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Four Hundred and Fifteen


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.

Four Hundred and Sixteen

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.

Four Hundred and Seventeen

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.”

Four Hundred and Eighteen

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.

Four Hundred and Nineteen

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.

Four Hundred and Twenty

“Rowan told me you’d be waiting here.”

Errol stopped playing his lyre and looked up. It was the boy. The Druid had deliberately camped a quarter-league away from the forest house, in hopes that the boy, not his mother, over-protective like a she-bear, would spy upon him. “I came here to find… Rowan. He’s a friend of mine,” he said.

“You knew him as L’ile,” the boy said matter-of-factly. It was not a guess – nor a question. Verily, the boy has seen his quarry – and had not merely chosen coincidental names for some imaginary friend.

“Yes, I did. By what name shall I call you?”

“I am Peredur. I am going to be a great knight someday. Someday soon.”

Errol smiled at the lad of no more than 11 years. Twas not beyond belief. Ywaine of Rhyged was already a knight at a similar age.

“I doubt it not, though your mother may.”

“She is still mad at my father,” Peredur said, “for leaving her. But I think it was some wizard’s fault, not his.”

“Mayhap it is,” Peredur agreed. “Where is Rowan – L’ile – now?”

“He’s right here, beside me,” Peredur announced. “Can’t you see him?”

Errol smiled. “He cannot be seen, unless he wishes to be seen,” he said to Peredur. “L’ile? Why dost thou not show thyself to me, your friend Errol?” he called out in the direction Peredur gestured.

Peredur giggled.

Errol’s face his none of his confusion and exasperation.

“He says we have a quest to fulfill before you will know why,” the boy said. “I have stowed away a sword and shield by yonder knoll. Come, let us go forth!”

Peredur plodded forward, looking perplexed when Errol hesitated to follow.

Errol was at a loss – mayhap the child was lost in imagination ere all? But he had come this far; he may as well continue.

“Tell me then, my friend. What is our quest?”

Peredur reached his cache and removed a short sword, nay a dirk – one that has been tinged on one edge by rust. The shield, but an armlet, really, was little better.

“They’re not much, tis true. But they are the best I have found, since my mother destroyed my last set of metals.” He put his dirk into a makeshift scabbard, a fragment of leather that was probably once a boot, as solemnly as he imagined a true knight would. He slung the shield over his shoulder, and picked up a small pack of provisions. He turned to errol with a look that said, “let’s go.”

“Our quest, good sir knight?” Errol asked once again.

“Rowan tells me we have a princess to rescue! Let us go north!”

Just a gentle bump... I never get tired of reading your LoC Sean!

sorry, Karie (and anyone else lurking in), but grad school has been pretty dang busy. I do plan to get back to this someday... maybe as soon as May, knock on wood.

PS is was a nice surprise seeing this on page one, just taking a glance at Bit for the first time in ages.

new stuff coming soon, if anyone is still interested.

I like what I have read so far. Do you think you will ever do a version set in a later time period?

The latest I definitely plan on getting is still the early 6th century, just a few decades later, but from time to time I have considered epilogues set in later centuries.

Hi Sean, great to see you back here writing in Bits. I'm very snowed under with work and family right now though promise that as soon as I get a night to myself I'll dive back into this. Hope all is good, best wishes for 2014 and the continuation of the Legion of Camelot!

Four Hundred and Twenty REVISED

It was a misty morning at the western edge of Perilous Forest, and the first touches of autumn were in the air. It had lent its chills to the prior night and was still lingering during the first blush of morning – until the late-summer sun forced it retreat to try again another day. But autumn could be patient; summer was an aging man who moved slower and slower each day.

The young Druid was alone. He ate some bread and berries for fast-breaking, and surveyed his remaining foodstuffs with a scowl. He had been on his own for almost three weeks, and could not break camp and leave here without progressing on his quest. This was the first serious task bestowed upon him, and he wanted to show his fellowes that although no warrior that he, too, was a capable in his own fashion.

The forest’s edge was normally a bountiful place for berry-picking, yet this locale was not. Mayhap the lone family who lived near to here had picked clean the bushes, or else travelers or forest animals had done so. Mayhap even the Darkness of last year, when a sky-full of ashes had stolen the sun itself for a full month, had diminished this year’s bounty. He poked around a bit more, and found naught but some tree-side mushrooms that had to be cooked ere they not poison him. Twould suffice for his evening meal, as he dared make any fire before dark.

Returning to his camp, he wondered again whether to approach the nearby family’s cottage, and what he would say to the matron who dwelt therein. But well he knew that he was no man of words, and amongst his fellowe Druids who valued the skills of story-telling and song he fared well not at all. Nay, his strength was in plant lore and plant lore alone. Yet what could he do but wait and plan, and maybe even hope his quarry came to him? His quarries, he corrected himself. Without a doubt, the boy who dwelt in the forest cottage knew more than he would say about the Druid known as L’ile, whom was at the very centre of his quest. Surely the gods would give him a sign soon as to how to proceed.

