 
THE VIKING WARS

CARTHAL CHRONICLES BOOK #1

Adrien Leduc

Copyright 2012. Adrien Leduc. Smashwords Edition. All rights reserved.

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(Leduc, Adrien 1987- )

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the author, nor be otherwise circulated in any form than that in which it is published.

SYNOPSIS

Gruesome and mysterious murders. Enemies within. The ending of a truce. When Carthal's longlasting peace is shattered by the onset of war, King Gryndall and his valiant knights must fight to defend their nation and its people. Yet the dark forces conspiring against them are more powerful than any of them could ever have imagined. Filled with mystery, romance, action, and intrigue, _The Viking Wars_ is a fast-paced fantasy thriller that will leave you wanting more.

COVER ART

Cover art by Rhonda Potter. Rhonda lives in Ottawa, Canada with her husband and daughter and has been painting off and on for more than a decade.

DEDICATION

For my cousin, J. A. L., one of the first to foster my love of all things medieval;

And to LEGO and libraries everywhere, for helping me dive into that wonderful world.

MAIN CHARACTERS

Antolis \- Deputy Priest of the Cycliad vice-ruler of Lindisfarne

Anwir \- High Priest of the Cycliad and ruler of Lindisfarne

Conan \- Knight of the Order (archer)

Constantine Blackwell \- Royal Coroner

Copernicus \- Advisor to Godric and Gryndall

Donal \- Knight of the Order (archer)

Dalwynn \- Knight of the Order (swordsman)

Geoffrey \- Royal Messenger

Gryndall \- King of Carthal

Junius \- Knight of the Order (swordsman)

Karl Nördgren \- Elderly citizen of Vinland

Lionel \- Ygraine's nephew and member of the Cycliad

Marcus \- Knight of the Order (swordsman)

Morcant \- Knight of the Order (swordsman)

Muirfinn \- Knight of the Order (swordsman)

Theo \- Knight of the Order (swordsman)

Winifred -Ygraine's personal maid

Ygraine \- Gryndall's wife and Queen of Carthal

PLACES

Brinsley \- Port city situated on southwest coast of Carthal

Carthal \- A fictional island nation roughly four hundred kilometres across and home to the Carthalians.

Clarendon \- Capital of Carthal

Darnfell \- Small city situated in mid-eastern Carthal

Hawthorne \- Port city situated on southeast coast of Carthal

Lancaster \- Small city situated just outside the Great Wood in western Carthal

Lindisfarne \- An island located fifteen kilometres off the southwest coast of Carthal. Home to the Cycliad (Order of monks) and site of their monastery. Also home to approximately one hundred twenty lay inhabitants. Lindisfarne is governed by Anwir and the Cycliad. Religious law is in place.

Nairn \- Small port hamlet that services Lindisfarne

Skagen \- Capital and principal city of Vinland

Vinland \- A fictional island nation, roughly two hundred kilometres across, and home to the Vikings. Situated approximately two hundred kilometres south of Carthal.

TERMS

Cycliad \- Religious Order of monks

Ilani \- Tribe to which Cynwrig, Gryndall's grandfather, belonged

Jarl \- Viking leader

Knight of the Order \- Like the knights of King Arthur's Round Table; men who have pledged to serve and protect Carthal and its people.

Thain \- Viking leader; second in command after the jarl. Usually the jarl's eldest son.

AUTHOR'S NOTES

Time and time-keeping:

While I realize that people living in the period spanning the fifth and sixth centuries, to keep things simple I have used the same units of time as we use in the present day.

Setting

While the islands of Vinland, Carthal, and Lindisfarne are all fictitious, there are certain elements of fact contained therein. For instance, all of Vinland's towns and cities are named after real towns and cities found throughout the Scandinavian/Viking world (Sweden, Denmark, Norway, and Iceland). Lindisfarne, nicknamed 'Holy Island', is located within a mile of the English coast and was home to a thriving monastic community throughout the Middle Ages.

If you're the type of person who wishes to place these three islands on a map of the real world, I would tell you that I imagine them as being somewhere in the North Sea (though the climate of the islands are more akin to present-day Vancouver. I picture lots of rain and greenery, mild winters and cool, windy summers. The smell of the ocean constantly present.).

As to the year, if you wanted to place this on a chart of world history, it would be somewhere between 450 and 600 A.D.

Carthal's population make-up, with its mixture of Celt, Briton, and Roman, would fit nicely in southwestern England.

Despite all this, I am a staunch supporter of imagination and fantasy and I believe that it is you, the reader, who should choose where you imagine these places to be and how you wish to picture them. Don't let my notes influence your own vision.

MAP

Chapter One

(June 1)

Of all the tales my young master, Prince Tyrion, could have commissioned me to put to paper, he has chosen this one. Why, I can only wonder. Perhaps because it describes the events leading up to the death of his mother, and shortly after, his father, the great King Gryndall who once ruled all of Carthal. Or perhaps because it tells of the exploits of Donal and Dalwynn, two of the greatest Carthalian knights to have ever lived.

Whatever the reason, it is certainly not out of vanity for my Lord and master was but a babe, still suckling at his mother's breast, when the Viking Wars began. Moreover, as you shall soon learn, we were not the victors of that great conflict and to this day we suffer under the tyranny of our enemies and must bear the shame that comes with being a conquered people.

Our story begins sixteen years ago, on a cold and wet Spring day...

"Whoa! Slow there, boy!"

Gryndall pulled hard on the reins, bringing his white stallion to a sudden halt.

"Donal!"

"Yes, my Lord?"

"Come here. Quickly."

The handsome, gaunt-faced knight flicked the reins in his hands, willing his horse to carry him to the king's side.

"What do you make of this?"

"Well, it's a felled oak, my Lord. On a forest road. Can only be the set-up for an ambush."

Gryndall nodded as though this was the answer he'd been expecting. "But yet there is no threat to us."

"Correct, my Lord. Those wheel tracks there would suggest that a carriage was run off the road."

Donal spurred his horse forwards, steering the animal towards the point at which the road dropped off and gave way to ferns and thick, leafy brush. Behind him, three other Knights of the Order were busy scanning the dense trees, lines of worry etched on their faces.

"Have no fear, friends," said Donal, seeing their expressions as he climbed out of his saddle, "whatever ambush party set this trap has come and gone."

"How can you be so sure?" demanded the bearded and pot-bellied Morcant.

"Because there is an empty money chest. There. In that bush. Wantonly discarded, the prize already taken."

"Is there more?" asked Gryndall, dismounting and joining his knight at the side of the road.

"It's difficult to tell from here. This brush is so thick."

"Aye. It's been a rainy year."

Donal acknowledged the king's observation with a nod as he freed himself from his bow and hung it from his saddle horn.

"I'll go and have a closer look, my Lord."

"Very well. The rest of you," Gryndall ordered, turning towards the three other knights, "see that this tree is moved."

"Yes, my Lord."

Of the three, only Morcant grumbled as they dismounted and plodded through the mud towards the felled oak lying across the road.

"My Lord!" Donal called suddenly, racing up the embankment with a small, wooden chest in his hands.

"It's one of ours."

Eyes narrowing, the broad-shouldered king extended a hand. "Let me have a look."

Donal passed him the empty money chest.

"Yes. It's one of ours. It has my seal," he said slowly, rotating the object in his hands. "How is it that there's been no word of this...of this ambush?"

"Maybe it only happened yesterday," proffered Theo, the youngest of the knights as he worked with the others to remove the felled tree.

The knights groaned and strained against the heavy object as they rolled it through the mud, the slick road making the task impossibly difficult.

"And if this carriage," Theo continued, grunting as he pushed with all his might against the heavy log, "started at Clarendon (pause, straining and grunting) and was destined for Hawthorne or Riordan (groan), then it hasn't had the time yet to be missed."

"He makes a good argument, my Lord," said Donal.

Gryndall nodded, still gripping the empty chest as though he expected the coins it had once held to reappear.

"I can't understand how this could happen. There is peace in Carthal, no? Not since before my father's reign has there been anything like this."

"Aye," said Dalwynn, the massive red-headed knight. "Perhaps it's like last year then. Just a gang of insolent youths with nothing better to do. We'll teach 'em a lesson right enough when we learn who they are," he added, grinning broadly as he smacked a fist into his open palm.

Gryndall shook his head. "This is something more serious. The carriage - to which these wheel tracks belong - is nowhere to be found. The driver. Where is he? The rest of the cargo. It's missing. No, Theo," he said, his voice low and melancholic, "this has the feel of something more coordinated. Something more sinister."

"Would you like us to search the area, my Lord?"

It was Dalwynn who posed the question.

"No. We haven't the time. Antolis awaits us at Brinsley. It would be rude to keep him waiting any longer. We'll inquire at Lancaster on our way through. See if there have been any reports of an ambush. I'll have the local militia come here and conduct a proper search. Perhaps they'll be able to turn up something more."

"A wise course of action, my Lord," said Donal, slinging his bow and quiver over his shoulder and mounting his horse.

"Aye. The best we can do at the moment, anyways. Come, men," said Gryndall, spurring his horse forwards, "we ride for Brinsley."

"Your Majesty."

"Anwir. I was not expecting _you_."

The priest smiled, his eyes flicking from the face of the king to the faces of the four knights behind him. "Given the gravity of some of our latest troubles at Lindisfarne, I thought it would be best if _I_ be the one to come and see you this time around."

Gryndall gave a nod of understanding, stroking his dark beard between his thumb and forefinger. "I see."

"I've reserved you and Antolis' usual table for us at the Red Boar. At least Elwynn said it was the table where you two tend to hold these quarterly meetings. We can discuss matters there, I presume?"

Gryndall nodded again. "Aye. Knights." He turned to Morcant, Theo, Dalwynn and Donal. "You are relieved. Take the horses to the fort and see that they're watered and fed. I'd like the horseshoes checked on mine as well. He felt weak in his left leg. After that, do what you will. We're here until tomorrow. See that my bags are brought to my room at the garrison - you know the one I like, right? The one in the tower."

"Yes, my Lord," Donal answered, glancing momentarily at a fruit vendor loudly hawking a variety of produce a short distance away.

"And when shall we return for you, my Lord?" asked Dalwynn, taking hold of the reins of Gryndall's horse.

[Scribe's Note: In Carthal it is considered bad luck to name one's horse and thus our steeds, no matter how heroic and faithful a creature it may be, go unnamed.]

"Give me an hour."

Dalwynn nodded and clapped his right fist over his heart, the Order's salute. "Yes, my Lord."

Once the four knights had gone, having melted into the busy shopping crowd of Brinsley's High Street, Gryndall turned and followed Anwir into the small, welcoming tavern.

"So nice to see you again, your Worship," said Elwynn, owner of the Red Boar, bowing slightly as the priest entered the tavern. "And _King Gryndall_ ," he added, his eyes widening as Gryndall stepped into view from behind him.

The thin and pale man with the arching left eyebrow bowed theatrically. "Our friend from Lindisfarne wasn't lying when he said he needed a table for you and himself. To what do we owe this pleasure?"

"Well, first, you know how I feel about bowing," said Gryndall, glancing around the hazy, smoke-filled interior.

"I am ashamed, your Majesty. I forgot. Pardon me," Elwynn replied tenderly, his eyes sincere and feminine. "Perhaps a salute like the Knights of the Order, then?" he added, planting a fist over his heart.

"No, Elwynn, that is for the Knights of the Order. A simple hello and how do you do will suffice."

"Right...er...my apologies, your Majesty," he said slowly, his lisp more pronounced than usual.

[Scribe's Note: A brief word on addressing important people in Carthal, should you ever happen to visit. (Though today Carthal is a rather unhappy place to visit.) The king is 'My Lord' if you are one of his knights or directly in his employ. He is 'Your Majesty' if you are anyone else. High Priest Anwir and Deputy Priest Antolis are both 'Your Worship'. The queen is 'My Lady' to all.]

Out of the corner of his eye, Gryndall studied Anwir's face. He was sneering.

"Your king is an unusual one," the priest commented, conjuring a small smile as his eyes flicked from Gryndall to Elwynn, the latter looking markedly thinner and more pale standing next to the robust and barrel-chested Gryndall.

"If unusual is demanding that your subjects possess self-confidence," Gryndall answered, somewhat insulted by the priest's sword-edged remark.

Anwir gave a snort of derision. "You call them your subjects yet they are not permitted to _bow_ to you?"

"They are my subjects, but they are also my people," Gryndall shot back, his expression growing dark. "And it is my will that my people be strong, proud, and fierce in spirit - as Carthalians have always been. To accept bows and curtsies from them," he continued, gesturing towards Elwynn, "is to encourage submission and surrender."

The priest gave a sly smile. "An interesting perspective. Your father certainly wasn't too proud to accept a bow from his subjects."

"My father was different in that regard."

"Yes. He was. Shall we take our seats?"

"Let's," Gryndall growled.

While he and Anwir had never been close, he'd certainly never experienced such open contempt from him.

Somewhat wary now of Anwir, he followed Elwynn towards the small table in the corner where he and Antolis, the Deputy Priest, usually met at their quarterly exchanges. Antolis was much easier to deal with, much more jovial, and he wondered why the High Priest had chosen to come in his stead this time around.

Once they were seated, the tavern-keep snapped his fingers and headed off to tend to another group of patrons as a young woman, who Gryndall recognized immediately, hurried towards their table.

"Gail."

"Your Majesty," the young woman answered, smiling and performing a small curtsy.

"Gail. Eight years. Eight years my father has been dead and eight years I have been king. What is my opinion regarding bows and curtsies?"

She shot a nervous glance towards Anwir.

"Um..."

"I'm suddenly feeling the need to _brand_ it on some of you," Gryndall joked, glancing at the priest for some support but quickly returning his eyes to Gail when he realized he would receive none.

His ribbing had the desired effect on the young barmaid though because she smiled as she shook her head apologetically. "Your Majesty - I completely forgot. I'm so used to offering a curtsy to distinguished guests," she said, glancing once more at Anwir. "I'm sorry. Old habits die hard, right?"

She said this with a shrug, both hands flat with palms facing up, a school-girl grin on her face.

Gryndall sighed and waved his hand dismissively. "I suppose. But please remember for next time - and for always. You are a strong and proud Carthalian woman. Are you not?"

"Yes, your Majesty."

"And thus you do not bow or curtsy to any man \- no matter how distinguished he may think himself," he said, his gaze shifting to Anwir. "It is not our custom."

"I understand, your Majesty," she said solemnly, her eyes fixed on Gryndall. "I shall never offer you a curtsy again - for as long as I live."

He smiled at her obvious sarcasm. "That's what I like to hear. Now, bring me my usual honey mead," he waved to the priest, "and whatever our friend here is having, and we'll leave it at that, shall we?"

"Of course, your Majesty. Your Worship. What would you like?"

"Dandelion tea."

"Of course, your Worship."

"Thank you, Gail," said Gryndall, annoyed by Anwir's terse tone.

"You're most welcome, your Majesty. I'll be as quick as a dragonfly with those drinks."

He smiled, winking. "Take your time."

He watched her go, her healthy bottom swaying gently from side to side as she headed for the kitchen.

"Now then," he began, turning in his seat so that he faced the priest. "What's been troubling Lindisfarne since Antolis' last visit?"

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.

Gryndall nodded. "That's correct."

"Right. And, if he's a mercenary, then he's also a foreigner as I don't know of any Carthalian swords for hire."

Gryndall sighed and ran a hand through his hair. "Alright. So we're looking for a man with an axe. Possibly a foreigner. What else?"

Constantine Blackwell cleared his throat. "Right, well, one or more of these men has a background in carpentry. Thatching. Boat building. Something of that nature. Because they would have taken the carriage apart in a matter of minutes, wanting to dispose of the evidence as quickly as possible. Getting the carriage disassembled and removed from the roadside would have been of primary importance - and the fact that they did such a good job of it - and so swiftly - means they understand how such things are assembled."

"Yes, those pieces were taken apart rather well," agreed Gryndall, glancing towards the spot twenty yards away where they'd discovered the carriage parts, covered by thick brush and stacked neatly together.

"Aye, my father couldn't have done a better job of it," Theo remarked.

"Your father was a carpenter of some sort?" asked the coroner, turning towards the young knight.

"A wheelwright. For thirty two years."

Constantine Blackwell looked impressed. "That's about as experienced as a man can get at his trade. So if you say that your father, an expert wheelwright, could not have taken that wagon apart any more cleanly nor swiftly, then these men are near experts."

"Well then, men?" interrupted Gryndall, eyeing his knights. "Carpenters. Boat builders. Foreigners. Practised and deadly with the axe. Short and stocky fellows. Who do we know?"

Donal scratched his chin as he deliberated. "Vikings?"

Gryndall frowned and locked eyes with his knight, unhappy that he seemed to share his own suspicions. "Vikings."

In a small house on a rocky, windswept stretch of Vinland's northern coast, an old man and his wife kept their fire blazing. Under normal circumstances at this dark hour, Karl and Helga Nördgren would be fast asleep, warm in their bed and snoring softly. However, on this night, they have been ordered by Erik the Bald to keep watch. A man is coming from across the sea for a meeting and the surly thain has tasked them with guiding his visitor to shore.

"See anything yet?"

Karl Nördgren looked at his wife and shook his head.

"No. Nothing."

"What's it exactly we're supposed to see, anyway?"

"A signal lantern."

The woman muttered something indiscernible and returned to her knitting. Karl watched her for a minute and then sighed as he returned to his previous thoughts.

Why was Erik the Bald such a cold and blood-thirsty man? He was nothing like his father. Keen-eyed and charismatic, Bergthor the Brave was arguably the best jarl that Vinland had had in centuries - or at least he had been until he'd gone soft in the head.

A man of great intelligence, Bergthor had ruled their colony in a fair and just manner. He had ensured peace and prosperity for all seven thousand inhabitants of Vinland. A patron of the arts and the written word, the scholarly Viking had prefered the tongue to the sword - though he was equally devastating with both.

Karl took another puff from his pipe and held the sweet, smoky elixir for several seconds before releasing a cloud of smoke.

Erik the Bald was sorely lacking in his father's former qualities. Squat and round, Erik the Bald's three passions in life were eating, whoring, and fighting - in that order. And soon, when Bergthor finally passed on to Gimli, he would be their new jarl...

[Scribe's Note: In the Norse religion, Gimli is the hall in Asgard (Viking 'heaven', for lack of a better term) where righteous men go when they die. More commonly known is Valhalla \- also a hall in Asgard - where those who have died specifically in battle go after they die.]

The tobacco from his pipe now thoroughly spent, Karl Nördgren reached into a small wooden box on the table beside him and extracted another generous pinch. Packing it into the hollow end of his whale bone pipe, he was about to set the match stick to it when something caught his eye.

There. In the distance. A light. A _flashing_ light. It flashed once. Twice. Three times.

"That's it," said the old man, setting down his pipe and rising quickly from his rocking chair. "He's here."

Helga emitted a sigh of exasperation as she put down the sweater she'd been knitting. "I'll go and fetch our dear thain."

Karl nodded and grabbed his jacket from the hook by the door. "I won't be long, love."

"See that you aren't. I don't fancy being here alone with that animal for very long."

Karl gave his wife a sad smile and made his way outside onto the cliff top that was their backyard. A cool breeze was blowing off the Middle Sea and the old man wrapped his jacket more tightly around him to trap what little warmth remained in his body. Then, stepping firmly from the balcony, down onto the stone path, Karl made his way down towards the dock at the bottom of the cliff. Judging by the lantern still blinking in the distance, Erik the Bald's visitor wasn't far off.

Stepping slowly and carefully so as not to slip and fall, the old man reached the dock after a quarter of an hour. At the end of the long wooden structure was a wide iron bowl. The small fire he'd set in it earlier to guide Erik the Bald's visitor was still smoldering and he added some kindling to rouse the flame. After a minute, it began to burn more brightly, and the blinking lantern in the distance ceased.

Good. They've seen it.

Gazing out at the calm, black water, the old man waited with curious impatience for the mysterious vessel to appear. It seemed like another quarter of an hour passed before a small fishing boat came into view. At the end of its hull hung a lamp, the dim light it created casting an eerie glow about the boat. At precisely that moment, Erik the Bald arrived, making his presence known by shouting down to him from the cliff top.

"KARL NӦRDGREN!"

The old man turned away from the water and strained his eyes against the dark as he scanned the cliff above for the squat and slovenly thain. He could just barely make out Erik the Bald's boar tusk helmet.

"YES, MY LORD?"

While he felt it somewhat premature to be addressing Erik the Bald in a manner usually reserved for the jarl, his father - after all, Bergthor wasn't even dead and in the ground yet - he thought it prudent considering that Erik the Bald would eventually be jarl and nursing the man's ego could only improve their strained relationship.

"Has my guest arrived?"

"He arrives this very minute, my Lord."

"Good. I'm coming down."

"Mind your footing, my Lord."

There was no reply and Karl returned his attention once more to the incoming boat as it drew steadily nearer. Several minutes passed before he heard Erik the Bald approaching from behind.

"Good evening, my Lord."

His belly bobbing twelve inches in front of him, Erik the Bald spat. " _Bah_! Don't smother me with your pleasantries, old man. You and I both know that if it were up to you, I wouldn't be here tonight."

He wasn't lying. Karl and his wife didn't like him one bit. Though when the thain had asked him last week whether he would play the role of lighthouse for a visitor from across the sea, he'd said yes without hesitating. Because, despite the protestations of his wife after the fact, he knew as well as anyone else in Skagen that Erik the Bald was not a man to refuse.

The boat was much closer now and Karl could easily make out the three men aboard. Two wore vests of chain mail and the other, the man standing closest to the bow, a sort of black frock with a silver amulet hanging from his neck.

"Ahoy!" yelled Erik the Bald.

"Greetings," came the reply.

"Friend or foe?" asked the Viking in his best Gaelic - which to Karl sounded pretty poor.

Gaelic...Celts?

The only Gaelic speakers still left in this corner of the world were the Celtic men and women of Riordan, in Carthal...and the monks of Lindisfarne...

"As friendly as a friend can be at a time when friends are foes and foes are friends."

Karl's pulse quickened as he quickly translated the words spoken by one of the men aboard the boat.

That's definitely Gaelic.

Who could they be?

"Correct," said Erik the Bald in his native Norse.

Evidently the man aboard the ship had issued some sort of verbal code. Though Karl doubted whether his thain - whose Gaelic was piss poor - had even understood properly.

"Come ashore, friends. We have much to discuss."

There were murmurs of approval from the men on the boat as the vessel drew astride of the dock. Next, mooring ropes were tossed out and Karl fastened them to the posts protruding from the water. When the boat was finally secured, the man in the black frock stepped off the vessel and onto the dock.

Karl watched him, standing there, a mere five feet away.

A thin smile played across the man's face as he stepped forwards, into the light, and into the thain's embrace.

"We meet at long last, Erik the Bald," said the man in flawless Norse.

"Aye. At long last, Anwir of Lindisfarne."

Chapter Three

It is at this point, dear reader, that I, Copernicus, royal advisor to the late Gryndall, to his father before him, and now, partial caretaker of young Tyrion, shall take a pause from our tale to share with you an annotated history of Carthal and the other two islands that lie within its vicinity: Lindisfarne and Vinland.

Lindisfarne, as you have presumably gathered by now, is home to the Cycliad, an Order of monks that was long ago founded at Riordan by the Celtic druid Taog.

King Gryndall's grandfather, Cynwrig, agreed to let the monks establish a new monastery at Lindisfarne and enjoy complete sovereignty of the island as reward for their loyalty to him during the Great War. (The Great War was the two month conflict that saw the united clans of western Carthal liberate their cousins of eastern Carthal from the tyrannical rule of Ine the Terrible. I will explain more of this shortly.)

Lindisfarne is a rather small island - about four kilometres at its widest point - and a man can cross it easily in an hour (providing of course that the fog is not too thick and he doesn't walk right off the edge and into the sea - as has been known to happen!)

As to its terrain, the island is rocky and rugged - a suitable home for the hundreds of mountain goats kept by the shepherds there. Its vegetation consists primarily of a thick emerald green moss which blankets the entire island and an assortment of thistles and herbs the monks use to brew medicinal remedies.

