Anwir straightened the silver amulet around his neck and set his hands in his lap before looking squarely at Gryndall. "There are a number of things. However, there is one in particular that I feel you shall be most keen to hear of."
"Oh?"
Anwir nodded grimly, making no attempt to hide his discontent. "Your wife's nephew," he began.
"You mean the boy? Lionel?"
The priest pursed his lips, nodding, his sad expression obviously dramatic.
"What's happened? Has he done something?"
"As a matter of fact, yes. Brother Lionel was caught - "
The return of Gail halted the priest's speech.
"Here we are," she said cheerfully, setting their orders on the table. "Honey mead for His Majesty and dandelion tea for His Worship."
Anwir took his cup without saying thank you or even acknowledging the young woman.
"Thank you, Gail," said Gryndall.
"You're welcome your, Majesty. Can I get you anything else?"
"No, that will be fine, Gail. If you could leave us though," he added politely. "We have some important business to discuss."
"Of course, your Majesty," she said, throwing them a smile before turning and heading back to the bar.
Taking a sip from his mug, Gryndall licked the sweet honey from his beard as he waited for the priest to continue speaking.
"As I was saying," Anwir continued as the king took a second sip from his mug, "Brother Lionel was caught in the groundskeeper's hut with one of the shepherd's daughters."
Hearing this, Gryndall's eyes widened and he nearly spat out the mead he'd just consumed.
"What!?"
The priest released a gentle sigh. "I'm afraid it's true. I questioned the groundskeeper myself - for it was he who found them."
"And? Did they...?"
Anwir shook his head. "No. I don't think so. But only the gods know for certain."
The king sighed and stared at the ale in his mug.
"You do realize, your Majesty, that the punishment for breaking the vow of celibacy once one has joined the Cycliad is - "
"Yes, I am well aware of the punishment, Anwir."
The king could feel the priest's eyes on him as he stared numbly into space.
His wife's nephew. Facing the prospect of death at just sixteen years of age. Sixteen. And for simply doing what every boy wanted to do at that age.
Gryndall stroked his beard thoughtfully. He would have to intervene. But Lindisfarne was a sovereign entity and the monks of that island - and the lay residents for that matter - deeply resented Carthalians meddling in their affairs.
"There is perhaps a way to have the punishment...reduced," said the priest slowly, clearly sensing his anxiety.
"And what way is that? asked Gryndall, trying to remain stoic as Anwir seemed suddenly to have him trapped in a corner.
His back arrow straight and his hands folded loosely around his cup, the priest drew in a short breath. "I'll argue for the lash instead. I'll say that, since we do not know for certain whether Brother Lionel did, in fact, engage in the act of copulation, that we cannot reasonably impose the punishment of death."
The king eyed the remaining mead in his mug as he deliberated. What would he want in exchange for sparing Lionel's life?
"Do you have the power to do that?"
Anwir smiled, his lips twisting in such a way that his face assumed an almost reptilean appearance. "I am High Priest of Lindisfarne. I can do anything."
If not for the gravity of the situation, Gryndall would have laughed out loud. Instead he contented himself with an incredulous snort. "You speak as though you are one of the gods you worship. The power to do anything! Ha!"
Ignoring his retort, the priest continued. "It will take some effort - and it won't pass without the consent of the Council. But I can convince them."
Gryndall's face darkened as he grew serious once more. "How, exactly? I'm suspicious that you expect something from me in return."
The priest smiled broadly, his eyes flickering. "Well, it so happens that our monastic community has grown since the time of your grandfather and we find ourselves in dire need of a larger monastery."
"And..." Gryndall replied slowly as he realized what Anwir was asking for in exchange for Lionel's life, "if I finance the construction of a new monastery...you can use that as currency to leverage the Council to reduce Lionel's punishment?"
Anwir stared curiously at the man seated across from him. "I may have had my doubts before, your Majesty, but you are undeniably your father's son."
Gryndall ignored the reference to his father. "You can guarantee Lionel's life?"
