CHAPTER 30
THE PLOTS OF MEN
Natalenya’s proposal bothered Merlin. “Are you sure you’re willing to get Allun’s mule alone?” Yes, he had asked her for the second time, but he had to be sure.
“If you’re wondering whether I can handle it, I’ve hitched up my father’s horses many times, and I drive them myself whenever my mother and I go out alone.”
Dybris finished putting on one of Merlin’s old tunics to replace his monk’s robe. “But this is a dangerous night to be out alone. We’ve all planned for Merlin to go with you, and he’s more than willing.”
“I insist,” Natalenya said. “Merlin is needed more at the circle of stones than in the dusty old mill hitching up a mule.”
What Merlin found the most agonizing was wondering whether she was still mad at him after he had fumbled her hints at marriage. What a fool he’d been. What he wouldn’t give to tell her how he really felt.
“Fine,” Dybris said as he opened the door and stepped through. “We’d better go, then.”
Owain joined him outside, but Merlin hesitated.
“Here … will you wear my torc?”
“Why?” she said, her voice softening. “It’s a gift to you from —”
“The druidow will recognize me with it on.” Truly, though, he just wanted her to keep thinking of him. “And let me lend you this … It’s a small knife my father made for Ganieda.”
“You think I’ll need it? I can run pretty fast, you know.”
“Just in case.”
Before taking the blade from him, she pressed both of her hands around his. “You’ll be careful?”
“Yes. And you?”
She nodded, and Merlin saw the motion by the light of the lamp. And her hands felt good — small but strong. The only hand he could properly compare them to was his younger sister’s, since he couldn’t remember his mother’s and had never held Mônda’s. And yet Natalenya’s hands weren’t like his sister’s. Ganieda’s were thin, almost frail, always wiggling and cold, but Natalenya’s hands firmly and purposefully held his, and the warmth spread up his arm until he began to sweat.
“You’ll leave after you eat? Tas set out a mug of blueberry-leaf tea for you, as well as some oatcakes.”
“Thanks.”
“Well, the tea is a bit tart, and the oatcakes are dry. You can have some smoked meat —”
She laughed, finally taking the blade. “I’ll be fine.”
Outside Dybris coughed, and Merlin paused awkwardly on the threshhold, then he turned, closing the door behind him. As he joined his father and the monk, he heard her drop the bar in place to secure the door.
Merlin was glad she was going to rest and eat, for she hadn’t had a meal since morning and had grown more weary the longer they discussed their plan. But though her hands had trembled, she’d never wavered in her intent, and Merlin respected her mettle. Whatever her father was, Natalenya was of quality, something Merlin was beginning to understand.
As the men began their journey, Merlin put a hand on his father’s shoulder so they could keep a better pace, but Owain grumbled at him. “Tell me again — why are we going to the Stone?”
“Because we need to destroy it.”
“This is madness,” his father said, and Merlin could imagine his scowl.
“You agreed to the plan.”
“But I don’t have to like it.”
Was his father afraid of the Stone? Deep down, Merlin certainly was. Were they all fools?
Dybris, who always seemed hopeful, joined in the conversation. “Come now, the plan is simple. Have faith, my friend.”
Owain pushed Dybris away and walked faster. “I do this only for my wife and daughter.”
“I know what we wish to do is not without great risk, but we do it for the villagers as well. For Prontwon’s memory, and for Garth. I didn’t mean to anger you.”
“I’m not angry. I just don’t have much hope.”
Is there hope? Merlin wondered.
Dybris stopped talking, and since Owain tended to like silence, Merlin said nothing either. Soon they dropped in at the miller’s shop. Allun barely looked up when they made their request for Natalenya to borrow his mule. A large grindstone lay across two wobbling benches, and the miller was studiously dressing the stone using a long metal file.
“We’re going to disguise ourselves as druidow,” Dybris explained. “Natalenya will visit in a bit to hitch the mule to Owain’s wagon and hide in the woods. Merlin, Owain, and I will sneak into the druid camp and steal the Stone. Then we’ll destroy it, and its enchantments will be gone forever.”
Allun swung aside the thick timber boom so he could see them better. “Surely you jest,” he said, filing away and making the benches wobble. “You’re not going to meddle with that pagan Stone, are you?”
Merlin hoped the miller wouldn’t now recant his permission to use the mule.
“I agree,” Owain said, “it’s a foolhardy —”
But Dybris cut him off. “We have to free the people.”