Yet he fretted, again questioning himself and his very value. While he and his cluster of friends had been accepted at the British high court as a group, he often felt like the occasional poore substitute for L’ile. It seemed that, of the group of longtime friends, only Berach, the cold Northman, was truly accepted as the true peers and companions of High King Rokk. What good was plant lore, even his skills at speeding the growth of plants, compared to the astute wit, wise counsel, and stealth of L’ile?

He picked up his lyre and strummed; it was a quiet enough instrument so as not to attract forest monsters, he believed. The playing relaxed him; he worried not how others would deem his skills. He became lost in thought…

***

“Rowan told me you’d be waiting here.”

Errol stopped playing his lyre and looked up. It was the boy. The Druid scanned around quickly to make certain the lad’s she-bear-like protectress mother was nowhere about.

“I came here to find… Rowan. He is a friend and comrade of mine,” Errol replied cautiously.

“You knew him as L’ile of Norge, he of the North Isle,” the boy said matter-of-factly. It was not a guess, nor a question. Verily, the boy has seen L’ile as he had previously hinted, and could not have merely chosen coincidental names for some imaginary friend.

“Yes, I did. By what name shall I call you?”

“I am Peredur. I am going to be a great knight someday. Someday soon.”

Errol smiled at the lad of no more than 11 years. Twas not beyond belief. Sir Ywaine of Rhyged was already a knight at a similar age, and held a great deal of prestige from the recent war with the Khunds and its finale at Mount Badon.

“I doubt it not, though your mother may.” Errol recalls the harsh words she had for him from their previous meeting the other day.

“She is still angry with my father,” Peredur replied, “for leaving her. But I think it was some wizard’s fault, not his.”

“Mayhap it is,” Errol agreed. “Where is Rowan – L’ile – now?”

“He’s right here, beside me,” Peredur announced. “Cannot you see him?”

Errol smiled. “He cannot be seen, unless he wishes to be seen,” he said to Peredur. “L’ile? Why dost thou not show thyself to me, your friend Errol?” he called out in the direction Peredur gestured.

Peredur giggled.

Errol’s face hid none of his confusion and exasperation.

“He says we have a quest to fulfill before you will know the reason for your question,” the boy said. “I have hidden away a sword and shield by yonder knoll. Come, let us go forth!”

Peredur plodded forward, looking perplexed when Errol hesitated to follow.

Errol was at a loss – mayhap the child was lost in imagination ere all? But he had come this far. He may as well continue.

“Tell me then, my friend. What is our quest?”

Peredur reached his cache and removed a short sword (nay, barely a dirk), one that has been tinged on one edge by rust. The shield, but an armlet, really, was little better.

“They are not much, tis true. But they are the best I have found, since my mother destroyed my last set of metals.” As solemnly as he imagined a true knight would, he put his dirk into a makeshift scabbard, a fragment of leather that was probably once a boot. He slung the shield over his shoulder, and picked up a small pack of provisions. He turned to Errol with a look that said, ‘let us depart.’

“Our quest, good sir knight?” Errol asked once again.

“Rowan tells me we have a queen to rescue! Let us go north!”

TRAPPED IN AVALON

Interlude Thirty-one: The Isle of Heath

Laoraighll appreciated Jan’s efforts and concerns, but as her strength recovered, she knew more and more what she had to do. Jan, the Priestesses, the Druids, the Teachers… they all espoused well-intentioned advice, and warned of approaching the Forbidden Isle uninvited. She nodded and went along with them, but still it gnawed at her.

All the wise words on these isles contradicted the truest, strongest feeling in her very gut. Lar, her ancestor, her friend, had gone there, it was clear – he was in pain at his re-confinement here on Avalon, and he had sought some sort of escape. And she had to seek him out.

***

Early today, Laoraighll had a visitor who appeared in her hut’s door-way at first light. Still groggy from slumber, it took her an interval to realize who her guest was.

“How fare thee, Laoraighll? Are you feeling well this day?” It was Azura. She had been Lady of the Lake for nearly three years, but still had not a fraction of the presence that Kiwa did. Mayhap she never will, Laoraighll wondered to herself. I know not of the magicks of the Priestesses, but Azura carries herself more like a fire-warder than a weaver of the deeper spell-craft and state-craft. She seems immersed in the moment, watching for trouble, reacting not plotting. She lacks also the wise aloofness that Kiwa presented herself with.

Laoraighll obligingly made small talk about her recovery and current state of health, and inquired as to the Priestesses whom she feared she had injured. The Lady assured them they were mostly well, but a few were still recovering.

“You have asked ere and again about the whereabouts of MacKell. Whilst we have still not seen him in more than a fortnight, there is a mystery he uncovered for us. Mayhap you could join us? Perhaps your gods-given unworldly senses may discover something we have not. Mayhap even something that inspired MacKell to take his leave of us?”