Anwir nodded. "Yes. I believe I can."
"And how much will this cost me?"
"Five hundred crowns should suffice."
"Five hundred crowns!? Are you building a monastery or a palace!?"
Anwir smiled. "A monastery. A proper one."
Gryndall snarled, but checked himself before his anger grew to be too much; other patrons were starting to look in their direction.
"Very well then," he said thickly, draining the rest of his mug and wiping his beard with the back of his hand. "You shall have your new monastery. But the money will come from my personal coffers as this is my affair and not my peoples'. Carthalians shouldn't have to pay out of their own pockets for this foolishness."
"You are a most honourable man, your Majesty."
"Aye. More honourable than some," he said severely, rising from the table and tossing two bronze coins onto the table. "And the boy lives, Anwir," he said, pointing an accusatory finger at the priest. "And then that's the end of it. I'll be speaking to him myself when I see him next."
"As you wish. Your Majesty is always welcome at Lindisfarne."
As infuriating as he found the priest's insolence to be, and as much as he would love nothing more than to give the man a good thrashing, he couldn't possibly do so in such a public place. It would be bad for his image. Not to mention the fact that some Carthalians - those who still believed in the gods anyways - had a certain respect for Anwir.
"One more thing," said Gryndall darkly as he prepared to leave. "You send Antolis next time. And every time thereafter. It's him I'll deal with when it comes to discussing matters at Lindisfarne. Not you."
The priest's eyes darkened momentarily, but brightened again as he smiled and bowed his head in quiet reverence. "As you wish, your Majesty."
Anwir's voice dripped with disdain and Gryndall left the tavern, after taking a second to wave to those bidding him farewell, wondering what he'd done to make such an enemy of an old family friend.
"Here we are, my Lady."
"Thank you, Winifred."
The heavy-set maid with the big bosom and dressed in her usual blue dress and white apron smiled. "It's my pleasure, my Lady. You need to get plenty of rest - you've got a prince growing inside you, after all," she added, fluffing the pillows amassed on Queen Ygraine's bed.
Ygraine looked at her maid as she pulled the covers over herself. "We don't yet know that it's a boy, Winifred."
"Oh, Madam. Minerva's hung a pendulum over your belly at least a dozen times now and each time it's swung from top to bottom, head to toe. It's a boy you're having, my Lady. Sure as the sun will set tonight and rise again tomorrow."
The queen, lying propped up in the bed, mustered a small smile. "If you say so..."
"I say so."
"Very well then. I shall have...A BOY!" she yelled dramatically, forcing the air from her lungs as she flexed her body upwards, towards the purple canopy that covered the four poster bed.
The two women broke into a fit of laughter after which Winifred drew the curtains, lit the incense, and left Ygraine to her afternoon nap.
Chapter Two
(June 2)
Gryndall yawned as he took up the whet stone and ran it along the blade of his dagger. The night before had been a late one and he was still feeling the after effects. Inhaling deeply from the calm
breeze blowing in through the window, he glanced at the small cot in the corner that he’d slept on. Ruffled sheets. Dent in the pillow where his head had lain. It hadn’t been an uncomfortable sleep per se - he’d slept in worse conditions - but it had been a short sleep - certainly not long enough to restore complete sobriety.
It reminded him of his old army days, when he’d served with the Hawthorne militia as part of the military training prescribed to him by his father. Evidently things hadn’t changed much since then, the Brinsley militia having kept him and his four knights up until early in the morning playing dice and dagger darts and drinking generous portions of their homemade mead. Not to worry though. They would arrive back in Clarendon by supper hour and he would tuck in early.
A sudden knock at the door interrupted his thoughts.
“Who is it?”
"It's me," a husky voice replied as the door swung open and the red-headed, blue-eyed Dalwynn appeared.
Gryndall ceased sharpening his dagger and stared as the enormous knight entered the room.
"What’s so important that it couldn’t wait until breakfast?"
He didn't mean to be so brusque, but after last night, he sorely wanted some peace and quiet.