With regards to its inhabitants, there are roughly two hundred souls on the island of Linidisfarne. Of these, eighty are members of the Cycliad and reside within the monastery. (The monastery is built into the side of the mountain and overlooks the village below.) These monks speak Gaelic as that was the language spoken by their Order's founder, Taog of Riordan. (The Celtic druid-missionary Taog migrated to Riordan and began preaching there nearly two centuries ago. Despite Carthalian being the language of Carthal - a hybrid of Latin, English, and Gaelic, pure, original Gaelic is still spoken by the majority of the inhabitants of that city.)

The other, approximately one hundred twenty inhabitants of Lindisfarne, are shepherds and fishermen and brewmasters and blacksmiths. These comprise the villagers and they are a pious group who live their lives according to the rules prescribed by the Cycliad. There are two sets of rules - one for the monks and another for the villagers. And, as you can probably imagine, the set of rules prescribed to the former is much more strict than the set of rules prescribed to the latter. I see no need to list the rules of the Cycliad here - as I don't imagine you ever visiting - Lindisfarne not being a particularly renowned tourist destination - but suffice it to say that the rules forbid killing, stealing, committing adultery, and so on and so forth. To break the rules is a grave and serious matter. For instance, a villager caught stealing will be given ten lashes and locked in the pillory for three days - from sun up to sun down. For adultery, the punishment is twice that and there's nary a man or woman who can survive the wounds incurred by twenty lashes. (Though in recent years, so I'm told, a cream made from seaweed and seal oil works to great effect if applied within an hour after the lashes have been administered.)

The monks, not surprisingly, are burdened with much stiffer rules and severe punishments for breaking them. (This, you have no doubt ascertained from King Gryndall's discussion with Anwir over the fate of Lionel.) For instance, a monk caught stealing will lose his pen hand. A second offense will result in him losing the arm. A third offense will incur the death penalty.

The history of Lindisfarne (and Carthal) is a rather intriguing story in and of itself and many chroniclers have recorded its history in great detail. However, in the interests of time I will provide you with the brief version. Cynwrig, King Gryndall's grandfather, was a Romano-Celt, born to a Celtic mother and Roman father. He was raised among the Ilani clan in the region of what is now Clarendon almost a century ago.

Cynwrig's father, Desirius, had deserted the Roman army with several of his countrymen and gone to live among the Ilani. This is how he met Almha, Cynwrig's mother. Almha's brother was clan chief. Childless, when he died the chieftaincy passed to Almha. When Almha died several years later, the result of a lingering sickness, Cynwrig succeeded his mother as leader of the clan.

The Ilanis were one of seven clans in western Carthal and these seven clans lived side by side in relative peace. There was of course the occasional spat - such as when a young man from the Brean clan impregnated and then refused to marry a young woman from the Lhur clan - nearly causing a war. But, by in large, the clans got along with one another and any issues that arose were quickly resolved by the clan elders. (I must confess, being from Rome, my knowledge of the early Carthalian clans is limited and you would be better to refer to the texts written by the Carthalian scribe Cerbhall of Hawthorne should you wish to read more about that subject.)

Returning to our story, when the Romans withdrew to defend our homeland from the Visigoths, Carthal was left without a ruling force. Unlike other parts of the known world, the Carthalians had been happy with their Roman occupiers. The Romans (my people) added public baths, constructed impressive edifices with imported marble - some of which rival those in Rome itself - and built a network of roads across the island. When the Romans left, abandoning their garrisons at Brinsley and Hawthorne, chaos ensued. Not so much in the more Romanized west, but in the eastern and northern regions of Carthal, where inter-clan relations were much less amicable. A certain chief, Ine the Terrible, had recently risen to power.

Unhappy with his clan's modest wealth, he began plundering neighbouring clans, ransacking, pillaging and murdering. Within three months, much of eastern Carthal had come under his rule.

Cynwrig and his fellow, western, clan chiefs feared that Ine would soon come to their corner of the island and seek to rule them as well. They decided to act pre-emptively and Cynwrig, being the most feared and respected leader among them, was elected to lead their army against Ine.

Two months later, after several petty skirmishes, the two armies met in a valley three miles south of Darnfell. A great battle ensued and Ine was defeated, the remaining warriors of the six eastern clans quickly surrendering and submitting to Cynwrig. Coerced into fighting for Ine, these men had felt no allegiance to the wretched Saxon. Cynwrig, being a most noble man, accepted their surrender and his men quickly embraced their eastern cousins.

Ine was beheaded, cast into the sea, and peace was restored in Carthal. The eastern clans agreed to unite with the western clans under a single banner and create a single nation. This nation was Carthal. A vote was held, with the head of each of the thirteen clans being given the opportunity to have his say (or her say, in the case of the Kadin clan), and Cynwrig was elected ruler.

The few dozen druid-monks present at the Darnfell meeting asked Cynwrig to grant them a parcel of land for a monastery in exchange for their loyalty and because they had fought alongside his army against Ine. They suggested Lindisfarne and Cynwrig, not being a religious man, was quick to consent; having the monks on an island and not in Carthal would prevent any future religious conflict and would keep the monks from meddling in his political affairs. The majority of the monks were equally happy with the arrangement as it gave them the opportunity to establish a monastic community and live their lives according to their religious laws, away from the whorehouses and gambling dens of Brinsley and Hawthorne. The monks were given full sovereignty of Lindisfarne on the condition that they do not proselytize nor conduct religious services in Carthalian territory. Several among their number were unhappy with this condition, but they were overruled by the majority who argued that they had made out well because they would have full sovereignty of Lindisfarne and could exercise religious rule on the island.

The monks set out immediately following the meeting at Darnfell and within a decade had completed their monastery and attracted two dozen followers. Those Carthalians who wished to worship were invited to follow the monks to Lindisfarne and it is largely from these people that the present-day villagers of that island are descended (though some families on Lindisfarne descend from the earliest colonists of that island.)

Returning briefly to Carthal, Cynwrig made the capital at what is today Clarendon (though it was then called Wyflig) because that was where he hailed from.

For the remainder of Cynwrig's reign, there was peace in Carthal. That is not to say that there was never conflict; several naval battles and petty skirmishes were fought against Viking marauders from Vinland and other foreign raiding parties, but by and large Carthal enjoyed peace and prosperity. Following Cynwrig's death, his son Godric inherited the throne.

Godric was very different from his father. A man who loved books and learning. A scholar. An academic. He established universities and ordered libraries to be built in every city across Carthal. He sent Carthalian emissaries to distant lands in order to acquire new knowledge in the domains of agriculture, engineering and warfare. He amassed an impressive collection of texts with topics ranging from architecture to alchemy. More importantly, for me personally at least, Godric created a learning exchange program between Rome and Carthal in his efforts to revive the Roman traditions and Latin language in Carthal. I arrived in Carthal as a boy of twelve, my parents only too happy to send me away for school as Rome, under the Visigoths, was a rather miserable place.

I spent ten years being educated at the university at Lancaster after which I decided to stay, my parents having died in a plague outbreak shortly before my graduation. Feeling sorry for me, Godric invited me to serve as his advisor. To this day I do not know whether his offer was borne of mere sympathy or whether he actually believed me capable enough to serve as royal advisor. Needless to say, I graciously accepted and have been royal advisor ever since, now serving young Tyrion, albeit in a much less distinguished capacity.

Chapter Four

(June 3)

"Your husband arrives, my Lady!" Winifred shouted excitedly from the stairwell.

"Alright, alright," Ygraine answered mutedly as she removed her rose hip tea from the burner on the wood stove and set it on the counter.

"Here, my Lady! Let me do that!"

An eager Winifred, rosy-faced and sweating profusely, hurried from the stairwell towards the queen, crossing the kitchen floor in no time at all.

"I've got it. Let me pour your tea. You sit down," she insisted, yanking a dish towel from her apron string and grabbing the hot handle.

Ygraine couldn't help but smile at her maid's devotion and she stepped away from the stove.

"Sit down, my Lady. Really. You need to rest. You've got less than a month to go now," Winifred persisted, pushing her gently towards the chair by the window.

Once the queen was seated, with her steaming mug of tea in front of her, the two women peered out the small window above the table so they could watch the progress of the five mounted riders approaching the castle.

" _There_ he is," Winifred gushed. "MY LORD! UP HERE!" she yelled, waving her dish towel out the open window.

"Oh, Winifred, he won't see you from way up here," Ygraine muttered, feeling resentful that she wasn't in as good a mood as her maid.

"Well, he'll be up soon enough," she said smartly, moving away from the window. "Now," she said, releasing a breath of air, "is there anything else I can get you, my Lady? Perhaps a little cake or a few biscuits to go with your tea?"

Ygraine shook her head politely. "No, thank you, Winifred. I've not had much of an appetite this week."

"It'll be the baby's coming soon," said Winifred matter-of-factly. "That's what that means. He's all done growing inside of you and now he's just waiting. He'll soon enter our world and you and King Gryndall can officially call yourselves a _family_."

Try as she might, Ygraine could endure her maid's bubbly enthusiasm no longer.

"Yes, that'll be nice. Winifred - perhaps you can go and help Rebecca with the laundry for awhile. I'll wait here until my husband comes up."

"Are you sure, my Lady?"

"Yes, I'm sure. I'd just like to be left alone for a little while is all."

Winifred gave the young queen a maternal smile. "Of course, dear. You enjoy some time alone. I'll return in an hour to help you dress for lunch."

Ygraine nodded, grateful for her maid's understanding. "That will be fine."

"Alright, then. I'll leave you to your tea, my Lady," she said, looping her dish towel once more around her apron string before making her way back to the stairwell from which she'd come. "See you in awhile."

Ygraine smiled. "See you in awhile."

Erik the Bald stared at the bust of his father that sat on the mantle above the fireplace. The one Anwir had so openly admired following their meeting the night before.

Its creator was none other than Alf Magnusson, that illustrious artist and sculptor who had done busts of all the jarls of Vinland up until his death several years ago. The bust of Bergthor the Brave was his last. The end of an era. Rather fitting considering the state his father was in.

Drooling. Shitting and wetting himself. Unable to eat without assistance. Not surprisingly, his father no longer held the respect of his people.

Would it be so wrong to put the old man out of his misery? A thimble of arsenic in his mead. A pillow over his face. A fall down the stairs. There were a dozen ways.

The Viking scratched his chin and sat back in his chair, stretching his feet closer to the fire to warm his aching toes.

He wanted to be jarl. He was tired of being thain. Second in command.

While the people of Vinland had no respect for their drooling, incontinent leader, they had even less for him. They knew full well his desire to succeed his father and become jarl, but there were growing rumours that he was unwilling to do what was required. In Viking culture, a son must obey his father and if he does not wish to obey his father, he can either leave the community or duel his father. In this case, there would be no dueling.

He frowned at the thought of such a spectacle. He, with his sword drawn and preparing to fight. His father with a sword in his hand, drooling and rocking back and forth in his chair, completely unaware of the event.

No. That would never happen. And to think that just twenty years ago his father would have whooped the pants off him...

He sighed deeply.

Should he not preserve what little dignity and respect his father still had left? To finally let the man be put to rest and remembered for his great achievements?

Bergthor the Brave, a once proud and intelligent man, was now nothing more than a white-haired and helpless invalid. Worse, the people he had so long governed and cared for, would point at him in the street and whisper about him in the market. It wasn't right. His father had been made a mockery of for long enough and he didn't deserve such treatment.

To aid his path to Gimli was the right thing to do. It was clear now. His father had to die. And he would have to kill him.

Anwir frowned and gazed out at the choppy sea as their small fishing boat bobbed along the water, headed back to Lindisfarne. The island was still just a dot in the distance, a mere speck compared to the much larger land mass that was neighbouring Carthal.

Seeing Carthal looming in the distance, the priest couldn't help but feel a wave of resentment and he relished the thought that he would soon invade the island and make it his own. Of course, it would take another few months. At least. Because he first had to develop his fledgling alliance with the Vikings.

He was working on it. Slowly, but surely. It was difficult finding opportunities to meet with the Vikings as it would raise suspicions if he was away from Lindisfarne too often and if he was spotted on a boat headed either to or from Vinland.

But he'd had the chance to meet with Erik the Bald and several of his compatriots last night. And their meeting had definitely been fruitful. If little else, it had strengthened the budding partnership between them. The only problem of course was that the soon-to-be jarl was a rather uncharming and boorish fellow - and that was putting it mildly. Completely lacking in manners and social graces, Erik the Bald was not the sort of man with whom to engage in an intelligent discussion about alchemy or politics or history - nor with whom to share a dinner table as he'd learned last night.

However, despite his numerous shortcomings, Erik the Bald was exactly the sort of man he needed to help him invade Carthal. Ruthless, and with an insatiable thirst for money and women, Erik the Bald not only had the army, but the _drive_ needed to embark on a project as ambitious as the one he was planning.

"Your Worship."

The priest ceased his thoughts and turned to look at the boatswain who had interrupted him.

"What is it?"

"Over there," the man answered, pointing to a small object in the distance, the wind off the water filling its massive sails. "A Carthalian naval vessel."

"And? What of it?"

The boatswain looked anxious. "Well...it's best you get down in the cabin, your Worship...because I can't imagine how we'd explain your presence this far out to sea."

Anwir looked at him.

Missing teeth. Yellowed skin. Foul breath.

"All we say," he began, ignoring the man's foul appearance, "is that I came out here for some fishing."

The boatswain stared blankly at him. "I don't quite understand, your Worship."

"No, you wouldn't, would you?" asked the priest rhetorically, shaking his head in exasperation. "I'll be down in the cabin."

Muttering irritably to himself, he made his way through the door and down the tilting wooden steps.

He was tired of dealing with imbeciles.

Stupid, slow, incompetent, idiots...just awhile longer. Just awhile longer months and Carthal will be mine and I will lord over it. Beholden to no one. A king among men.

Gathering his robes about him, Anwir took a deep breath and seated himself at the small table, resting his back to the wall.

Just a a little while longer...

It would be less time if he didn't owe Erik the Bald two more favours.

Two more favours. It was Viking custom for an outsider such as himself to provide _three_ favours to a Viking in order to earn that Viking's trust. Once he had done so, he was free to ask for a favour from the Viking in return.

Anwir picked at a piece of fish, caught in his teeth, the remnants of last night's supper with Erik the Bald and his senior commanders. It was rather insulting being told by a group of slovenly Vikings that he, Anwir, the exalted and distinguished High Priest of Lindisfarne, cultured and educated and capable of conversing in several languages, had to prove his trustworthiness...

But, it had to be done. It was the only way.

The first favour had been the royal carriage ambush. He'd arranged that. He had supplied Erik the Bald and Krall, Erik the Bald's head henchman, with the information concerning the departure time of the royal carriage and the route that it would take from Clarendon through the Great Wood.

The Vikings had been happy with the spoils - one hundred gold crowns and some expensive jewellery - but this wasn't good enough. No. He needed to gift them _two more_ favours.

But what? Arranging the ambush of another carriage was out of the question because a second ambush would raise too much suspicion and the last thing he wanted was for Gryndall and his knights to be on high alert. No. These two favours would have to be something a little different.

Whores? Money? Viking appetites were easy enough to please. He would think of something.

Chapter Five

(June 4)

"Five hundred crowns is a significant sum of money," I said, dipping the end of my quill in ink once more.

Standing in the entrance to the balcony and propping himself against the wall with one arm, Gryndall groaned. "I know...I know, Copernicus. And to think Anwir would play politics with a boy's life!"

I scratched a note in the margin of the text I was copying and glanced at my king. "It does seem rather rotten."

"And, what's more, he is a _priest_. A religious man."

Gryndall shook his head in frustration.

"Just one more example of how the religious can't claim the monopoly on morality," I sighed, adding, "your grandfather was right to make Carthal secular. Look at how quickly my beloved Rome collapsed once our Empire adopted religion."

Neither of us spoke for several minutes, my king most content to watch Donal and Conan instruct a group of cadets in archery in the courtyard below and me, to continue copying the massive text laid out on the desk before me.

"It's a king's ransom," Gryndall muttered after a time.

"Aye. Only it's for a sixteen year old boy," I quipped, perhaps a little more cheekily than I should have. "You know, my Lord," I added quickly, seeking to make up for my cheekiness, "there are always other ways."

"Other ways?"

"Other ways to get the things you want without paying full price."

He stared at me. "Explain."

I cleared my throat and set down my quill. "You steal the boy away from Lindisfarne."

Gryndall's eyes bulged out of their sockets. "And just how exactly do you expect me to do that with all those prying monks around? They wouldn't let us out of their sight for a minute."

I shrugged. "There has to be a way."

"Yes, but _how_? Copernicus, sometimes..."

He clenched a fist and I grimaced, ashamed at my inability to come up with something better to say.

"What if..." I began, the wheels turning in my head, "you bring eight chests for the money. Eight chests. It will look magnificent. Stunning. They'll be awed. Jaws will drop. They'll need a dozen or more monks to carry those chests up the mountain to the monastery. Anwir will be impressed. He's always had an eye for gold and other fine things. Men like that are easily fooled," I muttered as an aside.

Gryndall nodded as though he was still waiting for the climax of what I had to say.

"You fill the bottom half of each of the eight chests with heavy bricks," I said, rather enjoying this evil scheming, "the top half of each chest, you fill with money. Let us say, two hundred and fifty crowns in all - in small coins."

He smiled. "And by the time Anwir realizes that the chests are half filled with bricks and that I've only given him half the five hundred crowns he's asked for, we'll have left with Lionel."

I nodded. "Precisely."

Gryndall sighed, looking at me, his expression conveying that he was impressed. But then his face clouded over. "There's only one problem."

"And that is?"

"What about _after_. Once he learns I've deceived him. He won't be happy."

I chuckled softly. "And since when have you ever worried about what that washed up priest thought of you?"

If I'd known then the evil plans being set in motion, I would have checked my hubris. I underestimated Anwir. We all did.

Chapter Six

(June 5)

"Aidan."

"Yes, my Lord."

"Can you prepare my wife's horse?"

The stable boy nodded. "Of course, my Lord. What sort of saddle will she need?"

"We're only riding as far as the lake. So just the light saddle should do."

"Certainly, my Lord."

Gryndall watched the wiry youth until he had disappeared into the stable.

"My Lord?"

Turning around, Gryndall found himself face to face with Donal.

"Donal."

The slim, yet muscular knight with the stubble on his chin and the intelligent eyes wore a concerned expression. "My Lord. Do you think it wise to go riding unescorted?" he asked, gesturing towards the king's white stallion. "That carriage was ambushed not a half day's ride from here."

Gryndall nodded, pursing his lips and releasing a gust of air. "Aye. I'm well aware of that fact."

Donal looked incredulous. "Well? Should you not ask one or two of your devoted knights to escort you and your wife to the lake? What if the men who ambushed that carriage are still in the area?"

Gryndall shook his head. "I refuse to be held hostage in my own kingdom. I shall go where I please, ambushers be damned."

"So long as you can handle the ones you encounter."

"I already spoke to Copernicus. He said we're safe here. So long as we stay out of the Wood. The ambushers need cover."

A fair point I guess..." said Donal slowly. "Who does he suspect is responsible?"

Gryndall ran a hand through his dark, bushy mane. "He agrees that Vikings could have been responsible."

"That's not good."

"No, it isn't."

"Are we ready to go then?" a female voice called from behind them.

Both men turned to see Ygraine approaching. She wore her leather riding gear and her long blonde hair was tied back into a neat bun. She strode up to them with confidence and pecked her husband on the cheek.

"I can't wait to get out. I was so bored while you were away," she said, twirling mid-step. "And Winifred would hardly leave me alone for five minutes - "

Gryndall smiled. "You know she loves you dearly. If she's pestering you, it's because she can't bear to leave you on your own."

"I know," Ygraine sighed, glancing at Donal. "I thought this ride would be just the two of us..."

"It is just the two of us," said Gryndall, glancing paternally at Donal. "We'll discuss this further at our Assembly tonight. I hope that's acceptable."

"That's acceptable. Just be careful out there, my Lord. My Lady," he added, acknowledging Ygraine with a nod.

"We'll be careful," said Gryndall.

"Yes, we'll be careful," his wife repeated, gliding happily over to Aidan as he brought out her chestnut brown mare from the stable.

"Make sure the other knights are aware of the Assembly," said Gryndall as he watched his wife use the stepping block to mount her horse, her swollen belly making it impossible to simply jump on.

"I will ensure all knights are aware of the Assembly, my Lord."

"Good. Thank you, Donal. Now I can see my wife is impatient to go," Gryndall remarked with a smile on his face as Ygraine rode towards them.

The queen gave her husband a gentle swat with her riding stick as she passed. He turned and quickly tried to catch hold of her, but she was already gone.

"I'll get you back for that!" he hollered after her.

"You'll have to catch me first!"

Donal shook his head in amusement as he watched the queen speed off towards the castle gates, peasants diving and chickens flapping wildly to get out of her way.

"She's a wild one, my Lord."

Gryndall laughed as he mounted his white stallion. "Aye, and that's why I love her!"

He cracked his reins and a second later, was galloping after her, shouting apologies to the peasants that had to again dive out of the way.

"Knights of the Order. Thank you for coming to the Assembly," said Gryndall, his voice filling the Great Chamber as nineteen pairs of eyes, belonging to nineteen knights seated at the round table, stared back at him. "We have urgent matters to discuss. Percy Goodfellow - a citizen of Carthal, a brother, one of our own, was murdered in cold blood less than a week ago. It is difficult for me, as your king, as the person responsible for the safety and well-being of the populace, to stand here while the man responsible for Percy Goodfellow's death remains free."

"Here, here!"

The knights pounded their fists on the table, the tremors from their hard, calloused hands causing the cups of wine and mead in front of them to spill over.

"We must bring this murderer to justice!" Gryndall roared, his eyes blazing. "I'm here. I'm not searching the island like I would like to be doing. I'm not turning over every stone and checking behind every tree looking for this whoreson."

"My Lord."

All eyes turned to the knight who had interrupted. It was Theo and Gryndall pursed his lips, wanting to reprimand the young knight for interrupting him. But he took a deep breath.

"Yes, Theo."

"What can we do to help Percy Goodfellow's family?"

It was a fair question and thus despite his rudeness for interrupting, it warranted a response.

"That's a good question."

"Aye. What can we do to help the poor man's family?" cried Junius, another knight, feeling brave enough to repeat Theo's question.

The king sighed and relaxed his tense stance.

So much for order and discipline.

"We're going to do as much as possible to help his wife and their three children. I have already sent a pigeon to the mayor of Darnfell informing him that Mrs. Goodfellow is to be provided with ten crowns - enough to feed and clothe her family for a year or more."

There came a course of thumping fists on the table.

"And," Gryndall continued, raising his voice so that he would be heard over the din of the men's fist thumping, "I have instructed the mayor that, should Mrs. Goodfellow ever need anything, to write me and I will gladly respond by sending whatever she requires."

Another round of fists thumping on the table.

"Here, here! Our king is most generous!"

The king waved a hand and his knights quieted.

"But that is still not enough for me! The man who murdered her husband remains free. Percy Goodfellow was doing his job when he was savagely ambushed."

"And by Vikings," Conan spat.

Gryndall nodded as a ripple of murmurs spread around the table.

"Bloody Vikings! We should invade Vinland!"

"With what army? We've hardly an army these days."

"Vikings in Carthal? It can't be."

"I tell you, it's quite likely."

Gryndall listened to their banter for an entire minute before raising a hand. All nineteen knights fell silent and he spoke. "The idea that Vikings are responsible for the ambush is something that we are considering. _However,_ it is far too early to jump to conclusions. I will be writing to Bergthor to inquire about the present state of things in Vinland. If Vikings were in fact responsible for last week's ambush, it could simply be a rogue crew of bandits. But until I hear back from Bergthor, and because there are still so many unknowns, I am posting three knights at every town and city in southern Carthal. Four shall stay here, with me, at Clarendon."

There were quiet grumblings of discontent.

"We all know who'll be staying here."

"Donal and Dalwynn for sure. They're his favourites."

"...not looking forward to spending the summer away from my girl."

Gryndall ignored these and continued speaking. "For those of you posted to locations outside of Clarendon - at Nairn, Hawthorne, Darnfell, Brinsley, and Lancaster \- I want news. On a daily basis. Any curious developments or strange events you encounter, are to be reported to me or the local mayor. The pigeons, with my orders for all of Carthal's mayors about your assignments, are already on their way. You will be stationed at the local fort where you will work alongside the local militia."

"Do we get to choose, my Lord?"

"Choose what, Leith?"

"Where we're posted?"

