Prologue
Her legs were beginning to wobble and her chest burn. Each breath in felt like it could be her last. The doleful church bell was calling to her, leading her through the thick forest and the cold, driving rain. Just a little farther. There was already clearing in the trees ahead. Just a little farther.
Behind her, the thunder of the horses' hooves moved with a threatening speed in her direction.
She’d been at the gate of the village just moments ago, sitting in the rain in her worn trousers and tunic, long blonde braid hidden under her cap. It was uncanny, the timing of the church bell and the cries of panic from the back of the village. She could hear what they were saying and it was enough to get her on her feet. The wail of the horn on the wind made her move even faster, the sound echoing around her before getting lost in the thick trees of the forest. She beat out a steady cadence with her pace, running for the safety of the church, avoiding the main pathway in hopes of losing any pursuers in the overgrowth. Sanctuary could be found within those stone walls and it was the only hope left.
A low branch seemed to come out of nowhere, leaving a long bloody scratch on creamy skin. She tripped on an upturned root in her haste and fell to the forest floor, landing on her hands and knees, her cap dangling from an oak branch above her weary form. She wanted to sink into the muddy ground, to be swallowed up by the woody scent and the prickling pine needles, but she had to run.
There was an unmistakable trembling of the ground and the young woman knew the horses were close. She had to get up or they would be upon her and all would be lost. With every last ounce of strength, she got to her feet and ran.
A tall pine tree, all but hollowed out from years of rot, provided quick shelter. She ducked inside the thick trunk and huddled against the woody wall as one of the horses rushed past her. There were more coming, and still the church bell rang. She had to get there before the riders did or all would be lost. Sharp green eyes took in the texture of her shelter. She lifted her wrist to touch her soaking sleeve to the cut on her face and came away with a slight blood stain. There was only one option left now. A diversion was needed. The wood was dry enough so it should burn for a few minutes at least. If she was quick about it, the riders would notice and give pause.
A silent prayer was sent up before her body was engulfed in blue and gold flames. She only had
time to hear a cry of alarm before it all went dark and warm. In the next instant she was once more chilled by autumn rain and biting winds. The thickest part of the forest was now behind her and she ran for the church again.
The cobblestone under her feet was promising, even if it was sparse. It meant she was there. Her leather boots sloshed through a puddle and she was suddenly in the small open courtyard of the church, the bell ringing in her pulse. The horses were closer now, not held up long by the strange spark she’d started in the woods. She could hear the urgent cries of the riders pushing their mounts to their limits, but she could make it. She had to make it. The tall wooden doors of the old building opened heavily and she didn't stop moving until she was safely inside. As soon as the doors were closed, she leaned against them and looked at the two who had been waiting for her, wide-eyed.
Breathless, she reported, “The king is dead.”
CHAPTER ONE
The village healer ran as fast as he could through the castle hallways and up the stone stairways. It had been reported that King Tadhg was ill. Racing into the king’s chambers the healer found the king on the floor, surrounded by the queen, the prince and princess, and Tadhg’s most trusted advisers. When the queen saw the healer enter, her sobs became desperate. In her arms lay her husband, frozen forever with a slackened mouth and brows drawn together in what could only be an expression of pain. Where his eyes should have been were empty sockets, blood wet on his face from his eyes, nose, and mouth. Upon further inspection blood had also leaked from his ears to slick the hair at the back of his neck. This was an evil the healer had only read about in stories and ancient medical books. He crouched to investigate.
“He was given Rabia powder,” the healer reported grimly after several long moments. “Ingested in small doses it kills with slow torture. It shuts down and decomposes organs, muscles, and bones one by one, setting blood to boil. To achieve results such as these, I can only imagine how much he was given at once.”
"The king has been murdered," said one of the advisers slowly, visibly shaken. He looked at one of the guards by the doors. "Sound the alarm and find the one who did this!"
The rush of armored footfalls down the castle hallways seemed to compete with the thunder outside. Men with swords strapped to their belts were hurriedly tying cloaks around their necks and pushing helmets down over their heads in the armory below the castle. Squires dashed from one man to the other to assist where needed. A man being dressed in older and darker armor seemed the only one calm among them. Ashen hair and fair skin served a perfect contrast against the black of his horse. He tied a black and red cape around his neck before mounting. Once adjusted in the saddle, he looked at the other men with heavy-lidded dark brown eyes.