"A pigeon just arrived for you from the Lancaster militia.”
The enormous knight crossed the floor and held out a slip of parchment. Taking the letter, Gryndall unfurled it and read the looping text:
Body of carriage driver found under a tree, a hundred yards from road. Head missing. Buried him where he lay after stripping body of clothing and personal effects. Will await further instruction.
“Merlin’s beard…”
“What is it, my Lord?”
Gryndall handed his knight the letter.
“You know I can’t read.”
“Sorry, I forget sometimes,” said Gryndall, hastily withdrawing the letter. “It says that the carriage driver’s body was found...and that his head was missing.”
Dalwynn frowned. “So this ambush is clearly something more serious than a gang of rowdy youths.”
“Aye,” Gryndall sighed. “Much more serious. As I suspected."
“What do you want to do?”
Gryndall sat there for a minute, chewing on his thoughts and staring into space.
“We’ll return to the site and have a proper look around. I’ll send for Constantine Blackwell."
"The coroner?"
"Aye. The coroner. He can meet us there. And then we'll spend the night at the Lancaster garrison as it's fairly close to the ambush site."
"So another night away from home?"
Gryndall pursed his lips in disappointment. "Unfortunately." He rose from his chair. "Because Ygraine's going to kill me. She's already upset with the amount of time I've been spending away. It's the baby coming and all that."
"Perfectly understandable," said Dalwynn.
"Aye. But I'd best send her a pigeon right away to let her know."
"Can you add a letter for Penelope as well?"
Gryndall grinned. "Probably not a bad idea after last time, eh? That training expedition we took to Darnfell."
Dalwynn smiled, revealing three missing teeth. "Aye. She said she won't feed me for a week if I'm ever late like that again and don't send word in advance."
Gryndall laughed. “Then you had best fetch me a quill and parchment.”
[Scribe’s Note: A brief word on pigeons. In Carthal we use messenger pigeons to deliver letters. In order to identify from which city each messenger pigeon originates, each city a unique colour and type. Brinsley messenger pigeons are black, Clarendon’s are grey, Riordan, brown, Hawthorne is scarlet, and Darnfell is spotted. Nairn, consisting of nothing more than a dockyard and a few villagers’ huts spread out around the point, simply use old Hugh Mayflower’s owl to deliver messages - though they rarely have anything important to say. As for Lindisfarne, the monks and the villagers there use the falcon to deliver messages to Carthal, the falcon being much more able to weather the wind and rain and sleet when flying over the sea to Carthal.]
“Late again? That’s the third time this month!” Ygraine huffed, slapping the letter against her thigh.
“He’ll only be an extra day, my Lady,” said Winifred gently, “won’t he?”
“Yes. But it’s a day here and a day there and another there - I need my husband here. What if the baby comes while he’s away?”
Ygraine gave a sigh of frustration and flopped into her chair by the window.
“Now you musn’t stress yourself, my Lady. All this agitation. It won’t do you any good. In fact all this fretting will make the baby come early and your husband really won't be here when you have it.”
The maid stepped towards her, placing a hand on her shoulder.
“I just want my husband to myself for awhile…and I don’t always want to share him with the kingdom. It’s selfish. I know…but lately it seems like he’s gone an awful lot.”
Winifred gave her a maternal smile. “I know, my Lady," she placed a hand on her shoulder. "It’s hard. But it won’t always be this way - and you’ve got me and Rebecca. We’re here to help you. Always. Whatever your little heart desires.”
Ygraine looked at the maid, managing to return her smile despite the grey, overcast sky outside.
“Thank you, Winifred. You’re a true friend.”
The portly woman blushed, her cheeks turning a deep shade of red. “Oh, now. Don’t shower me with such compliments. I do this because I love you as though you were my daughter. It’s no trouble helping you. How about I run you a bath, hey? I’ll even put some lavender oil in - that’ll help you relax now, won’t it? Hey?”
Ygraine smiled, almost laughing at the kindness her maid was showering upon her. “That would be lovely, Winifred.”
