“Stop worrying. I’m Frankish and you’re a Saracen. Neither of us are widely associated with the British court.” At least, that was what Bedwyr hoped. He departed Paris in the spring to see the British delegation off, but that he’d not returned should not arouse too much attention as he was well-known to visit countryside locales in search of adventure.
Palomides was guised as a merchant, and drew upon skills and mannerisms he had picked up from his uncle, a spice trader in Baghdad. He felt awkward having no spice to sell, as he knew such inquiries would be directed at sooner or later.
Bedwyr got them though the city gate easily enough, and soon they were amid the teeming marketplace on the city island.
“Are you a Saracen?” asked a boy of around 10 years, of African stock.
Palomides laughed. “Aye, I am.”
“I’ve never met a Saracen before.”
“And I’ve never been to Paris before so we’re even.”
“I’ve never been to Paris before, either.”
Bedwyr was annoyed by the youth, and kept eyes for an accomplice. Surely this innocent child line of questioning must be a distraction for a cut-purse?
But Palomides went on for a good while, talking about snakes and monkeys and magick carpets of his homeland.
A maiden arrived to take the child away, and apologized for his behavior. Again, Palomides laughed, and the duo resumed their search. It took much of the late-morning and early afternoon.
Palomides must have been a magnet for fellow out-of-towners. An Irish maiden had come into the marketplace to get some health potions, but had lost her sense of direction and knew not where to meet her driver. Bedwyr gave her directions, but her eyes never left Palomides.
The incident would be one the Saracen would repeatedly remind the Frank about. The jest took the edge off of Bedwyr’s frustrations about chronic interruptions; a Saracen woman would yet again delay them just before they found they quarry.
“There!” Bedwyr was the first to spot them. Palomides nodded.
For a northern European city, there were a surprising variety of faces one saw, from all over the Mediterranean and beyond. But few in number were the faces from the lands beyond the Silk Road, and in Paris one could count them on two hands.
“Greetings, my friends. I am Sir Bedwyr. You may recall me, from whence I assisted you with the green man who was your guest? He asked me to visit you again, in hopes we could conduct some trade.”
[ July 25, 2009, 08:46 AM: Message edited by: Kent Shakespeare ]
From: Vancouver, BC, Canada | Registered: Dec 2003
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“Duke Lucius! Good day to you, my lord!” The royal butler greeted, raising an eyebrow at the lady in his carriage. Lucius gave his driver instructions and turned to face him.
“Greetings to you, my good sir. The king has summoned me on a matter of some urgency, I understand?”
Not so urgent for you to pick up a new mistress. I pray for you she proves less troublesome than the last, the butler thought. “Of course. Right this way.”
Clovis’ palace looked like a monument to the Rome of old; one would not have guessed Clovis’ Germanic barbarian roots. Lucius, of old Roman lineage, was both amused by his liege’s (and others like him) adoption of Roman culture and annoyed by it. If barbarians conquer Rome as barbarians, so be it – but pretend not to be Romans after the fact, he had once opined one such hybrid civil servant.
He found the king in bed, being tended to by his spiritual advisor, the priest Vidar, upon whom Clovis had recently bestowed the royal title of “Universeau.”
King Clovis looked paler and weaker than he was used to – not deathly so, but clearly not the man who conquered nation after nation over the past couple decades. He looked not his 36 years at this moment.
“Ah, Lucius, Duke Lucius,” Clovis smiled. “Tis good of you to come. Have you met…?”
“Yes, several times,” Vidar said, trying to seem pleased. In truth, little seemed to please Vidar – he was very much not a Frank, and shunned the pleasures that every Frankish noble held dear. He had barely been in Paris a year but had already entrenched himself firmly into the kingdom’s power structure.
“A pleasure as always, your excellency.”
“Lucius, you stand alone as my single-most trustworthy vassal. My illness may likely take me away from certain duties, and I need someone I can trust to attend to them.”
“My lord! I am most honoured.” His decades of service were finally being recognized as they should.
“You will be working closely with Vidar, my Universeau. He is my other most trusted advisor. I do hope you two will get along exceedingly well.”
“I am certain Lucius and I shall find a way to see eye to eye,” Vidar smirked confidently.
