©
Matthew Burden, 2001
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~26~
Malcolm woke with his head
pounding, his face pressed against something cold. He found himself stretched out on a stone floor, with only one flickering torch providing light to the
chamber. He had been stripped of his
mail armor and his sword, leaving him with only a thin linen tunic.
He tried to recall how he
had arrived there, but he couldn’t remember.
He had chased Alfred into the woods—then what? He shook his head, stood, and pressed his weight against
the closed door of the chamber. The room was completely without windows, and the door had been locked from the
outside. All he had was the one torch
for light and a small mattress of hay.
The walls were made of wood,
the remnant of the old structure, but parts had been redone in stone. He examined the wooden sections of the walls,
hoping for an area of weakness that he could pound his way through. When this was done and the cell was proven
sound, he pressed his ear against the door in the hope that someone would walk
by. He continued for about an hour before he gave up and slumped down on the hay mattress. It was growing mold around the edges, and a
mouse squeaked as soon as he rested his weight there.
His mind raced as he sat
there, wondering where he was and why.
It was clear that he was a prisoner and not a guest; the locked
door was evidence enough of that.
He wondered what had happened after he stepped into those dark woods.
After a while his thoughts wandered off to Hannah and Edward, and how
they would manage to release her uncle without the robe.
Just then he heard voices in the hall
outside, speaking in Saxon. Straining, he listened to the two voices, one sounding much younger than the other.
“Should we get him yet?”
“No, no,” the older voice
murmured. “Not until we decide what to
do about the other one.”
“I think we should at least
check on it. It’s too great an
opportunity to pass up.”
“Perhaps. But we have no use for this one.”
“Unless he knows something
more about it, or something different.”
“Well, let’s ask the
others. But I for one do not relish
taking him on. It was difficult enough
trying to put him under.”
As their footsteps passed
his chamber, a wild, frantic idea entered Malcolm’s mind. At first he tried to laugh the thought off,
but it persisted. The voices receded
down the hallway, and just as they were about to disappear from the hearing
range of the cell, Malcolm leapt up shouting. He tore off a piece of his mattress and held it up to the flame.
It caught instantly, and he dropped it onto what remained of the hay in
the corner.
Pounding against the door,
he shouted “Fire!” over and over. Since
the structure was partially built of wood, there was no way they could allow
such a hazard to proceed unchecked. Just
as he expected, he heard two sets of footsteps racing quickly back to the
door. Pulling with all his might, he was
able to tear the torch from its placement. Stepping
up to the door as the bolt was drawn back, he wielded the flaming torch like a
club.
The door flew open and two
men stepped up, looking in shock at the room. And there before
them stood the tall Scot, the light of vengeance burning in his eyes. With a shout, he swung the torch at the two
men. The younger man was able to dodge
aside from the force of the blow, but the flame caught the long gray beard of
the other man, which ignited instantly. Screaming
like a man pursued by demons, he ran down the hallway and disappeared, leaving
a trail of black smoke behind him.
The black-haired youth
glared at the Scot as they faced each other, each waiting for the other to make
a move. Seeing that face brought Malcolm
back to the memory of the oak grove. Druids.
Forcing the young man back by prodding with the torch, Malcolm was
soon able to back him against a wall.
Pulling his fist back, he leveled a quick blow at the youth’s chin. He crumpled instantly to the floor,
unconscious from the blow.
Malcolm nodded grimly and
looked back at the cell, now almost completely ablaze. Let
this wretched place burn, he thought as he ran down the hallway, searching
for a way out.
~ ~ ~
Cedric laughed when he saw the Templars gathering by
the little fire in the light of predawn.
When he matched gazes with the Count, he lowered his head and placed a hand on his
beard, as if to assure himself it was still there.
The Count looked him over for a long moment, his
eyes narrowing slightly. “What is your
name, sir?”
“Cedric,” he said, deepening his voice.
The Count nodded slowly, but kept his eyes on him as
he introduced himself to Hannah.
Hannah smiled as he placed a kiss on her hand. “I remember you, Sir Cedric,” she said with a
grin.
“Oh?” he arched his eyebrows. “How so?”
“I am Hannah.
My father was Joel of Newcastle.
Don’t you remember him?”
His eyes widened suddenly, and he shook his head, winking so that only she could see.
“No, no, you must be mistaken. It
has been some time since I have wandered from these woods, and seldom that far
north.”
She accepted the explanation for the time, nodding
slightly.