"You can see from these droplets of blood, your Majesty, that our man, Percy Goodfellow - originally from Darnfell - met his end here. In this precise spot. At the hands of a man rather adept with the axe."
Gryndall moved closer and studied the blood spattered ferns as he, his knights, and the royal coroner stood waist high in the dense brush of the Great Wood, re-examining the scene where the carriage driver had been murdered.
"Why do you say that our killer was adept with the axe?"
Clearing his throat, Constantine Blackwell nodded as though preparing to launch into a rather lengthy explanation. "Because, your Majesty, not only was Percy Goodfellow's head severed cleanly from the rest of him - in fact I must confess that I've not seen a cleaner cut in all my time as coroner - but, in addition, there was a relatively miniscule amount of blood spilled. And as you know from your experience in battle, a severed head spills a gallon of blood. Not just a few drops."
"So what does that mean exactly?" the king asked, a quizzical expression on his face. Try as he might, and as educated a man as he considered himself to be, Constantine Blackwell was in a category all his own and this wasn't the only time the coroner had left him scratching his head.
"Well, it affirms that the cut was a clean one - it was no hack and slash job. So not only is this man adept with the axe, but he's also broad shouldered and well-built - a stocky sort of fellow. Because he has the power to swing an axe and sever a head clean from a torso. That's no easy task - even for the trained executioner."
"Okay..."
"And, in addition, it tells us that at least four men were involved in this ambush. The relatively small amount of blood here means that the time from which Percy Goodfellow's head was severed from his body to the time he was dumped over there, under that tree," he said, pointing to the mound of dirt thirty yards away under which the carriage driver had been partially buried by the Lancaster militia the day before, "was a matter of seconds. Because, look. There's hardly a drop to be found. They moved him quickly. Very quickly. Had they moved him slowly, dragged him for instance, there would be gallons of blood here. But there's not. And to move a two hundred pound man like Percy Goodfellow thirty yards in a matter of seconds takes at
least four men. One for each limb."
"And the head wasn't found then?"
The coroner shook his head, his expression grim. "It was not found."
"And it was definitely a group of men who did this? Not just one man acting alone."
"I have no doubt in my mind, your Majesty. Especially when we look at what the rest of this ambush operation entailed."
Constantine Blackwell opened a hand and began to count off on his fingers. "First, felling a massive tree and positioning it on the road. Second, accosting the driver, dragging him from the driver's seat and beheading him. You try pinning down a two hundred pound man and taking his head by yourself. Dalwynn here might be able to do it, but there aren't many who can. Third, moving Percy Goodfellow's body in mere seconds from this spot to over there. And finally, fourth, taking the carriage apart piece by piece and hiding it in that brush over there. That takes a group of men. Not just one."
"So who are these men and how do we find them?" Gryndall asked bitterly, stealing a glance at his knights who were listening as intently as he was.
"Well, the first thing I would do is plant some eyes and ears throughout the kingdom, in every city - except Riordan. These men, if they're Carthalians, are most likely southerners. And if they're foreign - which I suspect - they'll not be venturing to a place like Riordan."
"Not if they want to keep their lives," Dalwynn spat. "The Celts up there eat foreigners alive."
The coroner nodded. "Yes. The good folks of Riordan are not known for their hospitality. So, unless they're from there, which I don't believe to be the case, they'll not be heading up that way."
Gryndall nodded. "Alright. Eyes and ears in the southern cities. What are we to be on the lookout for?"
"A group of four men. Maybe five or six. One of them will have an axe that he treats with great respect because the axe that took Percy Goodfellow's head was no simple woodsman's axe. It's more than likely a special battle axe - presumably made of fine iron and bronze. So he'll have the axe with him. Probably carry it on his back or on his horse. And, as I said, the cut was a clean one. This man has done this before. He may be an executioner. He may be a mercenary. If he is an executioner we know he's a foreigner as here in Carthal, of course, we only execute by hanging. Since the reign of your father, I believe," the coroner added, looking to Gryndall for confirmation of this conjecture.