“Well, that’d be a good deed,” Allun said. “Hardly a soul’s been by to grind since that Mórganthu showed up. Thought I’d take the posey time and get the grinders workin’ better.”
Merlin’s father bent down and looked under the benches. “Hey,” he said, “the nails in your benches have worked themselves almost completely out. I wouldn’t do much more without hammering ‘em back in.”
“Ah, they do that every time. I’ll hammer ‘em back in after I’m done tonight.” He stood and banged his head on the boom. “Ow! Drat that timber. I keep pushin’ it away, and it keeps swinging back.”
“So … may Natalenya borrow your mule?” Merlin asked.
“Sure, nothin’ to grind anyway. Plewin’s in the back field eatin’ her favorite spring blossoms. Get her anytime. Jus’ bring her back when you’re done.”
Thanking the miller, the three left and walked uphill toward Troslam and Safrowana’s house. Merlin felt increasingly uneasy and wondered if they were being followed. Perhaps the man who had spied on them earlier at the house was still on their trail. He asked his father and Dybris to keep a lookout for anyone suspicious, but they saw no one. Then Merlin realized why he felt so uneasy, and he motioned for them to stop.
“What?” Dybris asked.
“All the villagers are gone. Listen. It’s too quiet. Do you see any smoke?”
“Except for Troslam’s house up the hill and the mill, no. And none of the crennigs have a fire lit.”
They hastened up the hill, and Owain banged on the weaver’s door. “Troslam!”
Merlin heard the sliding of wood before the door jerked open.
“Shah, Owain! You needn’t scare us.” The weaver’s voice held an anxious tone.
When Merlin shook the man’s hands an old memory flashed before Merlin — the weaver was tall with a golden beard.
Troslam turned to Dybris and with an exclaimation, fell to his knees. “Brother Dybris! I didn’t recognize you without your robe and with your face bruised. I thought —”
“What?”
“I thought you’d been taken away!”
“Taken?”
Troslam practically sputtered. “The druidow came, not more than half an hour ago, with knives and spears, and took the brothers away.”
Dybris sucked in a breath.
“They surrounded the chapel and broke the door in. Led them away, with the villagers following. Taken to that awful Stone, I’d guess.”
Merlin closed his eyes in disbelief, and Dybris grabbed onto his shoulder for support.
“Inis Avallow?” Garth asked. Mórganthu’s question seemed odd. “Yes, Ard Dre. Even I know where that is.”
“Well, my warriors do not, and I want you to lead them through the marsh. We have procured two boats from fishermen who ply their trade on its northern waters, and this works well, for we do not want you to be seen passing through the village, nor do I want you stumbling through Uther’s camp.”
Only then did Garth notice all the Eirish warriors standing around. That beast McGoss glared at him through those dark-slitted eyes of his.
“Are … you sure, Ard Dre? Can’t someone else lead ‘em?”
Mórganthu raised a hand.
Garth flinched, imagining a flashing knife. “I’ll lead ‘em! Don’t —”
Mórganthu brought his hand down and smiled warmly. “When you come back, I will let you have some of those strawberries you begged me for last night. Would you like that?”
“No! No, sir!” Garth shook his head wildly.
Mórganthu’s eyes narrowed. “And why not? They have come all the way from Brythanvy.”
“I … I … wouldn’t want to spoil me supper.”
“Yes, yes, a glorious feast tonight. I nearly forgot in my, shall we say, anticipation.”
With a druid leading them, Garth and the Eirish warriors had set off at once. At first Garth walked in the middle of the group, but unable to keep up, he soon found himself trailing behind.
McGoss joined him. “Keep yer lips tight,” he hissed. “Let on about me an’ the ard dre talkin’ secret, an’ I’ll stick ya.” He lifted his cloak, and underneath glinted a long notched dagger.
Garth swallowed and nodded. He tried to catch up to the others, but McGoss yanked him back. “Keep close.”
Northward they marched over the hills. At one point they walked by a path leading down to the right, which Garth recognized as the way to the char-man’s camp. If only he were with Merlin now, fetching coal, instead of with these foreign warriors. If only he still had his bagpipe.
McGoss poked him in the back. “No laggin’.”
Soon they turned down the hillside to the stream and forded it at a shallow spot where some old tin dredgers lay on the bank. From there they cut westward across the hills until they came to the northern reaches of the marsh. Their druid guide uncovered the two boats hidden among the reeds and then returned to camp, leaving Garth alone with the warriors.
