Chapter 14

For the startled villagers, the two mounted men trying to escape through their midst must have been both an amusement and a curiosity. Their horses were so heavily laden with weapons and supplies that the beasts could barely move, let alone maneuver in the crowded mud lanes of Hafdeway.

The town was flush with every manner of two and four-legged impediment along with all manner of carts and stalls in great abundance. “Out of the way, you lot!” Troon bellowed in a vain attempt to clear the throng ahead of them.

Ean slapped his mount’s rump, urging the mare to push onward, only to be repaid by a sharp buck that almost dismounted him. “Damn ye lowland nag,” he swore, then slapped the mare again, this time with the flat of his long bow. That did the trick. The mare cleared the way for Troon’s much smaller Shetland steed trailing behind.

“Thataway,” Troon urged, “to the right—that’ll be the shortest route to Ravensport and the sea.”

McKinnon prodded his mare to take the right fork leading away from the edge of the village. A quarter of a league onward and the two old warriors would be shed of the town and further scrutiny by the Duke’s men. Ean turned in the saddle to make sure Troon trailed behind him and quickly realized they were not the only ones headed for the coast. A troop of black hauberks circled around the village from the south, bent on intercepting the main road by way of the mill bridge. That would put the troop square across the highlander’s path to the sea.

“We’ve got to move, Simon. They’re onto us!”

The tiny pony had barely enough height to keep Troon’s feet from dragging, let alone support the weight of him and an armory on its back. “Get on with ya, Sparkle—make yer old pap proud,” Simon squealed. He dug his heels into Sparkle’s flanks, bringing a surprising burst of speed from the shaggy, mud-caked creature.

Nearing the edge of the forest, Ean heard the Duke’s men shouting behind them at the same instant an arbalest bolt shattered a tree limb barely an arm’s length from his head. Without looking back, he scoffed, “Damned Saxon fools—waste of a good crossbow at this range.”

Troon didn’t respond, having slumped precariously over Sparkle’s neck. He held on with all the strength he could muster, biting his lip to keep from screaming in agony from the bolt that had just pinned his thigh to Sparkle’s saddle.

* Abbotsford Priory *

Prior Bede drained the large chalice of wine then burped with his usual gusto. “Ah-h, that’s a day maker. Drink up, boy—we’ve a lot to do before the noon prayers.”

Daynin’s attention remained fixed on that fleeting image of his father instead of what the Prior said. “Aye,” he replied distantly. “Thank you for allowing me to share prime with you and the novices.”

“Finish yer wine, boy, then we’re off to the catacombs beneath the sanctuary. The brethren have selected a Promethean vault down there where they think your booty will be safe. We must find it, get it open and move your bounty in.”

“Your bounty, Father,” Daynin corrected. “What I leave here is for you to use the best way you see fit. My only two conditions are that the coin is applied to the building of the cathedral and that the books are made available to any who want to study them.”

Bede stood up, wiped a beefy hand across his mouth and swept a large candelabrum off the table. “It shall be as you ask, my son. Your name shall forever be enshrined here for this deed of charity.”

“Enshrine my father’s name, Prior—not mine. I’m only doing his bidding.”

Silently, the Prior motioned for Daynin to follow. They walked out into a gray morning mist, entering through the back portal of the church. Just inside, they met a novice standing at the nexus of three steep stairwells leading down into the pitch blackness of the catacombs. Maintaining his rule of silence inside the sanctuary, the novice lit his candle from the Prior’s, crossed himself and started down the center wellkeep.

Both sets of candles flickered from a strong updraft of musty air as they descended the first circular turn. The light cast a host of willowy shadows on the abundant cobwebs. Suddenly, the stench of death became all too fresh for Daynin to ignore. He clasped his hand over his nose and mouth and whispered, “Forgive me Father, but the smell down here is awful.”

“Aye, that would be Father Michael, bless his soul. Not yet a fortnight gone to his rewards—he’s a ripe one, I’m sure. Ignore the smell, boy. We’ll be below it soon enough. These steps go down a long way.”

Daynin swept his fingers along the curved wall, testing the dampness and reassuring himself that there indeed was a wall there since he could not see it very clearly in the gloom. “How far down do these steps go, Father?”

The Prior stopped, turned about and laughed aloud, causing him to jiggle the candelabrum and make the shadows dance in unison to the echo of his voice. “All the way to the Stygian River itself, if one believes the tales told. No one’s ever gone lower than where we’re going, at least since I’ve been Prior here. It’s an easy place to lose one’s senses, if say, your candles were to burn out, or you had a bad fall.”