No words needed to be exchanged. As soon as the others were ready on their horses, the man on the black horse gave a commanding, “Ha!” and kicked his heels into the ribs of his steed. The horse raced out into the terrible afternoon weather with three men close behind, several other guards peeling away from the group to search down muddy streets and darkened alleyways. Once away from the shelter of the stables, the rain stung their faces like icy needles, clouds covering any chance of sun to warm them.
The woods were quiet and deceivingly peaceful. Even the birds had stopped singing, huddling into nests to keep warm and dry. As the men rode between the trees, fanning out in a wide line to search the bushes and shadows, the leader of the knights searched the thick branches overhead. They provided a small amount of cover from the elements but also could have been used as a place for their prey to hide. With a hawk-like gaze, he looked a little ways ahead and spotted something hanging from an old tree branch. “What do we have here?” he murmured, nudging his horse forward.
The other three men, observant of their captain’s moving, drew up near him. As the sopping cap was pulled free, the lead rider narrowed his eyes in speculation. There was only one place the one they chased would go from there. “The church.”
“He could have run farther,” suggested one of the other men. “There was a caravan leaving Montania for the port of Amme not long ago. Perhaps he was with them.”
“No,” said the first rider, certainty in his dark glance toward the direction of the church and the sound of the bell. “We have no leave to seize the church. If he was smart enough to be able to poison the king, he will be smart enough to hide in the church.” Taking the cap and tucking it into his belt, the rider whipped his horse with the reins and was off again.
Finding the cap was only helpful in confirming suspicions. When the alarm sounded, several people reported seeing a boy run from the gate. His description had been taken from these witnesses by castle guards and given to the riders before they left. A cap just like this had been included in that description.
A flash of flames, blue, gold, and hot made the horses rear up and cry out in fright. The lead rider tugged hard on the reins and pulled his own mount around to investigate. The tree on fire sizzled in the cold rain and died in the space of a breath. The rider in battle proven armor dismounted to take a closer look. The ground around the tree was blackened as was the hollow inside. His brow furrowed. He touched his gloves to the soot and rubbed the black ash together between his fingers. After a moment he said, “Keep riding. He cannot have gotten far.” With one more analyzing glance at the tree he made for his horse and followed his men.
They reached the old stone building only minutes after the great wooden doors had closed. The rider with the cap in his belt dismounted and ordered the others to stay where they were in the open courtyard. If there were outlaws waiting for an easy opportunity to attack they would be woefully disappointed; his men were the best knights in Caedia and they knew how to fight any attacker.
Raising a fist he pounded on the doors and stood back, glancing around as he waited for an answer.
A tall, round monk in long brown robes answered the door looking confused. “Blessings, good sir. How may we be of service this dreary day?”
“You are giving sanctuary to a boy who has committed a crime,” claimed the leader of the riders, his voice so low and gravely that it sounded unnatural. “I demand the church give him to us freely.”
The monk shook his head. “I'm afraid I know not of what you speak. The only male in this church is standing before you now.”
“I thought the holy men were not supposed to lie.”
“I tell you nothing but the truth. But what of this boy? What crime has he taken part in that would be serious enough to have four of the king's men out in the rain to chase him?”
“He has slain the king.” The reply came as a low growl and the monk gasped. The rider scowled. “Do not pretend with me, old man. If you hold no boy within your sacred walls allow me and my men in to see for ourselves.”
“And muddy the floors with your boots? I should think not. I will pray for the soul of the king, but now I must bid you good day.” It would not be so easy as that. The knight extended a hand that stopped the door from closing shut. Behind him the other three dismounted and walked forward, hands resting threateningly on the hilts of their swords. “I see you will not be content until you search,” said the monk, “so I will allow you to do so. Please, all I ask is that you respect the house of the Giver.”