One of them put a hand on Garth’s shoulder. “So welcome, little druid. I’m named O’Sloan, and now it’s yer turn to lead.”
“To the island?” Garth asked.
“Aye. And back. But there’s a mist rising, so ya better be a good scout.”
“Navigator.”
“Whate’er. Jus’ don’t get lost, aye?”
They split into two groups, with McEwan, McGoss, and Garth in the first boat, and the others in the second.
Garth saw why he’d been picked to lead them: these men knew nothing about boats, made clear from facing the wrong way to not knowing how to use the oars. And the huge McEwan nearly tipped over their boat and dumped Garth in the water.
“We’re kern warriors, fightin’ men, ya see,” O’Sloan called. “We know horses — but we taint taken time for silly boats.”
They arranged themselves in the dinghies, then Garth demonstrated the action of the oars to McEwan and to O’Sloan in the other boat. After a few tries O’Sloan figured it out, but the giant made Garth’s boat turn in circles.
“I’d rather paddle wit’ me hands!” McEwan declared, and Garth bit his tongue to keep his comments private until the oaf picked up the habit.
Garth directed them southward into the slow central current of the marsh. The fog had thickened considerably, but he found solace in the fact the island was nearly impossible to miss, even in the creeping darkness.
“An’ why’re we goin’ to Inis Avallow?” Garth asked.
From the back of the boat, McGoss’s eyes were like icy daggers.
“To catch a little mouse,” McEwan said, and his laughter boomed across the marsh.
“Shash-en!” someone called from the other boat.
McEwan clamped his lips shut.
“No, really, what are we doin’?” Garth asked.
“Ya mean ya don’t know?” McEwan turned his head to look at Garth and smiled, his large teeth gleaming through the mist. “We’re goin’ fer revenge on the High King.”
Still getting over the shock of Troslam’s news, Merlin considered their situation while Dybris prayed silently for the safety of the brothers.
Owain waited until the monk said his amen before speaking. “Does this change our plans at all?”
“Are you backing out?” Dybris asked.
“Never. But it’s just not as simple now.”
“We need to free the brothers as well,” Merlin said.
Safrowana appeared and grasped their hands in greeting. When she saw Merlin’s arm, she gasped. “What happened?”
“It’s not that bad —” Merlin began.
“Imelys, fill a bowl from the water bucket and bring a rag,” Safrowana called. “Yes behind the drying rack … That’s it.”
The girl brought her mother the bucket and watched Safrowana clean the wound while Merlin described the scuffle with the wolves.
“The cuts aren’t deep, like you said. But they sure gave me a fright.”
“As if there isn’t enough to be fightened about.” Imelys said.
Owain stepped over to their hearth and took a deep sniff. “Always glad to walk into a house where goat-leek soup is simmering over a slow fire.”
Only then did Merlin notice the pleasant aroma that filled the room.
“You’ll have to excuse our blacksmith,” Dybris said. “I can personally attest that this man hasn’t eaten a warm meal in quite a few days.”
At this, someone short stepped into the room from the back of the house.
“Kyallna,” Owain called. “I didn’t expect to see you here.”
“Came ‘cause o’ the troubles last night,” she said, hobbling across to join them. “Brought the soup along. Help yourself!”
She reached up and pinched Merlin’s cheek. “If you see that chubbins Garth, tell him I’ve got some more soup. He’s welcome. Such a dear, sweet one, that boy.”
Merlin smiled at the old woman. “Thank you, Kyallna. I’ll certainly tell him about your offer if I see him.” He placed an arm around her shoulders and addressed Troslam. “With your permission, we’d like to borrow some dye.” And then he spoke at length of their plan.
“You’re welcome to any dye,” Troslam said, “but I’m afraid we’re out of blue. We just used our last woad leaves and madder root to make purple.”
“How long will it take to make more blue?”
“Well, we won’t get more woad till fall when the merchant comes through. We could try some bluestone, but it’d take hours to make it dark enough.”
“Purple?” Owain asked.
“Hmm.” Dybris paused, then shrugged. “Guess it’ll have to do. So what shapes do we paint?”
“Anything. Beasts, knotwork, symbols. Just leave off the crosses —”
After Owain and Dybris finished painting their arms and hands, they each painted one of Merlin’s arms, and then they all stood near the fire until the coloring dried to the touch.
“I’m glad the color darkened,” Owain said as he picked up his cloak. “Most will think it’s just blue, especially at night.”
