“Aye,” Marla told him. “The Romans wanted no trace at all of Boudacea or her rebellion. It took the greatest amount of stealth for her surviving followers to erect even this cairn.”
“And this leads to the Forbidden Isle?” Iason asked, unmindful of Mordru’s gaze, a look that silently shouted, “Silence!”
“I wouldn’t know about that,” Marla lied, amused by the assumption. Suddenly he felt less culpable about being coerced by his one-time liege. “All I know is that it was a route to Avalon, but has not been used since Boudacea herself collapsed the tunnel.” Marla was not about to provide useful information for the wizard’s mysterious scheme when he could ramble on about old lore any local villager could recite.
Mordru surveyed the ground, patiently probing the ground all around the cairn. “There are passageways below.”
“How can you be certain?” Iason asked, earning laughter from both his companions.
“I am surprised you asked, as you bore witness to so much, Twas Mordru who gained the confidence of Vortigern by warning him of the dragon that dwelt below his own castle,” Marla reported.
“Iason remembers little, I fear,” Mordru countered. “For his own wits, I say tis for the best.”
The trio headed back for Londinium. Mordru shushed many of Iason’s inquiries until Marla parted, else too many ears begin to glean the pieces of his designs.
Mordru kept a low enough profile in Rokk’s capital, he hoped. Yet the evening before he and Iason were to depart, he found a dour-hearted Sir James waiting at his door.
From: Vancouver, BC, Canada | Registered: Dec 2003
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“Dyrk is both descendent of Apollo, and also Apollo himself. Potentially speaking,” Regulus shouted, so as to be heard through the rain. “The liturgy of my order tells us our god can and does incarnate among us from time to time. And all the signs, since years before Dyrk’s birth, made it clear that he would be the last great incarnation of this age.”
Rokk considered himself lucky to encounter the Apollonian priest who was also journeying south, after spending the entire summer in Lothian and Pictland. The priest had been among those who had scoured the sea-shores and gathered Andrew’s metal bones for burial on the Caledonian coast, at the shrine of his death, Sinn Andrew.
Regulus was both pleased to hear of Dyrk’s survival, but totally a-fluster at the news from the south of a Dyrk aglow like the sun itself calling himself Apollo. “In truth, it could be the culmination of all my hopes. Yet all my prophesies have fallen like shards around me.”
“You once wanted Dyrk to be high king,” Rokk said pointedly.
“Once. But my greatest failing was both that I recognized yet failed to interpret the will of my god. Now I merely hope to see where the path leads, rather than pretend to lead that path. I… am nearing the end of my priestly duties, I fear.”
Rokk, Regulus and the Rhyged army passed through Cumbria, where the king was perturbed that no progress had been made on raising an army.
King Wynn has been delayed in the south yet again, the castellan told him – just has he’d been told the same weeks ago.
“James should have been sent for!” the king scolded the official. “Summon your nobles. I will instruct them, if the family of Cumbria is so unwilling! If Wynn hadn’t been such a staunch ally in the past, I vow I would carve up this kingdom to-day!”
Rokk had the army fed as he took the extra day among the nobles. With the young king’s growl came the pledge of a thousand men within the week.
Four days further south, just outside of Deva, Rokk learned that Sir Garth and others were apparently captives of Duke Aivillagh – who had proclaimed himself vassal of the queen of Cornwall – yet another of those posing as Mysa. Dyrk/Apollo was also of their number, it seemed.
The army changed course for the road to Corinium and the southwest coast.
From: Vancouver, BC, Canada | Registered: Dec 2003
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“I believe it not.” Garth would not even look her in the eye.
“You, who used to beg to wed me. You, who was blessed by the gods with thine arm. You, for whom I would make puppets for you to play soldier as a little boy, when Kiwa sent for you. LOOK at me! Tell me you see me not!”
Garth slowly turned, as if the very sight of the old woman would turn him to stone. “I see an old woman, who I’ll wager learned many a secret from the queen she may have murdered, for all I know. I’ll not be a party to your magicks at all.” He spoke quietly but with a simmering anger, and turned his head back.
After a long quiet she spoke again. “Jancel. It’s her, isn’t it? You will not give me even the satisfaction of my ear because of her.”
Garth spoke not a word, but merely tugged at his bonds as best he could.