It was as good an idea as any. On the Isle of Heath, one of the two uninhabited isles of Avalon, MacKell had found the remains of an encampment, one hastily covered-up and abandoned. Judging by the camp’s remnants, it had been used by a lone occupant, a woman.

Seeing Laoraighll’s nod, Azura led her to a waiting boat. Four young priestesses-in-training sat in perfect stillness as they boarded, and with barely a nod from Azura they lifted their oars and rowed silently as one. They rowed with a breathtaking precision that would be the envy of any military commander.

The Ulsterwoman well knew the importance of this precision; the Priestesses who rowed the barge not along this simple route within Avalon’s isles but between the worlds back and forth to Britain, to the lake at Glastonbury, needed the precision so as not to meet some unsavoury fate – as Mysa and four Priestesses apparently had more than a year ago.

Laoraighll had on previous visits walked from isle to isle; it was possible to cross so among six of the seven islands on foot, via bridges, stepping-stones, water-shallows, or other routes, but boat allowed a direct route. The Ulsterwoman found the quiet passage on the water calming; the anxieties of dreaming faded all the faster.

The Isle of Heath lives up to its name. Barely any trees few upon its shores, perhaps the rockiest shores in Avalon. Varieties of shrubs and tall grasses covered most all else, save for the rock-and-moss hilltop at the centre of the oblong isle. With the boat anchored, Azura and the Ulsterwoman made their way to the southern point.

Laoraighll looked around the campsite. “Surely this woman was a-spying on the Josephites? The main point of vantage looks towards their huts.” By foot, one would have to backtrack across the heath, cross over to the Tor isle, and then again to the Josephite isle. But given the cover granted by Heath isle’s hillside and the woods of the Josephite isle, the trip could be made in relative stealth.

“Aye, Azura replied. That seems as so. None of Avalon have need for such a deed, yet it is unseemly that an intruder could so quickly learn the terrain of these isles so quickly undetected.

“While at first we thought the Josephite brother Pelles had fled with the Cauldron, mayhap he was in truth giving chase to her, if she indeed was both intruder and thief.”

The Ulsterwoman nodded. “But who was she?” She focused her demigod-like senses on the encampment, and saw the tiniest strands of hair. “Long red hair.”

Azura looked aghast. “Could it have been… Mysa?” Her one-time mentor and confidante had vanished more than a year and a half ago – after coming to Avalon to meet with Azura herself! The meeting had gone well, and Mysa had offered her the hope that she might return and help lift the burdens from Azura’s own shoulders. Had her vanishing been but a ruse? But why?

Laoraighll had known Mysa, and doubted in the two years since they had last seen each other that she would act as such. “But if Mysa wanted the Cauldron, she had ample opportunity ere now without resorting to thievery,” she said at last.

Azura nodded. “You in likelihood have not heard, but… Many have stepped forward, all over Britain, claiming to be Mysa, bespelled so as no one would recognize her.

“Some are mad. Most are charlatans. But there is one such claimant, an old crone in Cornwall. She seems to have convinced a-many of Mysa’s own Cornish folk and also some members of King Rokk’s very court of who she is. Or so I am told. If… if that is truly her, from as I hear, she would have red hairs no longer.”

There seemed to be nothing further to say, so Azura thanked her and saw her back to her hut. The red hair had been overlooked by Druid, Teacher, Priestess, and Josephite alike. And by Querl.

Interlude Thirty-two: Reunion

Pacing in her hut, Laoraighll winced and swallowed hard. There was no more delaying. She went to see him, he whom most of the court assumed was her own paramour, but was verily little more than a stranger.

She approached the hut in which he was housed and quickly entered while her resolve was yet strong. In doing so, she startled the young women who were tending him. Clearly they had experienced or otherwise known of her violent behavior as a patient.

She smiled apologetically and reassuringly to them before turning her gaze upon the Greek lad.

“Oh, Querl. What have I done to thee?” She brushed her hand along his cheek and winced at his bruises – the bruises she instinctively knew she had inflicted whilst her fevers raged. Again, I have hurt him, she thought, recalling their first adventure together in the faerie realm of Annwyn Annowre. Tis no wonder he avoids me so oft.

She left the hut in a bad humour, and wandered the woodlands of the Priestess isle, waging a close contest against the tears that wanted to come.

Interlude Thirty-three: The Priestess Isle

It was much later when she made her way back to the small hamlet of Priestess huts, and having missed the mid-day meal contented herself with some now-cold root vegetable and barley stew whilst some of the Priestesses lingered chatting about the current doings, including Laoraighll’s own discovery this morning.

Thora, Azura’s second-in-command, had apparently latched onto the theory that Mysa had been the mystery resident of the Isle of Heath, and seemed almost giddy at the prospect. Laoraighll recalled how Jan had warned her that many believed Thora herself had caused Mysa’s vanishing, in a fit of malice or jealousy.