"No. Any more questions?"

"For how long, my Lord?"

"Until we find the man or _men_ responsible for Percy Goodfellow's murder, Gunn."

"And if that takes a year?"

"Then it takes a year. You are welcome to move your families to the cities where you will be posted and you shall be given a generous allowance to cover all additional expenses. I am a fair man after all. Am I not?"

"Yes, my Lord," the nineteen knights answered in unison.

Gryndall smiled. "Very well. Any more questions?"

After a minute in which no one spoke, he gave a nod of satisfaction. "This Assembly is therefore adjourned. But in parting, let me leave you with something to think about. Here, at Clarendon, our great capital, we are relatively safe. We are sheltered and largely immune to things like murder. But do not, for one instant, allow this to lull you into a false sense of security. You Knights of the Order form the first and last line of Carthalian defense. You must therefore remain vigilant. Remain _en garde_."

"Aye, my Lord."

"Aye, my Lord."

"Aye, my Lord."

Gryndall gave a satisfactory nod. "This is your kingdom. Your home. Your land. Defend it!"

"Here, here!" the knights cried, and all but Morcant gave the Order's salute.

Chapter Seven

(June 7)

Antolis is seated in the monastery study, engrossed in a book. Anwir has just greeted him from the doorway, interrupting his reading.

"I need you to write a letter to Gryndall."

Seated against the wall in his favourite reading chair, Antolis closed his book and looked up as Anwir stepped fully into the study and shut the door firmly behind him.

"A letter? For what reason?"

Anwir sniffed as he picked at a fleck of dirt with his fingernail. "I want the money he promised me."

"Money?"

"The money for the Council. To have Brother Lionel's sentence reduced to lashes."

"I don't understand. You mean to say that Gryndall offered you money to ensure Brother Lionel would avoid the death penalty?"

"In a manner of speaking, yes."

Antolis' brow furrowed. "That doesn't seem like something Gryndall would do."

Anwir shrugged. "I may have helped him make that decision."

"This vexes me, your Worship."

"How so? Lionel lives and we get money for a new monastery."

The Deputy Priest pursed his lips and shook his head slowly from side to side. "Because we're extorting that money from Gryndall."

Anwir passed a hand dismissively through the space in front of him. "He's got plenty of money. His coffers are brimming with gold and jewels. So what if we pressure him for a bit of it."

"But Gryndall is a good man, your Worship. To cheat him like this...it's...it's - "

"It's what?"

"It's wrong."

Anwir laughed. " _Wrong_? _Wrong_?"

Reaching forward he placed a hand on the book Antolis was holding and pressed his face into his.

" _Wrong_ is letting us live the lowly lives we lead. Look at this place," he said, taking three steps back and gesturing around the study with open arms. "We're cramped. We're full. How can we ever hope to expand and increase our ranks if this is what we have on offer? What Carthalian will ever come here to live and study and follow the faith when this is the place he shall have to call home?"

"Your Worship, it's hardly - "

"Leaking roofs. Mice. A constant draft. This building is a nightmare. We need a new one and Gryndall is going to pay for it."

"Your Worship, really, I think - "

" _Enough_!"

Eyes blazing, Anwir suddenly cleared the top of a nearby desk with one sweeping arm sending books and quills and parchment flying.

"You will write a letter to Gryndall, _today_ , requesting the money he owes us or I will have you stripped of your office and title!"

And with that, Anwir flung the door open with such violent force that as he stormed from the study it struck the wall and slammed shut behind him.

Night fall. Time to do the deed. It would be difficult. But he could do it. Emitting a heavy sigh, Erik the Bald rose from his chair. On the table lay the remnants of the meal he'd just consumed - the skeleton of an entire cod fish, a few grains of wild rice, and three apple cores. Already the scraps were beginning to attract a flies.

He swatted at them and took up the dagger he'd used as a utensil, sticking it into the leather pouch around his waist after wiping it clean on his leather trousers. Then, gathering up the mess, he carried it to the kitchen and dropped it into the wash basin. Lucinda could deal with it in the morning.

While normally Bergthor's caregiver returned in the evenings to bathe and prepare the old man for bed, she'd had a wedding to attend in Akureyri and had left straight after breakfast, not to return until tomorrow.

This was his window of opportunity.

He sighed as he stepped into the hallway and peered down it. At the end, his father's bedroom. The door stood slightly ajar and the soft sounds of his gentle snoring echoed from out of the narrow opening.

_Best be quick about it_ , he thought, making his way quickly, and with purpose, towards his father's bedroom.

If he hurried, he could make it. Walking briskly along the beaten dirt road, Karl Nördgren spotted the butcher's in the distance. Helga had promised him stew for supper if he bought the meat and he fingered the coin in his pocket requisitioned for the purpose. Bjorn Paulson liked to close as soon as it grew dark and he wasn't one to wait around for last minute customers.

It wasn't far to go now. Another fifty yards at most.

The street was dimly lit by the occasional lamp that hung from a post or in a window. Wind mobiles chimed in the soft breeze coming off the sea, and the street felt eerily quiet.

As he neared the jarl's house - easily recognizable as it was the only L-shaped longhouse in town - he debated whether to cross the street to the other side. After all, he didn't want to run into Erik the Bald and have him demand another favour of him; Helga had given him enough flack already for the last favour he'd agreed to do.

But something made him stay on this side of the street.

Another twenty yards and he'd pass right in front of their door.

Ten yards. Five.

He stopped for a split second as he passed and through the cornermost window saw something that made his blood run cold. There was Erik the Bald.

He was standing over someone lying in bed - someone that could only be his father, Bergthor - and he appeared to be smothering him with a pillow. His expression was difficult to gauge - a combination of sad and tired with a hint of maniacal - and in the split second that Karl Nördgren was able to perceive all of this, Erik the Bald had looked up.

Erik the Bald had looked up. Their eyes had locked and Karl had passed out of sight, the entire occasion hardly causing him to break his stride.

Another second and he was past the jarl's house. His pace quickened and he turned right at the next street. Going to the butcher's was no longer an option. Going anywhere was no longer an option. In fact, living in Skagen was no longer an option.

For Erik the Bald, thain and now jarl with his father's last breaths, had seen him. Had seen him see him. And as witness to Erik the Bald's patricide, the old man had every reason to believe he would be next.

He and Helga would have to leave Skagen. They would have to leave tonight. Perhaps they could catch a wagon to Akuryeri. Though maybe it would be safer and faster to get a boat to Visby. Helga had kin in Visby. They could stay with them.

He turned right at the next street. Now he was headed back home, his feet carrying him as fast as they could.

How long until Erik the Bald came for them? A minute? An hour? A day?

His mind raced as he deliberated.

At the end of the street, a small lantern burned dimly. He was halfway home.

But then. No. It couldn't be. There was a man standing there. Just off to the side. The man stepped into the glow cast by the light.

Erik the Bald.

"Karl Nordgren. My dear friend and trusted servant. You're out rather late tonight. Where are you headed in such a hurry?"

He'd known he would double back. He'd gone around and had cut him off.

The old man's voice caught in his throat. "Nowhere...nowhere, in particular, my Lord."

"Well you sure seem to be in an awful hurry for going nowhere."

Karl mustered a smile. "It's my wife. She's got supper ready for me. I'm late."

"Tsk, tsk, tsk. That's not very polite. Being late for your wife when she's made you a good supper."

Karl stopped and the blood drained from his face as Erik the Bald stepped closer and he saw what was in his hand.

A meat cleaver. The kind used to hack the blubber from seals.

"You saw something you weren't supposed to, Karl."

"Really? I...I...what did I see?"

The old man backed away as the younger one stepped closer, the cleaver still at his side.

"I think you know, Karl."

"I won't say anything. I swear. I swear, my Lord. On my life. I swear it."

Erik the Bald smiled and shook his head. His expression was sad yet contented.

"I can't take that chance, Karl."

"Please! I'm begging you - my wife - I have a wife - no! No! Please!"

Thwack.

Chapter Eight

(June 9)

Gryndall and Copernicus are in Copernicus' study. Gryndall is pacing back and forth, his hands behind him, dictating a letter to Copernicus.

"Dearest Bergthor the Brave, friend and ally of Carthal - that's not too much is it?" Gryndall asked, ceasing his pacing and looking at me as I sat at my desk, a quill in my hand and a blank sheet of parchment in front of me.

I shrugged. "I guess it depends. Do you want Bergthor to reply favourably to your inquiry?"

"Yes."

"Then it doesn't hurt to be liberal with your flattery."

Gryndall nodded. "Right then. Dearest Bergthor the Brave, friend and ally of Carthal..."

It took us more than an hour but eventually I'd managed to scrawl out a good copy of the following letter:

Dearest Bergthor the Brave, friend and ally of Carthal. It has been a year or more since I last wrote you. How fareth thee? I hope you are keeping well.

Ygraine and I hope to soon welcome our new child into this world. We're about a month away says the midwife. So far, so good.

How are your kin? How is your son? I've not yet had the opportunity to meet him. Perhaps a visit to Vinland is in order. I am well overdue for one.

My father cherished the strong allegiance you two established between our two nations. I hope to preserve that allegiance. After all, Carthalians and Vikings fare much better when they are friends.

The reason for my letter is that one of my royal carriage drivers was recently ambushed, murdered, and beheaded. To add insult to injury, the money chest he was transporting was found empty.

This tragedy has greatly upset the long-lasting peace we have had here and my people are on edge. Without offending you, brother, friend, there is some suspicion that Vikings may have been involved in this incident.

I am a fair and reasonable man, as you know, and I would not come to you with such an accusation without due cause. Furthermore, I am not yet resoundingly certain that Vikings were, in fact, responsible.

However, with that said, it would be helpful to know if you have noticed any odd or peculiar activity in Vinland \- or perhaps an incident similar to this one. Murders and beheadings and such.

This sort of information would be of tremendous use to us.

As I stated above, I hope that my words do not offend. I am simply trying to get to the bottom of these troubling events.

Ygraine sends her warmest regards and we hope to hear from you soon.

Yours in friendship,

Gryndall

"How do you think he'll respond, Copernicus?" Gryndall asked as he scrutinized the final copy of the letter.

"I confess, I'm not entirely sure. We haven't heard much from him these past months."

"Yes. Odd, isn't it?"

I shrugged. "Somewhat. Leaders are busy. You yourself are proof of that. He's also getting older and likely slowing down a bit."

"Well, as long as we haven't offended him. He's an important ally and we need him if Carthal is to continue to have peace."

"I couldn't agree more, my Lord."

Chapter Nine

(June 10)

"Husband."

Gryndall rolled over and looked at his wife. She stood at the window, the sun catching her blonde hair and making it sparkle as she unbound a letter from the talons of a long, razor-billed falcon.

"A falcon?"

Ygraine didn't answer, but looked at the letter.

"From Lindisfarne?"

She nodded and Gryndall climbed out of bed and made his way quickly to the window.

"Give it to me."

"What's the magic word?"

"Come on. I haven't time for games, Ygraine."

The queen sighed and pressed the letter into his hand.

"You know I forgot to mention the other day. That nephew of yours. Lionel."

"What about him?"

"He was - "

Grnydall stopped as he read the contents of the letter:

Greetings Your Majesty,

I am sorry I was unable to attend our quarterly meeting at Brinsley. Anwir had requested that I stay behind and tend to the flock while he met with you.

It pains me to write this letter as I consider you a dear friend. But the Council will be meeting a week from today to determine the punishment of Brother Lionel. I have the utmost confidence that Anwir will be able to convince them to simply toss out the charges or, in the worst case scenario, have the sentence reduced to lashes.

Of course, and I find it difficult to write these words, but your young nephew's life hinges on whether or not Anwir receives the money he wants for the new monastery.

He has asked me to write you this letter and to remind you that the sum needed is five hundred crowns. I know, it is a lot, perhaps more than is necessary even - but if we can pay him off, he'll ensure the Council shows mercy to the boy.

I regard you as a friend, your Majesty, and I hope I've not crossed a line with this letter. Anwir has been less than kind to you as of late and I wish that this sorry incident had never occured.

I promise to keep a better eye on the boy from now on. He is only sixteen after all and it's a shame his mother pushed him to join the Cycliad at such a young age. I am one of the few that is of the opinion that a boy be at least eighteen before he makes a decision to join the Cycliad. Irregardless, I shall keep Lionel safe and out of trouble from now on. You have my word.

I trust this letter finds you and Queen Ygraine in good health and in good spirits. I pray that your child is growing strong inside her and that the birth will go smoothly. Please don't be a stranger. You know that you are always welcome at Lindisfarne.

Sincerely,

Antolis

"What's it about?"

Ygraine's voice brought him back to the present and Gryndall looked up from the letter, quickly going through in his head which details to share with his wife and which to omit.

"I was telling you a minute ago...about Lionel."

"Yes..." the queen replied slowly from her seat in front of the mirror.

She had ceased brushing her hair and was looking at him now, waiting for him to explain.

"Well, he was caught in a compromising position with one of the shepherd's girls."

"You mean...?"

Gryndall nodded.

"And he's a monk."

"Aye. And therefore this is a serious matter."

"And...so...what? What's going to happen?" Ygraine spluttered. "Are they expelling him from the Cycliad? Oh, goodness, would that not be a blessing! Luna was a complete _fool_ to push him into all that at such a young age."

The king waited for her to finish speaking before he continued.

"No. Actually, he was...up until recently...facing the a penalty of death."

Ygraine's face registered a look of horror. " _Death_? Whatever for? For canoodling with a girl his own age?"

Gryndall nodded.

"Well, no," she said, shaking her head as though the words coming from her husband's mouth couldn't be true. "That can't happen. Absolutely not. You must do something," she said hotly, looking directly at him, her eyes unblinking.

"I _am_ doing something, Ygraine."

"What?"

Gryndall sighed and scrunched the letter up in his hand.

Ygraine stared at him, waiting for him to speak. "Well?"

"I'm paying for a new monastery," he breathed at last, hardly believing he'd actually put the words _paying_ and _monastery_ in the same sentence.

His father would turn over in his grave.

"A new - "

She couldn't finish the sentence her lips were pressed together so tightly.

"A new," she pushed herself, struggling to release the words, "they're...making you pay for a new monastery...in exchange for my nephew's life?"

The words finally tumbled out, one after the other, a waterfall of emotion.

The king cast his wife a sidelong glance. "Yes."

"This is...this is..."

She rose from the small ottoman she had been sitting on in front of the mirror and began to pace the floor.

"On the one hand, I'm grateful that you chose to intervene...yet...on the other...I'm repulsed by the way in which those... _scoundrels_...would ransom Lionel's life for a new monastery. It's extortion."

Gryndall swallowed, nodding slowly. "It's the only way, I'm afraid."

"Can we not steal my dear nephew away from them? He is _far_ too young to be a monk anyways. _Far_ too young. I don't know how many times I've complained to Lula - "

"What's she got to do with it? Her husband's the religious one."

"Ciaran?"

"Yes."

"Why?"

"Well, he hails from Riordan," said the king as though that was all the answer that was needed. "He was born and raised in that culture."

"What _culture_?"

He smirked, certain his wife had meant to be sarcastic, yet nonetheless willing to answer seriously. "The Celtic, Gaelic, religious one. The one that says from the minute you are born you are a sinner in need of saving and that you must spend your life repenting and refraining from temptation. That's just how they are up in Riordan."

"I know that's how they are up in Riordan. But Lula. _She's_ the one who pushed her son into joining the Cycliad. Not her husband."

Gryndall stuffed the letter into his pocket and shooed the falcon away. It flapped its wings and launched itself from the window sill.

"Well, she's been influenced by him then."

"I'll say. Because our parents didn't raise her to be that way. My dad was in full agreement with yours - that Carthal should be secular. And my mom, well, she had her own beliefs. Naturist type stuff. Nothing dark," she added quickly.

Ygraine began to pace the floor again. "I just can't understand why Lula would have married a deeply religious man like Ciaran."

"I plan on making a visit to Lindisfarne to deliver the money for the monastery," said Gryndall, ignoring his wife's comment as he propped himself up against the window sill. "I'll try and talk some sense into the boy. Maybe I can convince him to leave. Anwir wouldn't be happy about that - in fact it's forbidden for a monk to leave once he's joined he Cycliad - but bollocks to what that old priest thinks, eh?"

Ygrained sniffed. "Yes. I never did like him."

"Funny you should say that. I found him quite disagreeable when I met with him at Brinsley."

"You met with Anwir? What about Antolis? Don't you normally - "

"Yes, I normally meet with Antolis at our quarterly meetings. But this time Anwir came, because of this thing concerning your nephew."

The queen looked at herself in the mirror, adjusting her dress to fit her form more closely. "Well, he's nothing but a pompous ass."

She pressed upwards against her breasts.

"If Lionel wants to leave, then he should be able to."

Gryndall nodded. "I agree. And like I said, I'll see if I can convince him."

Anwir sat watching the flames curl and lick at the sides of the fireplace, the light they emitted reflecting off the cold, stone walls of his darkened chamber. One of the logs suddenly _popped_ , causing his body to jerk involuntarily. Relaxing into his chair once more, the priest stirred his mug of dandelion tea and re-positioned his feet so that they rested comfortably on the bearskin mat in front of him.

Erik the Bald required two more favours.

Two more favours from me, exalted, divine, High Priest of Lindisfarne...oh, that I were a fearless warrior with my own band of men. I wouldn't need to rely on such stinking in-breds as these Vikings. I could take Carthal myself.

The priest sipped his tea and let out a sigh, leaning sideways in his chair so he could look out the window overlooking the grounds of the monastery. Far below, three monks, swathed in their usual black vestments, were gliding across the flattened stretch of grass, laughing and talking excitedly as they went.

Oh the innocence of the young...

He returned his gaze to the fireplace, watching the thick logs inside being slowly consumed, the bark turning grey and then black as the flames did their work.

Two more favours...

The priest closed his eyes and inhaled deeply, enjoying the quiet. Krall, Erik the Bald's savage henchman, had been happy with the carriage ambush. He'd asked for more favours like it. But ambushing another carriage would be foolish. It would raise suspicions. Gryndall wasn't stupid. He'd set patrols on the roads, heighten security in the cities. His quest to take Carthal would be over before it had even begun.

Two more favours...preferably not involving carriages.

Though seizing a carriage in the north - in the Little Wood or near Riordan - wouldn't be as big a problem. In fact that might even be _helpful_ as it would draw Gryndall and his men _away_ from the south where Erik the Bald and his Vikings would land when it was finally time for the invasion.

Riordan...

It had been years since he'd set eyes on the city. Its winding, cobblestone streets, that snaked left and right, uphills and down. Small children with snotty noses and big, curious eyes, standing in the doorways of inns and houses, watching you as you walked by and every now and again asking if you could you spare a shilling. Hot-headed fathers and mothers quickly apologizing and smacking them with a broom for having spoken to a stranger. At night, packs of wild dogs roving the market square, hunting for scraps of food and chasing down any animal smaller than it unfortunate enough to have been spotted.

Riordan wasn't a particularly happy place. Not that it lacked charm. It had plenty of that - its Celtic inhabitants being full of wit and always willing to spin a yarn over a pint of ale. But it was broken. Forgotten. And many families lived in filth and poverty. For the rest of Carthal treated Riordan as though it didn't exist - unless of course they were short of food and required potatoes or wheat from Riordan's farmers. Then, they were always happy to send money and gifts. But otherwise, Riordan and its people were but ghosts. Backwards, illiterate, hill people, was what most southerners thought to them. The only thing Riordan had going for it was its connection to Druidism. As such, the vast majority of Riordan's inhabitants were pious believers and there was nary a house that didn't have a five pointed star, fashioned from a willow or elderberry branch, hanging above the front door. This meant that the people inside were religious. And even though Godric, King Gryndall's father, had tried, several times, to have the star abolished, the people of Riordan held fast. Religious services, of course, were forbidden, but that didn't stop families from worshipping within the privacy of their own homes.

His family had been religious. Deeply religious. In fact, this was in part because his father claimed to be a direct descendant of Taog - the man who had arrived at Riordan from across the sea two centuries before and founded the city. As such, both his parents were extremely devout and this had, in a subconscious sort of way, pushed him into joining the Cycliad. Well, that and Julia.

His mouth twisted into an angry frown as he conjured up the image of the girl he'd once loved. Blonde hair. Sparkling blue eyes. A joyful laugh. She'd been the apple of many an eye at the small, one-room school he'd attended with twelve others - and he'd been foolish enough to think he could have her.

The priest took a sip of his tea, swirling the warm, bitter liquid around his mouth and over his tongue.

He'd waited for her after school one day. He'd worn his best shirt. Done his hair. Even cleaned his ears. She'd come out of the school with a friend of hers. A girl whose name he'd long since forgotten. He hadn't anticipated her friend being with her - and her presence had even made him a little nervous. Nervous to speak to her. But he'd already gone to the trouble to get all dressed up and prepare what he was going to say. So he'd gone through with it and asked her if he could walk her home. She'd laughed at him. Her laugh wasn't so joyful then.

"Why would I want to walk home with _you_?"

He'd seized up. He hadn't expected such a negative reaction. He'd been unable to speak. Tears had formed in his eyes and he'd run away. Upon arriving home, his mother had asked him what happened. He'd told her. She'd shook her head and muttered something about the pitfalls of "surrendering to the desires of the flesh".

The next day, he couldn't bear the thought of returning to school. To show his face and be laughed at, again, by Julia and her friends. And so he made the decision to quit school. His father told him that he would have to find a job. But being young and still quite small for his age, finding work proved to be an impossible endeavour; the Celts admired tall and broad-shouldered men - not slight and skinny.

And thus he'd decided to join the Cycliad, thinking that at least _this_ would make his parents proud. It did make them proud. But they'd died of some illness not long after his arrival at Lindisfarne and the neighbours had sold his younger sister to foreign slave traders. She was neither seen nor heard from again.

The priest opened his eyes and stared into the fireplace once more, the once mighty logs now reduced to simple embers.

Julia's rejection had cost him an education. Julia's rejection had cost him his family. Julia would be his favour to Krall.

Chapter Ten

(June 12)

All nineteen Knights of the Order are assembled in the courtyard. Donal and Dalwynn stand before them. Donal is holding (and reading from) a slip of parchment.

"Alriiiiiiiight, you lot," said Donal loudly as Dalwynn stood by his side, gazing at his fellow knights. "As decided at the Assembly of two nights ago, King Gryndall has assigned you all to a town or city. You will remain there for an indefinite period of time."

"An indefinite amount of time? Merlin's beard, isn't that something. What am I going to do with my family?"

" _Your_ family? What about mine. I'm the one with six kids."

"Hush, brothers. I'll explain all that in a minute. But first, you need to know where you'll be going."

He cleared his throat before continuing. All eyes were on him.

"Allmander, Francis, and Bran. You're to go to Nairn. Crispus, Eachann and Gunn - you've been assigned to Hawthorne. Leith, Tristan, and Cato - you'll be stationed at Darnfell. Atilius, Bothan, and Marcus - you'll be at Brinsley."

"Nairn? Crikey. You'll go mad with boredom!"

"Brinsley? Lucky bastards! Won't be much work getting done there! Too many distractions - if you know what I mean."

"Can we swap places?"

Donal rapped his sword, still in its scabbard, against a nearby barrel. This seemed to quiet most of the uproar.

"That's enough! You are men of Carthal! Knights of the Order! There will be no inappropriate conduct from our men and no complaining about where you're being stationed. Any knight found to be frequenting the whore houses or engaging in other bad behaviour while on assignment will be put in stockades for a fortnight and his rations shall be reduced by a half."

The grumblings were much quieter now as Donal continued reading from the slip of parchment in his hand. "Those of you with families will receive an allowance of three crowns per month. That should be sufficient to cover any extra expense. As for the rest, Junius, Muirfinn and Conan - you're to go to Lancaster...and Dalwynn, Theo, Morcant and myself will be staying here at Clarendon. Are there any questions?"

A few muted grumblings and some excited chatter.

"Alright. There you have it, my brothers. You're to depart immediately. Pigeons are to be sent at least once a week. In your letters, you are to give a detailed report on all activity occuring within the city and the surrounding region and as well, report on any suspicious activities or anything else that might help us find the man or men responsible for the murder of Percy Goodfellow. You have your orders. We expect you gone by supper hour."