“I truly am sorry,” Mysa said. “I, who for so long vowed not to manipulate as Kiwa did me, did just the same to you and her.” She let out a sob. “You must be quite pleased with the curse now upon me.”
“I am pleased of little, more and more. If you so repent what you did to Jancel and I, then why did you so transform Dyrk?”
So he did accept who she was!
“I did nothing to Dyrk.”
“Liar! You, who always spoke of men as gods. Now Dyrk thinks he is one, too!”
“I am not so all-powerful that I cause all changes and miseries in this world, Garth. Plenty transpires well without me.”
“What other deeds have you done?”
“What?”
“You hinted oft, when we were lying together, of things you had done for which you held shame. I… would hear them, then. Until then, tell me not what you didn’t do, for I shall assume you did all else.”
From: Vancouver, BC, Canada | Registered: Dec 2003
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Laoraighll stepped outside of her hut for the first time on a chilly October morning, but it would be three days before she could walk farther than a nearby bench that Jan had built.
On that third day, she made it down to the water’s edge, and sat meditatively looking out on the misty lake. In the distance she could hear the priestess’ barge rowing the waters on their way to Glastonbury’s shore in the outer world.
Jan joined her not long after her arrival, bringing warmed broth and moistened bread, which she devoured quickly.
“Lar’s gone, isn’t he? He hasn’t come to see me in more than a week.”
“Aye. He was growing quite melancholy being trapped here in Avalon. We are fairly certain he went to the Forbidden Isle.” He opted not to tell her of the causeway, for fear she might attempt something ill-advised herself.
“What other news? Tell me something more pleasant.”
“Azura and the Teachers have sent Thora on a quest. The young maidens are quite pleased to see the Lady back in charge after spending so much time traveling with the Queen this past year.”
“What else?”
“Aivillagh has claimed the crown of Cornwall for an old woman he claims is the rightful monarch there. King Marcus is apparently riding to challenge him.”
Laoraighll scoffed. “Sounds like two madmen to me.”
Jan chuckled. “Prince Pharoxx is quite irate. The Franks have imprisoned his sister, or so tis said, and no-one at court deigned to tell him.”
“Zounds!”
“Aye. Well, Rokk should be back from the north soon, and set him a-right. Or re-align him toward the Frank, rather than his own men.”
“Ha! I would be surprised not at all if Pharoxx does not start the war without Rokk!”
“Aye,” Jan said. “That does not seem unlikely, does it?”
From: Vancouver, BC, Canada | Registered: Dec 2003
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“I apologize for your captivity. You are free to go,” Aivillagh told Garth, Tenzil and Carolus.
“For what hast this all been a-foot?” Carolus demanded.
“You and Sir Garth attacked my court. Had you but asked for fealty, you would have been made more than welcome,” the duke explained. “I have no wish to feud with the high court. But nor do I entertain knights who behave like brigands!” For a brief second, Aivillagh looked so red and angry that Carolus could imagine him sprouting horns.
“Tis my guess that King Rokk’s entire army is about to bear down on you and you think you can avoid the spanking you deserve,” Garth taunted.
“Such a thought is quite unseemly for a nobleman, Sir Garth. As a son of a Lady of the Lake yourself, you would be better served making amends with those of kindred hearts.”
“I am no kindred to you!”
“Both of you! Cease you quarrel!” Mysa had enough.
“I merely came because I distrusted your ‘sun-god.’ Keep him away from court, and I shall quarrel with either of you no more.” He couldn’t resist one last stab at Mysa. “I hope you accept your curse as justice for all your wrongs, my lady. Kiwa would be proud of you.”
The three men left Exeter upon horses, Garth upon his own and the others upon gifts of the duke.
“That really was Mysa?” Carolus asked, once they were well out of the city.
“Aye, it was,” Tenzil replied. Garth offered no denial. His companions soon found he was of no humour for jest or even conversation as they rode.
At that evening’s camp, Garth resolved to stop blaming his wife for Mysa’s deeds against them both. He also wondered to himself, for the first time, if his own avoidance of Jancel was a weakness akin to the very one Mysa saw in him – when she sought to separate him from the Queen. Would we really have fared so well, Imra? Would we not have found our embrace whence you learned of Rokk’s Pictish bastard?
He liked his companions well enough, but these were no Sirs Thom or James or even Jonah to share confidences with.