Some of the Priestesses discussed Britain’s looming war with Clovis, king of the Franks. Others asked Thora about her own recent quest, assisting King Rokk to seek the crone claiming to be Mysa.

One of the maidens, a lass called Elwinda, said she had been among those who rowed the barge to the Glastonbury shore to bring Thora back to Avalon. “As we arrived, we saw Thora and the king having words. Thora looked as if the king had been scolding her!”

Thora bristled at the suggestion while the other laughed. Clearly Azura’s second-in-command curried little respect among her charges. Would even this gathering have been so candid when Kiwa was Lady here, Laoraighll wondered. Again, it came back to Azura and her leadership. The Ulsterwoman had no particular devotion to Avalon or the Priestesses, save for gratitude, but it occurred to her this order could die out without a stronger, abler leader. And looking around, she realized there was only one.

Mysa.

The Ulsterwoman had not truly given much thought to her absence; many at court came and went as duties demanded. But keenly aware of her own debt of gratitude, she decided that when she was again able to return to the outer world, she would beseech Mysa to return here.

Thora, perhaps guessing her thoughts, scowled at her. Unaware of the thoughts of either, the maidens continued chatting.

“Sir Thom returned to Cornwall, albeit briefly,” Elwinda offered. “He slew his own sire, King Marcus, and seized his widow Queen Nura as his own. They have again fled to Iberia.”

Another disagreed, a Cornish Priestess named Zinthia. “Sir Thom and Nura have loved one another since they met, I tell you.”

“Mayhap,” said a third, a young blonde woman with a Lothian accent. “But those knights and soldiers who were loyal to Geraint would still have his head. Sir Thom has been too careless in those he slays.”

“But remember, Anryd, Geraint was a traitor who sought not only Marcus’ crown but Rokk’s,” retorted Zinthia. “Even his lieutenant Meleagant has settled his feud with Sir Thom.” Some Priestesses murmured in agreement, and some groaned in disgust.

Zinthia added one more barb, “Wouldst thou truly like a king of Cornwall or indeed of Britain whose heart lies among the kingdoms of Italia, whence he spent most of his years?”

“He was a prince in Nuhorra,” conceded Anryd, “Or so it is said.”

“I remember when we cared for Sir Thom here, after his hunting injury,” said Zinthia. “He seemed like a splendid young man.” Other maidens giggled and mocked her as smitten with the knight.

“I have met him in the outer world,” said a maiden whom Laoraighll recognized from the battlefields. Dindrane was her name; she had carried the Cauldron to the wounded all across Britain during the war. “It is as Zinthia says. Geraint, even before his treachery, was a braggart who claimed victories not his. He lusted after Nura, and seemed ready to cast aside his own bride Enide on but a whim.”

The young women talked more about how unstable Cornwall now seemed. Who would lead it? Would it collapse in internal war at home whilst King Rokk now faces a Frankish war, perhaps on both sides of the channel? Duke Aivillagh of Exeter seemed well-poised to strike the balance, and the Priestesses agreed he seemed particularly aligned toward Avalon.

Laoraighll was surprised to hear the maidens say that Sir Dyrk had returned at last, long believed dead since the battle with Jormangund, and that he now sided with Aivillagh too. As the son of a Roman family, he seemed less inclined to side with Avalon or with pagan Britain at all than with the Temple of Apollo or even with the Christians.

The rest of the day was a daze. Britain was changing, and she felt distant from those changes for the first time since she arrived. Mayhap she knew something of McKell’s melancholy, too…

Interlude Thirty-four: The Josephite Isle

The next day, Jan brought her to visit the Josephites. He had seen her frustrations, and hoped that they would offer her wise counsel and steer her away from going to the Forbidden Isle, the seventh isle of Avalon where none but MacKell dared to go unbidden. The Josephites had little interest or knowledge of that isle, and Jan hoped they might be less alarmed by her notions whilst still guiding her a-right.

“Your care and compassion for your kinsman speaks well, my childe,” Brother Joshua assured her. “Yet he chose to leave for that place of his own will, yes?”

“…Yes. But his heart is heavy. I would be at his side, to share his burdens.”

Joshua nodded. “As you should. Yet whatever powers that guide that place may have other ideas. You might not achieve your goals.”

“Aye. But I must try.”

“Aye, so you must.” He grasped her hand warmly. “If you are set in your heart, then go, my childe. I pray thee Iesous’ blessings upon the. May you find your way, there and back.”

Laoraighll was touched by the elderly man’s genuine empathy. The Teachers, Druids and Priestesses were mostly all of the same stock of holiness, adorned in the same sorts of calmness, patience and wisdom, yet they could not help but interpret their own experience and unity into a sense of ownership over these isles.

The Josephites acted as naught but fellowe guests in a world that preceded a perfect afterlife. They were of Avalon now, but Avalon was not theirs.