Gryndall and Ygraine are out with their horses hunting with a falcon (falconry). They're in a clearing. The castle can be seen in the distance, behind them. Beyond that are the mountains upon which the late afternoon sun, sinking slowly on the horizon, has left in partial shadow. A hundred yards to the south of Gryndall and Ygraine's position is the Great Wood. Several miles north of their position is the ocean. The warm breeze blowing inland from it flattens the tall grass and wild flowers around them. Ygraine's hair whips across her face when it blows. Both are happy and in good spirits.

"Here. Let's stop here," said Ygraine, pulling on the reins of her horse with one hand while she kept the other extended, her wrist serving as a perch for the red-tailed falcon that stood on her wrist.

Gryndall nodded and pulled his stallion to a stop.

"We did well today," he said, holding up the leather pouch which contained the falcon's catch. "That bird likes you."

Ygraine smiled and threw her husband a sidelong glance. "It's because I share the spoils with him. And on that note, fetch me one of the squirrels out of that bag. Hard work deserves fair reward."

The king issued a sound of derision as he dismounted. "And what of my hardwork cleaning and skinning these rodents?"

He held up the bag again and ambled towards her.

Ygraine laughed. "I suppose you're right. Though," she added, rubbing her belly as she slid down from her horse, "this, is your reward. This baby inside of me. Your son or daughter. Our prince or princess."

The queen put the hood over the falcon's head and transfered the it to her saddle horn. Gryndall embraced her, wrapping his arms around her waist.

"You're right."

His right hand moved to her belly and he clasped one hand over hers.

"This is my reward. And soon we will be a proper family. With a little life to nurture and grow. And one day, yes, we'll have a little prince or princess. Though I'm hoping for a prince."

Ygraine pushed her husband away, her expression pouting and playful. "And what if I want a _girl_."

"Then we'll just have to make another one," Gryndall said, grinning as he pulled her once more towards him.

"And what if it _is_ a boy? What shall we call him?"

The king had to think for a moment. "I had thought of naming him after my father."

Ygraine's expression was sarcastic. "Because _that's_ original."

"Who said a name has to be original?"

"I do. Because it's _my_ child and I want a name that suits his or her character. Not some name that's been already worn out on one of our parents."

"Well, how about...Marius. I've always liked that name."

Ygraine shook her head. "Too Roman."

"Conan? Ervin? Eann?"

The queen pondered these, but eventually swatted them down. "No. I want something original. An _old_ name. A name our forefathers would have used. Something that speaks to the history of Carthal. It's strength. If it's a boy, perhaps the name of a great Carthalian warrior. What was the name of your grandfather's clan?"

"The Ilani."

"Yes. Perhaps something from there."

"And...if it's a girl?" Gryndall asked, his eyebrows raised in amused exaggeration.

Ygraine seemed not to notice his mocking expression. "Something from nature. Like wind...or fire. But an old word. What was the language that they spoke here before the Celts?"

Gryndall grunted. "You'd have to ask Copernicus that question. All I know is that our child's name had better be something I can pronounce."

The queen smiled and gave him a peck on his chin. "That won't leave us with much choice then, will it?"

"You..."

Ygraine shrieked with laughter as her husband buried his face in her neck and began to kiss her, tickling her soft skin with the stubble on his chin.

"Is it bad for the baby if we...?" he asked as they sank to the ground, the dense, soft grass swallowing them up.

Ygraine shook her head as she gripped his firm biceps, his hands cradling her gently as she positioned herself on top of him. "No. Not at all. In fact the physician even advised it."

"For you or for I?"

"Does it matter?"

"No, I suppose it doesn't," Gryndall answered with a smile, reaching under her skirts.

Chapter Eleven

Prince Tyrion was born two weeks later, in the early afternoon. It was a happy time in Clarendon and indeed, across Carthal, as word spread of the arrival of the new heir to the throne. There were parties thrown in every city, each lasting twenty-four hours or more. Here, at the castle, all the citizens of Clarendon were invited and this old man, for one, witnessed a party unlike any he had ever seen. Women with their shirts pulled down to their waists, holding great mugs of beer and sloshing the liquid over their exposed bosoms. Men, thoroughly intoxicated, lapping up the elixir before climbing into the wrestling ring and battling it out to the amusement of the audience. Games of dice and dagger darts that, on a few occasions, turned violent. Children running to and fro, some hawking food to drunken adults at exorbitant prices. Needless to say, it was a splendid time and I shall never forget it. For it was the last time we were all together and truly happy.

(June 26)

Two Vikings sat at a long wooden table, an iron candle pot between them, illuminating their faces. One was Erik the Bald. The other, his head henchman, Krall.

"Anwir has given us a second favour," said Erik the Bald, belching loudly as he leaned back in his chair.

Krall, the larger of the two by far, and with his face hidden by a mass of unkempt black hair, stared squarely at his thain.

"What is it?"

"A woman."

The bear man smiled, flashing a mouthful of rotted teeth.

"She was an old flame of the priest's," said Erik the Bald, absent-mindedly. "He wants her snuffed out."

Krall pondered the proposition for a minute before answering. "And do I get to...?"

Erik the Bald shrugged. "You can do what you want with her. That's half the favour. In addition, her family is fairly wealthy and you can take anything you find. That's the other half of the favour. Just know that I am to get two thirds of that booty."

Krall nodded, flexing his arms and folding them across his massive chest.

"When do I leave?"

"Tonight. Olaf is already preparing the boat. He and Leif and Ragnar will be going with you."

The hulking man smiled, nodding. "I'll fetch my axe."

Chapter Twelve

(June 27)

Donal, Dalwynn, and Theo are accompanying Gryndall on a hunt in the Great Wood. It is Carthalian tradition that within the first two weeks of a son being born, the father will go hunting and his son will inherit the traits of the animal he kills.

"I stake a crown our Lord gets a bear!" Donal hollered as the hunting party turned off the main road and followed Gryndall into the brush.

"An eagle!" Theo cried.

"An eagle? Are you a bloody fool or what? How is our Lord going to bring down an eagle?"

Dalwynn's words seemed to sting the young man and he said no more.

"With my luck it'll be a boar," Gryndall joked, pushing a branch away from his face as their horses carried them deeper into the Great Wood, the road disappearing behind a wall of green.

Donal smiled. "A boar? You wish your son to be fat and ferocious then?"

"I wish my son to be brave. And strong. And proud. A defender of Carthal. A man of the people."

"Well an eagle would be appropriate..."

Gryndall waved a dismissive hand. "I don't believe in this silly tradition. He'll be whoever he's meant to be."

"My father killed a wolf after I was born," said Dalwynn proudly. "And look how I turned out."

Donal spat. "Ha! You're no more vicious than a pup!"

"Is that so? How about we stop here and see? My sword is itching for some exercise."

"I wouldn't want to waste our Lord's time," said Donal, glancing over his shoulder at the husky, red-headed knight. "Besides, my arrow would hardly pierce that fat flesh of yours."

"Hold your tongue, friend."

Donal smiled and returned his attention to the trail as their horses pressed forwards.

It was Gryndall who spoke next. "Did you know it was the Romans who started this tradition?"

"I thought it was the Celts," Dalwynn countered.

"No. This was definitely a Roman invention. They believed very much in the idea that a man could gain the more noble characteristics of an animal he killed. Did you know they used to have fights, in large stadia, where murderers and thieves would be forced to fight lions and tigers and elephants?"

"I don't believe it," said Dalwynn.

"That's the smartest thing he's said all day," Donal quipped, glancing once more at Dalwynn whose look had turned murderous.

"It's true!" Gryndall insisted. "I swear on my mother's grave."

Theo laughed loudly. "Men used to fight lions and tigers? Come on, my Lord. We're not stupid."

"No. Really. I swear it's true."

"Right..."

"And is it also true you once rode a dragon, my Lord?" Donal asked cheekily.

Gryndall waved a hand at them as though to push their rebuttals away. "It's true. I'm telling you. And that's how this tradition started. Within the first fortnight of a child being born, the father shall go into the forest and hunt and his child will assume the traits of the beast he kills."

"I still say it was the Celts," said Dalwynn. "I've hardly got a drop of Roman blood in me - I think it was one great-grandfather - and look at me. Pure Celtic strength. That's what I am."

Donal grinned. "Yes, look at you, you big, dumb ox."

"ALRIGHT! THAT'S ENOUGH OUT OF YOU!" Dawlynn roared, drawing his sword.

"KNIGHTS!"

"Yes, my Lord?"

"That's enough!"

"Sorry, my Lord."

Donal looked once more over his shoulder at Dalwynn who gave him a murderous stare.

The sudden sound of a horse's hooves in the distance shattered the gentle calm of the forest.

"What in the..."

There came the loud blast of a horn.

"KING GRYNDALL! KING GRYNDALL!" AN URGENT MESSAGE FOR KING GRYNDALL!"

"Bloody hell," Dalwynn snarled. "What now?"

Gryndall's face grew hard. "I don't know. But I'm going to find out."

He withdrew a small horn from inside his vest and sounded it three times.

"KING GRYNDALL! I HEAR YOU! WHERE ARE YOU, MY LORD?"

"Yes. Definitely Geoffrey. I could recognize that girly voice from ten miles away."

"What the hell does he want at this early hour? We've hardly finished digesting our breakfast."

"Quickly knights. Back to the road."

All four horses were turned around and Gryndall, Donal, Dalwynn and Theo retraced the path along which they'd come.

"GEOFFREY! IT IS I!" Gryndall called loudly.

"MY LORD. THANK GOODNESS. I HAVE AN URGENT MESSAGE FROM RIORDAN."

They couldn't yet see the royal messenger, but soon the four men broke through the trees and the road came into view. Geoffrey was waiting impatiently.

"What is it? What's the matter?"

"You'll have to read it for yourself, my Lord. The pigeon arrived not half an hour ago. I raced here to find you," he said, his pronounced lisp causing Donal and Theo to exchange a private smile.

"Thank you, Geoffrey."

Their horses reached the road and the knights moved off to the side, allowing Gryndall to move towards the royal messenger who stood there holding a folded piece of parchment, his arm extended and wrist bent in its usual feminine manner.

"Here you are, my Lord."

Without a word more, Gryndall took the letter and opened it, scanning the page quickly.

"It says that a family was murdered...and beheaded...and that their house was ransacked and torched."

He looked up from the letter and exchanged a worried glance with the others.

"Murder in Riordan is not uncommon," said Donal, seemingly trying to placate his worried king.

"No. It's not. But murdered and _beheaded_?"

"Sounds like our man has struck again," Dalwynn growled.

Gryndall nodded grimly and returned his attention to the messenger.

"Geoffrey. I want you to fetch Constantine. Have him meet us at the castle gates and tell him we ride for Riordan in one hour."

"It's just like the last one," said Constantine Blackwell as he and Gryndall stood over the charred remains of four headless bodies. "Bastard took the heads."

The king grimaced and glanced around the burnt ruins of what once was surely a charming and luxurious manor. "In a way it's a good thing he's taken the heads, I suppose. We can safely assume that the same person responsible for Percy Goodfellow's murder is responsible for these murders as well. No?"

Constantine Blackwell nodded. "Yes. I would make the same hypothesis."

"Why would he do that, anyway? Take the heads. What's the purpose of that?"

"Perhaps he collects them."

"Or eats them?" asked the king, feeling nauseous at the thought.

"Doubtful. I've seen this type of thing before - though not with heads. The murderer will often take something from the body of the victim. In this case, _victims_ ," he continued, enunciating the 's'.

Gryndall looked skeptical. "Alright...and...so...he collects the heads as trophies or something?"

"Thats exactly what he does," Constantine replied, the pad of his thumb pressed against his chin as he pondered.

Gryndall looked once more at the blackened corpses.

"And do we know who these people were?"

"YES, WE KNOW WHO THESE PEOPLE ARE," came a surly voice from the doorway.

Both men turned to face the stranger who had just spoken.

"Mayor Kinnon."

An old man with grey hair sprouting from his ears and wearing a kilt that showed off his spindly, pale legs. He stepped into the centre of the room and Constantine Blackwell moved to the fireplace and pretended to inspect something, leaving the mayor and the king to converse in semi-privacy.

"Who are they then?"

"They were the Tyndall's. Julia and her husband Connor."

The grizzled, old man pointed to the two largest corpses. "And their two children, Garreth and Gwynned," he said, pointing to the two smaller corpses.

His accent was thick and it was obvious to Gryndall that Gaelic was his mother tongue.

"And is there any reason you can think of why someone would do this to them?"

Kinnon spat. "Madmen do not reason."

"You think a madman was responsible for this?" Gryndall asked, glancing at Constantine before returning his attention to the old man.

His eyes were soft and hard at the same time, his hands gnarled and his knuckles like large bulbs. The dagger in his waist band looked well-used.

"'Tis only a madman could do something like this."

"Well madman or not," said Constantine Blackwell, inserting himself into the conversation, "the person responsible for this atrocity needs to be found. Is there any reason that you can think of, any at all, that might - "

" _We_ will find the person responsible for this," interrupted Kinnon, his eyes narrowing. "What happens in Riordan is Riordan's business. We can take care of our own affairs."

Constantine looked to Gryndall for some support.

"Mayor Kinnon, we've discussed this before. I have jurisdiction over Riordan whether you like it or not and _we_ will be leading this investigation."

"NO YOU WILL NOT!" Kinnon roared. "IN FACT IF YOU TOOK BETTER MIND OF THE PEOPLE IN YOUR OWN JURISDICTION, WE WOULDN'T HAVE MADMEN LIKE THIS ON THE LOOSE CUTTING OFF HEADS AND BURNING A FAMILY'S HOME! BECAUSE I'LL TELL YE RIGHT NOW - 'TWAS NO MAN FROM RIORDAN WHAT DID THIS. NO! 'TWAS ONE OF YOU CARTHALIANS WHAT DID THIS."

"Is everything alright, my Lord?"

Donal had entered, unseen, and was watching Kinnon carefully, his right hand on the butt of his sword.

Gryndall nodded and gave the mayor a reproving stare. "Yes, Donal. Thank you. Kinnon, we _are_ leading this investigation and I _will_ be getting the information I need from the people here in Riordan. Constantine Blackwell here will be questioning some of the neighbours and I'll be talking to people in town and to the local militia. So you can either assist with our investigation or butt out."

The old man growled, but said nothing. Instead he spat, glared at Gryndall, and left, shouldering roughly past Donal as he exited the house.

"Well that went rather well, didn't it?" asked Donal, grinning from ear to ear.

Gryndall shook his head in amused dismay. "Is it wrong that I wish Kinnon were one of these corpses?"

Chapter Thirteen

(July 4)

The following week, with the Tyndall's buried, blessed, and largely forgotten, Gryndall landed at Lindisfarne.

"Theo. Get out and pull us in the rest of the way," Dalwynn ordered as their small ship ran aground on a ridge of pebbles.

"Why me?"

"Because you're the youngest," Donal answered, attempting to dislodge the vessel with the end of an oar. "Bloody thing...tide's too low. They've really got to extend their dock."

"Maybe they can use some of my money for that," Gryndall mused. "Surely that would be a better use for it than some monastery."

Donal wagged a finger. "Aye, but these are _religious_ men, my Lord. Practicality and religion don't mix. They've got to have their silver medallions and they're bronze altars and they're prayer rooms. Never mind a proper dock."

"And that is why men of the cloth have little influence on our island," said Gryndall as he watched Theo jump from the side of the boat and land in the water. "They don't spend their money on armies and barracks and fortifications - they spend it on monasteries."

"We might as well dump these chests in the sea then," said Donal, gesturing towards the eight enormous chests resting in the centre of the small boat.

"Aye, but then I wouldn't be able to buy the boy's life."

The boat rocked as Theo reamed against it, trying to get it to move.

"Are you a boy or a man, Theo?" cried Dalwynn indignantly. "Put your back into it!"

The boat swayed from side to side and then, slowly, teetered and slid, backwards, down the ridge.

"Well, I guess that'll work," Dalwynn grumbled, fastening his sword belt around his waist before picking up a paddle.

"WELCOME!"

All four looked up. A man was running towards them, down the ridge that lead to the dock.

"That looks like Antolis," said Donal. "Boy he's got speed for an older man."

Dalwynn grunted. "I'll bet he trips and tumbles down the rest of the way. Breaks his neck at the bottom."

"You're a morbid one today."

"Realistic more like. Did you not see when Cato did the same thing that time at Hawthorne? You know the big hill they've got with the watchtower on top."

"Yeah. What about it?"

"He fell down it. Just the same. All the way to the bottom. Damn near died. He was laid up in hospice for a month."

"Well, thankfully our Antolis is a little more sure-footed," Gryndall interjected Antolis reached the bottom of the hill and made for the dock.

"Your Majesty! Welcome to Lindisfarne! We were not expecting you!"

"I thought I would just drop in. Surprise visit."

The portly monk's face was round and smiling. "Well, we are certainly glad to have you. It's been too long."

"Aye. But first we have to get our boat moored. Your dock is too short when the tide is out."

The monk surveyed the twenty yards between the edge of the dock and the bow of the boat. "'Tis a shame, that. I'll speak to Anwir about it. Perhaps something can be done."

Gryndall nodded slowly, thinking that with two hundred and fifty crowns, Anwir could easily hire one of the local carpenters to add twenty yards to the dock and have plenty left over.

"Yes, perhaps."

Their boat was eventually brought in with the help of two other monks and tied to the dock.

"Dalwynn. You'll stay with the boat. Theo, you'll come to the monastery to get some dry leggings. Your feet are soaked."

"Thank you, my Lord."

"Donal. You'll come as well. Antolis!"

"Yes, your Majesty?"

"Have you a wagon we can borrow to haul these money chests?"

The fat monk smiled. "Of course. Of course. Brother Fenwir. Take Brother Isaac and go to Joseph's. See if we can borrow his wagon. Fetch a few more Brothers while you're at it. It looks as though we've got a rather large load here," he added, eyeing the eight money chests.

"Yes of course, your Worship."

The two monks hurried off towards the village.

"Morcant would have been useful here," Donal observed, glancing at the money chests as they waited for the monks to return with the wagon. "Man can't fight, but he can practically move a mountain. Do you remember Dalwynn when he pulled that colt from the marsh?"

"Aye. Carried him like a stack of hay."

Gryndall grinned. "Are you telling me I should leave one of you two behind at the castle next time instead?"

"No, no, my Lord," said Donal hastily.

"Of course not," Dalwynn added. "How would you fare without us in a battle."

"He'd still have me," Theo blurted, obviously hurt they'd not considered him a worthy protector of the king.

"Aye, to babysit."

"Let's just see about that, shall we!?"

"Alright, settle down, men," Gryndall ordered. He looked at Antolis. "You see what a king has to deal with? Not food shortages and land disputes and feuds over betrothals. No. Petty arguments between his supposedly brave and valiant knights."

The Deputy Priest smiled. "It's not unlike what Anwir and I deal with," he said, gesturing towards the two monks as they returned with the wagon, four more monks a short distance back.

"Took you long enough. What? Did you stop for a pint of honey mead at Yolanda's?"

Brother Fenwir shook his head. "No, your Worship. We went straight to Joseph's and came straight back."

"Swear on the gods?"

"We swear."

Antolis smiled. "I'm only joking. Now take up those chests and put them on the wagon and bring the whole lot up to monastery. I'll be expecting you within a half an hour."

"Yes, your Worship."

"And if there's a single coin missing, that'll be twenty lashes."

"Yes, your Worship."

"Come, dear friends of Carthal," said Antolis, turning to face Gryndall and the three knights. "Anwir awaits. Are you hungry? We've just had lunch, but I'm sure there's plenty left that's not been put away yet."

"Aye, we could eat," said Gryndall, glancing at his knights. "Dalwynn. You'll watch the boat, then?"

"Aye, my Lord."

"We'll bring you back some food."

"I've always said that you were a good man, my Lord," answered the red-headed knight.

"Does he really need to eat anymore?" Donal asked to no one in particular as they made their way up the hill.

"I can still hear ye!" Dalwynn growled as he leaned against the little hut off the dock, his arms folded across his chest.

Up at the monastery, they were ushered into the Great Hall and met by Anwir.

"Your Majesty."

"Your Worship."

Anwir crossed the Hall in ten strides and the two men embraced.

"I believe congratulations are in order. A proud father now, are we?"

Gryndall couldn't help but smile. "Aye. And a worried one."

"Worried?"

The priest looked genuninely concerned.

"Worried. Yes. That I am responsible for a new life."

Anwir smiled and wrapped an arm around him. "You have nothing to worry about. The gods will watch over your new son."

"You know how I feel about religion," said Gryndall, pulling away from the priest.

"Sadly. Yes."

An awkward minute passed in which no one spoke.

"It feels like a century since you've journeyed to our neck of the woods," said Anwir finally.

Gryndall ran a hand through his hair and glanced around the massive room. "Aye. It does, doesn't it?"

Above them hung three large chandeliers, each outfitted with at least a dozen candles. Dangling from the massive rafters, were an assortment of tapestries, red, purple and green, all bedecked with fine gold embroidery.

"I like what you've done with the place."

Anwir smiled tersely. "Yes. We've put a lot of work into this building. Once the extension is built, this will be converted into a prayer hall."

"Impressive," said Gryndall, searching the faces of his two knights to gauge their reactions.

Both wore equally stoic expressions.

"Yes," Anwir continued. "But, decor aside, to what do we owe this unexpected - though not unwelcome - visit?"

"Well," Gryndall answered, refraining from looking at the priest.

Anwir's innocence act was starting to annoy him.

"I thought I would bring you that money you wanted. And, if there's time, I was hoping I might get to speak with my wife's dear nephew. Maybe talk some sense into him."

A thin smile formed on the High Priest's lips. "Of course. But be assured that it is not money that I _wanted_ ," he said, his voice sweet and low, "but rather, money I said might be _beneficial_."

Gryndall wished it was just the two of them. In a field. Swords. A duel to the death. He'd wipe that false sincerity off his face in a second.

But he had to ignore his pride. He had something important to do. "Beneficial," Gryndall sighed heavily, "yes. Beneficial in that it will provide Lindisfarne's growing monastic community with a larger monastery. Consider it a donation."

"We humbly accept your donation," Anwir answered, clearly aware of the game they were playing.

His eyes flicked towards the others gathered in the Hall. "Brother Antolis, would you go and fetch Brother Lionel for our dear guests? I believe he's at potions study at this hour."

The fat monk nodded obediently. "Of course, your Worship. And after that, I believe our guests would like to eat."

"Very well," said the priest, clasping his hands together, "let us go and sit."

Gryndall nodded. "Thank you. We appreciate your hospitality."

"I have said it before, your Majesty, you are always welcome at Lindisfarne."

"Yes. It's just finding the time. Being a king is a busy job as I'm sure you can imagine. Multiply Lindisfarne's population by a thousand and its land size by a hundred."

Anwir's eyes took on a steely glint. "Yes. You are an important man, your Majesty."

The priest, Donal, Theo, and Gryndall took a table near the large stained-glass window facing the west.

"How is Ygraine recovering?"

"She's getting there. Winifred - that's her maid - says she'll be up and back to her usual self within another few days."

Anwir smiled. "Praise be to the gods."

Gryndall said nothing, but noticed Donal's expression had darkened. If there was one man more opposed to religion than himself, it was Donal.

"Do you have some clean leggings for Theo?" asked Gryndall. "He got a little wet trying to bring the boat in."

The priest nodded and glanced across the table at the young knight. "Of course."

He snapped his fingers and a young boy, dressed from neck to toe in the same black vestments as the monks, scurried over to them.

Gryndall hadn't noticed him standing, statue-like, in one of the Hall's darkened corners.

"Patrick. Fetch our guest here some trousers. Better yet, take him to Brother Amadeus. He'll be able to find him something."

"Yes, your Worship."

"Hurry. They haven't got all day."

Without a word, Theo rose from the table and followed the page out of the Great Hall.

"Boy as young as him," Anwir remarked, glancing at Gryndall, "he'll be High Priest by the time he's thirty. He can already read better than some of the monks."

"And that was his choice to join the Cycliad?"

The priest's face registered a look of concern. "Oh no. Heavens no. We give him that option. When he's fourteen. He's only ten now. He'll be here awhile yet before he's faced with that decision. Of course, we hope he chooses to join our Order," he finished, smiling.

Donal began to mutter something and Gryndall coughed to cover the knight's words. Anwir glanced at Donal as though he were about to ask him to repeat what he'd said, but just then Antolis returned, with Lionel following closely behind.