[ May 15, 2010, 11:48 AM: Message edited by: Kent Shakespeare ]
From: Vancouver, BC, Canada | Registered: Dec 2003
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posted
Interlude Twenty-eight: The heir of Gaunnes
“Why do we have to sneak around the city?” Bors asked. “My cousin would not sneak around.”
“Because King Clovis would have you killed if he knew you were here. You are not your cousin. He is a mighty knight, and you are not.”
Marya didn’t like having the boy with her, but he hadn’t given her much choice, having stowed away on the supply wagon. But even at his age, he could handle himself – she feared for his two siblings left alone with only her aging grandmother back up north.
“Remember, whatever you do, attract no attention to yourself. Do you understand?”
“…Yes.”
Boys his age yearn for adventure and seeing new places, and she did not blame him for being tired of the ramshackle woodland tower they called home.
They went about the shopping Marya needed to do – spices, roots, cloths and crafts-goods she could not get at the local market. Nowhere did Marya let Bors out of her sight – until they reached the apothecary, and Marya knew the old man would frown on a young one being inside the shop.
“Wait out here, speak to no one and look like you belong here, like you are here all the time. Understand?”
Bors nodded.
She conducted her business as quickly as possible, but the woman ahead of her had a complicated order to fill for an dying relative, and her Latin was rather poor. When Marya cane out she saw Bors talking to a Saracen merchant, a big burly man from the looks of him. His associate looked like a local, but seemed nervous.
“You’ve never been to Paris before either? I find it to be a most interesting place,” the Saracen was saying.
“I’ll bet you’ve seen a lot of cities and marketplaces!”
“I have indeed!” As Marya drew near, the Saracen smiled and bowed to her. “I could tell you about the monkeys that run loose in the markets of Damascus, or the snake-charmers in the Medina of Cairo!”
“Snake charmers?”
Marya wanted to interrupt, but the boy would only find worse trouble later, she was certain. Maybe the Saracen would sate his need for adventure – for today at least.
From: Vancouver, BC, Canada | Registered: Dec 2003
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posted
Interlude Twenty-nine: The Irish noblewoman
Elyzabel was grateful for the transportation. Her half-brother had written Lucius, duke of Neustria, of her arrival, and he had graciously delayed his own trip to Paris in greet her and accompany her.
During the carriage ride, Lucius spoke warmly about the year he had spent in her native Leinster, and his admiration for her distant kinsman King Coirpre mac Neill. He also bragged about the good relations he had cultivated with Britain, and how important her other home of North Cymru was to that relationship.
“Queen Imra – Guinevere – whatever she decides to call herself, she was once a guest of mine,” he bragged. “She is quite a woman. She herself descended into my worst dungeon to interrogate a dangerous madman.”
“I’ve met her but briefly, and know her not well at all.” Elyzabel had only of late met the queen, and heard different tales of the Guinevere deception.
“You’ll make a far better queen than she,” he remarked. “The court of Clovis is a fine place to meet a fine lord of your own.”
“You are far too kind, but I am far too minor a noble. I am here to tend to my ailing uncle, not to seek a husband.”
“Ah, yes. Connor mac Diarmod. One of Clovis’ favourite poets. I do hope he recovers. I’d love to host him – and you – at my summer estate.”
“Again, you are too kind,” she blushed. “Far too… kind.” His face was now very close to hers.
“You said that already, my dear.”
She could feel the warmth of his breath tickle her neck, and pulled him closer.
From: Vancouver, BC, Canada | Registered: Dec 2003
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Word had come and gone of the Hunter’s death, yet Par-Isis believed it not. Or rather, she believed not that he was forever dead; had he not died and risen before?
But this was a new era, the era of the one-god, even here in the city of the one goddess. More and more, those of old Khemet were departing, and coming back not.
She decided to leave the sanctuary and wander the streets above. Her city was not hot and dry with grand buildings like a city should be, rather it was small and crowded, with only a few temples of remotely large scale. The heat was never long-lived not as intense as was proper, and much of the year was too cold to dress properly.
Although she dressed nothing like these Parisians, her magicks made no one take notice. Her magicks also directed her to witness the most important event of the day, a meeting of two knights who were not today knights. She heard the elder, dressed as a merchant, tell the younger about the warmer lands, where he – and she – were both from. Separated by centuries, the lands sounded unchanging yet.
She could not help herself but to track down the elder knight again and talk to him about her home. She realized not how lonely, how alone she was, and for the knight’s reminiscence she bestowed onto him a blessing. For good measure, she tracked down the boy, too, and blessed him.