“Well,” Cedric said with an air of happiness, “shall
we begin? If my guess is correct, they
will be residing at their manor in the west—about a day’s journey by foot.”
“I concur,” the Count interjected. “We’ve known for some time that these areas
are a hub of Druid activity. They still
congregate at some of their sacred hills and groves.”
Cedric nodded and prepared the horses, careful to
keep away from the Count’s prying glances.
When all were mounted, they began by striking west on a smaller
trail. Cedric rode in the lead on
Malcolm’s horse, and Oswald rode beside him, leading Alfred’s riderless steed
by the reins. Hannah and Edward rode
close behind, and the Templars rode even further behind, providing a rear guard
for the company.
They traveled at a quick clip
under a bright autumn sun. Most of the
land they passed was forest, but every so often they would come across a wide expanse of hills and fields, dotted with serf farms and villages. It was nearly noon when Cedric began to slow
his horse.
“Do you see that hill?” he pointed to a small rise
in the distance, barely distinguishable from the surrounding terrain. “That’s an old Druid shrine, or so I’ve
heard. Their manor is about a league
beyond it.”
“What’s that?” Oswald gestured, and it took several
moments for the others to see what he was pointing to. Drifting on the wind above the hillock was a
thick plume of light gray smoke that blended in with the clouds on the horizon.
Cedric’s brow furrowed. “We’d better go and see,” he said, starting
his horse to a quick gallop down the little road. Within a few minutes, they had circled around
the hillock and came into view of the manor, set in the midst of its
fields. The entire northern wing of the
building was engulfed in flame, and the blaze was quickly spreading to other
parts of the structure. They remained
still, stunned, as half of the wing collapsed in a roar like a thunderclap and
a shower of sparks.
“Were they in there?” Edward asked hoarsely.
Cedric did not reply, but urged his mount down the
slope toward the manor. A small group of
servants was huddled in the field, watching it burn. Cedric rode up to them, greeting them in the
common tongue.
They bowed in turn as he dismounted and joined them
to watch the fire. “How many got out of
there?” he asked after a moment.
“All of the servants,” one of them replied. “Master got out, too, with four of his
friends and a prisoner.”
“Just one prisoner?”
The man who had been speaking looked at his fellow
servants, who nodded their assent. “One
prisoner. A huge man, with a thick
beard.”
Cedric turned to look at Edward.
“That’s Alfred,” he nodded.
“But what about Malcolm?” Oswald asked, his eyes
fixed on the burning building.
Cedric turned back to the man, the light of urgency
blazing in his eyes. “There was another
friend of ours in there. Are you certain
he did not escape?”
The man frowned.
“Was he tall, with red hair?”
Edward nodded.
“I’m sorry, sir.
The last report I heard was that he was locked in a chamber in the north
wing.”
Oswald began to jog toward the building, but Cedric
raced up and stopped him, holding him firmly back. “It’s too dangerous,” he warned.
“I don’t care,” he growled.
“Come back, Oswald,” Edward called, stopping the
Scot in his tracks. “If he escaped, then
he did so on his own. If not, then it
will do us no good to go after him. The
north wing is gone.”
The young knight whirled around, his face flushed
with anger. “Then what are we to do?”
“We can search the grounds for him,” Cedric
said. “But it’s far too risky to venture
inside now. The whole building could
collapse at any instant.”
Oswald sighed, slumping his shoulders
dejectedly. He turned back to the
burning building and stood silent for a while, watching as the bright orange
flames consumed the last portions of the north wing.
~ ~ ~
Alfred was glad that it was only a few hours’ ride
to Northampton,
for he did not relish the thought of going through a night of darkness with the
five Druids. They seemed normal enough
when not gathering for their mystical incantations. The lord of the manor had joined them in the
search for the robe, along with all the other four, including the oldest one,
despite some raw burns on his face, and the youngest one, who bore a deep
purple bruise on his chin.
They had bound him and placed him in a small wagon,
which they were pulling at frightening speeds along the little road. He wondered for an instant what had happened
to the Scot, but he had a fair guess.
Malcolm had been rendered unconscious before being brought to the manor,
and had probably been cremated in that same state, with the burning building as
his final resting-place.
For an instant, he felt a flash of guilt at having
caused the Scot’s death, but it passed quickly.
How many men had he killed? The
count was too high for him to recall.
And there would certainly be more to come. Beginning
with these filthy magicians, the thought to himself.