The campfires burned low. Garth stared long into the night at the dancing embers. They were easier tormentors than thoughts or dreams were of late.
He was unused to making his camp along this stretch of the Exeter road – this close to the sea on an open plain. Only the gentle hills shielded the winds. Alone, he could have likely made it halfway to Glastonbury, had he the motivation to do so – yet this trio was scarcely one-quarter of that distance.
Garth figured roughly the number of days this trip should take, given his fellowes’ lesser experience on horseback. It would be a lonely journey, all the more so with the weight his reunion with Mysa had laid upon his heart. A long voyage indeed…
But the next day, word from the king would halt their voyage, and they would begin their return to Exeter much sooner than any of the three had expected.
From: Vancouver, BC, Canada | Registered: Dec 2003
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Errol had ridden the western periphery of Perilous Forest several times, but found no trace of his quarry. Out of sheer desperation he visited a lone cabin, almost as invisible as L’ile himself. Only a Druid would recognize the deliberate and skillful placement of foliage that both disguised the house and also looked to less observant eyes as nothing unordinary from the rest of the woodlands, meaning only a Druid had planted them.
Errol called out to the cabin, but yielded no response. He walked around it, and seeing no-one, he entered and called again. Again, no response. Lacking options, he set himself down in plain site and began playing his wood-flute, hoping in his heart not to attract the dread ogre Validus said to lurk these woods.
After less than an hour, he stopped, and lied back, studying the forest canopy. Soon, he felt like he was being watched.
“You’re Errol. You’re a Druid,” said a boy of about 10 or so.
Errol was impressed with the lad’s silence, but to live in Perilous Forest, one would have to be. “Yes, I am, he replied. And who are you?”
“My friend told me all about you,” the boy continued. “He knows a lot about everything.”
“Who is your friend?” Errol asked. “Is he a Druid like me? Can I see him?”
“I’m Peredur,” the boy said. “And I’m going to be a great knight someday.”
“You are NOT!” said an unpleased matronly voice behind him. Turning, he saw a quite peeved middle-aged woman pacing directly at them. “Go inside at ONCE!” she ordered the boy.
“State your business,” she demanded of Errol.
“I mean you nor your son any harm. I am looking for a Druid named L’ile. Or Rowan.”
“Are we here for your amusement, then? My son tells you of his imaginary friend, and now you must share in the jest? I did not chase my son to halfway to Cornwall and disabuse him of his foolish dreams of knighthood just for every foul forest-wanderer to mock me! Go, for the sake of all that is virtuous, just GO!”
Errol left, but encamped nearby. L’ile – Rowan – was nearby! His quest was nearly over.
From: Vancouver, BC, Canada | Registered: Dec 2003
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Luornu felt as if she had been naught but the complete fool.
She had long ago ceased to be Dyrk’s paramour, and sought instead to seduce him to the banner of Iesous. But then he had seemingly died – like Andrew – and how she mourned them both! But now Dyrk had returned as a some sort of pagan devil, a false god, and she had given in to him with a will – nay, a lust – that was barely her own.
Even worse, she had not only taken him to bed, but her sister had come along too! Could that not be a sin without parallel? Was this not her punishment for defying the will of God, as revealed to her by the matron at Glastonbury? Had she not been so proud and willful to think that she knew better? But now she knew the fallacy of her ways. Wretched, cursed peasant girls are not in God’s good graces, nor true ladies of good lineage, simply because they associate with real nobles. Surely Laurentia’s death was also a clue she had been too proud to see for what it was.
As fondly as Luornu thought of Father Marla, he was far too lenient on sin, and espoused forgiveness more than he did repentance. So many times he had forgiven her, yet time and again she had fallen back into sin. Luornu prayed for a sign, and the next morning she learned that Sir James was bound for Exeter with a company of men! Surely it was the Lord’s doing – bestowing upon her yet another chance she deserved not. It took little coaxing for James to agree to see her to Glastonbury along his route.
Her friendship with so many pagan ladies and knights… her acceptance of the queen’s own sorcerous ways… all had led to no good at all. And her own sharp tongue (how like dear Laurentia she had become of late!) had almost gotten her excommunicated!
No more. She would seek forgiveness and repentance among those whose counsel she should have been following all along.