Although a fellow Christian with them, Jan was already more like the others in all but theology; twas no wonder there was serious talk of him forming a new Christian shrine on the isle of Heath, as no-one currently resided there. Would Jan have so tried to forbid her from going to the Forbidden Isle, had he not set upon such path? Laoraighll tried not to think so of her friend, but the thought would not leave her.

Interlude Thirty-five: To the Forbidden Isle

It was several days later on a cool early autumn eve when Laoraighll snuck away from the dinner tables of the Priestesses, not long after dark. It was more than an hour before she was noticed missing.

Without torch or moonlight, as unhindered by darkness as only those with The Hound’s otherworldly senses can be, she made her way to the rocky causeway that had not existed mere weeks ago until MacKell had thrust his magic spear through the air to the far shore on the Forbidden Isle.

She was surprised only to find a maiden there awaiting her.

“You shall not stop me,” Laoraighll told her. She was prepared to make a full leap over the lass, if need be. She could do it; she had leapt further, from boat to boat even, during the Khund war.

The maiden chuckled. “I am not here to stop you. Merely to join you. Guide you, perhaps.”

She was a maiden Laoraighll had seen before, but could not place. A beautiful young woman with a wild red mane, not unlike Mysa but maybe a decade younger. She seemed to be a student of the Teachers, yet had much more free rein than any other pupil to come and go across the isles. After a minute’s struggle with wits, a name came to her. “You are… Zoe, are you not?”

“I am.” She reached out her hand. “Come with me, Laoraighll of Ulster, of the Clan Gandr. We walk with the Maiden Arianhrod to-night.”

BOOK VIII:
DRUMS OF WAR

Four Hundred Twenty-one

King Mekt had been kept in the woodland castle so long that it had long since seemed like his liberators had merely moved him into a new prison. Verily, twould be close to two years if it was a day.

Here in the uplands just north of Hadrian’s Wall, he was the guest of a Celtic lord of a tiny land, North Tyne, which had had endured Rome but never surrendered, or so the man said. His host was Sir Epinogres, a knight who said he had allied with Uther Pendragon on the promise of restoring Celtic rule over Britain. The man said his father’s family was of the southern clan of Geoffen, which had lost its lands to the Angle invaders decades ago, while his mother’s people were ancestral lords of this small valley domain.

Mekt considered him a liar and a madman, but then no doubt many said those same words of he himself, and mayhap rightly. But the losses, wounds, and betrayals he had endured… verily, who would not go mad?

Word dribbled in from time to time of the outer world, of his sister Ayla ruling Armorica in his place, of the betrayer Rokk’s victory over the giant sea serpent, of Rokk’s bride’s botched diplomacy among the Franks, and of the war that may well be the result of her error. They were far enough from the main roads to Lothian that Mekt’s enemies would not of happenstance wander by, but close enough that word filtered in and trusted allies could seek them.

Queen Guinevere, or Imra – whatever she called herself now – had tried to bespell him, he knew well, but he had been freed by a sect of Druids who rejected Rokk’s kingship. Those of this sect whispered of plans against the king, but given the whelp’s string of amazing victories, they have hesitated to strike time and again. Mekt weighed their excuse that they are waiting for an opportune moment as just that – an excuse, and nothing more.

Opportune? Ha! They are little more than a gathering of village gossips, stirring up words of action but never straying from home after dark! he chuckled to himself. Yet they had begun aiding his correspondence with allies in Armorica who might aid him when the time to overthrow Ayla came about. Lately, these Druids had been visiting him all the more, and they spoke in hushed excitement that the approaching Frankish war could be just the avenue to overthrow Rokk and begin the expulsion of all the lingering traces of Rome. And today, Ontier, one of the leaders, returned with a companion, a young woman older than his siblings but younger than he.

“King Mekt, the time drawsss neaarrr,” Ontier hissed.

“So you have oft said ere now, my friend. It always ‘drawsss neaarr’ but never seems to arrive, does it?” Mekt was more interested in the newcomer than hearing the same words repeated to him. Months ago, those words brought hope. Now they brought only irritation.

“Our Ssseeersss ssssay that Britain’sss truue kinggg will arisssse sssssooon. He will make hizz presssencccce known in Eboracum at Midddwinttter.”

“He has taken his bloody time, then, hasn’t he? By then, Rokk’s reign will be closer to four years and he may well have defeated the Franks,” he sneered, “at the rate your ‘plansss’ verily creep towards implantation.” He eyed the woman, hoping the conversation would shift to her. But not until he had established his frustration with Ontier and his ‘Dark Circle’ of Druids.

The woman was clearly amused by his reproach of her travelling companion. She began speaking. “My goode King Mekt, other allies of the Circle are in agreement with you; tis time for a less cautious stratagem. If you would like to move forward now, there are those who would stand against Rokk who need to hear from you. And soon.”

Seeing Mekt’s raised eyebrow, she continued. “King Mekt, I must beg forgiveness. I am Mettah. I am here on behalf of King Tarik of Elmet.”

