Chapter 13

Pounding on the door of the hovel roused Ean McKinnon from a deep sleep. Instinctively, he reached for his sgian du, knowing that such a pounding in the wee hours could only mean trouble for a clansman in Anglia.

“Open in the name of Duke Harold!” a loud voice demanded.

Ean realized his sock knife was woefully outclassed. If the Duke’s men suspected him of being a clansman, they would cast him in a hole from whence he would never again enjoy daylight.

Another loud, clanging, “wham, wham, wham,” echoed, almost knocking the slide bolt loose. Ean jumped over his cot, threw open the concealed cellar door and hesitating only long enough to grab his tartan, short blade and a chunk of bread, he slid down the root cellar ladder, closing the trap door tightly, thus making it invisible.

Several heartbeats later, the door to the hovel fell. “Make way for a Duke’s Warrant!” the same gruff voice bellowed. “Search this haunt for the boy. Then torch it.”

Ean felt relieved that his bad habit of letting the fire die overnight had spared his life, at least for now. The soldiers must have thought he was gone. Since his grandson had left him, the old man had allowed everything to go to ruin, including the farm. But he couldn’t dwell on Daynin’s plight. The men above him ransacked the hovel, swearing and cursing the boy’s absence.

With cat-like skill, Ean slipped down the ladder to the floor of the cellar and began moving sacks of grain. He had to get through to the barricaded escape tunnel before the Duke’s men found the entrance to the cellar. Casting a wistful glance at the stacks of hard gained stores, Ean shoved open the door to the tunnel and scurried down the dark passageway. Two hundred steps east of the cellar, he peeked out from the reeds covering the tunnel exit, made sure his escape was clear, then bolted for the woods. A bright glow on the horizon announced that once again, a clansman’s holdings had gone up in flames by the order of men he could only resist with anger.

* The Scotian Frontier *

The horses had lathered heavily from the brisk pace Kruzurk and Mediah had kept up since turning north to Scotia. Still several leagues from the closest of the Liddle River bridges, Kruzurk still had no plan for dealing with the gatewatch he knew would be there.

“M’lord, the horses are spent,” Mediah offered, then added, “as am I, being unused to the bouncing of this wretched saddle.”

A smile crept over Kruzurk’s deeply lined face as he drew his mount to a stop, glad for a reason to stretch his legs again. He dropped onto the marshy slope at the side of the track and replied, “We need to plan our crossing anyway. Bring your horse and we’ll rest on the other side of the marsh. No need to risk being seen.”

Safely out of harm’s way, the two shed their horses’ trappings and led them to drink in a brook. The whole place had small, round boulders the size of pumpkins strewn about. Kruzurk also noticed teller’s mushrooms growing everywhere. Their distinctive black striped stalks had long been credited with the ability to make one see things that were not real. An idea began to blossom in the magician’s head while he selected a few of the larger specimens.

Mediah gave the old man a quizzical look before he asked, “M’lord, you have no plans to eat those, do you? I’ve been told they are poison, even to the touch.”

Kruzurk laughed. “Aye, poison they are, if used the wrong way, my Greek friend. But an ally of immeasurable value when used the right way. I know how to use them. Now, go and empty our water bags—I will need them shortly.”

Hours later and the horses fully rested, Kruzurk woke Mediah from his fitful slumber sitting upright against a huge bog oak. The sun had just begun to cast its narrow shards of light through the ancient forest, mingling willowy beams with the morning mist and a light ground fog.

Somewhere in the distance, the evanescent cry of a sparrowhawk echoed over the glen, sending shivers through the horses and their riders. Both men sensed the uneasy atmosphere from the animals as they turned north toward the Scotian frontier and an enemy they couldn’t begin to estimate in strength or cunning.

* Abbotsford Priory *

The tinny clanging in Daynin’s ears seemed more annoying than real. He tried rolling over on the narrow cot to avoid the racket, but found himself entwined in Sabritha’s arms. Her breath came slow and measured—the sound of one in a restful sleep. He wondered how anyone could sleep that way, let alone in a strange bed.

Determined not to wake her, Daynin eased onto his back to stare up at the cobwebs hanging down from the wattle and daub roof of the Prior’s hutch. Glad now that the room had been so dark the night before as to make the ceiling indistinct, he squirmed slightly at the notion so many crawling creatures shared the hovel.

The clanging started again. This time he recognized the pattern. It was the morning call to prime.