From: Vancouver, BC, Canada | Registered: Dec 2003
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James’ troop arrived at Exeter unprepared to see the sprawl of northern armies encircling it. For a moment, the knight thought the Franks had seized it and Rokk was re-taking it. But there was no siege, although some of the men seemed to expect one.
His heart was heavy, and he had none to unload it onto. If he could muster the courage, he would speak his ills to his liege.
Once inside the city walls, he saw Garth arguing with Dyrk/Apollo. But Carolus interrupted the new arrival’s observance of that quarrel, and the jester informed him that King Rokk was awaiting him at Aivillagh’s castle.
“Sir James,” Rokk greeted him almost as an after-thought. “I need you to ride to Cumbria at once and gather the armies I requested.”
“I shall gather the nobles and-”
“-That has been done, by me. You merely need to follow up. I want them here before Yule.”
“Here? Not Portus Magnus?”
“Must all my decisions be questioned?” Rokk was not of a good temper – again. “Everyone expects Portus Magnus to be the launching point, because it always is. Let us give the Franks something they expect not – if that meets your approval?” The sarcasm was not lost on the knight.
“You look as if you want to say something else. What is it?” Rokk said with more annoyance than interest.
“T’is nothing, my liege,” he said, exiting. “Nothing at all.”
No burdens would be let loose to-day; the king was clearly of no mind to hear his ills.
Outside, James briefly encountered Garth, who chastised him for his ill hunour of late. “Let us find you a maiden to get your heart back in place,” he slurred, already several pints into the evening – and it was only afternoon.
“Aivillagh has re-pledged loyalty to King Rokk,” Garth told him. “Rokk stays loyal to Avalon, and Exeter aids the war. Not so much as a ‘sorry for imprisoning your best knight, or seducing another with magicks.’”
James abandoned Garth to his cups, and walked the narrow city streets in search of peace. He was rather surprised to see Rokk himself, dressed as a common knight, summon him to a side alley with far kinder words than the king had used of late.
“Pray tell, do you recognize this lady?” his summoner asked.
It was an older woman, yet one vaguely familiar. As he stared in part confusion, she began a slight smile that gave her away.
“My Lady Mysa! T’is a wonder I have recognized you!” his joy was genuine; certainly she of all people could aid him, where even Mordru would not!
“T’is a wonder indeed, as so few have done so,” she replied. “Pray tell, can you help us escape this city?”
“Since when does the high king and his sister need to-”
His thought was cut short as his summoner’s face had shifted into a visage he knew not.
“What did she want?” Rokk continued his interrogation of his host.
“She wanted to remove the curse of agedness upon her person, to reunite with you, her brother, and to resolve any ill will ‘twixt your court and herself,” Aivillagh replied. “Having failed with Sir Brandius, I confess it was my idea to restore her claims to Cornwall, that if her people accepted her, you might come around as well.”
“But now she has fled.”
“Aye. She heard you threaten harm, ere you look upon her, that her life would end.”
Rokk fumed. He had said those words, when he believed her a fraud. The bear inside him rebelled against his regret; it needed a new target.
“It is said King Marcus rides here to make war on you for pledging loyalty to Mysa.”
“He will have a lonely ride. My allies have already stripped him of his troops. They still ride here, but for your war effort.”
“How so?”
“Mysa’s presence this summer has done much to remove the last vestiges of Geraint’s leadership. The people of Cornwall – her Cornwall – crave a leader of the olde line – not Marcus, not Gorlois, but a true descendant of Llir. Even Geraint’s blood was not as good as Mysa’s. Or yours, but the people of Cornwall are jealous – they want their own monarch, not just a high king of their lineage.”
“There is more you say not,” the high king gleaned.
“Aye. Suffice to say, you will only hold Cornwall and the southeast with your sister’s blessing – and she has endorsed a requirement I expect of you for that to happen.”
“YOU… require…?!?” The bear within Rokk growled loud.
“We support you in this war without condition. But continued support beyond this – and we both know there will be more wars, Khunds if none other – shall require a demonstration. Bear-King you may be, but many of the Olde Ways need to know that you are still the man we coronated in your heart of hearts. A man loyal to Avalon, as your father Uther pledged for his line to come.”
Rokk was angry enough to run the man through, there and then. But promises to underlings were made to be broken – if even the good duke even survives the coming war.