Needing little else to give him permission to enter, the knight pushed the door aside. He walked past the monk and peered into the great stone cathedral. Tall windows of colored glass lined the walls and torches lit the hall with warm flickering light. At the front of the sanctuary stood two girls, one taller than the other but both blonde and wearing kirtles that were simple and worn. They stood together and watched as the church was invaded. “Who are you?” the knight asked lowly.
The taller of the two girls stuck out her chin, green eyes lit with anger. “We have no business with you, sir.”
The knight raised his eyebrow at the girl, taking in her dirty patched dress. “Do you have any idea who I am? I am Merrik, Captain of High King Tadhg's knights.” He took a step closer to the girls. “What is that in your accent...you're of the Celtique Clans.” Jaw set, he pressed, “I will ask no more. Tell me your names.”
“I am Ashlynn Stuart,” she told the knight begrudgingly. “This is my younger sister, Kenayde. We were born in Siness but have lived here in Caedia for most of our lives.”
Merrik narrowed his eyes, his gaze trailing over her with scrutiny before returning to her face. "Stuart?" He stared hard at her for a long moment as though trying to see her thoughts through her eyes. At length, he finally blinked. “The Gaels never leave their kind. Why are you here?"
“Being Celtique does not make me a Gael by default.”
“They were my sister's children,” the monk offered quickly, coming down the aisle with the rest of the riders accompanying him. “Both she and her husband were slaughtered by raiders. I collected their girls to live here with me.”
Merrik's eyes did not leave Ashlynn for but a second and that was to glance over the quivering frame of Kenayde. “Why does she shiver, and why is your hair wet?”
“She shivers because it was men like you who raided our home. She shivers in fear.”
He looked at the younger girl in assessment. What reason would there be to fear him if there was nothing to hide? Lifting a brow he returned his attention to the elder sister once more. “I asked you two questions yet only received one answer.”
“We needed wood to dry for the fire and it is raining...my lord,” Ashlynn growled, no small amount of annoyance in her tone.
Having no tolerance for wasting time, the riders split up at a meaningful nod from their captain and disappeared down the different annexes of the church. Merrik remained with the other three in the sanctuary. “Tell me,” he said, turning to the monk now, “how it is you escape scandal, being here alone with two young girls?”
“Sir, they are my sister's daughters! How could you think of such things?”
Merrik smirked and turned around to face the girls again for a moment. He seemed more amused by the wilting figure of Kenayde than anything else but said nothing more. Instead he walked past them to the altar glancing up the rough stone walls and putting a hand to its coolness. It had been a very long time since he'd been to any sort of church and he'd forgotten how intricate the work of the masons could be. On the altar behind him were elaborate carvings of knots and loops that seemed to have no beginning or end. Touching the top of the altar with his thigh, he pushed forward and the top of the stone table slid slightly. A light of interest went on in his dark gaze and he turned around. “What is under here?”
The monk appeared confused at this question. “It is where we keep the sacramental wine and bread. It keeps the mice away.”
“Show me.”
Ashlynn left her sister long enough to step in front of the monk. “You do not have to do this, Uncle Briac.”
“Yes he does,” rumbled Merrik, looking down on them now from the altar platform. “Come, Brother. Move this tablet and show me you have nothing to hide.”
Briac gave Ashlynn an apologetic look and moved beyond her, but before he could even join Merrik one of the guardsmen came back. “My lord.” He held out his sword and hanging from the tip was a soaked wad of clothing. “This was found in one of the back rooms.”
“Well, well, well,” Merrik said softly, obviously delighted. He left his recent target of interest and reached for the clothing. “What do we have here?”
"The cloak I wore to gather the wood," Ashlynn's words were biting as she reached out for the clothing. Merrik, however, was quicker and grabbed them first.
“Is it then?” The one they sought was described to be wearing a tunic and trousers of the same cream and faded brown as this. Now he had proof. Unclumping the clothing in his hands he stiffened when it was revealed that what he held was indeed a sodden cloak. Ashlynn didn't bother to hide the smugness of her expression. “What is this?” he asked.
“My cloak,” Ashlynn repeated, loud and slow as if she were talking to someone hard of hearing. She reached out and snatched it from his hands. “My uncle has been kind enough to let you look around and soil the floors of this holy place for too long. Quite obviously we do not have what you are looking for and I think it is time you left."