"Uncle!"

Gryndall rose from the table and watched as the sixteen year old ran across the Hall towards him.

"Lionel. Boy, you've grown."

"Have I?"

"You're at least two hands taller."

The boy blushed.

Gryndall noticed he avoided looking at Anwir.

"Anyway," he continued, "we just stopped by. It's only an hour by boat. An easy journey in calm weather. I was hoping to speak with you while we we're here."

Lionel nodded, his face looking odd against his monk's haircut which left only a ring of hair around his scalp, the rest of his head being completely bald.

"Of course, uncle. How's aunt Ygraine?"

"She's very well. She's just had our first child as I'm sure you've heard."

The boy shook his head. "No. I didn't hear."

Gryndall looked at Anwir for an explanation.

The priest mustered a small and gentle laugh. "We only got word yesterday of your little bundle of joy. I hadn't yet had the chance to tell him."

The king grunted and returned his gaze to his nephew.

"Let's go and talk outside, shall we?"

The boy glanced uncertainly at Anwir.

"Do you need his approval to speak to me in private?" Gryndall asked angrily, his voice echoing off the walls of the Great Hall.

Again, the priest emitted a gentle laugh, intended to smooth out the ripple in their conversation. "Of course he doesn't need my permission to speak with you. Go ahead. Go outside. It's a beautiful day. We have a little garden Brother Lionel can show you. There are some comfortable benches there."

Gryndall nodded. "Alright then. Donal, perhaps you can go and find those monks with the wagon. They might need a hand getting up the mountain."

"Yes, my Lord."

"What is this wagon?" Anwir asked, looking to Antolis for an explanation.

"For the money, your Worship," the Deputy Priest answered. "The money that King Gryndall has brought."

"Ah, yes. Excellent. Yes. Very good."

Gryndall looked at the priest as he put an arm around Lionel's shoulder. "Are we good? We're going outside so I can talk to my nephew in private. And Donal is going to help the other two there...what were their names?"

"Brother Isaac and Brother Fenwir," Antolis answered quickly.

"Yes, Donal is going to help Brother Isaac and Brother Fenwir bring the wagon in."

The High Priest nodded, his face beaming. "Yes. Of course. As I said. Go outside and enjoy the beautiful weather. Brother Antolis and I will make sure some food is set out for you and that Theo leaves with dry trousers. How long were you planning on staying? Not that I'm in a hurry to see you leave, of course."

His eyes told a different story.

"We'll be leaving in an hour," Gryndall answered brusquely. "Maybe an hour and a half. No more."

Anwir clasped his hands together. "Very well. We shall get some food together and send you on your way. I may or not be here when you leave - I have some business to tend to in the study. But do make yourselves at home. And Brother Antolis, if you could make sure that they want for nothing while they are here."

"Of course, your Worship."

"Excellent. Well, I suppose we all have things to tend to. See you later. And safe travels if I'm not here to see you off when you leave."

Gryndall pushed Lionel towards the door. "Thank you, Anwir. And again, we appreciate your hospitality."

"Oh, it's my pleasure, your Majesty."

Gryndall, Donal, and Lionel made their way outside, while Antolis and Anwir stayed behind.

"So, how do you like it here?" Gryndall asked his nephew as they stepped out into the sun, the cries of a thousand gulls and the gentle sounds of breaking ocean waves filling the air. He turned to Donal before the boy could answer. "We'll catch up with you in a little while. Go and help the monks bring up the wagon. After that, you and Theo can go ahead and eat. Save some food for us - Dalwynn especially. You know how he gets when he hasn't eaten."

Donal grinned. "Aye, my Lord."

The knight gave his king the Order's salute and then ambled down the mountainside to where the six monks were straining against the weight of the wagon.

"Sorry to interrupt," said Gryndall, returning his attention to Lionel and steering him towards the entrance of what he presumed to be the garden. "I was asking how you like it here."

The boy glanced over his shoulder, seeming to check whether there were hearing ears within their vicinity.

"It's...alright."

"Just, _alright_?" asked Gryndall, catching the gate to the garden and pushing it open.

They stepped into the rectangular enclosure and found themselves facing ten raised beds that boasted plants of every shape, size, and colour.

"Your priest has a green thumb I see," Gryndall mused, taking in the sights and smells of their new environment.

"Ah, he doesn't do anything around here. This is all Brother Fenwir and Brother Smythe."

The king nodded as they made their way towards an iron bench overlooking the village below and the sea beyond.

"Quite the view."

"Yes. That's part of the reason why I like it here. I come out here to think."

Gryndall smiled. "You're a pensive one. I've never seen this side to you before. I guess it's because it's been so long since I've seen you. When was the last time I saw you...about...two or three years, at least, no?"

"We saw each other at the Feast of the Sea. Two years ago. Just before I joined the Cycliad."

"Ah, yes. I remember now. You and your parents were down from Riordan for a visit."

"Yes. They came to see me off."

They sat down on the bench, the wind whipping at their faces and the cool breeze flooding their nostrils.

"Do you ever regret joining the Cycliad?"

Lionel looked off to the west, his eyes resting on something in the distance. "Sometimes...I guess I just get annoyed that I can't do what _normal_ boys my age can do. I mean - "

He stopped and looked at Gryndall.

"Did you hear about..."

The king nodded and a pained smile rolled across his chiseled face.

"And I didn't like...you know. All we did was..."

Gryndall laughed. "I can imagine what you two got up to. I was your age once too."

Lionel gave a nervos smile. "Right."

Gryndall released a gust of air and stared off in the opposite direction, towards Carthal.

"You were too young when you decided to join. You were still a child. You hadn't known what wonders a woman could offer."

"No. I didn't."

"And now you know. But it's too late. You're a monk."

"I know."

The king ran a hand through his hair and left it there, searching his brain for a solution.

"I suppose..."

"Yes?"

Gryndall sighed. "I suppose I can get you out of here. Take you back to Carthal. You'd never be allowed to step foot on Lindisfarne again though, you know? They would kill you."

"I know. I took the vows."

"Do you want to leave?"

Lionel didn't answer for a minute.

"Well?"

The boy lowered his head as though tormented by his thoughts, the head which contained those thoughts being suddenly too heavy to hold up.

"I do...it's just...my parents. They'll be so angry with me. My father might never speak to me again."

His eyes were pleading as he looked at Gryndall.

"I guess sometimes in life you have to take those chances. You have to decide whether leaving the Cycliad to live a free and secular life in Carthal is worth the risk of having issues with your parents."

"It is. It definitely is."

Gryndall shrugged. "Well, then?"

Lionel smiled warmly. "I'll come to Carthal. When?"

"Right now. This afternoon."

"That soon!?"

Gryndall nodded.

The boy's expression suggested that he was only just beginning to comprehend the idea of leaving Lindisfarne. He bent his head once more and began to play absent-mindedly with his fingers.

"I know your Aunt Ygraine will be happy to see you," said Gryndall, hoping to spark some enthusiasm in his nephew.

"And I'll be happy to see her," he answered, his voice flat and lifeless.

"And you can meet our son, Tyrion."

"Tyrion...your son. Yes. I want to meet him."

"Well, you can," said Gryndall, clapping a hand on the boy's shoulder. "Come to Carthal."

Lionel nodded as though he was only hearing half of what his uncle was saying, his gaze shifting towards the village at the bottom of the mountain. Gryndall followed his gaze and his eyes came to a rest on a cluster of simple, square-shaped houses with thatched roofs and smoke rising from their chimneys.

"So...today."

Gryndall sighed, quickly growing impatient.

Did the boy want to come or not?

"Yes. Today."

"Alright...but I have to get my things...and I have to say goodbye to - "

"No!"

Gryndall's tone made Lionel jump.

"There will be no goodbyes. There will be no getting your stuff. This is a covert operation. Do you understand what that means? Good grief, boy."

"I'm sorry, uncle. I won't say goodbye to anyone."

"No. You're not to say goodbye to anyone - and you're not to get your stuff either."

"Alright..."

"You're to head straight down to the dock," said Gryndall, glancing around nervously, hoping no one had heard him when he'd raised his voice. "Dalwynn is there now. Waiting."

His voice was a near whisper now.

"Tell him who you are and he'll stow you on board."

"Alright..."

"Go on then."

Lionel nodded, getting up slowly from the bench. He looked unsure. Uncertain.

"Go on!" Gryndall hissed.

"I'm going."

"And don't draw attention to yourself."

"I won't," he said, and he turned and headed out of the garden.

Gryndall watched his nephew until he disappeared over the lip of the mountain before turning his head and looking out to sea once more.

There'd be hell to pay for this. Anwir would not be happy. Politically, stealing a monk was a bad move and would likely sour relations between Lindisfarne and Carthal for some time.

_I'm only doing what my father would have done_ , he thought, his eyes scanning the horizon.

Had his father not instilled in him the notion that family always came first? Especially when it involved things like war and religion - two things to which his secular, humanist old man had been vehemently opposed.

"My Lord."

Gryndall turned and saw the smiling face of Donal. The knight stood at the entrance to the garden, his hands resting on his hips.

"We've brought the wagon up."

Gryndall nodded as he rose to his feet. "Good. Let's bring it inside."

"Right."

The six monks were waiting by the arched doorway that lead into the Great Hall, panting mercilessly as they worked to regain their breath.

"Bit of a climb, that was," said Donal, his tone and facial expression indicating that he'd enjoyed the feat as simple, light exercise.

Gryndall smiled, glancing at the two monks doubled over.

"Brother Isaac. Brother Fenwir."

Both looked up.

"Yes...your Majesty?"

"Thank you for bring the wagon up this incredibly steep mountain."

"No...problem...your Majesty. Happy...to be...of service."

Donal hid his laughter as Gryndall motioned all six monks towards the door. "Let's go then."

"Yes...your Majesty," Brother Fenwir and Brother Isaac panted in unison.

The king and his knight lead the way inside, their leather boots padding softly over the well-worn stone floor.

"Do you think Anwir will be angry you're only giving him _half_ the money?" Donal asked in a low whisper once they were out of earshot of the monks.

Gryndall nodded. "Definitely. But he'll get over it. I'm not paying five hundred crowns of my own money for a new monastery. Especially when I've already got what I wanted."

"The boy's agreed to leave Lindisfarne?"

Gryndall nodded.

"Very well."

"Today."

Both men were tense as they entered the Great Hall, the wagon following noisily in their wake as it rattled along. Theo and Antolis were seated at the same table Anwir had seated them at earlier. Unlike earlier however, there was no Anwir and the table was laden with enormous bowls of steaming soup and massive dark grain buns.

"Your Majesty."

Antolis rose from the table and ushered he and Donal into the two vacant chairs.

"Thank you, Antolis."

"It's no trouble, your Majesty. You have shown us hospitality at Carthal many times."

Gryndall grunted, wondering if that would mean anything once Anwir discovered he'd taken Lionel and left him with only half the money he'd originally promised.

"Is Anwir not joining us?" he asked as casually as possible as he and Donal took their seats beside Theo.

The Deputy Priest shook his head. "No, he's doing some work in the study. Translations of Morgar's _Poretheum._ "

"Ah," Gryndall replied, having no clue what the monk was talking about.

"But you and your men go ahead and eat," said Antolis with a tone of assurance, spreading his hands and gesturing towards the feast on the table. "I shall leave you three in peace. Send Patrick to get me when you're leaving," he added, pointing to the invisible page standing in the far corner of the Hall, "and I'll come and see you off."

Gryndall nodded. "Of course. And as for the money, here come Brother Isaac and Brother Fenwir," and he pointed Antolis towards the entrance of the Great Hall were the six exhausted monks were dragging the wagon inside.

"Excellent. Again, allow me to tell you, your Majesty, that you are a most generous Carthalian king."

Gryndall shrugged as he tucked into his soup. "I try."

"Why even bother giving them _any_ money, my Lord, when your nephew has agree to leave the monastery?" Donal asked once Antolis had gone.

Gryndall glanced around the Hall, ensuring there was no one within earshot, before answering. "Because it will soften the blow. When Anwir discovers that we've taken my nephew, he'll be fuming mad. By providing him with two hundred and fifty crowns, he'll hopefully be able to forget the whole thing. Given enough time."

"And if he doesn't?"

Gryndall grunted. "Then so be it. What can he possibly do?"

Anwir is sitting in his chamber, stewing, and plotting his revenge against Gryndall. It's cark, cold, dank. Stone floor and stone walls. A fire is burning in the fireplace.

The warmth from the fire could not thaw the icy anger on the High Priest's face. Seated in his chamber and staring into the flames, Anwir hurled his drinking mug across the room. It shattered against the stone wall, pieces flying in every direction.

Bested by that ignorant scoundrel. You'll pay for this, Gryndall. Oh, you will pay for this.

He glanced at the eight money chests that sat, lined up like sentries, in the corner against the wall. Gryndall had filled the bottom portions of each with stones so that coins only made up the top portions.

That whoreson.

Gryndall's crude ruse had left him with just half the money.

Half! Half!

Anwir clenched his fists in anger. Two hundred and fifty crowns was not enough. Not for the grand building he wished to construct, anyway.

That thieving...little...

Perhaps worse than the money was the fact he'd taken Brother Lionel. From right under his nose. Gone. Vanished. Like a puff of smoke.

And all the while Gryndall had been smiling and good-natured and amicable.

Oh, he played the part so well!

What would the people of Lindisfarne say when they found out the king of Carthal had just waltzed in and taken a monk from the monastery.

He'd be a laughing stock. He would lose all respect.

They'll think me powerless...unable to keep watch over my own flock...

When he found Lionel again, and he would, he would kill him.

Anwir felt his anger subside as he thought about the ways in which he would exact his revenge on Lionel, Gryndall and all the rest. He smiled wickedly as he stared into the fireplace, the reflection of the dancing flames playing off the black pools that were his eyes.

He still had the upper hand. He still had something that Gryndall didn't know about. Morcant. That fat Knight of the Order who had agreed to do his bidding for a mere fifty crowns and the promise of a position as commander of the new guard once he'd seized Carthal.

Morcant. That fat, treacherous slob.

Anwir smiled. He wouldn't make him commander of the new guard. He'd hand him to the archers to use as target practice. But only after Gryndall learned he'd been betrayed.

The look on Gryndall's face...he thinks he's so smart...just wait until he learns that one of his trusted knights has been spying for me...

As for the money...

The priest used his fingernail to scrape at something stuck to his frock before glancing at the eight money chests once more.

What would he do with the money since it wasn't enough to build a new monastery? Hire an assassin? Pay someone to inflict the same pain and humiliation on Gryndall's house as he'd inflicted on him?

He was already going to inflict pain and humiliation on the Carthalian king. Better to be patient. To wait until his plan was carried out in full. After all, he'd already waited this long.

Anwir smiled his wicked smile once more as his eyes returned to the fireplace and fixed themselves on the flames.

The money would go to Erik the Bald.

My third, and final, favour.

He would finally have the Viking thain's trust. And with his trust, the use of his Viking army to seize Carthal.

Chapter Fourteen

(July 5)

Erik the Bald is in the sitting room, nursing a hangover. An hour earlier, Olaf delivered a letter from Carthal. The Viking jarl finished reading it several minutes ago.

Erik the Bald spat and crumpled up the letter he held in his hand. Gryndall had sent his father a letter. _His_ father. Gryndall of Carthal - that Celtic, Roman half-breed.

How dare he try to pin those murders on a Viking...

Not that he was _wrong_. Krall, and Olaf, and Leif, and Ragnar _had_ ambushed the royal carriage. But the idea that Gryndall would suspect them. It was insulting. Arrogant.

As though Carthalians never commit murder...

The pot-bellied Viking rose angrily from his chair and tossed the crumpled letter into the unlit fire place. Then, taking a handful of goose down and woodchips from the tinder box beside it, he covered the ball of paper and lit the mass of kindling using the flint and steel from his pouch.

The sparks grew into a flame. First strong and raging and then soft and subtle as it died, all the while reducing the ball of paper to black ash. When he was satisfied that the letter had been destroyed, Erik the Bald spread the ashes with the end of his sword and closed the grate to the fireplace.

He would soon repay Gryndall for his arrogance.

Castle Clarendon. The queen's chambers.

"Lionel! Nephew! It's been so long!" Ygraine gushed, wrapping her arms around her sister's son as though she planned to never let him go.

"Erf...hmph...aunty...I can't breathe..."

Gryndall and Winifred laughed as they watched the boy struggle to free himself from the queen's embrace.

"Aunt Ygraine," he coughed, when she'd finally released him.

Cough. Cough.

"I've missed you as well."

"Not as much as I've missed you," she said warmly, tousling the boy's hair. "How's my sister? I haven't heard from her. I expected her to send us a letter of congratulations at least..."

Lionel shot his aunt a weary look. "She's not your biggest fan, Aunt Ygraine."

"Sorry? What was that?"

"He said she's not your biggest fan," Winifred repeated, the words stunning the queen as they rapped her in the face one by one.

Rat, tat, tat.

"What are you trying to say? That your mother doesn't love me?"

"She loves you...it's just..."

"Just what?" the queen demanded, gripping her nephew by the shoulders.

"She doesn't like that you're... _secular_."

He said the word as though it was somehow dirty. Tarnished. Unspeakable.

"She doesn't like that we're _secular_!?"

Ygraine's cheeks were red and her eyes were furious.

"She says you won't go to heaven."

Gryndall laughed out loud. "Oh, goodness. Boy. You've spent two years now on that island, living as a monk. Watching what they do. Doing what they do. Are they all such pious and honourable men that deserve heaven? Or are some a little...you know...crooked in their ways?"

Lionel looked at his uncle as though he was a seer.

"What...what do you know?"

The king shrugged, an amused smile on his face. "I don't know _particulars_...but I know the nature of men. And I know men to be animals first and men of god second."

The boy nodded as though he had fully grasped what Gryndall was implying. "You mean, are there some members of the Cycliad - monks - who don't follow the tenets of the faith?"

"That is exactly what I mean."

"There are many. I have seen men having relations with each other...several had asked me if I would like to join in."

Winifred's eyes bulged out of her head. "What were they doing?"

"I think we can imagine what they were doing, Winifred," answered Gryndall before the boy could reply. "Go on," he said, turning back to Lionel.

"Well...Brother Anders once stole from the tithe pot. And Brother Athling was caught defiling himself. Oh, and Brother Dalgish once forced the Gracie family to give him ten crowns because he'd found a book on the history of Carthal in their sitting room. Books about Carthal are forbidden at Lindisfarne."

"Good grief," Ygraine muttered. "Why is that?"

"Brother Isaac told me books about Carthal are forbidden because they tell the real story of how the Cycliad came to be established at Lindisfarne."

"And that is...?" asked Gryndall, folding his arms across his chest.

"That the Cycliad was established at Lindisfarne by Taog more than a thousand years ago."

"Ha! Taog only died three hundred years ago. And it was at Riordan, _not_ Lindisfarne, that he founded the religion. Those lying, sneaking - "

"Alright, enough, Gryndall," Ygranine chided. "But, nephew. Pray. Tell me. My sister actually said those words? That she doesn't like me because I lead a _secular_ life?"

"That's what she said."

"You see, Ygraine," said Gryndall, raising his hands and puffing out his cheeks, "you can't reason with these people. They're wackos. They think that they're right and that the rest of us are wrong. And that's how they see the world. They have no concept that there were _other_ religions that existed _long_ before their's and that other religions still exist today, in other parts of the world."

" _Really_?" Lionel asked, dumbfounded.

Gryndall gestured at his nephew. "You see!?"

Winifred shook her head in dismay. "This is what my father's problem was with religion as well. He said that the religious only have their own opinions in mind. Never mind about what anyone else thinks. And you know, my father once met a man from another land. A man by the name of Jubo. He told me the man's skin was brown like the colour of chestnut - and I've never seen one of these people with my own eyes mind you - but my father said it and bless his heart, he was an honest man - "

"And? What did this man Jubo say?" Ygraine interrupted, impatient to hear the rest.

"Well," the maid continued, "he said that he was from a land called Masir and that in his land they prayed to a sun god named Ra. Have you ever heard of such a thing!? A sun god."

"It sounds like witchcraft," said Lionel quietly.

"And there you are again," Gryndall snorted, putting out his hand to show his nephew. "People with different ideas or different opinions are witches and sorcerers. Never mind that their ideas are just as valid and maybe even _true_. This is why my father banned religion from Carthal. It's far too divisive and creates far too much conflict. Carthalians are Carthalians first and all else second. Except for your father's people up in Riordan," he added darkly, staring squarely at Lionel.

"Oh, leave him alone," said Ygraine, pushing on her husband's shoulder. "And that's enough talk about religion for one night. Lionel. Are you hungry? Would you like something to eat?"

The boy looked at Gryndall as though he were checking to see if it was alright that he said yes.

"If you're hungry, say so. We've always got food in the kitchen."

Winifred nodded, an enormous smile pasted to her face. "Finest food in Carthal! Cooks working round the clock. What would you like, my dear?"

"Can I have some pie?"

"Pie!? Pie!?" Winifred barked, laughing and fanning herself with her hand. "Why ever would you want pie at this hour!"

"Not sweet pie. Meat pie."

Winifred stopped herself. "Meat pie."

Lionel nodded.

"I thought we had something like that last night," said Ygraine thoughtfully, brushing a hand through her hair. "Pheasant or something. Duck. I'm not sure what Horace prepared. But whatever it was...it was some kind of meat...and pie."

"Well then," said Winifred, wrapping an arm around Lionel's shoulder and pushing him towards the door. "We shall go and find this dear boy some _meat_ pie," she said theatrically, adding, "and leave you two alone for a bit."

She winked at Ygraine who turned a fierce shade of red.

"Thank you, Winifred. Come find me in an hour and you can help me with my bath."

"Of course, my Lady," the maid answered, taking one last look at the royal couple as she ushered Lionel through the doorway and disappeared.

Gryndall removed his sword belt. "Is it our time to be be alone together then?" he asked, smiling and taking a step towards his wife.

Ygraine nodded and pressed a finger to his lips. "Yes. But first let's go and see our baby. He missed you today."

Chapter Fifteen

(July 7)

Gryndall, Theo, Dalwynn, and Donal are in a section of the Great Wood. They need to cut down six oak trees for Germanus, the castle carpenter, so that an extra-large carriage can be built to transport twenty hogs to Lancaster.

"Is this one wide enough, my Lord?" Theo called as he, Gryndall, Dalwynn and Donal traipsed through the forest.

"Can you wrap your arms around it?" Gryndall answered.

"Yes...but just barely."

"Then it's not wide enough," said Gryndall as he broke through a hedge and appeared beside the young knight.

"My Lord," Donal shouted from a spot amongst the thick brush.

"Yes, Donal."

"We've got one. Well, I _think_ we've got one. I'm not entirely sure. I suppose I could just use Dalwynn to check. He's about as wide as we need these oaks to be."

There was crash followed by thrashing in the bushes as Dalwynn responded to Donal's verbal thrust. "You insolent little - just wait until I get ahold of ye!"

Gryndall shook his head in exasperation. "Knights! That's enough! You two are worse than children!"

"Shall we check to make sure Donal's still alive, my Lord?" asked Theo nervously, his head bobbing from side to side as he tried to spot the men through the dense, green brush.

"Aye. Though. We might finally get some peace if those two were to do each other in."

Theo and Gryndall drew their swords and hacked through the tree branches, brambles, hedges, and rotten logs as they made their way towards the two knights.

"Ow! Ooh! My Lord!" Donal yelled. "He slapped me with a branch! Right across my arse! Ow! My mom was still better at that than ye, you big oaf! Ow!"

"I'll use my sword then, you little shit!" came Dalwynn's booming voice.

"Alright, alright, that's enough. Come now men. Germanus needs four wide oak trees to build this carriage."

"Yes, my Lord."

"Sorry, my Lord."

"Now - is this the one you've chosen," Gryndall asked, stepping between them and placing a hand on the trunk of a massive oak tree.

"Yes, my Lord. That's the one," Donal answered, wincing as he massaged his backside.

Gryndall nodded. "Very well. It looks good. Definitely wide enough. Grab an axe and get chopping," he said, pointing to the two axes encased in a leather sack on the ground at his feet. "Theo and I will find another. I want four trees felled by sunset. Tomorrow we'll bring out a team of labourers and oxen and they can transport the trees right to Germanus'. He's promised that with his four assistant carpenters, they'll have the carriage built within six days. But he needs those trees before he can start. So let's go. Get to work."

