “Before, of course.”
Alfred fought for an answer,
hoping he could keep the lie turning in their minds. “He was nearly as tall as I am.”
Michael pursed his lips and
nodded thoughtfully.
“What color was his hair?”
“I couldn’t see it. It had been cropped short, and he wore a
leather cap.”
Michael shrugged and glanced
at the leader, who nodded slowly. Alfred
tried to discern the meaning of the nod, but hoped it was favorable. Surely they wouldn’t kill him for having a little fun.
“Did he mention a robe, even
once?”
Alfred hid his surprise well. “Now that you say it, I
believe he did.”
“Can you tell us what he
said?”
Alfred frowned. “He spoke of it as if it
were a holy relic. He was drunk, or else
I doubt he would have discussed it with me, but it seemed to be weighing
heavily on his mind. He told me that he
wished he could have it, but he didn’t tell me why he couldn’t simply go back
and retrieve it himself. He said it had
been sent to Newcastle.”
“Newcastle?
On the Tyne?”
Alfred nodded, then
stopped. “He said that’s where it was
sent, but he seemed to believe it was no longer there.”
“Did he say where he thought
it was?”
Alfred nodded
vigorously. “Northampton.
He said it was at Northampton,
at the house of a nobleman named David.”
Michael smiled. “Very good, sir. Thank you.
Your help may be invaluable.”
Alfred couldn't resist a
slight smile as the four men clustered in a huddle beneath the tapestry of the
two bulls. He was surprised they had
believed him. Now there was the chance that all of this could turn to his own fortune in a
few days. Especially if they went to Northampton. They would pay for taking him a prisoner. Yes, they would pay in blood.