Merrik was displeased about the cloak and looked at it as though he couldn't believe it was actually what the girl had claimed. After a moment's silence the others came back. Merrik gave a small wave of his hand and all four of them stomped back through the church and out the doors without so much as another word.
“We ride for the castle,” were his orders to only one knight as he mounted. “I will tell the prince of our findings and you will see to supplies.” His horse turned impatiently and Merrik looked at the church. “You two will stay here and keep watch. We will be returning here before nightfall and will not leave until we have the king’s murderer.”
The three men cast uneasy glances at one another before one of them decided to be bold enough to talk. “But...it’s an old monk and two girls. Do you really think...” His question was left unfinished; Merrik turned to face the knight with a cold glare. “Of course,” the knight finished with a quick nod. “Forgive me, my lord.”
“Do not question my orders again,” Merrik threatened quietly. He urged his horse on, leading the way back through the forest to Montania.
The village itself was quiet, as if afraid to make any noise or sudden movement. News of Tadhg’s death had not yet spread but the town’s citizens knew something was afoot. The king’s captain did not ride out as quickly as he had for simply any reason. There were faces at windows and bodies blocking door frames as the two men rode through town. All wanted reassurance from imagination born threats, but none wanted to ask for comfort from Merrik. He was not known for his kindness or generosity; Tadhg would not have a man like that serving directly under him. Both men shared the cold, uncaring and unfeeling qualities that made them great leaders of war. In fact, Tadhg liked to call himself a “King of War,” a title with which no one would argue.
He was a braggart of casualties and was known to bathe himself in blood and still wish for an adversary to run his sword through. He was skilled in tactics and was forever coming up with the best ways to surprise the enemy.
His castle, Montania, the high kingdom of Caedia, had been decorated in the finest silks and fabrics, all stolen from lesser kingdoms he'd bested in battle. These fabrics were hung and used like trophies and the lands of the kingdoms left in the hands of stewards appointed by Tadhg. Every kingdom he conquered, he ruled from afar.
These silks and dressings did nothing to win over the people of Caedia. Neither did they gain the affections of his children, Prince Laidley and Princess Luella. The king was always so busy that there was never any time for his offspring. Even his wife, Finola, had to beg for his time. Now the prince would take the throne and everything would change. It was Laidley whose company Merrik now sought as he hurried through the castle.
The future king had not been pleased to discover the captain of guards had no prisoner to present. He was even less amused upon hearing Merrik's only suspects to be two girls and an old monk.
“The girls are from Altaine of Siness, my lord. I suspect from his accent that the monk is from somewhere in Cieria.” Merrik was on bended knee before the prince.
Laidley was dressed in dark court clothing, his coal black hair left loose and hanging just past his shoulders. He sat in the smaller throne that was to the left of the much grander one in which his father had always taken residence. His blue eyes were heavy-lidded with the knowledge that he would eventually have to sit in his father's place, on the king's throne, but he was not yet ready. Looking at Merrik, a man who had been in Tadhg's services for twenty-one years, as many years Laidley had been alive, the prince scowled. “A Brother from the Isles I can accept - they come from everywhere. How did he explain the girls away? Why do you think it was them? What proof have you?”
“The monk said they were his nieces.” Merrik noted the look of concentration about Laidley's face. “When the villagers were questioned they described a young man, what he was wearing and where he was running. Except for a caravan long since gone, there is nothing out there besides the church. There were footprints in the woods that did not continue farther than the old building.” He thought of the tree and the strange colors of the flames but decided to say nothing about them for the time being. “All we found was a cap, but I cannot shake the feeling that these three had something to do with the murder of the king. The elder of the two girls - she told me their surname is Stuart.”
Laidley’s brow furrowed immediately. “As in Nir Stuart, deceased High King of Siness?”
“It is a fairly common name, My Prince, and could be a coincidence.” It needn’t be said how he felt on the matter. His gut was almost never wrong. He paused for Laidley to speak, but when the prince offered nothing Merrik spoke once more. “If I may, Highness, I will take supplies back to the men I have left there.” Laidley's gaze finally flickered to Merrik, questioning. “There was little we could do,” the older man explained, “while they were under the protection of the church, but if my suspicions are correct then I believe they will try to leave under the cover of night, or even in the early hours just before dawn.”