That evening, a poet from a land even colder than here offered her a prayer of sorts, as he had oft before. He was one of the few who saw her as she was, a city, a lady and a goddess. But the poet was dying, and she responded by giving him one last gift, a poem about the intertwining of lives at the marketplace as had happened on this very day.
From: Vancouver, BC, Canada | Registered: Dec 2003
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Luornu knew Carolus had been bothered by something, and knew she should feel regret for not being at his side, but felt literally paralyzed by despair as it was. Andrew, dear Andrew was dead – again – and she had again failed to convey in words what she had wanted to for the long-suffering knight. And Dyrk, truly a lost soul himself, Dyrk too was missing, probably dead as well. Andrew was a Christian, at least, and would likely find favour with his saviour, but Dyrk still clung to a heathen mixture of allegiances – how would even the merciful Iesous look upon such a sinner as he?
Where was Dyrk? It hurt not knowing his fate. Andrew at least should be at peace, having earned his reward by now. Whatever penitence he sought in renewed life, he had earned it. No, she had no worries for Andrew, only Dyrk, possibly lost to the very pits of heathendom. She could almost see him, lost and alone…
..floating along like a helpless babe. Fish avoided him. Seabirds too. How he managed to stay afloat baffled him; he could see naught beyond the column of steam he generated. There had been a battle of some sort, but the memory – perhaps his sole memory – taunted him. Yet it offered no clues. He could not tell you his name or why he was out upon the ocean waves, but he felt oddly safe, at peace.
Days and nights wafted by in a waking slumber, until one day a pair of arms pulled him on board a boat, a barge capable of holding several score but occupied only by one man. He was clearly a Celt by the look of him.
“Greetings, my friend,” said the man in a tongue he recognized as an obscure dialect of Gaelic, a tongue he knew but none of, but yet understood completely. “What am I to call you?”
“I…” He took a moment before clinging onto the first name that came to mind. “I am Apollo.”
“Welcome, then, Apollo, Roman god of the sun. We go now to meet some kindred spirits.”
His host moved not a muscle and had no crew, but the boat suddenly changed direction and picked up speed, even as its sail rose into place.
[ May 15, 2010, 11:53 AM: Message edited by: Kent Shakespeare ]
From: Vancouver, BC, Canada | Registered: Dec 2003
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“…seven Kentish Khunds slaughtered, my lord,” the messenger reported.
Sir Jonah was angered. Maybe it took Macedonian occupiers to get Bretons to think of Kentish Khunds as peers, or perhaps it was Kiritan’s steadfast diplomacy and apparent loyalty. But even now, there were rumblings that Kent would no longer tolerate the Macedonians – even if King Rokk continued to. The arrival of the dog plague to the Kentish lands was taken by many Khunds as an ill omen to lay at the occupiers’ feet – with so many men lost in the wars of recent years, dogs were vital guards, hunters and sometimes food.
Jonah knew full well the limits of his authority as governor of Londinium in Rokk’s absence. As much as he hungered to force the Macedonians out himself – single-handedly, if need be, he accepted the stewardly role he was in; this was not his kingdom to rule.
Jonah found Sir Garth and Lady Iasmin at the royal stables, still only a fraction of what it had been before last year’s war. Cavalry strength was nowhere near where anyone wished it to be, but it could make an effective assault on the caravans that the Macedonians made to resupply Durobrivae as they periodically did.
It truly galled British of Celt, Roman or Khundish background that two key towns were occupied by Mediterranean forces – and that they sought the renowned Sit Thom as their ransom.
Both Garth and even Iasmin were antsy; both favoured action, and regretted that Rokk was not back to lead or at least order an attack yet.
“I have reports of Kentish being slaughtered,” Jonah reported.
Garth nodded. “I have heard as much, and confronted the Macedonian emissary. He insists these were Kentish who attacked their men, or otherwise started trouble. Twas not the first such encounter, either.”
Jonah nodded. “I am prepared to order the Macedonians to surrender one of their own for each Kentish harmed,” the knight of Lothian said. “To stand trial, of course.”
“They will refuse, and respond yet again that we have not supplied Sir Thom to them,” Iasmin sighed.
“Aye,” Jonah smiled through his bitterness. “Mayhap such refusal would be enough to seize the next relief ship? Surely it must be due by early next week.”