Tempted Rokk was to inform Aivillagh that it was Ambrosius, not Uther, who had made the pledge to Avalon… Or had he? Was Rokk mis-recalling Mordru’s words, so long ago? Which of the three brothers had made the pledge? Ambrosius, Uther… or Mordru himself?
“Very… well…” Rokk heard himself slowly saying, choosing his words with as much precision as his suddenly racing heart could muster. “But to make such a demand of one’s liege is not to be done lightly. I require something of Avalon as well.”
From: Vancouver, BC, Canada | Registered: Dec 2003
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“I am pleased that your journey was successful,” Cador beamed as he bowed. “T’is good to see you, my queen.”
The early autumn evenings on the Tintagel coast were a delight. With only a slight chill in the air, the two nobles could comfortable walk and talk privately along the rocky shore, and return when they needed warmth to the fire pits where servants were roasting a pig to feed the visiting monarch. The smell of roasting apples and spices competed with the briny smell of the sea out along the cliff-top path.
“I fear I cannot be your queen just yet,” the beautiful young woman before him said, “else southern Britain is again at its own throat.”
“But my vile kinsman Geraint’s name no longer commands the respect it one held. It is safe. All is well.” Cador knew well that only his distant kinship to Geraint was why he and he alone had been able to smooth the waters between Marcus and the nobles who had stood with the would-be usurper.
“No. Even if Cornwall is mollified by Mysa’s words, the Summer Country and beyond are not. Meleagant was Geraint’s man, and he hath no love for us.
“Marcus will not go quietly, and too many will remember my love as his slayer, too. We cannot let Meleagant use us to divide this land, for him to become the next Geraint.”
“What do we do? Who shall rule Cornwall? Until Rokk and Mysa settle their feud-”
Cador’s guest shushed him with two gentle fingers to his lips. “There is much I must tell you, and we must pray all unfolds as it must. You stepped in as but a temporary peacemaker, tis true. But Cornwall is not yet done with you, I fear.”
From: Vancouver, BC, Canada | Registered: Dec 2003
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Carolus was no tracker, woodsman nor spy, but he tried his best to follow Sir James and his small group of fellow knights on their westward journey – two knights and a robed woman accompanied the Cumbrian. This choice of directions further added to the jester’s suspicions; he had personally heard Rokk order James home to Cumbria – yet deeper into Cornwall they went! Knowing the word of a jester was secondary to a knight, he resolved to keep following as best he could.
Several times he lost them, and several times he stumbled again onto their path. Indeed the latest time he had found himself so hopelessly lost that he thought he was returning to Exeter in shame – when he stumbled onto his quarries by accident!
So surprised was he that he was unable to pretend to be discrete; he was too close to their camp that they called him toward them to share an ale.
“Why hast thou journeyed into Cornwall?” Sir Palomides asked him good-naturedly. Surely no knight would suspect the jester was trying to keep watch on any of them. Upon closer inspection, he could make out the identities of the entire party; Aivillagh’s man Sir Accolon, and as he suspected, Queen Mysa.
“Cornwall? I was truly lost, then. I thought I had taken the road north, for Deva and Cumbria. Were…” he paused to feign an innocent confusion. “Were you not also bound there, Sir James?”
“Aye,” James offered distantly, hiding the recollection that Carolus had directly heard his orders. “But there is another matter that, for the sake of all Britain, must be resolved without Rokk knowing of. Important matters of statecraft,” he stressed as convincingly as he could.
The ploy seemed to work, and Carolus began to doubt his resolve; surely the exalted Sir James knew what he was doing? No rogue was he, sneaking off in the night. Mayhap there is a reason jesters walk a separate road than knights.
Carolus rode with them the next day to a field where two opposing lines of troops, both Cornish, faced each other. Nay, they intently faced two men, specks in the distance to the new arrivals. But they were clearly two men with swords, circling each other warily. Surely a duel was beginning, and Carolus could only fear the unknown significance. This bodes well not, on the eve of war.
From: Vancouver, BC, Canada | Registered: Dec 2003
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For Sir Hesperos, the past month had been almost as if a most vexing of dreams – a blur of insanity not his own.