Laidley said nothing for a moment but kept his eyes on Merrik. The silent thought process that could be seen behind the seemingly placid expression was much like the one Tadhg so often wore. Yet there was also something behind Laidley's eyes that gave away a certain instability. For a moment this thought distracted Merrik, but he was trained enough to keep his features unreadable. When Laidley did finally speak his voice was low and thick with concentrated emotion.
“My father never trusted anyone as he trusted you Merrik. Sometimes I think he loved you more than his own family for all the time he spent in your counsel.”
Merrik bent his head respectfully. “Your father could not have been more a brother to me did the same blood run through our veins.”
“I suppose that happens when you grow up with someone.” Merrik didn't answer and the prince didn't seem to mind. With pursed lips he pushed his hair from his face, stark against the contrast of his pale skin, and leaned forward in his throne. “The rain will not stop before tomorrow and your men will need supplies. We should make haste.”
Now Merrik looked up. “Your Grace?”
“You pledged your life for King and Country when my father still lived. When I am King, even now before I am made so in the eye of the people, does your word still bind you?”
Merrik did not blink or hesitate before he answered. “Until I no longer draw breath.”
“Then I ride out with you. I will have the head of my fathers' murderer on a pike when I am crowned.” Merrik lowered his gaze once more, but the prince continued. “They called my father the 'Red King' for all the blood that was shed under his rule. He knew this and reveled in it. Some of it was your own doing Merrik and in that you should take pride. What will they call me? How will the history books remember me?” Laidley sat back in his throne, his lips curving into a small smile, attention far away. It was only the sound of footsteps and the familiar swish of skirts that brought him out of his reverie.
Luella could have been Laidley's twin for the bond the siblings shared as well as the physical similarities. He'd been only a year old when Luella was born so the two had grown up with a deep understanding of one another. He didn't even have to look at her now to know she was not happy. Like her brother, Luella had eyes the color of a summer sky and raven hair. The only physical difference was her honey complexion to his creamy skin. As she came into the room, even in her state of grief, she was lovely in her dress of midnight with little rivers of dried tears stained into her cheeks. But there was no grief on her face at the moment, only anger.
“You want to know how the history books will remember you?” Her question was quiet and quivering with animosity.
Laidley looked first to Luella, then to Merrik with a small wave of his hand. “Leave us. Ready my horse.” Merrik rose bowing his head to the prince and then to Luella as he passed her on his way out of the throne room. She completely ignored him and the handful of courtiers as they began to slink out of the room. With an expression of both annoyance and a certain level of patience, Laidley looked at Luella. “Do not make this into something it is not.”
Luella blinked before letting go of a chuckle of disbelief. “Something it is not?” she repeated. She took a few steps closer to her brother so that she could easily reach out and touch him if she wanted to but did not move to do so. “Laidley, have you been listening to yourself? I have heard every word you have spoken since Merrik came back and you sound just like Father.”
“And that is a bad thing?”
“He was murdered.” The reminder was barely audible but it was enough to make Laidley flinch. "The funeral pyre is not yet lit and you are already planning your legacy. Trying to figure out how to best him; or to be worse, I cannot quite figure out which.” Luella shook her head, loose strands of hair framing her face. She reached forward and placed a hand over Laidley's. “You can end this. You don't have to make it worse.”
“I would not expect you to understand.” Laidley jerked his hand away and stood to pace the length of the throne room, leaving Luella to stare after him with wide eyes. In all his twenty years Laidley had been gentle with her, never raising his voice or saying anything hateful to her. As he looked through an open window to the rainy world outside, a part of him wanted to turn around and apologize. But then she spoke.
“How dare you say that to me! You think because I am a woman, because I am the second born perhaps, that I cannot possibly understand the pressure that has been thrust upon you?”