Garth looked thoughtful, and presently added his own tentative smile. “ Then we should obtain their refusal, if we want such an excuse.”
“And we must be ready to keep the Durobrivae force contained in said city,” Iasmin added.
“You, Garth, shall go with Berach and lead a force ready to take the ship. Kiritan and I will lead the containment of Durobrivae, and Iasmin, you and your cavalry shall intercept any messengers between the two, or overland to Portus Magnus. Agreed?”
He took the others’ smiles as agreement. If any held qualm about acting without Rokk, or even consulting his brother Reep, no one gave voice to it.
After the evening’s meal, the plan fermented itself, drawing also upon the resources of Querl, Jan and other members of the court.
From: Vancouver, BC, Canada | Registered: Dec 2003
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The world blurred by like a waterfall – as if from behind the falls looking out. Sometimes it sped by, while others it seemed to slow to a crawl, as if the blur before her eyes was a painted tapestry only slowly peeling away to reveal another layer beneath.
Sometimes she felt as if she floated in a calm vat of blossomed waters. Other times she felt as if entombed in the smallest of burial vaults.
But now it seemed as if she was a guppy slowly approaching some mystic lake’s surface, trying to glean what went on in the world above. Was it really a lake? It was so hard to tell. She told herself it must be one, and she replied that it made as much sense as anything.
Above her, upon the lake’s surface, she saw Dyrk. He was shining with confidence and charisma and the burning aura of a sun god, and proudly adorned in golden armour, a mix of Celtic and classic Greek design. His eyes no longer held the disengagement of the past – somehow, he seemed like he was no longer even himself…
…the image faded. A new one slowly formed, as if a bed of kelp were shedding fragments and leaves to the surface, providing the tapestry for an image to form onto.
She saw Imra, her queen and one-time friend, visiting the humble cottage of a Christian hermit, in North Cymru. She seemed quite friendly and at ease with the little old priest of the one-god, even deferential. This did not fit. What would a woman of Avalon be doing there? Yet this vision held no trickery, she knew.
The image unwove into the shimmering waves of a lake-like surface, and a new one formed in its place. This transformation of image had happened hundreds of times, she guessed, yet only snippets of revelation remained in her grasp. This time, she saw her husband – conspiring with the villainess who must have done her in! Them, together!? What madness could this mean? Betrayal! Her rage caused the visions to disperse like a swirling cloud of stirred up mud across the lake surface, and she forced herself upright with great strain.
Settle down, childe. You’ll soon forget whatever has stirred you.
She had forgotten she was never alone in this strange lake.
No! I want to remember this! I need to!
Remembering has its price. Every time you have stirred before, you have been unwilling to pay it.
Maybe. But I need to, now!
Do you remember the price?
…no.
The voice sighed. Right, then. Here is what you have to do for us…
She felt the pit in her stomach as the deal was outlined to her. She internally winced as she agreed to the terms.
Upward she plowed herself through waters as thick as chilled honey, with a fury that pumped through her veins whilst yet fighting to keep from losing it from memory. Deal or no, this lake was no friend to retention of thought-lines.
Breaking the surface, her gasp for air turned into a cry of anguish – except that her vocal chords were numb from disuse. A thin rattle was all that escaped from her lungs.
With pounding head, she began to cope with the reality of air, wind, and cold. These sensations were real, hard, harsh… everything existence below the lake’s surface had not been.
She was now quite drenched, still mostly immersed in a pool of milky, shimmering waters – a well, perhaps, given the detailed stonework that surrounded her. A lonely but steady trickle of water dripped down upon her from a small stone lion’s head, and a metallic grate separated her below from a green-tinted world above. The songs of birds were her sole accompaniment.
“Um. Hello?” She hoped her words were as loud on the outside as they sounded to her inside the well.
A small, dark man, wrinkly and grey-haired, peered down at her, then departed. Before she could muster a scream, he returned with a lantern. Studying her face for a virtual eternity, a smile of sorts accompanied his nod, and he backed away with a grunt. Whether the smile was one of evil satisfaction or benevolence, she could fathom not. Her observer was of an age where many expressions could be read as a frown.
Soon after, he returned with two knights, who lifted the grate off of the well and lifted her out. She was in a gardened courtyard under a sky as green as glass, and a regally dressed man of middle years approached her. A handful of unkempt strands of wiry, silvery-white hair (whose? she could not fathom) draped down over her face.