The quest had been straightforward enough – help King Marcus rally his troops for the coming war. But Marcus had been a manic figure, one day ordering troops together and the next having them diverted to move stones or hold ceremonies declaring victory over far-off lands even the Greek knight wasn’t sure actually existed.
Two days from reaching Exeter, the ever-dwindling army of Marcus stood face-to-face with a larger opposing force. It was less clear to Hesperos than to the troops of both sides that there were kin and friends on both sides, and neither had the will to fight the other.
“Geraint!” Marcus called out. “Show yourself, you cowardly traitor! Ye who hath slain mine own son!”
“Geraint is dead. By my hand, father,” a man resembling Sir Thom stepped forward from the opposite line.
“Trickster!” the addled king shouted. “My son is dead!” Even his own troops began to murmur and break rank.
“Let an elder king have his dignity!” Thom shouted. “Let him meet his end as a proud warrior, not a raving madman!” In an instant, the Cornish knight and presumed heir commanded the respect Marcus had so oft let slip away.
Slowly, the two armies fell in to feign opposition, with many of Thom’s own men switching sides to bolster the elder’s feeble numbers. All those gathered today, even those who had taken arms for Geraint, would remember the moment as one where all doubts about Sir Thom were erased – verily the legendary Thom of Cornwall had returned, in all ways imaginable.
There was no doubt about the outcome – or that Marcus’ day was past. Better to let him live in one last battle than wither away as a ghost on the well-meaning Cador’s leash; none wanted to remember Marcus as the man who had given voice to every phantasm a dying mind can glimpse.
Thom allowed his step-sire the first blows, and even the first blood – a slice to the leg. The elder knights were quite impressed with the lengths the younger would go to allow his father the sweet fruits of combat.
And when the time came to end it, Thom was swift and merciful. And even the late arrival Meleagant was surprised by the sight that followed – Sir Thom weeping over his sire’s body.
If any knight of Cornwall or the Summer Country had been given an order to finish off Sir Thom when combat ended, none followed it. Nor did any of the expectant eyes watching Meleagant receive any such signal from the man who had ordered Thom’s head on a pole.
Sir Thom planted his sword firmly before his one-time liege, saluted, and walked off between the assembled front lines. No hand moved until well after his departure. Never had any seen so many men assembled with so little sound made.
As the soldiers began to mill about and vocalize their awe for what had just happened, Hesperos caught sight of his old friend Sir Palomides, who was standing near James and some other familiar faces.
They greeted each other, and exchanged their own appreciation for Thom’s honour, and the coming assault on Frankish soil. A select guard of Cornish nobles began digging a grave; there was no point in sending the body to Tintagel or Sinn Gaolach on the eve of war.
After a spell, the conversation was interrupted. “Good sirs? Pray tell, where has Sir James gone?” Carolus intruded.
“He went to speak with some old Cornish noblewoman,” Hesperos volunteered, annoyed at the interruption. He waved the fool away to continue their much more important discussion. Surely it mattered not whatever token greetings were being delivered to some old crone, on the very hour when King Marcus was put out of his misery and Thom would no doubt be Cornwall’s next king. Why, just a dozen yards away, Sirs Garth and Meleagant were meeting civilly, no doubt with the peace of all southern Britain waiting on their words.
From: Vancouver, BC, Canada | Registered: Dec 2003
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Cador knew what was to happen, yet paced frantically until the messenger arrived confirming everything his guest had told him.
She had departed early that morning to meet with the most important gathering of Cornish nobles to assemble in a generation, and at her urging, he remained behind, else he look too ambitious for any Teacher of Avalon to be, even in the politics of his ancestral lands.
Governal was sleeping later and later; the years were catching up on the man who had been mentor and teacher to so many of Cornwall’s noble sons and daughters. By now, Cador was quite familiar with all the castle staff, yet at the same time he had never felt more alone. Among the Teachers he held authority, it was true – but there he was one of a dozen voices; nothing there fell solely on his shoulders as it did here. This should have been his late brother’s task; he had reveled in courtly matters. Not Cador.
Cador waited for Governal to break fast, and he filled the elder in on his conversation off the night before.
“I had hoped she would tell us all is a-right tween Mysa and King Rokk,” Governal said. “What said she when aft she silenced you?”