A sharp, stinging shiver snaked through Daynin’s spine, making him shake all over. “You—really don’t know—what’s down there—do you—Prior?”

“Saint Columba, boy! Could be the Pit of Acheron for all I know, though I’ve never actually seen any daemons traipsing about, if that be your worry. Now stop those teeth from chattering and let’s move on. We’ve a ways to go yet.”

Daynin pulled the hood of his cloak tighter and bundled his arms against the seeping cold. His mind flashed to Sabritha and the warmth he had felt during the night, rolled up snugly against her backside. I could sleep that way the rest of my life, he mused. She is so warm and soft . . .

The candlelight suddenly illuminated a large open area below them. The novice stepped from the wellkeep and strode purposefully toward one of a dozen dark corridors that led off in all directions from the main room. Daynin searched for some sign of which direction they were headed, but could find none. Every crack, crevice and cobweb seemed to be identical. Even the wellkeep they had just left was not easy to identify in the dark circular domain. Again, Daynin’s teeth began to chatter.

“Come along, boy,” the Prior urged. “We’re nearly there.”

No sooner were those words spoken than the novice started gesturing toward an impressive Saracen arch at the end of the long hallway. Coming closer, they could see that it was adorned with a host of runes, pictographs and angry gargoyles arranged in a pattern around the arch. In the center of the arch stood a huge oaken double door sealed by a bronze plaque bolted across its middle.

Bede raised his candelabra to view the text, then just shook his head. “You’re certain this is the vault the brethren chose, novice John?” he asked, his voice incredulous at the prospect.

The novice obediently shook his head yes, crossing himself. From inside his robe, he produced a sturdy iron bar with hooks on one end and a St. Columba’s Cross on the other. He handed his light to Prior Bede and indicated that the bar could be used to pry off the bolts holding the plaque in place.

Taken aback by the vast array of characters, symbols and ancient words he saw, Daynin shouted, “No! Stop!” His sharp tone echoed through the chamber like the scream of a thousand people all crying “top” in cadence. Even the walls seemed to wither from the sudden cacophony of voices.

The robed men turned in unison at the outburst. “What the hell is wrong with you, boy? This ground is sacrosanct!” Bede barked, siring a hundred score echoes of his own.

Stepping between the priests, Daynin grabbed the crowbar from John and pushed him away. “You can’t open this vault! Did you read what it says?”

“Pictish palaver, that’s all. That language is older than Saxon tyranny. Take no heed of it.”

“Father, this is not just some fool’s warrant. It’s a warning. Can’t you read it?”

“No, I cannae read it and neither can anyone else.”

“Well, I can,” the boy growled. “This is a traitor’s tomb, marked with a warrant to warn anyone who enters that they are in great peril. We can’t open this—we just can’t.”

Prior Bede shoved his considerable girth against the boy, pinning him to the door. “Now look ‘ere, boy. You came into this priory seeking help and shelter. I’ve given you that, and considerably more. All the other large vaults in these catacombs are inviolable. They are consecrated and protected. This one is not. If this be the resting place of a heathen, then so be it—that’s why the brethren chose to use it for your heathen goods. Now stand aside or take your bounty elsewhere.”

“Can I at least read you the warning before you open it?”

“Read away, if that be enough to quiet your tongue. But this vault is where we store the bounty, no matter what the warrant says.”

Daynin stepped back, and began to recite the pictographs. “Herein lie the reviled remains of the raven feeder—Brude McAlpin—descended from the royal blood of Fortrenn. This blaggard slayer of the Seven Houses of Scone deceitfully offered parlay and porridge to his rivals, then cast one and all into a pit, sown with deadly blades, that his scurrilous deed should advance an unearned station of royalty. Though first born of the Brude of Nechtansmere, beloved conqueror of the Anglish, Vikings, and Caledonians and savior of the lands of Dalriada, the spirits condemn any and all who venture beyond this entrance to lay praise, prayer or petition at the feet of Brude McAlpin, the uncrowned king of the Picts—known to all as The Great Deceiver.”

“Saints of Argyle, boy. Where did you learn to read the language of the Picts? They were worm meat long before the Saxons raped this land.”

“There was a manuscript at Kinloch, Father—written in two languages. It must have been intended to translate the original Pictish to Latin. I never realized it at the time, but these runes are as clear to me now as Latin or Greek.”