The simple hand bell made a poor substitute for the set of Durham bells Prior Bede had already brought north from York, to eventually install in the cathedral tower. The tower I will help build, Daynin pledged in his mind, his determination to finish what his father had started even more ingrained now than ever.

A timid knock on the door brought Daynin to his feet. Sabritha groaned slightly, then rolled over to face the wall.

“Is that you, Prior Bede?”

“No, ‘tis Novice Dunoon, m’lord, sent to fetch you,” a very young and boyish voice answered.

“Where’s the Prior?”

“He waits for you in the refectory. Breakfast will be over soon. If you wish to share bread with him, you must hurry.”

“Aye, we will.”

“Uh, m’lord, the refectory is a chaste area for the novitiate. The woman cannot go there, but you may bring her food later.”

“Well aren’t you special?” Sabritha chimed in from across the room.

The hackles on Daynin’s neck went up immediately. “Thank you, novice. I will join you straightaway.” He turned to the woman and snapped, “These are good people, Sabritha. They at least deserve your respect, even if you don’t believe in what they stand for.”

“Witch hunters and hangmen’s helpers, that’s all I’ve ever seen these black robed repressors do for people. Where are your priors when the poor need food, or a place to stay, or some measure of justice from King Ethelred’s Eyre? There always seems to be a reason they can’t do what needs to be done. And I won’t even talk about the low regard they have for women.”

“They are not my priors, but I respect them nonetheless.” Daynin plucked his haversack from the table and turned to leave. “I’ll bring you some bread and beer when I come back, and the fire needs tending while I’m gone.”

“Why yes, your lordship,” she mocked. “And would you be needing a bath drawn whilst I await your eminence? Or perhaps some roast venison for lunch?” Daynin was out the door before she could toss a shoe to finalize the tirade.

* Galashiels, Scotia *

Plumat’s lukewarm breakfast of barley broth and herbs hardly fit the cuisine he was accustomed to in Anglia or his native Normandy. He poured a hefty measure of beer over it, then stirred the gray mass with his knife. One taste was enough to set him off. “We cannot serve this bloody warrant soon enough!” he growled, stabbing the knife into the tabletop to emphasize the point.

Miles Aubrecht, Plumat’s reluctant young squire, almost jumped out of his tunic. The night had been long, filled with unending drinking and the comings and goings of scores of Caledonian mendicants seeking a piece of the bounty Plumat had offered in the tavern.

Most of the drengs had been sent on their way, but enough passed the initial tests to provide a troop of twenty. Plumat’s second in command, Earl deLongait, had rounded up every horse in Galashiels to mount the cavalcade for rapid movement through the highlands. If they were to catch the boy before he disappeared into the vastness of northern Scotia, speed would be their only advantage.

To make the ragtag troop seem more formidable, Plumat ordered that tunics be issued to each of the bountiers, along with the distinctive scarlet hoods of the Duke’s army. This despite the Duke’s orders that plain Caledonians be employed to blend in with the locals. Fifty leagues inside hostile territory and carrying a small fortune in silver, Plumat felt far more concern for his own wellbeing than for any bits of information such blaggards might provide. And besides, he knew with some certainty where the boy was headed. His army just had to get there first.

* Near Hafdeway, Anglia *

The elder McKinnon’s age was beginning to tell on him. It had taken Ean nearly half the morning to circle around to the west of Hafdeway and avoid the Duke’s patrols. He hoped his old friend Simon Troon could sell him what he needed to go after Daynin, for Ean knew by now the boy must be in terrible trouble that he should cause such a frenzied search by soldiers.

Simon’s farm appeared peaceful enough from the edge of the forest, but Ean kept himself overly cautious now. He watched for a long time before finally venturing into the clearing behind the hovel. A fast dash got him inside the gate and out of sight from the road. He knocked thrice, then once more, as was the custom between clandestine foreigners in Anglia.

“Bloody hell! Who comes a-knockin’ at my door this ‘ere time o’ the marnin’?”

“Open the door you old Irish swindler—’tis Ean McKinnon.”

The door opened a crack, allowing the smell of lard, tanned leather and larch pine to seep out. “Let me in, damn ya. The Duke’s men are everywhere.”

Simon pulled the door wider, poking his head out to ensure that no one could witness his larceny. “I’ll get forty lashes just for opening the door to the likes o’ you, McKinnon. You should’nae be here.”

“I need your help, Troon. My grandson is under warrant. The Duke’s men came looking for him before the cock crowed this morning. They burned my house and ransacked the neighbor’s farm to boot.”