“That is exactly what I think!” Laidley closed the shutters and turned to face Luella, a foreign anger in his expression as he stalked back across the room to close the distance between them. “You will not have to run kingdoms Luella! You will not have to make decisions over who is worthy enough to live and who deserves death!” He pointed at Tadhg's empty throne, face red with emotion. “You will not be the one who chooses the fate of your own kingdom with a simple word." He gripped her shoulders hard, his cheeks flushed with heat. “You will not have to make war so that war is not made against you!”
Luella reeled as though she'd been slapped and shoved him away. For a moment her words simply wouldn't come and all she could do was stare at her brother. If he had gone too far it had not yet registered with him and there would be no time for it. Luella was recovering from her shock quickly. “I have lived inside these walls, hearing my mother weep every single time Father decided a victory was sure enough to let him ride out with his men and wage his own battles. I have been here every time our food has been delivered with rats and their excrement or spiders or snakes! Where have you been, Laidley? Where were you when three of the kitchen staff died of bites from insects we've never seen before? Where were you and Father the day the entire west wing of the castle was blown to nothingness and we lost a baby brother we will never know? Playing war? Do not tell me that I cannot understand the pressures you face! Do not even dare to try because you cannot begin to know what it is to be in my shoes. To be the one to stay behind and try to pick up the pieces and make all of us whole again!”
Laidley shifted his weight uncomfortably, bested but not willing to openly admit it or back down. He couldn't afford it if he was to be crowned soon. “It is not the same,” he insisted quietly. “See a man you have trained with slain in battle and then come to me with your tears.”
“Do you see me crying, brother?” Luella shook her head, equally as stubborn. “Go then. Ride off with your champion knights and slay the enemy. May it be an easy victory for you because I do not think Mother could live through losing you as well.” She seemed done with the conversation and turned, her steps and the sounds of her skirts moving over the floor announcing her leaving as they had her arrival. But just before she was gone from sight completely Luella glanced over her shoulder.
“What will you do?”
Laidley looked at his sister. When it was easy to read in his face that he didn't understand the question, she expanded. “With this trio, if they are the ones who killed Father. Two little girls and an old monk. What will you do?”
At this Laidley gave a sloppy shrug that belied his royal status. “Do not concern yourself with it.” He lifted his eyes and settled on Luella's face, holding her gaze with silent authority. They had been equals for so long, age never being an issue. Now he was her king and no longer her brother. If he did not stand up to her and make her acknowledge his superiority now she would never willingly be under his leadership. “Do you love me sister?”
There was still obvious anger in her expression and Laidley could almost feel her growing resentment toward him. He was, however, her king now. Respect was to be given when it was rightfully due, even if the crown fell to the son of a slain man and not one who earned it. “Of course I do.” But for the first time in her life the love was not evident in her tone or her eyes.
“Then do not question me.”
Luella said nothing, only bowed her head in a moment of silent submission before taking her leave. She would do as requested, Laidley knew this. But that did not mean she would be the dutiful little princess waiting for the next order from her brother and her king while he continued down a path she disagreed with so greatly. She was trained in the same battle skills as Laidley and only lacked the actual field training. Despite this small handicap she was not without confidence. For a moment he wondered if she would be bold enough to act on her own, to go against him. No. Not Luella. She had never been a timid little princess, but there was not strength in her to actively go against her king. She could not possibly be a threat.
Still in the same spot by the empty thrones Laidley waited until he could no longer hear Luella's receding footfalls before letting go of a hiss. He raised a hand to scrub it over his face. “Merrik!”
Heavy boots came quickly, just as the prince knew they would. Though he'd been sent away the captain of guards was never too far out of earshot. “Your Highness?”
“Have you everything needed for your men?”
“The packs have been sufficiently loaded.”
“And my horse?”
“Has been saddled and is waiting for you.”
“Good.” Laidley fell silent in thoughts of his sister. Luella was always the one to look after everyone. Since an attack six years previous on Castle Montania, the one to take the life of the youngest of Tadhg's children along with several others, the queen had not been quite right. Even simple tasks seemed to take too much effort to think through. Part of Finola had died with her child and losing her husband - what would that do to her? Perhaps Luella did know something of the pressures after all. Laidley had become king of an entire nation in a mere moment whereas his sister in essence had been performing the political and mothering duties of a queen for much longer. There was no questioning that the siblings would have to work together and come to some sort of accordance. But smoothing things over would have to wait until later.