Before they departed, Dybris raised his hands to heaven and sanctified Troslam and his family.
Blessed shalt thou be in thy crennig;
Blessed shalt thou be in God’s woodland;
Blessed shalt thy children and babans be;
Blessed shalt thy planting and harvest be;
Blessed shalt thy spinning and weaving be;
Blessed shalt thou be when thou comest in,
And blessed shalt thou be when thou goest out.
Troslam bowed. “Thank you. We’ll pray for your safety and success this night.”
The three men stepped out of the house to find an overcast gray sky frowning upon them. Merlin pulled his hood down, concealing his face in shadow. Behind he heard Troslam drop a wooden plank to bar the door.
“So, Drybris,” Owain said, “you think the druidow will be fooled by that portly blue boar you drew on your arm? His tail is so long you’d think a snake was biting his rump.”
“Hah! No worse than the moons you drew. They’re so squashed they resemble Brother Loyt’s bannocks.”
“Let’s hope they don’t look too closely,” Merlin added.
They set off down the path, and after a short distance, they came to the chapel.
“Tell me what you see, Tas,” he said.
Merlin’s father described the violent scene before them: The latch had been ripped from the wooden door, and the shattered end of a brass sickle knife had been jabbed into the center. Inside the chapel, one of the overturned benches was smeared with blood.
Dybris ran in and fell to his knees. “Let’s go,” Owain called. “Drawing crosses in the bloody dirt won’t help if Mórganthu starts killing the brothers.”
Dybris followed him outside, and without a word they walked downhill through the deserted village and turned east at the main road. Rounding the mountain, they hurried past the ruins of the distant abbey to the rushing stream and crossed the Fowaven bridge.
Owain pointed toward the hills and the smoke rising from the druid camp. “We should slip into the woods that way. You lead, Dybris, since you’ve scouted their camp.”
Dybris agreed. Merlin grasped his father’s arm as they left the path to trudge up a steep heather embankment. Beyond that, Dybris led them into a thick stand of pines. From there they turned straight north and, walking through the trees, paralleled the stream to a point below the druid camp.
As quietly as possible, they started to climb the hill, but after only a short distance, the monk’s steps faltered. “What is it?” Merlin asked his father.
“Someone’s been murdered,” Owain answered. “He’s covered in blood, and by the look on his face, he died painfully.”
Dybris let out a mournful wail and grabbed Merlin’s arm for support.
Natalenya tucked Ganieda’s knife into her belt and then tugged at the crennig door until it closed with a groan.
The black, lifeless shadows of night was gathering in the deepest parts of the woods surrounding the path. She set out, but a slight rustling from the bushes to her left brought her up short. A snake crossed right in front of her, its chisel-shaped head sliding before its slow, thick body. Natalenya froze, her stomach tightening in a knot. But it passed by without noticing her, and once it was gone she walked slowly, warily, fighting the urge to break into a sprint. She reached up and touched Merlin’s golden torc, which lay upon her neck, and found her courage once more.
Since Merlin and the others hadn’t come back, she reasoned, then Allun must have agreed to lend his mule. Although Plewin was stubborn, Merlin had assured her that he pulled anything, including wagons, with an untiring and sure-footed stride.
When she arrived at the mill, all was silent and the building appeared dead — its sad roof sagging, the high windows desolate and grim. Was this where all the villagers gathered to have their grain milled and share the latest gossip? Where had everyone gone? Where was Allun?
She scanned the field beyond the ghost-white stone wall, but the mule wasn’t there. Plewin must be inside the mill eating a trough full of grain, she mused. Merlin had said Allun fed her that way when he had extra.
Natalenya walked toward the mill, gravel crunching under her boots. Pausing at the door, she pressed her ear against the thick wood and listened, but she didn’t hear anything. Allun didn’t appear to be there. Too bad I didn’t borrow one of my family’s horses before father and mother left in the wagon, she mused. But there was nothing she could do about it now.
A cold gust of wind blew, and the door creaked on its hinges. It was open. Unlocked.
She pushed on the rough wood of the door, determined to get the mule. Merlin was counting on her. They needed the wagon to transport the Stone. To destroy it. Right.
Natalenya stepped into the mill, and the darkness swallowed her. She waited a moment to let her eyes adjust, and then, off to the right, she saw the silhouette of Plewin in her stall.
She took three steps forward but then froze in her tracks.
The door behind her closed.
Then she heard the bar fall into place.
An evil laugh echoed through the room.