"I'm on it, my Lord," said Dalwynn, removing a double-edged lumber axe from the leather case.

"Come, Theo," said Gryndall. "We'll find another tree to cut down."

"Yes, my Lord. I see several over there - near that patch of yellow flowers."

"Yes, those oaks look quite large, don't they?"

The pair followed a little trail which brought them to the grove of oaks. There were twelve in all - Theo counted - and all but two appeared wider than the oak Dalwynn and Donal had selected.

"Looks like we've got our other _three_ and not just one," Gryndall remarked happily as the steady _chop-chop-chop-chop_ of the Dalwynn's and Donal's axes filled the forest and echoed all around them.

Theo nodded. "Which one shall we do first?"

"This one," Gryndall answered, patting the crooked one that bent away from the other oaks.

"Alright."

Theo undid the clasp that held together the two leather straps that made an X on his chest. Two axes, one crossed over the other, fell from his back and onto the fern-covered ground as he pulled his arms through the loops.

"It's a good thing it's been dry these past few days," Gryndall commented as he bent down and picked up one of the axes. "Have you ever tried to cut down a rain-soaked tree?"

"Yes, my Lord. My hands - afterwards - I couldn't feel them for the rest of the day. They get so numb from chopping wet timber. I've learned that."

"Yes, I hate that feeling," the king agreed. "And normally we could use a saw for this task," he continued, freeing the axe blade from its leather sheath and rolling his sleeves up past his elbows, "but these trees are too wide for it."

Theo nodded as he did the same with his axe. "Yes, I'd say so."

"I'll have to get the blacksmith to fashion me a longer tree-cutting saw the next time we need extra wide trees. Especially oak. This bloody wood is as tough as bone."

"That's a good idea, my Lord."

The two began chopping at the oak tree - one on each side - the sounds of their chopping blending with those coming from Dalwynn and Donal sixty yards away.

"My Lord," Theo began when both stopped to take a breather several minutes later, "what kind of sickness did those hogs at Lancaster have that they had to cull them all?"

Gryndall wiped the sweat from his brow and leaned against the injured tree.

"Some sort of foot and mouth sickness. They've got rot in their hooves and rot in their mouthes and they spread it to all the others because they live in such close quarters."

"And what does this sickness do?"

"It kills them eventually. But first it drives them mad."

Theo frowned. "It drives them _mad_? Like rabies?"

"Something like that," Gryndall answered, pushing away from the tree and resuming his chopping.

Theo picked up his axe. "And so we're sending Lancaster twenty of our hogs to replace theirs?"

Gryndall nodded as he swung the axe and sank the blade deep into the V-shaped notch he'd started.

"Yes, to replace theirs," he replied, removing his axe and swinging at the tree again. "Though it will take several years for the twenty hogs that we're providing to reproduce and build their number up to what they had."

"How many hogs did they have?" asked Theo, taking a swing at the tree and sinking the blade of his axe into it \- though not as deep as Gryndall had done.

"About two hundred."

"So half of what we've got. Roughly speaking."

"That's right," said Gryndall drawing back his arms and dealing another powerful axe blow to the tree.

"That's pretty generous to offer up twenty of ours if we've only got two hundred," said Theo, adding another chop of his own to the tree.

Gryndall acknowledged the young knight's compliment with a grunt as he pushed against the tree with his feet \- his blade stuck firmly in its trunk - as he tried to release it.

"Yes," he breathed, once it was finally free, "but that's what a good king must do. Right?"

"Yes, I suppose...but...and I don't mean to question your judgement, my Lord, but suppose we had some sort of sickness befall our own herd of pigs...and then perhaps it was an especially cold winter and some died...and so we were left with only two or three dozen. There wouldn't be enough pork to eat for the people here in Clarendon.What then?"

The king grinned as he swung his axe once more. "Then we'd figure out a way to get some hogs here to Clarendon. That's why I'm providing these hogs here now to Lancaster. They've had a difficulty and they need help. Same goes for all the cities of Carthal."

"Even Riordan?" asked Theo carefully.

"Even Riordan. That way, when Clarendon requires assistance, the people of Hawthorne or Brinsley - or wherever - the people there won't label me a tyrant if I take something from them that we need."

"Makes sense."

Gryndall shrugged as he dealt the tree another smashing blow with the axe. "That's just what a good king does. He takes care of _all_ his people. From corner to corner. He treats them justly and equally. That way there's no jealousy among his subjects."

"You're a very wise king, my Lord."

"I've my father and Copernicus to thank for that."

"Well, irregardless, you're a wise king, my Lord and it is an honour to serve as your knight. My mother would be proud of if she knew I served a king like you."

"I'm sure wherever she is, she knows, Theo."

"I hope so. She wasn't religious so...I don't know what happened to her when the fever took her away."

Gryndall ceased his chopping and stared squarely at the young knight. "She's still with you. And she probably watches over you. Never forget that. And let me tell you something since we're on the subject. Simply because I don't believe in the gods does not mean I don't believe in a man's - or in this case - a _woman's_ soul. That goes somewhere. Perhaps to another world. Perhaps it stays here and watches over us. You're a free man, Theo. You can believe what you like. That's the beauty of Carthal," he finished, taking up his axe once more.

"With the exception of course that the monks are not allowed to hold religious services here," Theo quipped.

"That's correct. Nor is any man or woman. One can harbour his or her own beliefs and Worship to whichever god or gods they choose to. Within their own homes. But there are to be no churches or monasteries or temples or synagogues on the island of Carthal. It creates too much discord."

"You are quite right, my Lord."

"I'm glad you think so. Now let's hurry up and cut this tree down. We've got two more to do before it gets dark."

Queen Ygraine is sitting on a stone bench, breastfeeding Tyrion while Lionel paces back and forth nearby, trying to decide when and how to face his parents. They're in the castle garden. There are grey cobblestones underfoot and square flower beds filled with mid-sized trees and a wide variety of plants. There is lots of leafy greenery and colour.

"Do all babies suckle like that, Aunt Ygraine?" asked Lionel, ceasing his pacing and stopping to watch her.

Ygraine nodded, smiling. "Yes."

Her voice was quiet and gentle as she gazed down at Tyrion, drinking noisily from her breast.

"Does it hurt?"

The woman laughed without making a sound and shook her head. "Goodness, no. It actually feels quite...relaxing. It's like a massage, really."

The young man's eyebrows raised in a questioning manner. "Odd."

Ygraine shrugged. "It's not odd. Baby has to eat."

Lionel nodded and resumed his pacing. "So...what do you think then?" he asked after a minute. "Of my plan."

"Of your plan to go and see your parents?"

"Yes."

Ygraine sighed and switched her gaze to some of the rare plants contained within the flower beds. Rare plants with bright purple leaves and red-mushroom shaped flowers. Plants with spindly blue tassles and yellow vines. All of which had of course been imported from distant lands during the enlightened reign of Godric.

"Well," she said slowly, looking at her nephew, "I think you should write them first. Feel them out. Find out if they're angry you left the Cycliad. Perhaps they aren't even angry. Or perhaps it's just your father and not...your mother," she said more quietly, suddenly picturing her blonde, almost twin, sister.

"Hmm."

"And then, if they write back and you get the impression they aren't angry with you, go and visit."

Tyrion's suckling abated and his face began to swell.

"Looks like you need a burp," said Ygraine with a wide smile, wiping the excess milk from his mouth and taking him on her shoulder.

"That sounds like a good idea, Aunt Ygraine."

The new mother smiled as she burped the small bundle in her arms. "That's the only kind I have, dear nephew."

Chapter Sixteen

(July 14)

Gryndall and his knights are preparing to leave the castle. They're transporting twenty hogs to Lancaster.

"We'll be back tomorrow," said Gryndall gently, embracing his wife a second time as Dalwynn, Donal, and Theo waited patiently by the castle gates.

Ygraine sighed. "I know...I just wish you didn't have to go."

Gryndall smiled and gazed into her eyes. "I wish I didn't have to go either. But it's a king's duty to ensure the peace and prosperity of his people. And Lancaster needs hogs. Otherwise what will they have for meat next winter?"

Ygraine nodded, her lips set into a pouting frown. "Everything you say makes sense...it's just...I still wish you didn't have to go."

She smiled sheepishly and stared at her husband's chest, not brave enough to meet his eyes. "I know I'm being silly..."

Gryndall kissed her forehead. "I'll be back before you know it. Winifred," he said, looking at the maid who was standing several feet away, "take care of her while I'm gone."

Winifred smiled. "As though I would do anything but, my Lord."

"Just take care of her. And our baby. Keep them safe."

"I will, my Lord," the maid answered, her face growing serious to match Gryndall's own expression.

"Good. Now we really must be off if we're going to make it to Lancaster by night fall."

"Goodbye, my sweet husband."

"Goodbye, my beautiful wife. Until tomorrow."

"Until tomorrow."

"Come men!" Gryndall yelled, climbing into his saddle. "We ride for Lancaster!"

Theo, manning the carriage, cracked the reins and the four hulking oxen at the head of the carriage began to walk. The massive carriage creaked and then lurched forwards.

"Open the drawbridge!" Gryndall shouted to Morcant who was standing above on the ramparts.

The portly knight saluted and released the levers on the two wheels around which the pulley chains were wound. The wheels spun quickly, the chains unwinding, and the drawbridge fell across the moat, landing with a heavy _thud_ which sent birds flying from the tops of trees and rodents scampering into the forest. Next, the portcullis was raised and with a final wave, Gryndall, Dalwynn and Donal followed Theo and the carriage out of the castle.

"How much longer do you reckon it'll take to get to Lancaster with this carriage, my Lord?" asked Donal once they were clear of the castle and approaching the Great Wood.

"Not sure. I've never transported a carriage full of hogs before. But, if I had to guess, I'd say about three times as long. Maybe four."

"Bloody hell," Dalwynn grumbled. "I'm going to have a sore arse tonight."

They've gone to Lancaster.

Anwir smiled as he read Morcant's letter.

"Is it good news?" asked Erik the Bald from his chair beside the fire in Anwir's chamber.

"'Tis."

"We set sail in an hour then?"

"Precisely," Anwir answered, shooing the falcon who had just delivered the letter away from the window ledge.

Erik the Bald rose from his chair and stretched his arms as though readying himself to go down for breakfast. "I shall prepare my men."

Anwir's smile grew wider. He had waited a long time for this moment.

Outside the door and listening intently stood Antolis.

He had to get word to Gryndall. And before it was too late. A letter. He'd send one immediately.

Oh, please. Please let there be enough time.

The deputy priest hurried off down the darkened corridor, his black frock billowing behind him.

Despite the slow speed of the heavy carriage, the ride to Lancaster took only twice as long as usual and the small convoy arrived at the city shortly before supper hour.

Junius, Muirfinn and Conan, the three Knights of the Order who Gryndall had assigned to Lancaster several weeks earlier, met them, and together with Mayor Hector Tweedsmuir they brought the carriage to a newly-created pasture three miles from the fort.

"That ought to do it," say the mayor, a huge smile on his face, as he slammed the gate shut.

Gryndall and the six knights standing in a semi-circle around him gave nods of approval.

"You are most generous, King Gryndall," said Jerome, the peasant who Mayor Tweedsmuir had tasked with overseeing the batch of hogs brought from Clarendon.

Pitchfork in hand, he leaned against the inside of the fence and seemed content watching the pigs settle into their new home.

"None of us knew what to expect when we had to cull all of our hogs because of the sickness."

There was an unexpected flurry of squealing as one pig pushed another away from the food trough and Jerome quickly stepped in and put a stop to it.

"HEY! ENOUGH!"

He lunged with his pitchfork and the pigs scattered, half the herd scurrying to the other side of the pasture and the other heading into the small stable that had been built to house them.

"There's no need to thank me," said Gryndall solemnly. "Just make sure to bring their number up so that the good people of Lancaster have good ham and cuts of bacon to keep them going through next winter."

"Yes, your Majesty. Of course."

Mayor Tweedsmuir emitted a jolly chuckle and turned towards Gryndall. "What's left to say? Jerome's thanked you more times and more profoundly than I could ever have, your Majesty."

Gryndall raised a hand. "Again. As your king, it is my duty to provide you with assistance whenever needed. And I will never shy away from that responsibility."

"Well, anyways," the mayor continued, "thank you. And as _my_ way of saying thanks," he shot a quick glance towards Jerome before returning his attention to the king, "can I offer you a seat at my family's supper table?"

Gryndall shrugged as they turned and began making their way towards the horses who were tethered to the fence twenty yards away.

"I don't know. I thought I might stop at the fort," he answered eventually, glancing at the fort's lookout tower in the distance that loomed high above the tops of the trees. "I'd like to speak with the local militia and see if they have anything new to report."

"Still no leads on those murders?"

"We're working on a few theories. We've got a lead or two."

The mayor scratched his chin thoughtfully. "Well, my wife's made roast pheasant and sweet potatoes and we'd be honoured to have you as our guest. She's a big fan of yours, I should add."

Gryndall exchanged a glance with Donal. He was being roped in.

"You know it's not all you mayors that are this welcoming," said Gryndall coyly, mounting his horse and waiting for the others to do the same.

Mayor Tweedsmuir's horse was an aged grey stallion who seemed to walk with a bit of a limp and as the hefty mayor climbed on and fitted his bum into the saddle, the horse appeared to sink a half a foot into the ground.

"Really? What do you mean?"

"I mean exactly what I say. Not all of Carthal's mayors are as welcoming and hospitable as you are.."

The man shook his head. "I don't believe that, your Majesty. Not for a minute. Who wouldn't want the king of Carthal to sup at their dinner table?"

"Have you not met Mayor Kinnon of Riordan?" asked Dalwynn with a bark, butting into the conversation as he climbed into his saddle.

"Ah, yes. I have met old Kinnon. At the mayor's conference last May."

"And?"

"He's a cranky old fart."

All six knights laughed.

"But surely you don't consider me to be like Mayor Kinnon?" he asked, his eyes searching Gryndall's face.

He looked almost hurt.

"Do you?"

"Of course not. You've been a good addition to Carthal's group of mayors. What's it been now...eighteen months since you were elected?"

"Nineteen. But very close, your Majesty."

"Well, I'm glad to have you to call on when I need matters addressed in Lancaster."

"The pleasure is mine, your Majesty."

There came another volley of shouts from Jerome in the background as he sent two pigs running for cover.

Gryndall looked at the mayor. "Are you sure he knows how to handle hogs?"

"Yes, yes. Very much so. His family used to be the sole hog farmer in the region until animals came under royal jurisdiction and the city animal farms were established. He's got years of experience."

Gryndall grunted and clicked his tongue so that his horse moved forwards.

They rode in silence to the road.

"So have I convinced you yet to join me and my family for dinner?" asked Mayor Tweedsmuir once they'd reached the road. "We only live off High Street. It's not far from the fort."

Gryndall didn't answer immediately. He felt little desire to dine with the mayor's family. Even though they were probably nice people. He wanted to go to the fort in order to speak with the local militia. But then, as king, keeping your mayors happy was equally important.

No rest for the weary...

Gryndall smiled, hiding his slight discontent. "Of course I'll join you. Men? That'll be alright?"

"Sure," Donal answered, his tone sarcastic. "You go and feast on roast pheasant and sweet potatoes while we enjoy the _fine_ cooking of the boys at the fort!"

Gryndall couldn't help but laugh. "Such are the perks of being king, dear Donal."

"They sure do make slop," said Junius, grinning from ear to ear. "Donal's right to be concerned with the local cuisine."

"Ahem," Mayor Tweedsmuir interrupted, "but what those militia men make for you at the fort is most certainly _not_ representative of local cuisine. In fact, I don't know that it's representantive of _any_ class of cuisine. Boiled cabbage, sheep's liver, and muck like that. If you're lucky, you _might_ get potatoes."

"We had sheep liver last night," Muirfinn muttered.

Gryndall sighed. His men were hard to please.

"Well, kill yourselves something on the way back to the fort then. Donal's a good shot. Have him get you a pheasant. Better yet," he said, turning to Conan who spoken much. "Make a contest of it. You two are Carthal's best archers. See who can get what between here to the fort. Loser prepares the food."

Dalwynn laughed heartily and clapped Donal on the back. "There! What do you think of that, smart mouth? Not so quick to reply now, are ya?"

The small, gaunt-faced knight thought for a second and grinned. "I think you'd better stay well behind so we don't mistake you for a wild boar!"

Dalwynn's eyes bulged at this latest insult as Donal cracked the reins of his horse and galloped down the road.

"You little..."

"Alright, enough," said Gryndall, turning to the rest of his knights. "You four make sure these two don't kill each other. Alright?"

"Yes, my Lord. And we'll come and fetch you from Mayor Tweedsmuir's in a few hours."

"Yes. Good idea lad," the mayor agreed. "You never know what sort of brigands are walking about at night. A royal carriage driver beheaded...I still can't believe it."

"How long will supper be?" asked Gryndall, ignoring the mention of Percy Goodfellow. "Does your wife intend to serve an eight course meal?"

Hector laughed. "No. But you might want eight helpings. I tell you, she's one of the finest cooks in Lancaster."

"He isn't lying," said Junius. "I couldn't get my chainmail on after the meal we had there last week."

Gryndall nodded. "Very well. Two or three hours should be sufficient. Come and fetch me from Mayor Tweedsmuir's."

"Yes, my Lord."

Their party split in two then, with Dalwynn, Theo, Junius, Muirfinn and Conan heading up the road after Donal, in the direction of the fort, and Gryndall and Mayor Tweedsmuir turning at the crossroads, headed into town.

"So you like being a mayor? You like the job?" Gryndall asked once they were alone, the steady rhythm of their horses' trotting rocking them gently in their saddles as they followed the road that would eventually become High Street.

"I do. Very much. My wife doesn't like that I'm so busy. She wishes I could be at home more. I used to be at home more when I ran the tannery. I wasn't quite as busy being a business owner."

Gryndall let his eyes settle on the heavy-set man as he studied him more closely. His brow was dampened with sweat and Gryndall watched as he dabbed it dry with a white handkerchief. He had the look of a sensitive and honest man. A man who had learned early on in life that he lacked the physical prowess and good looks to be a soldier or a lady's man. More importantly, he had the look of a pragmatic man who, upon realizing such things, had carved out a happy life for himself - marrying a good woman that would bear him children and keep a clean house - and establishing his own business. Neither a man who enjoyed whores or gambling. An upright family man. A man worthy of being mayor of Carthal's "forest city".

Gryndall smiled as the mayor met his gaze. Not because he could relate to what he'd said about his wife wishing he could be at home more - which he could - but because he liked the things about the man that he had just come to realize.

"Something I've said amuses you, your Majesty," he half-asked, half-remarked with a smile of his own.

"Nothing. It's nothing. I was merely pondering something," said Gryndall, clearing his throat and wracking his brain for a new conversation topic. "So you used to run a tannery? I remember you mentioning something like that once before."

"Aye."

"And how was it?"

The mayor pressed his lips together and inflated his cheeks as he moved his head from side to side, pondering the question.

"It was...good. I made out pretty well. Financially. But being a business owner is like night and day to being a mayor...and sometimes I question whether I should have entered politics."

"How so?" asked Gryndall, growing increasingly intrigued by this man with whom, until today, he'd not spoken for more than a few minutes.

"Well...how to explain. It's like...as mayor, I'm responsible for _everyone's_ matters. And...when I was in business for myself...I was only responsible for my own matters."

"So you have more responsibility as a myor?"

Mayor Tweedsmuir nodded. "Essentially...yes...but then...I don't mean to complain about being burdened with greater responsibility. Rather, my complaint - and forgive me your Majesty for speaking so candidly - "

Gryndall waved his hand. "No. Please. Speak as candidly and openly as you would like. I appreciate your honesty."

"Very well. My complaint or, my _issue_ , is that I am burdened with greater responsibility yet I am lacking in the ability and the power to do the things that need to be done to serve the interests of those that I am responsible for. When it was just me, Hector Tweedsmuir private citizen and business owner, if I was low on tannin, I made more. If we needed to rush an order for someone, I could get guys working overtime. Every problem that arose, everything that I was responsible for - I had a solution. I had the ability to handle whatever challenges arose."

"And as mayor, you feel that you have greater challenges and somehow less ability and less power to deal with those challenges?"

"Precisely," Hector breathed, seeming to appreciate that the king was so fast to pick up on the point he was trying to make.

"Hmm. I do see how that could be an issue. Let me ask you this though. As king, I arguably have even _greater_ responsibilities and face even _greater_ challenges than you as mayor."

"Most certainly, your Majesty."

Gryndall nodded. "Very well. In your opinion then, do _I_ have greater power and ability - or does the level of responsibility one has simply correspond to the level of office one holds? In other words, my hands are tied as often as yours on matters and I find myself powerless to make changes as much as you do. Even though I'm king, I have an entire nation to look after - not just one city."

"I suppose I'd not quite considered that...but yes...you're right."

Gryndall shrugged. "Maybe. Maybe not. Those are simply my thoughts on the matter."

The mayor smiled. "You're an intelligent man, your Majesty, and I am thoroughly enjoying our conversation because you are easy to talk to. You understand things very easily."

Lancaster proper came into view then and they reached the point at which the dirt road gave way to cobblestones and the fields gave way to houses and places of business.

"And I will readily admit that yes, the level of responsibility one has does seem to correspond to the level of political office one holds," he continued as their horses' hooves went _clop-clop-clop_ on the cobblestones. "As mayor, I face great challenges and bear great responsibility and often feel powerless or unable to fix things. Yet, as you mentioned, as king, you face far greater challenges and have greater responsibilities than I...and thus your feeling of powerlessness must be that much stronger."

"Aye. And that much more aggravating too," said Gryndall with a sardonic grin as the mayor waved cordially to people in the street. "The thing, I guess, is to coordinate, effectively, with all power brokers in Carthal when trying to get something done. That way, when something needs to get done, you know who you need to speak to and whose palms you need to grease to get something done."

"Like with the hogs?"

Gryndall nodded sagely. "Exactly. Just like with the hogs. You wrote to me and told me the issue and together we arrived at a solution. Though I do admit that only I really have the power to transfer livestock between cities. And so you were somewhat powerless with respect to this matter."

"Completely," Mayor Tweedsmuir agreed.

"But you know that should you ever need me to help Lancaster again - I will not hesitate. I'm always willing to help. Lancaster and the good folks of this city," he said, waving a hand to indicate the various people going about their business on High Street, "are as much my concern as yours."

"Thank you, your Majesty. You are a most agreeable king to work with."

"And I hope I always shall be. I've already made my knights swear that if I ever get like old Kinnon to put me out of my misery."

The mayor chuckled. "You have decades left in you, your Majesty, before you become that bitter and cranky."

Gryndall smiled and waved back at the people who waved at him. Not everyone recognized him and for this, he was grateful. He didn't feel like being swarmed by a mob - even if that mob was a happy one.

"You are a popular man, your Majesty."

"That's the reward for listening to the people and helping them when they are in need," Gryndall answered.

They reached the Tweedsmuir residence after several more minutes.

"Here we are," said the mayor as they drew alongside the handsome, stone house with its Roman pillars and iron gate.

Outside the gate stood two well-armored and well-armed men.

"Members of the local militia," Mayor Tweedsmuir explained, sensing Gryndall's curiousity. "Extra protection for these dark times."

Gryndall nodded.

"Good evening, Mayor Tweedsmuir."

"Good evening, Cedric. Darroc. I trust my wife hasn't made your lives too difficult? Having you escort her to the market and so on and so forth?"

"No, Mayor Tweedsmuir. She's mostly stayed inside since you left."

"Must be busy at the stove," he groaned, climbing down from his horse.

Both militiamen seemed to stop short when they saw Gryndall.

"Your Majesty," said Darroc, the smaller of the two. "What a surprise this is. And an honour."

"The honour is mine."

"Have you come to have supper with the Tweedsmuir's this evening?"

"Aye," Gryndall answered, dismounting. "I am."

"Well, let me take your horse. There's a little pen in the back. It's got water and good grain. I can even brush him if you'd - "

"MY LORD!"

There came a sudden pounding of horse hooves on cobblestone, followed by several surprised shouts, and all four turned to see what the commotion was.

"MY LORD!"

"Geoffrey! What are you doing riding up on us like a crazy man? One of these men could have put an arrow through you."