“My mother will not be well enough to carry out her duties as Dowager Queen.” Laidley was being diplomatic in his statement and they both knew it. “I must take a wife, and the sooner the better.” Merrik nodded sagely but said nothing as Laidley continued to muse aloud. “Until I find a woman worthy of my attention and strong enough to be my queen much more will be placed upon Luella's shoulders. This will make her more of a target as well. See to it that when we return there are double the guards to protect her. Pull them from other battles, take them from my personal retinue, I care not. But make no mistake these men must be loyal to me. I will not have another stranger come in under the guise of friendship to take anymore lives.”
“Yes, My Prince. I will arrange it as soon as we return.”
Laidley nodded with a sense of accomplishment. His first real order as king would be fulfilled and that was something to give him a much needed boost of confidence. “Now...let us go to that church and be done with this mess.”
It had been a long time since the young prince took a ride through the forest. The last time had been in a carriage to the port town of Amme where a ship sat waiting for departure. Even then he’d been able to take a few glances out the window and look at the scenery. Today he noticed his surroundings, but they were more of a bother than a beauty. He hated how cold and wet the rain was, scowled at the color changing leaves on the trees and cursed the slick and sodden ones on the ground that could easily trip up one of the horses.
As was custom, Merrik took the lead keeping Laidley safely in the middle of two skilled swordsmen. Not that Laidley couldn't have taken care of himself if they were attacked. He knew his way around a sword fight better than the average prince. When much sought after time with his father became elusive once he was too old to be cuddled and coddled, Laidley turned to raising his skill level in combat. It was what his father loved most and had the potential to bring them together. Luella joined in the learning as well, and both of Tadhg’s children grew up quick and agile in combat.
“Merrik.” Laidley looked at the back of the older man. “You knew my father when he was younger. Were we ever alike?”
“Your father was never like you, Prince Laidley. He was always thinking of battles and who or what he could conquer.” He glanced over his shoulder. “Permission to speak freely?”
“Of course.”
“The only time I ever saw the human side of your father was during his courtship of your mother, their marriage, and the birth of his children.”
Laidley nodded slowly. “Then it would seem I am more my mother’s child than my father’s.”
Merrik stared ahead, pausing before adding in a light tone, “If I am still speaking freely, Your Grace, I pray every day that you are more like your mother than your father.”
They rode on in silence, Laidley thinking over Merrik’s words. High Queen Finola was rather feeble-minded but she had a good heart. He thought of Luella and their argument. She had a good heart as well and she was one of the most intelligent women he’d ever known. It was wrong of him to raise his voice to her as he had. The loss of his father, however absent his father had been, cut him deeply. He had to remember it was not only his loss and that all spirits would be tender for awhile. Hopefully catching the culprit would bring some closure and they could all move on as a family.
The two men left behind had found sheltered places under thick, heavy branches to lash their horses and bunker down for the night. They were thankful for the food and wineskins provided and updated the others as they filled their stomachs. So far there had been no movement, but night was falling fast and it would not be surprising to witness an attempted escape.
Fresh vengeance pulsed through Laidley’s veins as he stared at the tall wooden doors to the church. Trusting Merrik’s instincts, he was certain his father’s killer was inside. As soon as any one of the three suspects stepped foot into the forest it would be all over. All he had to do was wait, and waiting was never enjoyable.
A storm rolled in subtly, bringing darker clouds and a quicker night. All of the men watched the candles being methodically blown out through the colored glass windows. For every appearance the three inside were going to bed. Laidley shifted his position under the thick bushes that concealed him. Any moment now...he was sure of it.
The escape did not come as quickly as Laidley would have liked. In fact, he ended up resting back into a more comfortable position as they waited. Nothing happened. The men slept in shifts and without any real rest, waking in the early morning to a slightly warmer breeze and a misting drizzle of rain.
All of them were caught off guard when the doors of the monastery opened. A small group of mourning doves took flight vocalizing their surprise at the sudden intrusion of their gathering. The monk was alone and did not appear to be aware he was being watched. He folded his arms over his rounded stomach and tucked his hands into the long sleeves of his robes.