“The currents of the worldstream were none too kind to you, my Lady,” he bowed. His guest placed her hands over her own face; where the smooth skin of youth and fullness of cheek should have been, there were wrinkles clinging to a face of bone, and an odd bump or two.
“How… how many years have passed?” she managed at last, trying to contain the scream yearning to escape. “Where am I? Who are you?”
“Not but a year and a half, I fear. You are in the Kingdom of Gorre. I am king Bagdemagus. Welcome back to the land of the living, my Lady Mysa.”
From: Vancouver, BC, Canada | Registered: Dec 2003
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Val arrived in Lothian to find a sea of refugees, shambles where many a stone building once stood, confusion and a calm bitterness that followed such an epic battle of which had had heard much. As soon as word had reached the Orkneys he rushed down, and even with the Chalice-bearer Dindrane and the Druids tending to the maimed there was still much carnage.
He felt guilty for not having joined Andrew and aided the effort. Now his friend and many of his countrymen were dead, his liege and even the mighty MacKell had been severely wounded so much that the Chalice aided their healings less than completely.
Rokk, still weak in the legs, was being carried about by Lothian soldiers, and Val found him inspecting the wooden huts and stockades being hastily built to house and defend Lothian’s populace. The high king greeted him stoically and set him to work, offering none of the rebuke Val almost wished for.
He set out working amongst his countrymen, demanding nor expecting any concession as their prince. “There is too much to be done to worry about formalities,” he told them. He worked, ate and slept alongside the common soldiers and able-bodied peasants, and was grateful for the honest labours rather than facing his kin.
Once or twice, he spied the Princess Jecka tending to the peasantry, and avoided her. He was both glad to see her alive and well, and embarrassed that his sometime-paramour had been there to fight the monster when he had not.
Word eventually filtered up to the nobles of his deeds, and he was summoned before his father as his military encampment on the inland plateau near the ruined city.
“You return to Lothian but shun your family?” King Lot asked with quiet concern and even warmth. Despite everything that had happened, it was good to see his son.
“I… When I arrived, I merely saw how much needed to be done,” he blurted. “In truth, I am ashamed that I was not here to help fight the beast.”
Lot nodded. “And mayhap you would have been among the dead. This was no beast for a mere warrior, let alone one who spurns the sword, to have fought.”
“But had I fought-”
“-You would have felt less the coward than you do now.” Lot embraced his second son, an uncharacteristic move for the man. “No warrior can be there for every fight, son. Tis no use feeling guilty for things beyond your control. You’ve carried enough guilt as it is, from what I hear.
“Come. Your mother and the Princess Jecka have heard you are about, and addle their minds as they concoct reasons why you hide from them. Come; put their hearts at rest.”
From: Vancouver, BC, Canada | Registered: Dec 2003
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The battle was over almost as soon as it began. Macedonian supplies were already en route to Kentish families who had lost members to Macedonian skirmishes, Macedonian steeds were appropriated for the Londinium cavalry, and the troop escorts were pressed into hard labours and sent a-marching to the northwest, where the walls of Camelot slowly continued to ascend.
All these deeds were signed into writing by the signature of the Macedonian vice prefect Mantos, a braggartly but cowardly scrip-counter assigned to supervise the regular supplying of Durobrivae. All these deeds were ordered by Sir Jonah – with his sword just inches from Mantos’ throat.
With the last of the caravan disbursed, Jonah had Mantos and the non-combatant members of the caravan continue to Durobrivae on foot, with a stern warning to the commanders to stop harming British citizens. Mantos muttered a vow of vengeance under his breath upon his humiliating departure.
“We’ll be back, in greater numbers,” he found the courage to shout aloud.
Jonah smiled and waved, infuriating the clerk even more. That’s just what we’re counting on, he thought.
From: Vancouver, BC, Canada | Registered: Dec 2003
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“I cannot believe Avalon schemes as you imply,” Cador was quite insulted. “I have only left Avalon since the Khund war, and cannot believe it has changed as you say.”
“But it has,” Governal insisted. “Azura and Mysa have feuded, and Mysa has vanished by treachery. Imra has cast aside her guise as Guinevere, and listens more to the Christian priests than to Avalon. Rokk has aligned with the Bear-King of the Picts, or so they say, and Azura has cursed him. And Avalon has aligned with the fae-queen calling herself Maeve, who summoned the great serpent to Britain just weeks ago.”