Both Cedric and Darroc seemed to flush with pride at Gryndall's remark.

"My Lord. I'm sorry. Very sorry. I didn't mean to make you nervous. But it's imperative. There's no time. Vikings. They've landed at Brinsley!"

"Vikings!? Landed!? At Brinsley!?"

The messenger gulped, his face pale. "Yes, my Lord."

Gryndall and Mayor Tweedsmuir exchanged a worried glance.

"We must go," said Gryndall. "Now. Have you come from the fort? Have you told the others? Donal, Dalwynn - "

The messenger shook his head. "I didn't tell them anything, my Lord. I went to the fort and they told me that you were here. Good evening, Mayor Tweedsmuir," he added, acknowledging the mayor.

"Good evening."

"Your Majesty. Can I do something?" Mayor Tweedsmuir asked, turning to Gryndall. "Can I send some of our militiamen to Brinsley?"

"I may take a few of them. More urgently though, I want you to bolster the defences here. Prepare the peasants. Bring the livestock into the city walls. Have food stockpiled. Get every man that can hold a weapon and post him along a section of city wall. We don't know if there are more Vikings about. The attack at Brinsley may not be an isolated occurence. They could be headed for Lancaster next for all we know."

The mayor nodded vigorously. "Yes, your Majesty. I will do all of that."

"Come, Geoffrey," said Gryndall, climbing into his saddle, the horselooking surprised that it wouldn't be getting a break after all.

"We must go to the fort and tell the others. You can change horses there and ride back to Clarendon. When you get there, go straight to Copernicus and have him give you a copy of the defence plan. Take that to Morcant as he'll be in charge of preparing Clarendon's defenses."

"Yes, my Lord."

"Mayor Tweedsmuir."

He pulled on the horse's reins, steering the animal away from the gate that opened to the mayor's house. "It was good speaking with you tonight. I hope that we will have a chance to speak again someday."

"Of course we will, your Majesty."

Gryndall grimaced as though he doubted it, then turned to Darroc and Cedric. "Men. Defend your city."

"We will, your Majesty!"

And may the wind carry you quickly, your Majesty!"

Gryndall gave the Order's salute, snapped his visor down over his eyes, and he and Geoffrey sped off towards the fort.

The rocking of the boat in this wind was enough to drive him to sickness, but Anwir steeled himself and suppressed the urge to vomit.

"Not quite a seaman are ye?" Erik the Bald barked, clapping the High Priest on the back.

Anwir shook his head, swallowing the vomit that rose up in his throat, the spray from the waves crashing against the boat and wetting his face.

"Well, we'll be there soon enough," said the Viking, gesturing towards the looming landscape of Carthal on the horizon.

Anwir nodded stiffly. Another half an hour at most. And then they would be at Nairn. From there they would march through the forest and lie in wait beside the road until Gryndall and his retinue had passed by, on their way to Brinsley.

By supper they would be in Clarendon and by nightfall, provided Morcant had done his job right, the castle would be theirs.

Despite the increasingly violent rocking of the boat and the nausea he felt, Anwir smiled.

Gryndall had thought him powerless. Gryndall. That arrogant, self-righteous, dithering king of Carthal. Gryndall, that egotistical, godless champion of the people. Gryndall, the man who was about to lose everything...

The ride to the Lancaster fort had taken Gryndall and Geoffrey no time at all and within minutes of arriving, Geoffrey had been given a fresh horse and was on his way back to Clarendon.

Meanwhile, Donal, Dalwynn, Theo, and Junius, Muirfinn and Conan, in addition to four members of the Lancater militia, had dressed themselves and their horses for battle and followed Gryndall to the highway that would take them to Brinsley.

"Geoffrey should make it to Clarendon by nightfall," Gryndall said, his eyes narrowed and his face set in stern concentration as his stallion galloped along the dirt road. "With any luck Morcant will have our defenses ready by the morning."

Beside him, his horse galloping with an equal measure of effort, Donal nodded. "And once we beat the Vikings out of Brinsley we can head back and help out."

"Yes."

"And afterwards?" Dalwynn growled. "Should we not sail to Vinland and strike back? Make Bergthor pay for what he's done?"

Gryndall shook his head. "This is not Bergthor's doing. This is either a rogue Viking horde - which we've seen before - during my father's reign - or there's someone else running things in Vinland."

"Bergthor should keep a tighter leash on his people," said Dalwynn irritably. "You don't see Carthalians launching raid parties to Vinland, do you?"

"No," Gryndall admitted. "But we'll teach them a lesson soon enough and hopefully that'll be the last of them."

Somewhere in the Great Wood, north of Nairn and southwest of Lancaster. The Vikings are slowly picking their way through the forest of tall pines. The men stand tall and walk with purpose, lifting their axes as they step over logs and thick brush. The more superstitious among them hold their swords out in front, their eyes fearful as they probe the darkest recesses for ghosts and spirits. There is an eerie, quiet fog that hangs heavy at their knees, partially enshrouding them. Anwir and Erik the Bald walk in the middle of the four hundred man army.

"Would it not better to seize Gryndall when he and his party pass by?" asked Erik the Bald as he and Anwir followed a Viking soldier around the rotted out stump of a tree.

Anwir sniffed, turning his nose up at the smell of damp, rotting wood.

"It would be rather convenient, however I don't want any hiccups."

"Hiccups?"

Evidently the Norse word he'd used was incorrect.

"Problems."

Erik the Bald nodded, now understanding.

"Say we ambush them and one or two manage to get away," Anwir continued. "They're on horseback. We're on foot. They'll return to the castle and raise the alarm. We'll be unable to take the caste and we'll end up stuck."

"How?"

"Because your ships, as grateful as I am for them," the priest added hastily, "can only pick us up at Nairn or Brinsley. And how are we supposed to make it back to either of those places when we have ten thousand angry Carthalians after us? We'd be stuck with no way off the island. And we'd be slaughtered like sheep."

Erik the Bald grunted approvingly. Olaf was right. The priest was a smart one. A crafty one too. He'd have to keep an eye on him in the weeks ahead. After they'd seized Carthal.

He shot a glance towards Anwir. His face was difficult to read.

"And how long are my ships required at Brinsley?"

The priest answered without looking at him as they had to slouch under a low hanging branch.

"Only another day. Just long enough to keep Gryndall and his men distracted."

"Distracted?"

Anwir narrowed his eyes. His Norse was better than the Viking's. He was sure he'd used the correct word.

"Occupied. Busy."

Erik the Bald issued another approving grunt. "That way Gryndall will stay in Brinsley long enough for us to take the castle."

"Yes," Anwir answered tersely, wondering just how many times he had to explain something to the Viking jarl.

"And your man. The knight at Clarendon."

"Morcant?"

Erik the Bald clicked his tongue. "I don't remember. Whatever his name was."

"Yes. What about him?"

"He will have the castle ready for us to seize?"

"That is the plan."

The Viking grunted. "He'd better have it ready for us then."

Anwir looked at him. The trek was causing him to pant and great beads of saliva had amassed in the corners of his mouth. His forehead was a wall of sweat. His gaze, more animal than human.

"I trust him to have it ready."

Erik the Bald blew his nose by holding a finger to one nostril and after, wiped his face with the back of his hand.

"As I said. He had better."

And Anwir didn't like the look the Viking gave him.

Gryndall is galloping down the road on his white stallion. The horse's hooves are kicking up the soft, mossy dirt. His six knights and the four Lancaster militiamen are right behind. They're in the middle of the Great Wood. Thick, towering walls of fir trees and dense underbrush flank both sides of the road. Unbeknownst to them, Anwir, Erik the Bald, and the Vikings are just a hundred yards from their position, hidden amongst the trees and watching them.

"My Lord."

Upon hearing Donal's voice, Gryndall slowed his horse to a trot.

"Can we stop for a minute? I have to piss."

Gryndall nodded.

His back was sore. His saddle needed some padding. He had a blanket in his saddle bag.

"Aye. I have to fix my saddle, anyway."

Donal nodded gratefully and pulled on his horse's reins.

Dalwynn muttered something under his breath.

"Something the matter, friend?" asked Donal, staring squarely at the massive, red-headed knight as he climbed down from his horse.

"Yeah. The good folks of Brinsley will be dead by the time we get there."

"I'll only be a minute," Donal answered thickly, turning and stepping down into the ditch.

"What about the rest of ye? Drain your peckers now. I don't want to be stopping again."

One of the militiamen, whose name was Simon and who looked somewhat embarassed, dropped down from his horse and scampered off towards the ditch.

"Check yourself, Dalwynn," said Gryndall threateningly as he arranged the blanket over his saddle. "It's up to me whether or not we stop between here and Brinsley."

"My Lord. There are Vikings in Brinsley. Ransacking and pillaging. Raping and murdering and - "

"Dalwynn," Gryndall growled, mounting his stallion, the blanket now folded and draped over his saddle, providing some cushioning, "stopping five minutes isn't going to make a difference. The damage has been done. We will get there soon enough."

Dalwynn tried to be speak. "My Lord - "

Gryndall raised a hand, silencing the knight. "And I want my knights ready to fight. I don't want their bladders bursting. We're taking five minutes and then we'll be on our way. And if we have to stop again for five minutes between here and Brinsley, then so be it. There's no sense in breaking our necks to get there. We need cool heads. I want calm and collected men fighting at my side."

He glanced at the others. The militiamen looked proud to be included in his use of the word "men".

"We are organized. Disciplined. Methodical. We're not a horde of hot-headed barbarians. We are trained soldiers. Are we understood?"

"Yes, my Lord," answered Dalwynn, somewhat sheepishly.

"My Lord!"

Gryndall turned in his saddle.

Simon was running back towards them from the ditch, his pants still undone.

"My Lord! I just saw a Viking! A Viking! There! In the woods!"

Gryndall frowned and quickly surveyed the silent walls of trees that ran alongside the road.

"Where did you see a Viking?"

"Over yonder, my Lord."

He pointed to a spot in the trees.

"I see nothing but trees and brush," said Gryndall. "Are you certain you saw a Viking?"

Simon was blushing now as he looked at the others.

Theo. Junius. Muirfinn. Conan. Donal, who was climbing back into his saddle. His three fellow militiamen.

"Are you sure it wasn't a deer or some other animal that you saw?" asked Junius with some amusement. "It's quite foggy in there and hard to see properly."

The militiaman shook his head.

"No. 'Twas a Viking what I saw. I'm certain of that."

Gryndall exhaled through his nose.

Dalwynn snorted. "Are you sure it's not just this talk of Vikings? You've got Vikings on your mind, lad. You're bound to see something you're thinking about. And the more time we waste, standing around talking about them - "

Gryndall raised a hand and Dalwynn stopped mid-sentence.

"We're going. Now hold your tongue, friend. I've heard enough."

He turned to Simon.

"Get your pants done up. We've got somewhere to be."

Dalwynn gave an approving grunt as the blushing militiamen did up his pants and mounted his horse.

"Are we ready?" Gryndall snarled.

Dalwynn's attitude had put him in a foul mood.

"Ready, my Lord."

Gryndall nodded and cracked his reins, sending his stallion galloping forwards.

Sigurd had almost cost them everything. Sigurd. That bastard whoreson. One of Gryndall's men had seen him.

Anwir glared at the dead Viking's body as he and Erik the Bald and three other Vikings stood over him.

His face was blood-stained. His eyes swollen. His hands and feet severed from his limbs.

At least the Vikings are thorough in their punishment, thought Anwir wryly.

"We'll take the road now?" asked Erik the Bald, his beady eyes dancing in their sockets as he peered at Anwir.

Anwir nodded. "Aye. Now that Gryndall and his men have passed, we'll take the road. They've gone to Brinsley and they'll be there for awhile. The road is ours all the way to Clarendon."

Erik the Bald smiled, spat, and marshalled his men forwards with a wave of his hand.

Brinsley. High Street. Outside the Red Boar tavern. Thirteen Vikings are harassing Elwynn and Gail. A crowd of worried onlookers watches from a short distance away.

"NOOOOOOOOOO! LEAVE HIM ALONE! YOU'RE HURTING HIM!" Gail screamed.

The thirteen Vikings clustered in the middle of High Street laughed.

"Have some more, pretty boy!" one particularly foul-looking one jeered as he held Elwynn's head and forced another bladder of wine down the man's throat.

The tavern keep was on his knees and the three Vikings grouped around him laughed again as he choked, spluttered and began to turn a deep shade of red.

"PLEASE! HE'S DONE NOTHING TO YOU! LEAVE HIM BE!" Gail screamed a second time, wrestling with the Vikings. She pulled at their arms, pleading, begging.

Several onlookers shook their heads, concerned expressions on their faces.

"She'd better be quiet."

"They can't even understand her."

"Well still, she'd better be quiet else they'll cut her tongue out."

"Bloody savages."

"LEAVE HIM ALONE! YOU'RE HURTING HIM!"

"Shut up you filthy whore!"

A loud _smack_ silenced the crowd of townsfolk amassed outside the Red Boar and Gail was sent sprawling to the pavement.

"You Carthalian bitches need to learn respect," said the Viking in broken Carthalian.

"And you drink _piss_ here in Carthal!" added the other Viking in equally broken Carthalian, pointing a finger at the men, women, and children standing in the crowd.

He stepped closer to Elwynn, forcing him to drink more wine from the large wine bladder in his hands.

"Drink up, pretty boy."

The tavern keep vomited then and the Viking released him before kicking him to the cobblestones.

Gail screamed.

"YOU BASTARDS!"

Huddled together, the two dozen onlookers continued to murmur anxiously amongst themselves.

"She shouldn't talk to them like that."

"They'll kill her if she doesn't keep quiet."

"Poor thing."

An unbelievably wide and squat Viking with a mass of untidy straw-blonde hair grabbed Elwynn and lifted him off the ground. He looked at Gail, watching and waiting for a reaction.

"LEAVE HIM ALONE! YOU BASTARDS!"

The Viking dropped the tavern keep. "WHO ARE YOU, WHORE, TO TALK TO US THAT WAY!? GRIMTHOR! BRING HER HERE!"

A tall and stocky Viking with a long black mane nodded and strode over to where she lay. He picked her up with one arm and dragged her (despite her plump size) kicking and screaming across the cobblestones.

"Put her down here," he ordered, pointing to a spot on the ground in front of him.

"Yes, Olaf," the Viking grumbled, looking somewhat unhappy that he had to drop his prize at the other Viking's feet.

"Erik the Bald will be happy with this one, hey men? Wide hips. Ample breasts. Just how he likes 'em."

There were maniacal grins and chuckles all around.

"Though I think I might have a go with her myself first. What's your name, whore?" he said, leaning down and grabbing Gail by the chin.

She looked directly at him and spat in his face.

"YOU BITCH!" Olaf roared, staggering backwards.

Grimthor smacked her and Gail, still on her knees, spun around and collapsed to the ground.

"Bow to him. Bow to my chief now. Or pay with your life," Grimthor threatened, drawing his axe and taking a step towards her.

Gail shielded herself with her hands and murmured something inaudible, her face smothered by the sleeve of her dress, her voice unable to escape.

"Bow to him, Gail!" Elwynn pleaded, his expression anguished and hopeless as he watched the scene unfolding in front of him.

Olaf, wiping the spit from his face with the sleeve of his shirt, looked on, a gleeful glint in his eyes.

"Bow to him, Gail!"

Gail turned her head and sat up so that everyone could see her blood-stained face.

"Never," she said defiantly through a mouthful of blood. "I am a woman of Carthal."

She rose her head higher and held it in the air. "My king, the great King Gryndall, told me never to bow to any man! And you, filthy _pig_ , are not even a that!"

The tall Viking roared and raised the axe higher above his head, preparing to strike. Every man, woman, and child huddled together in the crowd of Carthalian onlookers held their breath.

But then, just as everyone braced for the dreadful moment, there came the sound of what seemed like a hundred horses' hooves. Thunderous. Roaring.

The crowd in the street wondered aloud in quiet whispers.

"What ever could that be?"

"I don't know that I want to find out."

"Whatever it is, it's something big."

The sound was coming from further up the street, around the bend, and all heads turned, the Vikings' included, watching and waiting to learn the source of it.

And then they saw it. Hurtling forwards, their faces marked with intense expressions and their horses racing with death-defying speed.

Gryndall, his knights, and the Lancaster militia.

"By Thor..."

The tall Viking holding the axe over Gail couldn't even finish his sentence as the heaving, glistening convoy of horse and steel blew by, the riders having already drawn their swords and notched their arrows.

The ground shook. The buildings trembled.

Two arrows pierced the Viking through the neck. The axe slipped from his fingers and clattered harmlessly against the cobblestones as he sank to his knees, clutching helplessly at the blood spewing from his neck.

"Oh my!"

"Poor bastard."

"Did you see that!?"

The crowd buzzed with excitement.

Two more Vikings were felled by devastating blows from Gryndall's broadsword and Theo's spatha respectively.

"Watch out!"

The blood spattered the crowd as the men shielded their wives and the women pressed their children to their bosoms.

"KILL THEM!" Olaf roared, pointing his small blade at the Carthalian riders as they streamed past. "I WANT THEIR HEADS ON A SPIT!"

More whispers from the crowd of people clustered along the sidewalk.

"Who are they?"

"I don't know."

"It's King Gryndall!"

"I don't believe it!"

"It can't be!"

"No, it is! Look at the shield. It's got the royal emblem!"

"KILL THEM!" Olaf roared a second time as Gryndall and the other riders pulled on their horses' reins and came to a stop some fifty yards further down the street.

The nine Vikings still standing exchanged nervous glances as they studied their opponents.

Olaf shook with anger.

"WELL!? WHAT ARE YOU WAITING FOR!? AFTER THEM!"

The crowd's heads moved from side to side as they looked first at the Vikings and then at the knights. Meanwhile, in front of them, Elwynn was helping Gail to her feet and he pulled her to the side of the road so that they stood with the crowd. The Vikings didn't bother to stop them. This had been what Gryndall was waiting for and as soon as the two were clear of harm's way, he dropped his visor and slashed the air with his sword.

"FOR CARTHAL!"

Before the Vikings could fully prepare themselves, the twelve riders were charging towards them once more, their horses snorting and champing at the bits in their mouths, thirsting for a fight.

The Vikings crouched into defensive stances and grouped themselves into a circle.

"SPLIT!" Gryndall roared.

The riders split into two lines at the last second, each headed to one side of the Viking cluster. They thundered past, swinging their swords, thrusting with their spears, and letting their arrows fly. Six Vikings fell, Olaf included, and the crowd cheered, whooping and hollering as the men on horseback thundered up the street, only turning around once they were well clear of any threat.

Olaf rose slowly to his feet, blood pouring from a deep gash in his shoulder.

"KILL THEM!"

But the remaining Vikings dropped their swords and put their arms in the air.

"WE YIELD! WE YIELD! WE YIELD - "

A slash from Olaf's sword silenced the man. He fell to his knees, blood pouring from the hole in his face.

"COWARDS! AND YOU CALL YOURSELVES VIKINGS!"

He spat. Loudly. Grotesquely.

Several of the townsfolk looked away. But others, the men mainly, though a few women joined them, had taken up debris from amongst the dozens of items scattered about the street.

Table legs. Fire pokers. Broom handles.

"YOU SEE! EVEN THESE PATHETIC PEOPLE ARE MORE VIKING THAN YOU!"

"DO YOU YIELD?" Gryndall called loudly from the end of the street.

Several of the Vikings, nursing injuries, their faces pleading, glanced nervously at Olaf.

"WHAT ARE YOU LOOKING AT ME FOR!? WE DO NOT YIELD! WE ARE VIKINGS! WE WERE BORN TO CONQUER! WE FIGHT UNTIL - "

"CHARGE!"

The crowd watched as Gryndall snapped his visor down once more and slashed the air with his sword.

The riders shot forwards, barreling down on the injured and disorganized Vikings.

Olaf took an arrow to the chest and a dagger in the back. Eyes wide and with his face wearing a shocked expression, he fell to the ground.

"ARE THERE ANYMORE?"

"No! We yield! All of us!"

Gryndall narrowed his eyes at the Viking who had spoken.

"Throw your weapons over there," he said, pointing with his sword to a spot several feet away.

A mad flurry to unbuckle and unhinge and unclasp and then a dozen daggers, maces, and axes were tossed into a pile.

"Is that it?"

"Yes...your Majesty."

"Donal. Muirfinn. Search them. The rest of you," he bellowed, switching his attention to the townsfolk. "Help Gail and Elwynn here. Take them inside and fix them up. Are there any more injured?"

Several heads in the crowd nodded.

"Then step forward and you shall receive assistance."

Three men and a small boy emerged from among them. The men were cut and battered and bloody. The child held his arm, his eyes red and swollen from crying.

"Your Majesty," said a woman wearing a flour-covered apron. "These men here. Tristan Walcott. Liam Handsome. James Cobb. They were beaten black and blue. Along with young Stephen here," she added, placing a hand on the shoulder of the small boy.

Gryndall nodded. "Very well. Conan. Junius. See that these good people are cared for. Those who are well enough, help your fellow citizens. Get these fires put out," he waved his hand in the direction of several plumes of smoke rising above the rooftops in the distance. "And anymore Vikings that are found in Brinsley are to be killed if they do not yield."

He turned his gaze back to the motley crew of Vikings who were now sitting, legs crossed and arms folded, on the cobblestones.

"Donal. See that these men are bound and gagged until I'm ready to question them."

He looked at the militiamen.

"You lot can help him."

He turned to Dalwynn. "You and I will go for a ride. I want to survey the damage. Are there anymore of you?" he asked in Norse, glaring at the Viking he had spoken to a minute earlier.

The Viking shook his head. "We are the last ones."

His comrades, seated beside him, glared at him, but said nothing.

"And how did you come here?"

"By ship...your Majesty."

"By ship?"

The Viking nodded.

"And where are your ships?"

"Just out of the harbour...your Majesty."

"They left you here?"

The Viking nodded a second time and Gryndall turned to Dalwynn.

"Seems odd. Leave these ones here and put the ships out of harbour. What are they waiting for? A second attack?"

Dalwynn scratched his beard and stared angrily at the Vikings.

"I have no idea, my Lord. Perhaps a second attack."

"I want to see these ships."

Gryndall turned to Donal.

"Have these men locked up somewhere until Dalwynn and I return. We shouldn't be more than an hour."

Donal nodded and gave the Order's salute. "Yes, my Lord."

"Your Majesty."

It was Gail.

"Gail..."

"Before you go...I just want to say...thank you. "

Her face was still bloody. Her left eye was swollen shut and had adopted a bluish-purple hue. Her speech seemed laboured and difficult.

"Gail."

Gryndall slid from his horse and took the woman in his arms. She looked weak. Tired.

"Get this good woman somewhere clean and comfortable," he commanded. "Quickly."

Several men and women rushed forward from the crowd of onlookers and took her from his arms.

"Thank you...your Majesty," she said slowly, softly, the eyelid of her good eye fluttering sleepily.

He touched a hand to her cheek. "Rest up. We'll likely be spending the night. I'll check on you later."

Gail nodded then and allowed herself to collapse into the arms of the men and women holding her.

Sighing deeply, Gryndall looked at Dalwynn, mounted his stallion, and cracked the reins.

As it turned out, Brinsley was not as badly damaged as Gryndall had initially feared. There were forty-four casualties (among them, three Brinsley militiamen), six burned businesses (one of which was the Heart and Crown Inn - the place where he had enjoyed his very first intimate encounter as a young soldier - with a beautiful and mysterious prostitute from the East) and nine torched homes. Of the homes that were torched, only two had been occupied and both residents had been able to escape unscathed.

As for the three Knights of the Order stationed at Brinsley - Atilius, Bothan, and Marcus - all three were a little worse for wear after some intense fighting, but none were severely injured. These, Gryndall sent to the Red Boar to re-group with the others and freshen up.

The good people of Brinsley - from every quarter of the city - were eager to help deal with the aftermath. Teams of volunteers combed through the blackened shells of burned out buildings, nursed the injured, and buried the dead.

The most vexing matter that remained for Gryndall, once he had finished surveying the city with Dalwynn was that three Viking long ships were anchored just four miles from the harbour.

"What do you think they're waiting for?" asked Dalwynn gruffly as he and Gryndall watched them from the edge of the quay.

Gryndall shook his head. "I've no idea. Perhaps, as I suggested earlier, they're planning on launching a second attack."