“Bloody henchmen, these Anglish,” Simon growled. He rubbed the stubble of graying beard, stepping back to allow Ean entrance. All around him lay the trappings of his trade—freshly shaped longbow frames, untallowed draw strings and a host of the most prized arrows in middle Anglia.

“I need a bow and a bundle of arrows. I cannae pay you, Simon, save for offering what’s left of my farm, and that ain’t much to be sure.”

“Sounds like you’d be offering me naught but a pile of ashes. For what you ask, I’d be needin’ twelve talens without a haggle. That’d be the going rate for my goods.” Troon turned and spit into the fire, as if to put an end to the conversation.

Ean’s shoulders drooped. The years and growing sadness in his heart were bringing him to the verge of banditry. He let out a noticeable sigh and said, “I’ve neither stoat ner vole ner coin for ye.”

Simon placed a gnarled hand on Ean’s shoulder and said, wistfully, “Was it not you who sat with my dying Maggee Muldoon when I was forced into the Duke’s service? And was it not young Daynin who cut yew saplings for me when I came back, sick with the grippe? Without the two o’ ya, I would have gone to the grave.”

“Aye. I was broke then and so I am now. I cannae pay you but I must find Daynin. Will ye front me the goods? I swear I’ll pay ya somehow.”

“Front ‘im the weapons, says he? And ‘im off to fight the Duke gawd knows where,” Troon scoffed, playfully. “I won’t front you so much as an arrow feather, you old fart, but if ye’ve a mind to go that bad, I’ll be loaning you the bows and bundles, then be going with you to protect mah property. When we find Daynin, you can work off the debt, if we’re still alive to give a hoot about it by then.”

* Abbotsford Priory *

The pathway leading through the back of the priory grounds was lined with scores of ancient, weathered stone markers—each the resting place of some nobleman or his family from a time long before the current cathedral grounds had been consecrated. Many of the markers were so old their inscriptions had given way to the scourges of time and the eternal winds of the highlands.

Some of the tombs had been carved from solid rock and adorned with columns and vaulted arches that bore the distinctive markings of Pictish and Scotian chiefs for whom the Abbotsford grounds had been a favorite resting place since the glory days of Dalriada. Others were etched with more recent crests of Anglian or Scotian lineage, both of whom were welcomed to the sanctified ground, provided the dead had left a sufficient endowment for their eternal stay.

Daynin shuddered as he walked past the rows of mounds, crosses and cenotaphs. He knew the priory could not exist without the endowments but he never realized the vast scope of death the place represented. The Blackgloom bounty will change all that, he mused. With enough gold and a library of books to rival York, Prior Bede will never have to worry about the dead supporting his church again.

The boy’s agile mind slipped from his reverie of treasure to a wispy image that revealed itself a dozen strides ahead of him in the archway. It looked like his father, waiting at the entrance to the novitiate. Duncan McKinnon had been an impressive sight in life, especially to lowlanders used to the more diminutive size of most clansmen. They, like Daynin now, were awed by Duncan’s height and his enormous arms.

“Father?” he blurted out.

The image appeared to dart away, straight into the massive stone abutment that supported the wall of the church. Daynin shook his head, then realized it was only an image from his past. That spot had been the last place he had ever seen his father smile.

A hand dropped softly onto Daynin’s shoulder, startling him. “Get thee gone!” he screamed, his voice cracking in the process. He shoved the hand away and took three fast steps before he realized just how foolish he must have seemed.

“Daynin, it’s Bede. Relax boy. These tombs have you spooked.”

“Aye, Father,” he said, a hard swallow clearing his throat. “I—uh—I thought I saw my father—just for an instant. He stood right there!”

“I cannae argue what you saw or did’nae see, lad. Some spirits are always with us, they being much stronger than most, or having a score to settle that won’t let them rest in their crypt. Your father was a vigorous man in life. Few had more things left to settle than he.”

“You really believe there are spirits among us?”

“There are things I cannae begin to explain any other way. We find a sepulcher opened here, on occasion, even down in the catacombs where no one except the brethren ever ventures. And mind you, some of these tomb closures are mighty heavy stones for the likes of mortal man to be shoving aside.”

The Prior crossed himself and added, “Aye, some men are blessed by the number of things they can afford to leave alone. Wandering spirits is something I choose not to dwell upon, my son and so should you. Now, let’s get you some bread and hot wine. Then we’ll discuss the lay o’ that bounty you’ve brought.”