“King Tarik in exile, tis more the truth. King Tarik of the 100 Knights lost his lands and his army when Rokk defeated the Rebel Kings three years agone.”

“Aye, tis true. He stands as the last of the Rebel Kings,” she conceded. “But he has been recruiting, and is readying a new army and recruiting knights who will stand beside him. And who will stand beside you. The time has come for more than one king to lead this fight.”

Mekt stood and paced to the window. Yes, he had yearned for action, not talk. But Rokk was at the height of popularity with nobles and peasant alike…

“And if the war turns against him, that popularity will shatter,” Mettah told him.

He looked at her. “You are a sorceress of the mind.”

She nodded.

“Rokk’s bride is one as well.”

“So was Queen Eva, your love.”

How did she know that? “And Rokk executed her,” he added, not hiding his anger.

Ontier let the silence linger a moment, then nodded to Mettah.

“Yes, he did. She… was a distant kinswoman of mine, or so I am told. But I know not for certain.” Mettah stood and approached him.

“But I do know she must be avenged. So must many others. Rokk must be deposed. You and Tarik can be the start of that. When the rightful high king returns, mayhap earlier than prophesized if the Luck Lords are so kind, we can have Rokk out of the way and set term for the new king more to our liking.” She put her hand onto his.

“I will be bespelled by mind-sorceries no more,” he warned her.

Aye, both Eva and Imra have done that enough, she thought. “I so pledge that unto thee. I shall not so much as listen to your thoughts unless you so ask me.”

Ontier smiled. He had guessed correctly; Mettah would remind him enough of Eva to make him pliable. Even if Tarik’s venture failed, Mekt would be ready at last.

Four Hundred Twenty-two

Although he had few knights of his own, and Ontier had his own entourage of warriors, Sir Epinogres insisted upon accompanying them to the castle that was serving as Tarik’s lair.

The main roads were busy with troops southbound from Lothian, Dalraida, Ryhged, Pictland, and even the Orkneys. With Ontier’s nine and his eight, they could easily pass for yet another lord of a small holding joining the war effort, and Epinogres’ presence facilitated this.

Mekt, Mettah, and Ontier rode in the carriage, out of sight from prying eyes. Epinogres could answer any questions asked by others knights and nobles; even Ontier had to admit the man served his purpose. Though few northerners would recognize Mekt, there were enough that would: King Lot of Lothian, his sons, and any of Rokk’s original knights who might have been questing in the northlands.

Ontier feigned slumber for much of the trip; he was quite pleased with the speed which Mettah’s seduction of the addled king was proceeding.

Four Hundred Twenty-three

They camped the first night just before the junction with the Lothian-Eboracum road, and the second night just past Vinovia, choosing a site far enough past the other army encampments that preferred to be close to that town.

A league and a half beyond, they found a field sheltered enough from the main road where Mekt could walk around unobserved by passing forces. Had they camped any later, that concern might have mattered little; the soldiers put up the pavilions mostly during the darker half of the long late-summer dusk.

Not all troops had stopped for the night, and at all hours there was still noise from the roadway. And in the morning, Mekt woke to find their field had now been shared by three other small contingents as well!

“Stay in the pavilion. We shall bring your fast-breaking meal to you,” Mettah assured.

Knights of the other encampments were waking, and some were approaching other campfires to greet each other. The leaders of the two camps closest apparently knew each other. One was a Pict and other a prince of Lothian, both in their late teens, Mettah judged from their banners and appearances. She whispered her findings to Mekt.

Sir Epinogres, as their elder, would no doubt return their greetings without endangering Mekt…

“A good morn to thee, son of Lothian,” Epinogres greeted, “and to thee, o warrior of the Picts. I am Epinogres, lord of North Tyne.” He paused, studying the first of the two. “I knoweth thee, Prince Agravaine, son of King Lot, are thee not?”

The young man smiled. “I am, but of late I call myself Sir Val.” Seeing the elder knight’s confusion, he added, “I undertook a great quest to the East, upon which I returned a changed man.”

“Not so changed to have forsaken honour and nobility,” the young Pict said, clasping his hand upon the other youth’s shoulder. “He and I fought on the same side at Lindum, during the Khund war. I am Grev.”

Epinogres avoided wincing at the mention of the battle of Lindum; these two young men had apparently defended an Angle-controlled city that had been stolen from his own Geoffen clan. But today was not the day to avenge that wrong.

With that secret undisclosed, the three chatted amiably enough. Val knew of Epinogres by name, and vaguely recalled meeting him not only as a youth but also one other time; when was that?

Grev was soon called away by his comrades as their morning stew was ready. Val and Epinogres noticed that the fourth encampment, which had been mostly silent, was now showing signs of life as well now. The elder knight guessed that they must have arrived closer to dawn than to dusk, and were thus of reluctant in their waking, probably only doing so because of the noise from the others. They were Orkneymen, he judged by their banners, and thus loyal to King Lot – and by proxy, this Val.