Cador could not lightly dismiss the word of Governal, who was the sage to the Cornish court since before even Gorlois’ father was born.
“I… should return to the Teacher’s Isle, then, to see if what you say is true. But verily, I cannot ken that it could be. I trust you can manage without me for the time being?”
Governal nodded. “Marcus’ melancholies rise and fall with the moon, or so it seems. The moon is now a-waning. It will be weeks before his mania again is at its peak.”
Cador rose. “I must retire early, then, my friend, if I am to start for Glastonbury in the morning.”
“If I might as one boon?’ Governal waited for Cador’s nod. “I have an amulet. It was the Lady Kiwa’s. It should be in Avalon, not among an old man’s memorabilia. But if Azura is not to be trusted-”
“-Then I can have the Teachers hold it until the Priestesses again are ruled by a Lady of quality.” Cador smiled. He accepted the amulet and departed.
Alone, Governal walked the halls of Tintagel castle, pondering his lost pupils, especially Mysa, and whatever had happened to her. “Well, Mysa, I’ve done as Mordru wished. I hope he finds the answers – or satisfaction – from Avalon that you would require,” he whispered to himself.
The night carried distant sounds to the castle walls. Above the steady pattern of waves crashing ashore, he could hear a dog in the nearby fishing village. It moaned and wailed in pain, another dying victim of the plague.
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By July’s end, Dindrane had done as much as she could in Lothian and the surrounding coasts. She and the Druids had even toured Dalraida to tend to victims. They also transported with them the physically healed but still asleep Ulster knight. There, the King Domangart was a thankless host, acting as if his lands had taken the brunt, not Lothian. He demanded to know the whereabouts of the Justice of Balor, but refused to name why he was so interested.
She was quite weary and ready to return to Avalon. It was a long road back, through Rhyged, Cumbria, Deva (where her party met Queen Imra’s on its journey eastward) and North Cymru. The high queen was quite disturbed to see MacKell with them, still lacking consciousness, mobility and awareness.
Prince Pharoxx and Beren awaited them at Segontium, Voxv’s capital. North Cymru would be providing an armed escort to the sacred grove that served as the gateway to the Druid Isle of Avalon, as Beren reported a host of Druids had been slain by a strange creature who spoke in rhymes.
The Cymru woods, long a place of comfort and safety to the young priestess, now felt claustrophobic. Every tree could be hiding the fiend that laughed as it struck down the priests of the forest.
It was late morning in the dark forest when they reached the edge of the grove. A thunderstorm had been slowly following them, but now lightning crashes were getting closer and louder.
The grove itself was still surrounded by an impenetrable hedge of thorns, impassable unless one was accompanied by a Druid of rank who knew how to call for the branches to part and open the way. Beren was among a half-dozen with Dindrane who could, and presently where a mesh of magickal, razor-sharp thorns had blocked the way there was now an arched hallway nearly 20 feet high and at least four (maybe six or seven) times as long through the barrier.
A lightning directly flash above them briefly illuminated the otherwise opaque brambles, and despite her shock at the light and deafening thunderclap, she could see deep in the hedge the metallic remnants of invaders who tried to hack their way through the hedge: Irish spears, Northman battleaxes, Roman armour, swords of various types. None any more than 25 feet deep into the hedge. What little bone was left was largely intertwined into the brambles. It was both comforting and chilling to think of the hedge as carnivorous, but it was. Necessarily so, after what the Romans had done to the Druids of Mona.
The inner courtyard of the Druids contained a stone circle at least as large as the one on the plains of Salisbury, each adorned (and some overgrown) with specific plants of which she, despite all her instruction, could only identify a handful.
But more unusual on this visit were the remaining bloodstains. Druids had been slaughtered here, despite the hedge’s defenses. Dindrane glanced around nervously, wondering how the creature got in – and where was it now?
The rain began in a torrent, and Dindrane was almost ready to seek shelter. Beren placed a calming hand on her shoulder, as if to say, “no. We must not rest here.”
The continued, into the hedge maze that leads to Avalon.