The Prior motioned with his head for John to take the crowbar and proceed. “We’ve wasted enough time as it is. These candles don’t burn forever. I for one have no desire to be down here in the dark.”

Trepidation spread over the novice’s face. He crossed himself again, kissed the icon of St. Columba he wore around his neck and stepped forward to pry the first bolt loose. Six more rapid wrenchings and the heavy bronze placard fell with a resounding “clunk” at his feet.

“Go ahead, open it,” the Prior ordered.

Determined to make one last effort to stop them, Daynin shoved the novice aside. “Don’t do this, Father—please—I have a terrible feeling about this place.”

Bede paid him no mind, moved forward an arm’s length and forced the boy’s back against the door. This time it opened just a crack. “There—the deed’s done. The seal is broken, so whatever comes of this, we are committed. Let’s get on with it before we lose the light.”

* Galashiels *

Plumat sat impatiently on his steed watching his counterfeit troop of mercenaries attempt to mount up at the edge of Galashiels. Cauldron neighed nervously, chomping at his bit from all the delays. “Steady boy,” Plumat urged. “These ragtags will be ready soon enough, and then you shall have your run, I promise.”

Miles Aubrecht waited nervously on his mount as well, having never before been on such a dangerous expedition. He had no clue what risks awaited him or how he would handle them should they arise. He also had no reason to trust Plumat or any of the other henchmen in the troop. They were Caledonians and Saxons, after all—not of his liking even on a good day. And there had been no good days since his father died and left him a ward of the Duke’s court. His hand went to the hilt of his dirk at the thought of an enemy bent on his own destruction. “M’lord Plumat, do you think we will find this villain and bring him back quickly?”

“Bring him back?” Plumat answered laughingly. “Surely you jest, boy, to think we’ve come all this way to capture this knave. We’ll bring him back all right—at least part of him. I intend to offer his head to the Duke, along with that of the old man and the woman when we bag them all at once.”

Earl deLongait galloped up to his leader just then. “We have them, m’lord!” he shouted, bringing the turmoil of the entire group to a sudden stop. “They are no more than ten leagues from here, to the south and west. And with the roads muddy, I would guess mayhaps closer.”

“How come you by this information?” Plumat demanded.

“One of the Caledonians ferreted out the location during the night. A wagon was seen yesterday on the road to Abbotsford Priory. A boy, flaxen haired, drove the heavily laden cart—and a woman rode with him—dark hair, comely, just as the warrant describes. They can be none other than our felons.”

“If we ride ten leagues in the wrong direction, I’ll have you staked out in a peat bog, deLongait. Are you that certain this information is good?”

DeLongait shifted his beefy frame in the saddle, then made a sweeping motion with Draco, the giant battleaxe that was his trademark weapon. “Aye, m’lord. It is as genuine as two pieces of silver can guarantee, I’d wager my blade on that.”

“Get these misfits mounted and let’s be off. With any luck, we can catch that lot before they reach the Clyde River. Perhaps then Draco can have a taste of Scotian blood.”

* Abbotsford Priory *

An awful smell erupted from inside the tomb as soon as Novice John pushed the left door open wide enough to see inside. The air reeked of rotted wood, decay and something Daynin recognized distantly as the odor of a wet dog.

The Prior pushed the right door inward, thrusting his candlestick ahead of them, illuminating an entire wall of Latin prayers adorning the far side of the sepulcher. He crossed himself, stepped back and bade the novice to take the candelabra. Two steps in and the novice’s light revealed an elaborate wooden sarcophagus laid out on an ornate stone catafalque. The platform displayed all manner of Pictish images, Viking symbols and the distinctive royal seal of Dalriada.

“God help us,” the novice whispered, having lost all concern for his vows of silence.

The Prior, too, seemed taken aback by the host of heathen imagery. He began to sweat profusely and covered his nose to ward off the terrible odors.

Daynin stood there in awe. He had never seen the likes of the runes and ornate calligraphy the walls of the tomb contained. His eyes searched the text for information but found nothing save prayers for the dead. Then he noticed a glint of gold in the darkness to his right.

Standing in the corner was a small but magnificent guilt and silver carnyx, a chieftain’s war horn of the Pictish tribes. Mounted at the horn’s base, an angry, stylized boar’s head seemed to growl with all the menace its long dead maker could muster. Daynin shuddered at the boar’s bright red eyes that almost spoke to him from across the ages, crying out in silent anguish, At last—you have come at last!