He lay back against the cart as they rode on, but it
jounced about uncomfortably. He worked
on loosening the knots that held him, but he was unable to make any
progress. They had still not searched
him, and the robe remained hidden. He
smiled at how easily they were falling into his improvised trap, and he only
hoped that his men would be ready when they arrived.
The house of David was a small holding on the far
outskirts of the town, well out of the notice of the people. David himself had been an aged recluse with
very few relations, so it had provided an ideal hideout for the brigands, and
they had remained relatively undisturbed.
What a triumph it would be to ride in as a prisoner and soon turn
conqueror on his captors, having returned with the greatest prize in all of England!
~ ~ ~
Cedric drew Hannah aside while Edward and Oswald
joined the Templars in searching the grounds for any sign of Malcolm. She sat on a stump near the edge of the
field, watching as the last fires flickered among the charred ruins of the
manor. Cedric approached slowly, his
hands clasped behind his back, his expression one of thoughtfulness.
“What's on your mind?” she greeted him as he
stepped close to her.
He sighed and sat down, his eyes following her
gaze to the ruins. “Only one thing has
consumed my thoughts since I saw you. I
suppose you can guess what it is.”
“I suppose I can,” she replied, waiting for him to
come to the point.
“The Templars have been looking for me for over a
year,” he said, “and the Druids as well.
It is most dangerous for me to be out here. I was lucky that the Count cannot see beyond
my ill-disguised hair.”
“Justin,” she began, turning to him, but he cut her
off.
“Cedric. I am
Cedric now, and always.”
“Very well, Cedric,” she said.
“Was the transaction made?” he asked, glancing about
quickly to make certain no one was eavesdropping on their conversation.
“I’m afraid not,” she said, tears forming at the
corners of her eyes. “My father was
killed in the riots and the other nobleman was slain by the brigand that the
Druids captured.”
Cedric looked up, his eyes alight with fear. “And the robe?”
“We were bringing it down to London to find a buyer who can protect it,”
she explained. “And with the money we
were going to pay to release my uncle from an unjust death sentence. But now….”
His eyes remained fixed on her face. “Yes?
Where is it?”
“It was taken last night,” she said, without looking
at him. “The brigand stole it. He desires that it should give him power with
which to reclaim a Saxon England.”
“And the Druids?
The Templars? The Scots? Where do they come in?”
She sighed.
“The Druids and the Templars also desire the robe, and have followed us
from York,
because we asked for you there. I
suppose they thought we knew where you were.”
“And they thought I might still have the robe. I still don’t know how they found out about
it.”
“And the Scots are my friends and defenders. They have agreed to see me to London and to aid me in
releasing my uncle.”
Cedric nodded slowly. “And now either these Saxon brigands or the
Druids hold it in their hands. Not an
ideal situation.”
They sat in silence for a long while. Hannah sighed, stretching her arms out above
her head. He looked at her and smiled
slowly. “Do you know that when I first
visited your house last year, Hannah of Newcastle, that I was as frightened and
disgusted by Jews as everyone else?”
She nodded, but could not look at him. “I have often wondered why my people are the
brunt such hatred.”
“I thought about it a good deal as well while I was
on my wandering of late. I went to a
monastery in the west for some time, and have lived a hermit’s life in these
woods for several weeks. But when I
heard about the riots in London,
well—” he shook his head. “You must be
an awfully brave woman.”
She looked at the ground. “I try to forget what happened. I do what I have to. I’m building myself another future.”
“A commendable pursuit,” he nodded. “And I can think of no greater cause to which
the robe could be put. Christ himself
laid down his life for mankind, did he not?”
Hannah shrugged.
“If that is what you believe.”
“It is,” he responded quickly, with a smile. “Would it not be to His purpose to use
Herod’s robe of mockery to save another?”
She smiled wryly at him. “Do you believe it’s real?”
“Does it matter if it is or not?” he asked,
grinning.
“Not to me,” she responded. “But to a Christian? I would think so.”
He shrugged.
“So we will have to go after it?” she prodded.
“Are you up for it?”
“Do I have a choice?”
“I don’t know.
But someone has to retrieve it.
The robe may or may not be true to its claim, but the claim is enough to do
considerable damage in the wrong hands.”
The crackling logs of the manor sent up a shower of
sparks, lighting up the afternoon air. Cedric knew it would take a miracle to bring
the robe successfully to London,
but miracles, he thought, were perhaps not so hard to come by as they might seem.