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Reep and Querl finished setting up the modified computi structure early in the morning, hopefully secure beneath the brush that concealed them. Reep felt vulnerable, working at ground level so close to the town walls, but there was no other choice. The Saracen knight Sir Palomides, Sir Brek and Dag were their sole defenders should they be spotted prematurely.
It was an in-the-field experiment, Querl conceded. Never before had he and Loomius concentrated multiple computi components into a single structure, let alone with flammables. A miscalculation or misfire could ignite the entire battery.
Reep wished L’ile was back from the far north isle. They had much to discuss: recent news, strategies, construction of Camelot, and of course the ongoing Dark Circle and White Triangle matters.
Not challenging the Macedonians right after the Khund war was wise, Reep had agreed – but leaving them for almost a year was a mistake, and he questioned his foster-brother’s wisdom in getting so entangled in other matters. Getting wounded in Lothian battling sea creatures could not be helped, twas true… but he felt uneasy about conducting an operation he knew Rokk would want to lead himself.
Jenni was tackling Macedonian scouts and relaying messages, and Iasmin’s cavalry was ready just a half-league away beyond the ridge. A hastily assembled West Country force led by Sir Garth was watching for riders or detatchments from the other Macedonian regiment at Portus Magnus, and nearly half of Kiritan’s men had been filtering into occupied Durobrivae via the river Medway itself since last night. The other half were in the opposite brush, hundreds of yards away, awaiting a success from Querl’s modified unit. So much was in his, Querl’s and Stig’s hands.
Without scouts, and surrounded by a strange shift in Kentish morale, the Macedonians would be anticipating trouble, and drilling – but the question was, did they think they could hold the walls and the citizenry at the same time?
Jonah was marching with Londinium’s army into plain view of the walls. It would soon be time to deliver the surprise Jonah’s plan relied upon.
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Sir Lu returned to Londinium early. The Queen’s retinue was continuing across the north to Rhyged, Dalraida and Lothian, but she felt an inexplicable need to regroup with her sole surviving sister.
Londinium was beginning to swelter with the first of the summer’s heat, and she could not help but be appalled by the number of dog corpses she found herself stepping over. Some had been left out to die, some had been killed.
She had heard of the plague during her own recovery in Glastonbury, of course, and could not help but feel guilty. But all she had seen was a notable absence of dogs in Britain south of Deva, none or few in the numerous villages, hamlets and thorps, and maybe a weak hound lying in the green whimpering. Only in Verulamium had she seen a tall hunting dog looking at her in desperate hope, shivering despite the early summer warmth, too skinny for health’s sake, and standing over a set of pups too weak to do any more than twitch.
Londinium was quiet. Few guards, soldiers or knights were out on Lu’s first visit since the war, and she had to wonder if the festive city she had known had faced too much in too few years’ time to ever recover itself.
From: Vancouver, BC, Canada | Registered: Dec 2003
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Even as a priestess, Mysa had learned to travel the country trails and avoid the roads where merchants, brigands, mercenaries, soldiers and nobles might travel. It was safer, often easier, and ones passings often went unnoticed except to the country folk who hosted and honoured the priestesses and kept their travels secret.
Now in the involuntary guise of a crone, Mysa found travels even easier – none paid attention to her at all, lest alone those who might be conflicted by whether to keep her confidence – or Thora’s.
She found herself tiring easy, and was grateful for the pony Bagdemagus had granted her. With a little lard, it looked too mangy for even a highwayman to bother with taking from a little old lady.
Mysa instinctively knew she needed allies in Avalon. If Thora and Mordru plotted treachery, then they had already rendered Azura irrelevant. She could not go to the Priestesses – any priestesses. Whose word would they take? Azura could be clueless about what transpires right behind her back.
There was Beren, of course. In some ways, she thought of him as who Mordru could have been. Beren would listen and investigate. The Teachers were too self-absorbed and removed from the schemes of one like Mordru.
Mordru.
She shivered. She had loved him, and she had even joined him once in plotting how to take Avalon. He too knew that Beren and the Priestesses would be they key links between Avalon and the outer world; she could be blind-sided already if she approached the Druids unprepared.
Not Beren, then. Pellam.
Surely the kindly old king, Kiwa’s old friend, was enough of a wise and influential soul to help her warn Avalon as to what was to come.
Pellam’s castle was at most a few days north from Corinium. Even taking the byways, she should make it within the week.
From: Vancouver, BC, Canada | Registered: Dec 2003
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