“She said, ‘You must rule Cornwall, in all of our steads, Cador. I will be in Leinster, where I grew up.’” Cador paused in quiet contemplation for an interval. “As we parted for the eve, she added, “‘Long live the regency of Cador the Wise,’ and she kissed my cheek. ‘It begins in truth with Marcus’ death on the morrow,’ she prophecized.
“‘Long live Queen Nura, and… King Thom,’ I whispered back. ‘May Eiru’s shores keep you both safe.’”
Governal nodded. “Meleagant will agree to you. Mayhap in time he and Thom will gain each other’s trust.”
“Some say Meleagant should hold no one’s trust.’
“Aye, but he is the heir of Gorre, and that is not to be brushed aside lightly.”
From: Vancouver, BC, Canada | Registered: Dec 2003
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Mysa quietly said her good-byes to Sirs Thom and Meleagant, and watched from the sidelines as the two swore loyalty to and acceptance for the regency of Cador before the assembled knights and nobles. The two would jointly petition High King Rokk for his blessing – and for his bestowal of title upon the regent.
As the armies, now as one, marched toward Exeter to unite with the other British forces, no one but a jester noticed Two knights and an old woman break for the northeastern coastal path.
Sirs Hesperos and Palomides had appointed themsleves as aides-de-camp of Sir Thom, who was most welcoming of two of Rokk’s own knights at his side. He had the will of Cornwall and peers at his side; surely Meleagant could plot no backstabbing just yet.
If James had regarded Carolus as an accidental shadow ere now, the jester’s continued following left no doubt. He let the fool believe in his own success – to a point. When it became necessary to save the would-be spy from brigands, James lectured the man and left him at Corinium, instructing the city guard to have him sent safely back to Londinium.
Carolus had accepted his fate with good humour, and let the knight think he had gotten the better of him. Carolus knew he was no tracker, but his own well-meaning bumbling had led to an ally who could do the job he could not.
From: Vancouver, BC, Canada | Registered: Dec 2003
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Enide and her knightly escort finally found the village; it had changed much in the past two years.
Her father had fled Castor towne not long after her wedding, she had recently learnt. The Angles continued to seize Breton lands, and more and more local lords gave into the newcomers, with promises of rewards and marriages into good Angle families.
Her father’s merchantile had been burned and looted, and old friends who dared not approach her in the streets told her in hushed whispers in the alleys of her father’s failed quest to achieve audience with the high king.
King Rokk knew her only as wife to a traitor; she could not imagine him thinking any the better of her poor father. Rejected from the court at Londinium, who knew where her sire might flee? A lowly merchant in lesser wares, his pride at being of Iceni noble descent was his sole source of pride – save for her daughter’s brief era as a Cornish noble. Enide knew well the descent his heart must be now sunken into.
With the aid of the knight at her side, she scoured every village in her homelands and beyond, and was ready to pour through every hamlet ‘tween Kent and Perilous Forest if need be.
But the trail led here, an overlooked motley of huts not two leagues from Castor’s stockaded walls. Less than a dozen huts made from little more than twigs, one solid storm away from being a pile of inland driftwood. She recognized the outline of figure and profile more than the unkempt hair, the posture of resignation and the blank stare.
“Father?” As she spoke the words, a brief uncertainty came about her. What if it wasn’t him at all? Surely there were many of Celt stock with similar features… But no. Coming closer and studying the visage, no doubt could harbour shelter in her heart. “Father, tis me. E-Enide. Home, I have returned…”
She looked around at the shanty. Hers was the only voice, the only action. The few bodies within sight made no motion, spoke no words, lifted no finger. Some of the huts were so poorly made that they held no secrets about their occupants – at mid-day, they lied still inside, from idleness, illness, drink or even death.
She again surveyed her sire. He was one of them now; there was none of his vivance left in his eyes. He not even recognized her presence, and she could not contain her tears. An apology garbled away into a train of sobs.
“Come, Enide. There is naught for you here now,” her escort said softly. He gently took her hand. “He has died in all but fact. Allow him the dignity of recalling him as he was.”
Enide reluctantly nodded and let herself be led away to his waiting mount. He had risked death for her and asked nothing; they were kindred spirits – outcasts within Rokk’s Britain. Even though he came from a distant land, his was a British soul – and she would follow him to his lord-in-hiding, in the peaks beyond Elmet.
From: Vancouver, BC, Canada | Registered: Dec 2003
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