Epinogres had begun to tell an anecdote about meeting Val, when he was a young Agravaine, but Val interrupted him. “I have met thee in recent years, have I not?”

“Mayhap. I try to maintain the ties of friendship and kin with many northern courts,” the elder deflected with a smile. “But tell me, how fares my old friend King Lot these days?”

“Still rebuilding Lothian after Jormangund, I fear. It shall be many a summer ere that proud city stands tall again.”

Epinogres nodded sympathetically, but was still curious. Lot had been one of the Rebel Kings, only a few years ago. Where stood his son? “I hear some tongues wag. They say the fiendish serpent would not have attacked, had so many Celts not allied with those of Rome. Why, your own family has stronger kin ties to the Northmen than to Rome-”

Val grew sharp. “Such tongues are no doubt too cowardly to march into the war as we are. Britain is united, perhaps never as it had been since the days of Llyr. Let not the words of fools be spread like alms-coins, ere we do their evil work for them.” Although younger, his title placed him above Epinogres, and he was not about to defer to a senior knight who gossiped like a daft peasant.

“My apologies. You are correct, of course. I must yet be half-lingering in slumber,” Epinogres apologized and retreated. Had he gone too far?

The two returned to their respective camps for fast-breaking, and the storm-cloud seemed to have passed without incident. But as the various small companies disassembled their camps, and before Mekt could be stealthily moved to the carriage, Val burst in on them.

“Sir Epinogres! Sir Epinogres! I have just heard some important news-”

Val tood agape at the sight of Mekt. Ontier, who was at this point on the far side of the partially dismantled tent, gave two staccato whistles, and his armed guard, nine seasoned warriors strong, dropped what they were doing and drew their dirks.

Mekt, feeling like a cornered beast, began moving his hands in a rapid pattern, a pattern Val knew well from the man’s younger siblings. He eyed for the available cover, but spied only armed guards closing in around him.

“You have chosen your death, brash Agravaine,” Epinogres solemnly said. “The clan Geoffen shall be avenged!”

Grev and his warriors were almost about to begin the day’s march when some of them noticed the other companies acting odd. But none, certainly not Grev himself, expected the ear-shattering burst of lightning that came from the Tynian camp, and the sounds of combat as Lothian’s soldiers rushed to their lord’s aid.

Grev dropped his own gear and rushed back to the camp as well, knowing his fighters needed no formal word to join him. But as he neared the fray, another lightning bolt exploded, knocking Val’s own men aside. One of them landed near Grev, and with his dying breath sobbed, “Prince Val is dead!”

Four Hundred Twenty-four

Elyzabel took her fast-breaking in the upstairs parlour, an orate room decorated with Egyptian gold, Persian tapestries and Greek potteries. The weathers were warm, so both sets of oak double-doors were wide open, allowing a view of the upper courtyard to the south, in the castle’s interior, and toward the sea to the north. This room was the prize showroom of her paramour, Duke Lucius. She saw him little of late, and she gleaned there was trouble afoot. But no knight nor warrior nor follower of the politicks was she; she was content to be a guest, and she spent her days reading her recently deceased uncle’s poetries and sometimes writing her own. Or gazing out at the sea.

Of late, the fishing boats stayed clustered together, and seemed not to venture out into the channel as far. Something else else was changing. She would sometimes ask the castle guards or the staff for news, but they would shrug and politely apologize for their ignorance on such matters.

This was no Celtic court, she knew well; she was an outsider, and the ladies of Lucius’ court tolerated her but kept her at arm’s length. She was not welcomed to join in with any of the tasks that usually fell to the court ladies, as would have been custom had she been a visitor to any court in Britain or Eriu, but if that was the way of the Franks, so be it. Maybe in time it would seem like home.

Home. Elzybel wondered if such a place truly existed for her. Raised in courts in Eriu and Cymru as kin to minor nobility, she oft felt that ‘home’ was naught but a temporary encampment. Her sire was a knight and minor lord with lands in North Cymru and Leinster, whose fortunes and holdings varied with the winds of politics. Her mother had initially been wife to Voxv’s younger brother, but in remarrying, the widow had lost her level of standing in the North Cymry court.

Elzybel had hoped these Frankish lands could offer her a new start, free of the family politicks of both her homelands, but the coldness of the Franks made her yearn for those very entanglements once more. This Neustria, this dukedom of Lucius, was a beautiful and bountiful land, but it was not hers.

She finished her meal and strolled through the gardens, as she was wont to do each morning. The elderly couple who tended the gardens greeted her warmly, but they spoke only Frankish, not Latin and certainly not Gaelic or Cymry; there was no conversation in the offing here.

Weeks ago, she could walk along the shores, atop the bluffs, or through the grain-fields, along with guards to protect her from brigands. But of late all her requests to do so were denied.