There were bushes to the lee of the old building full of small red berries. The monk moved toward those bushes now. He pulled a few berries free and stuck them in his mouth to chew. A whinny of a horse made him right himself and slide his hands back around his stomach to disappear into the large sleeves.
Their cover blown by a rather unhappy mare, the three guards who had been camped outside all night long showed themselves, drawing their swords as they moved closer to where the monk stood. “I can't remember the name for these berries but mash them with a bit of honey and it is splendid on toast.”
“You do not seem surprised to see us, Brother Briac,” said Merrik as he too stepped out into the open.
“You?” asked Briac innocently “No, not you. Him perhaps.” Laidley stepped from his cover and stood beside Merrik matching the older man in height and stern expression. Briac gave a respectful nod to the prince. “Your Majesty.” Hands still tucked away and looking completely undaunted Briac ignored the three guardsmen and focused on the other two. “Something tells me it's not the berries that have brought you out here this early morning.”
“Where are the girls, old man?” Laidley had no patience for pleasantries.
“Asleep in their quarters where I left them.”
Merrik gave a nod to his men and one disappeared into the church. Briac said nothing and made no move to stop the man. Merrik surveyed the monk. “You seem calm for a man about to be strung by his neck.”
With a casual shrug Briac answered, “I have yet to be accused of anything. What is there to fear when the knowledge of impending death had not yet even been given to me?”
“You are accused of conspiracy,” Merrik explained patiently. “It could not have been you to run from us yesterday since you're too big to run anywhere, but I would wager that it was one of those Celts who did.”
Briac nodded impressed. “That is a bold wager, sir.” Thoughtful, he tilted his head. “The way you say Celts...is it meant to be an insult?” Merrik didn't answer. “The girls are very proud of their heritage as I am proud of mine. I do not take it as an insult and neither would they.”
One of the two soldiers still outside spat on the ground. “Full of Gaels...dirty witches using magic and talking to those cursed winged lizards...”
“Interestingly enough,” Briac said, now addressing the soldier, “not all females on the Celtique Isles are Gaels. And not all Gaels are female. Isn't that something?”
“Enough of this,” Laidley huffed. “Confess to your part in this and you may yet be spared. Continue with this babbling...” His hand moved menacingly to the hilt of his sword.
But Briac was still unaffected. “You will kill me either way my good prince. Let's not fool ourselves into thinking otherwise. Besides I know where it is I am going and would gladly see the Giver in Heaven than stay in this world of sorrow and misery.”
The guard emerged from inside and looked at Merrik. “They're not here.”
“As I suspected they would not be,” sneered Merrik. “Take him back to the castle. Lock him in the dungeon and pull his fingernails out one by one until he tells us where the girls are. Until then, we will search for them on our own.” He and Laidley turned to find their horses as the guardsmen closed in on Briac.
Even as three swords approached, Briac's expression was placid. He waited for the men to be just within his reach before withdrawing his hands from inside his long sleeves. But his hands were no longer empty. From sheaths strapped to his arms and hidden by the long robes he withdrew two daggers. Despite his age and girth he was quick enough to slit one throat before anyone knew what was happening. Blood spilled down the front of the soldier as he fell and the other two froze in a moment of shock. Hearing the sputter of the first man, Merrik and Laidley turned around in time to see Briac sink both daggers into the heart of one of the other two soldiers. The last one threw himself at Briac and barely missed cutting off the old man’s ear as he ducked out of the way. Merrik grabbed his own dagger from his belt and threw it. The dagger found its mark in Briac's right shoulder.
“Stupid move old man.” Briac fell to the ground, his weapons cast from his hands as he grabbed at the dagger in his shoulder. The guard still alive shoved his sword forward resting the tip of it under Briac's neck. It was enough to make Briac stop, and Merrik stooped over him. “Very stupid.”
Laidley glanced around, unconcerned with the fallen men but not wanting to be surprised by anything else. “We have no need of him Merrik. We can find them on our own.”
“Yes,” agreed Merrik, crouching down so that his face hovered over Briac's. “Say hello to the Giver for us.”