“I am sorry, milady, but it is not safe out there at present,” the captain of the guard told her. “Too many brigands are afoot.”

“But to-day is market day, is it not?” Verily, she had spied the carts making their way toward the nearby village, and the pavilions and banner went up as the morning progressed.

The captain’s stuttering reply reaffirmed that there was danger. “Why, just last fair, one local lady was stabbed whilst her escorts were distracted, and a the village thieves targeted any and all whom were not reared in their petty little community.”

“They do not attack soldiers, do they?” She saw on more angle to try; like many in Voxv’s court she knew the basics of disguise, and had dressed as a male soldier on two other occasions to avoid trouble.

“Not as of yet, but I would not put it past them.” He had seen through her ploy.

“Then perhaps you can invite some of the merchants to visit here, ere they move on again.” Elzybel was almost exasperated.

“And if some of the cut-throats travel disguised as merchants themselves? Why, this whole castle could be put at risk.”

“Captain,” she said with the onset of resignation, “Is there any way I can leave these castle walls for a short interval?”

“Not at present, milady. My lord wishes to keep you safe-”

“-Keep me prisoner, tis more the truth. Yes?” Elzybel knew she was not as wise nor astute in state-craft as others, like her kinswoman Jecka. But today was not the first set of excuses, merely the first she chose to challenge.

“I-I would not say-”

“-But those are your orders, yes?”

“…Yes, milady.”

“Orders from the duke himself?”

His uncomfortable silence answered the question for her.

I am a fool for giving myself to him, she thought. “And I am to be prisoner from hearing news of the outer world as well, yes? Why, perchance? Is it war? The Khunds, again?”

“W-Well, yes. The Khunds. That is it, milady.”

She looked away, trying not to contain the angry laugh within her. The captain was not a good liar at all.

“Well, then, let me send word to my kinsmen in Eiru and Cymru,” she offered, “that they may help us withstand the onslaught.”

“I believe the duke is brokering alliances. Mayhap we should wait for him, so as not to interfere with efforts he has already begun.”

So war it is, she realized. With Britain? Eiru? Or both? And I am a hostage.

She retreated to the upstairs parlour. Out of frustration, she flipped through her uncle’s poems, and picked one at random; it echoed her thoughts.

“Even a beautiful prison is a prison yet.”

Four Hundred Twenty-five

Sir James made he way north along the by-roads; he had no wish to be seen by any of his peers, nor indeed by anyone else. Even the jester Carolus seemed suspicious of him, yet he had put the fool in his place. At Mysa’s suggestion, he followed a route not of the Roman roads, which were already busy with troops marching southbound for the war, but instead along the very western edge of Perilous Forest.

In the distance, he saw a tall stand of trees thrashing violently, and he surmised that must be the current locale of the dread ogre Validus. Good. Let the monster stay deep in the forest. James had thus far only seen the massive ogre’s footprints, and wondered how he himself at his largest would fare against the fiend, but this was not the day to explore that notion.

Along his backwoods route, he would circumvent pass both the cities of Deva to the west and Lindum to the west. He would set straight on to Eboracum in the north, following the forest, and then the moors and uplands that straddle much of the north-central central isle all the way to Lothian.

I am no villain. I have nothing to hide, he told himself. Aye, mayhap my liege and peers shall believe me, when this quest is done.

As he rode north beyond Perilous Forest, he chanced upon a Druid named Errol who had been missing from court for some time. A boy accompanied him. James bit his lip; he had no wish for any prolonged distraction, nor for word of his passage to get back to court. Yet of any such encounters, Errol was not so bad. Few took him seriously, and many gossiped openly about the reasons for his absence.

“Good Sir James!” Errol seemed superficial in his greetings. But what could Errol have to hide?

“Good Druid Errol,” James returned the greeting.

“And I am Sir Peredur!” the boy blurted.

“‘Sir?’ Pray tell, what king has knighted thee?” Errol laughed. There was a nervousness to his laugh, yet James barely noticed. His attention was on the boy’s name, not his self-bestowed title.

“Peredur?!?” James could scarcely believe it; he had not heard the name in so long. But the boy looked the right age. He dismounted. “Errol, I beseech thee. Take the lad somewhere safe, hide him with Druids you can trust, until you hear word from me.

“Lad?” James turned his attention to the younger. “Tell no-one your name. Please swear to this me.” He hoped his deadly earnestness would forestall questions.

To both of them he continued, “Tell no one that you saw me, or that I passed this way. Tis perhaps more urgent than the Frankish war itself!” James forgave himself the potential exaggeration, and remounted, hoping they took his orders without question. Yet he paused, hoping for some sort of confirmation that they would obey.

“Sir James? Pray tell, what transpires here? Verily, if I am to defend the boy-”

“– I cannot say without bringing danger to you both,” James interrupted. “But please. Heed my words. All of Britain may soon rue the day which you choose to not.”

He had a thousand questions for young Peredur, but today was not the day for answers, alas.