Dalwynn grimaced. "Do we have the numbers to deal with them if they do?"

"I'm sure we can muster up enough men," Gryndall answered. "Plenty of folks around here would jump at the chance to crack a few Viking skulls."

Neither spoke for a minute. In the silence, while the two men stared out at sea, their eyes fixed on the Viking long ships, their horses pawed hungrily at the scraps of hay that could be found in and amongst the cobblestones.

"What I'm worried about," said Gryndall finally as the sea breeze tousled the small hairs of his beard, "is what to do about the rest of the island."

Dalwynn nodded and Gryndall continued speaking.

"For instance, we have a port at Nairn. Apart from Allmander, Francis, and Bran being stationed there, it's completely defenseless. What if the Vikings decide to land there? What if they've already done so? Or what if they've got two ships docked at Hawthorne and are looting and murdering there at this very moment?"

Dalwynn emitted a frustrated sigh. "We can't be sure."

"We can't be sure," Gryndall repeated. "We have to mobilize our militiae and send them here and to Hawthorne and Nairn.

"Divide them up between the three cities with access to the sea."

"Exactly."

"Well, that's a plan at any rate."

Gryndall sighed and stretched his arms over his head to loosen the cramps in his arms. His armour was heavy.

"I want to have pigeons sent immediately to Nairn and Hawthorne. I need to know whether it's too late, whether Vikings have already landed. My hunch right now is that they have not. But we have no time to waste. Because those ships," he said, gesturing towards the three long ships anchored out at sea, "can land anywhere, at anytime. And we need to be ready."

"What about our naval vessel?"

Gryndall shook his head. "There are only two \- and they're in Hawthorne's hands. Remember, we sold them to the Merchants' Association two years ago. Hawthorne mainly uses them for transporting goods to the east now."

"'Tis a shame."

"When Copernicus advised it, he assumed we were at peace with Vinland. As did I."

Dalwynn cleared some sputum from his throat and spat. "Well they've got themselves a war now."

"I hope not. But it's looking that way. There's no more order there. Something must have happened to Bergthor. I haven't yet received a reply to my letter. For all we know, he's been dead for a year."

Dalwynn nodded, deep in thought.

"What are we going to do about Clarendon, my Lord?"

Gryndall pursed his lips as he deliberated. "Clarendon can handle herself...at least until we get back. It's inland so it isn't as vulnerable as the port cities."

"And then there's the castle."

"Aye. And Geoffrey should be back by now and he'll have delivered the message to Morcant to prepare the defenses."

Silence again as the two men chewed on their thoughts.

"We'll spend the night here then?" asked Dalwynn after a time.

Gryndall nodded. "At least one night. Maybe more. It depends on what these long ships do and it depends on what we hear back from Nairn and Hawthorne."

Dalwynn released a gust of air. "We're stuck here then."

"Aye. But we're central. From here, we can ride to Nairn just as easily as we can ride to Hawthorne or Clarendon. It's a good spot to be."

"Well we'll see soon enough, won't we?"

"As your queen, I command you to do as my husband has ordered! Why are you refusing!? There are Vikings \- "

"My Lady" Morcant interrupted, "please. I will prepare the castle's defenses - but not now. It's not the right time."

"Ooooohhhhh, you incompetent man! There are Vikings at Brinsley! Brinsley! That's a day's ride from here!"

"She's right, Morcant," said Geoffrey as they followed the knight up the stone steps leading to the ramparts. "If they've already landed at Brinsley, they could be here tonight!"

Morcant shook his head. "The king and the others will have caught up with them by now. They'll take care of it."

The knight reached the ramparts first and quickly scanned the tree line. Still no sign of Anwir or any Vikings.

Damn it, Anwir...

He wouldn't be able to hold the queen off much longer.

Chapter Seventeen

(July 15)

Brinsley garrison. Gryndall's room. Mid-morning.

"My Lord."

"Donal."

"Pigeons. From Nairn and Hawthorne. Both arrived in the early hours."

The knight crossed the floor and handed the letters to Gryndall.

"Hawthorne..." Gryndall read aloud, slowly, as he unfurled the piece of parchment and flattened it against the top of his leg.

"Nothing to report. No sign of Vikings. Will send out scouts. Will remain on the lookout. Will send a pigeon every day to report on status until Viking threat is gone. Advise us if you need militia sent to assist."

Gryndall folded up the letter and set it beside him.

"How about Nairn?" asked Donal, looking on anxiously.

"We'll see."

Gryndall unraveled the second rolled-up parchment.

"Nairn..."

He scanned the letter and Donal saw his face grow pale.

"What is it, my Lord?"

"Vikings landed here last night," Gryndall read aloud. "Counted at least three hundred. Maybe more."

Now it was Donal's turn to pale.

"Three hundred!?"

Gryndall nodded and rose from his chair.

"My Lord...?"

The king picked up his sword belt, buckled loosely around the bed post, and fastened it around his waist. His face was stone. Hard. His eyes, unflinching.

The knight repeated himself. "My Lord...?"

Gryndall turned and met his gaze.

Donal stared back at him.

"What's the matter? What is it?"

"We've been tricked."

"Tricked? I don't understand. How? By whom?"

"By those whoreson Vikings," Gryndall growled, turning and kicking the chair he'd been sitting on.

The wooden piece of furniture flew across the room and clattered noisily against the floor.

"I...I don't understand," said Donal, ignoring the king's outburst.

Gryndall whirled around, eyes blazing.

"Don't you see!? They had two fleets. One landed here. First. To distract us and to keep us out of the way. Meanwhile, the other fleet landed at Nairn. Those Vikings are probably marching on Clarendon as we speak. And I'd be willing to bet a thousand crowns that their numbers are greater than what we saw here."

He swallowed to remove the knot from his throat, choking back angry tears.

"Ygraine...Tyrion..."

Donal shook his head. "You mean...the attack on Brinsley was just some sort of distraction?"

"That is exactly what it was," answered Gryndall bitterly. "And those Viking longships anchored a few miles out - "

"Also, part of the distraction," Donal cut in. "By keeping us guessing where they'll go next, the Vikings on those ships are effectively stalling us, keeping us here while the Vikings from the other fleet gain a foothold inland. And unfortunately, that foothold is likely to be Clarendon."

"Those ships we can see from the harbour front are probably manned by no more than two dozen men. Every available man they have is marching on the capital. And we're here...A DAY'S RIDE AWAY!" Gryndall bellowed, swatting at the water jug that stood on the table at the foot of the bed.

He sent the object flying into the opposite wall where it promptly shattered into a hundred pieces.

"Well, let's go, my Lord. Now. We shall leave this very instant."

Gryndall gave his face a vigorous massage, sniffed, and cracked his neck. "We shall - but we may be too late."

Morcant is sitting at the desk in his chamber, hoping Anwir and the Vikings arrive soon.

A letter from Antolis addressed to Gryndall. Lying open on the desk. It had been brought to him as he was the knight in command in the king's absence.

Morcant massaged his beard with the ends of his fingers. It was a lucky thing he'd gotten it.

The entire plan would have been lost. He would have been seized, imprisoned, and hanged as a traitor.

He shuddered at the thought.

His thoughts were interrupted however by a sudden rapping at the door. He pocketed the letter just as the door burst open and in walked Ygraine and Copernicus.

"What is the meaning of this!?" the knight demanded, rising from his chair. "You can't just come in here, my Lady! These are my private chambers!"

"This is my castle to rule while my husband is away," the queen replied hotly, "and as such, I shall go where I please!"

Morcant was slightly taken aback by her aggressive manner. He looked at the old man, standing beside her.

"I don't see anything being done to prepare the castle's defenses," she said angrily, causing him to return his attention to her. "Shall we assume you are choosing to disobey my husband's orders? Your king's orders?"

The knight said nothing.

Ygraine and Copernicus took a step closer.

"Are you not a Knight of the Order?"

"I am that, my Lady," he answered indignantly.

"Well then. Did you not pledge to protect our nation and its people?"

Morcant cleared his throat. He looked uncomfortable.

"I did, my Lady."

Ygraine scoffed. "And yet you do nothing! You sit here," she thrust an arm forward and gestured towards his desk, "twiddling your thumbs and doing Merlin knows what. Meanwhile, Vikings are arriving this very minute!"

Her hand shot towards the window.

"Ask Copernicus! I've sent scouts out and they've just returned and reported to me that Vikings are on their way! They could be here in half an hour! Why aren't you doing anything!?"

His ruse was up. It ended here and now.

Morcant glanced quickly at the doorway. Could he make it around them and lock them in?

"My Lady...please...you misunderstand \- "

Without warning, the knight circled around them, knocking Ygraine aside as he passed, and drew his sword once his back was to the door.

"You two are becoming something of a nuisance."

"What? Morcant? What are you - "

"SILENCE!"

Evidently Ygraine was not accustomed to being spoken to this way.

She looked surprised, but then her eyes narrowed and her cheeks grew red.

"YOU TRAITOR! TRAITOR! TRAITOR! TRAITOR! YOU WILL HANG WHEN ALL OF THIS IS SAID AND DONE!"

"That's quite unlikely," he said, calming himself as he took a step backwards, towards the doorway.

Copernicus looked at him. "How long have you been deceiving us?"

"Long enough to know what side I want to be on," Morcant answered, stepping backwards through the doorway and into the corridor.

"Your actions won't go unpunished."

"Are you going to be the one to punish me, old man? I think not - "

In the second that Morcant had taken his eyes off the queen, she'd rushed forwards, towards him.

He slashed out with his sword - instinctively - and the blade caught Ygraine in the neck.

A deep gash. Blood spurting from her jugular.

"MY LADY!"

Her eyes conveyed intense shock and Copernicus caught her as she fell. He lowered her to the floor \- his old bones being unable to hold the young woman for more than a second.

Ygraine's hands were clamped tightly on the wound now - but it was too late.

Watching the scene unfold, Morcant's eyes widened.

He dropped his sword.

"Look what you've done!" Copernicus cried, glancing hopelessly from the knight to the dying queen.

"I didn't...I didn't...I didn't mean to!"

Horrified, the knight took one last look at Ygraine - her bloodied hands, her bloodied dress - and then took off running.

"COWARD!" Copernicus roared after him, his voice echoing along the length of the corridor. "TRAITOR!"

He broke into a coughing fit then, the shouting putting too much strain on his aged vocal chords.

He looked at Ygraine. Her eyes. She knew she was dying.

"My Lady..."

He helped her lie back on the floor and he cradled her head with his hands. The blood was pooled all around them now and causing the wool of his frock to stick to the stone floor.

"My Lady..."

Ygraine looked at him one last time before her eyes went blank and her body went limp.

"Oh, my Lady..."

He rose from the floor, his eyes brimming with tears. He strode over to the window and through watery lenses, saw a long line of Vikings streaming from the Great Wood.

"Oh..."

War drums sounded. He looked down into the courtyard below and saw the peasants of Clarendon lining the ramparts to get a better view of the Vikings. There was worry in all their voices and several women began screaming.

He spotted three men grappling with the chains that operated the drawbridge - trying in vain to raise it up - but to no avail. Morcant had either sabotaged them or they didn't know how to use them. Either way, the castle would soon be filled with Vikings. An hour. Half an hour. Maybe less.

His thoughts returned to Ygraine.

My poor queen.

Tyrion.

Suddenly realizing the great danger the infant heir to the throne was in, he hurried from the room.

He had to find Winifred.

The castle is in chaos.

People yelling and screaming. Women running around frantically trying to grab hold of their children amidst the chaos. Men, in teams of three and four, handing out spears and swords and pitchforks and butchers' knives to every boy and man they see. Livestock and chickens running to and fro, bleating and clucking. Complete disorganization.

"SILENCE!"

Anwir, standing outside the gates alongside Erik the Bald and surrounded by Viking foot soldiers, looked up at the Carthalians assembled on the ramparts.

"What do you want?" a broad shouldered peasant called down.

"A happy conclusion to this unfortunate business."

The Vikings didn't understand a word, but several among them grinned. Toothless grins.

They resembled dogs licking their chops. Impatient to claim their prize. Booty. Women. Treasure. Good food.

"We are four hundred," Anwir continued, opening a hand and waving it at the rows of Vikings standing behind him. "Four hundred Vikings. I know your king is away."

"TRAITOR!" one toothless, middle-aged woman yelled from another section of the rampart.

She pointed a finger at him.

"TRAITOR!"

Anwir shrugged and smiled apologetically.

"Your king is the traitor. He has betrayed his people. Where is he? Why is he not here? He should be defending you. No?"

As he spoke, the priest scanned the ramparts for Morcant. There was no sign of him.

"Your brave Knights of the Order. They aren't here either."

There were nervous murmurs and several grumblings from the peasants and courtiers amassed along the ramparts.

Anwir smiled. He was sowing doubt and discontent.

"Why should you have to suffer because of their incompetence? Open the gates and we shall enter peacefully. Leave them closed, and we shall break them down and things will be rather unpleasant for you all afterwards."

"We will never surrender!' cried a gangly teenager.

All eyes were on him as he hurled a heavy stone directly at Anwir.

The priest moved his head as the projectile whistled past and struck a Viking square in the face.

"ARRRRRGGGGHHHHH!"

The Viking pounded his shield with his axe and the war drums began to beat once more.

"As you can see," Anwir said irritably, "these men are like bees. Anger them, and they shall sting you. Open the gates and let us enter without resistance, and you shall not be harmed."

"Winifred! Winifred!"

Copernicus. Hair disheveled. Eyes wild. Hands shaking.

"Winifred!"

She hadn't been in the maid's quarters. She hadn't been in the kitchen. She had better be in the laundry.

"Winifred!"

The old man reached the bottom of the stairs and shuffled through the doorway.

Rebecca was washing linen, on her knees, hunched over a large metal basin full of steaming hot water.

"Rebecca! Have you seen Winifred? Where's Winifred?"

The young maid stared at him. She seemed annoyed.

"She's around. Why? What's the matter? You look as though you've seen a ghost."

"What's all this shouting? Who's shouting my name?"

Copernicus whirled around and found himself face-to-face with the older of the two maids. She stood there, blinking, wiping her hands on a dish towel.

"Oh, Winifred! Quickly!"

He seized her by the arm and pushed her back towards the doorway through which she'd just come.

"There's no time to lose! Where's Master Tyrion? Is he in the nursery?"

Winifred looked perturbed and she swatted Copernicus' bony arm away.

"Yes, he is. Now what are you raving about? What's gotten into you, Copernicus?"

The old man shook his head, wheezing. He'd worked himself up into a proper sweat.

"There's...no time to explain...Vikings...they're coming. This very minute."

"Vikings?"

"Vikings!?"

Rebecca rose to her feet, her eyes displaying her fear.

"Yes," he answered, glancing at both of them. "Vikings...please. Winifred," he said, turning back to the older of the two maids, "you need to take Master Tyrion...take him far away from the castle...take him somewhere safe."

He began to push her towards the doorway.

"Now, hold on just a minute!"

The maid planted her feet firmly on the floor and Copernicus could push her no further.

"What's the meaning of all this? And why are you acting like a crazy person?"

"Winifred. Listen to me," said Copernicus, his voice unsteady now as tears filled his eyes, "Ygraine is...dead."

The maid looked at him, practically cross-eyed. "Dead? Ygraine?"

"Yes."

The woman's hand flew to her mouth.

"Oh...oh my! No! How?"

"No..."

Copernicus nodded grimly, tears flowing down his wrinkled cheeks, as Rebecca appeared between them.

"She's dead? How? What happened? I don't believe you."

"It was Morcant," he answered, wiping the tears from his face. "He killed her. It was not altogether purposeful...I don't think he meant to harm her when he drew his sword - "

"He drew his sword? On the queen?"

Winifred looked at him in disbelief.

"Yes, and...she tried to, I don't know what...attack him or something...and he struck at her and...he killed her. He got her in the neck...she bled out rather quickly...I don't think it lasted more than a minute."

"But Morcant? He's a Knight of the Order!"

Copernicus shook his head. "Maybe so, but he's been conspiring with the Vikings."

"I always sensed that man was no good," said Rebecca darkly, staring into space.

"Can...can we see her?" asked Winifred, tears streaming down her cheeks.

"There's no time. Really. And it's not a sight you want to see."

Rebecca wrapped her arms around her.

"But - "

Winfred started to protest, but Copernicus cut her off.

"Tyrion's life is in great danger. Do you not understand? We are all in great danger. When the Vikings get here - and believe me, I saw them from the window not a quarter of an hour ago," he explained, glancing from one horrified woman to the other, "one of the first things they'll want to do is find young Master Tyrion and kill him."

"They wouldn't kill an infant...would they?" asked Winifred, clearly appalled.

"Aye. You see, for Vikings, an existing ruler must be deceased before another can replace him. Otherwise, the title of the new ruler is considered illegitimate. If the Vikings are determined to rule Carthal, they must first kill Gryndall and any male heirs. In this case, young Master Tyrion."

"Is Tyrion not safer here at the castle? Can't we fend them off?" asked Rebecca.

"No. The castle is already lost. Morcant, as I told you, has betrayed us. He is one of them and those Vikings may already be at the gates. The king and his knights are on the way - but I can't see them making it in time."

"And so...the castle is lost?"

"I'm afraid so," answered Copernicus gravely. "If not now, then in a matter of minutes."

Winifred moaned and began to rock her head back and forth. "This can't be happening..."

"It is happening, Winifred," said Copernicus, taking her by the shoulders. "Now, please. You need to go and get Tyrion and take him somewhere safe."

Rebecca nodded and gave the older maid's shoulder an encouraging massage.

"Listen to Copernicus, Winifred."

"Do you have somewhere you can take him?" the old man asked, steering her towards the doorway.

The woman nodded, her eyes red and puffy, her nose running. "Aye. To me cousin's...he and his wife live near the marsh...the most gentle people, they are."

"That'll do," said Copernicus, glad that he was finally getting somewhere. "I'm going to the stables to prepare the queen's horse for you, alright?"

Winifred nodded slowly as she stepped through the doorway. They stopped in the corridor as Copernicus turned to Rebecca.

"Rebecca."

"Yes?"

"I want you to get some food together for them. Some biscuits. Some ham. Some milk for the boy. It will be a bit of a journey and I don't want them to suffer any more than necessary. Can you do that?"

"Yes, Copernicus."

"Very well. Off with you then. Winifred, I shall meet you at the stables in five minutes. No more. Run. Alright?"

The maid wiped her eyes, her face growing hard. "Alright."

Winifred is holding baby Tyrion. They're sitting on the queen's horse. Winifred is holding the reins with one hand and baby Tyrion with the other. They're walking through a northern section of the Great Wood. It's growing dark and what little sunlight remains is unable to penetrate the thick tree tops. There is only a trail. Owls hoot in the distance and eyes seem to peer out at them from the dense brush.

"There, there, child. Hush now. Don't cry."

Scared. Eyes wide with fear. Winifred pressed young Tyrion more tightly to her chest.

In the distance, an owl hooted.

The maid glanced up. Tyrion began to whimper.

Her eyes probed the darkness and she switched her gaze from tree to tree, hoping and praying that all the mysterious beasts and creatures of the Great Wood were really only true in fairy tales.

The horse picked its way slowly along the moss-covered trail. She hoped they would reach their destination soon.

Somewhere in the Great Wood. Gryndall and more than eighty riders are thundering along the road. It's only the afternoon, but already the light has gotten dimmer and the air has gotten colder.

Gryndall, Donal, Muirfinn, Conan plus a dozen more knights. Fifty-five militiamen. Twenty men from Brinsley and Lancaster.

All armed with swords and spears and maces and bows and riding hard for Clarendon.

A thousand thoughts swirled through Gryndall's mind.

Were they too late? Had the castle fallen? What had the Vikings done to Ygraine and Tyrion and Lionel and Copernicus?

He didn't want to think about it.

Vikings were notorious for committing foul deeds against women and children.

Pigeons had been sent to every city in Carthal. Even to Lindisfarne.

He'd asked for help. He'd ask for every man and boy over the age of sixteen, capable of using a sword, to descend upon Clarendon and to rid the Carthalian capital of the Viking invaders.

Though none of that would matter if they were already too late...

The Vikings have seized the castle and begun their raping and pillaging. Inside the castle, in the Great Hall, a contingent of Vikings line the walls, chomping happily on roast chicken and pastries and melons. They're watching the scene that's unfolding in the centre of the Hall: Morcant is strapped to a table, surrounded and held down by four large and menacing-looking Vikings. The knight's shirt has been torn open, exposing his chest. He's got fear in his eyes and a look of desperation on his face. Anwir has just removed a hot iron from the stove. (The wood-burning, cast-iron stove sits at the centre of the Great Hall and is used for keeping meals warm during feasts.) Standing a few feet away are Erik the Bald, Lionel, and the two Vikings holding him.

"YOU IDIOT!" Anwir roared as he pressed the scalding hot iron to Morcant's exposed chest.

There came a sizzling sound, followed by the terrible smell of burning flesh.

The knight screamed and began to kick, arms flailing, as the four big Vikings around him tightened their hold on him.

"Your Worship!" Morcant shrieked. "Please! I beg you! I didn't mean to kill her! It was an accident! I swear!"

Anwir shook his head as he placed the tip of the iron back into the stove to reheat.

"Accident or not, you killed the queen and let the maid escape with the child! We have nothing left now to bargain with!"

Morcant shook his head, his eyes dancing in their sockets as he searched the faces of those around him. There had to be someone that could help him plead his case.

"Copernicus! Get Copernicus! He'll tell you! It was an accident!"

Anwir scoffed. "That old man?"

Morcant nodded frantically. "Yes! Yes! Copernicus! Ask him!"

The night looked at Lionel - the only other member of the castle Court present - willing him to do something. But Lionel was frozen with fear and stood, statue-like between his two handlers, looking as though he might faint.

Anwir followed Morcant's gaze and his eyes settled on the young man.

His turn would come.

Lionel gulped. Sweat on his forehead, his face, chalk white.

Anwir returned his attention to Morcant. "That is not an option, I'm afraid."

The iron was ready once more and he pulled it slowly from the red hot embers, his hand swaddled in a strip of fabric to prevent him from being burned.

"Please...no...Anwir...my friend...my master...it was an accident. Please. Use the boy. Use the boy to bargain with - "

"NO!" Anwir roared, his voice echoing through the Great Hall.

Morcant screamed.

"You killed the queen! The child is gone!"

Anwir pressed the hot iron to the knight's exposed flesh a second time.

"Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!"

"They were my bargaining chips! Now I have nothing! You've made this endeavour a thousand times more difficult! Gryndall has no incentive to surrender his crown now!"

He strained as he pressed the iron harder against Morcant's chest and raised his voice to be heard above the knight's screams.

"The old man means little to him. With his wife dead and child gone, he's got nothing to live for. No reason to lay down his arms and surrender. He'll wage war against us!"

The heat from the iron must have dissipated - or Morcant had now grown numb - because he stopped screaming.

"You can pretend, your Worship! You can pretend! Say that the queen is alive! Say that the child is here!"

Anwir was about to strike the man for saying something so foolish, but he stopped himself.

Could something so simple actually work?

He removed the iron and stuck it back into the stove before turning to look at Erik the Bald.

What did he think of the idea?

The Viking jarl shrugged, his expression suggesting he was only mildly amused by Morcant's torture. He'd clearly seen - and probably done - much worse.

The priest let his eyes settle once more on Morcant.

Perhaps the incompetent knight wasn't so useless after all.

He could most certainly tell Gryndall that the queen was still alive and that young Tyrion was with her.

Still, that didn't change the fact that Morcant had completely failed him. Future leaders could not allow such imbeciles to cling to their robes. Not to mention that he sorely would have liked to have seen the look on Ygraine's face when he seized the castle. Now he would never have that chance.

With angry eyes and a stony expression, Anwir removed the iron spike from the stove and raised it above his head. He could hear the Vikings lining the walls of the Great Hall murmuring amongst themselves. Some of them laughed. Others had more serious tones to their voices.

Morcant resumed screaming as he realized what Anwir was about to do. But it didn't last long.

In an instant, the priest brought his arms crashing down and he buried the iron spike into the knight's chest.

Copernicus' study. He's seated at his desk. The late afternoon light streams in through the curtains. There are skulls in the window sill with candles in them, the wicks and wax burned down halfway. There are hundreds of leather bound books lining the shelves and walls. Anwir and Erik the Bald burst in.

"Old man."

Copernicus looked up as Anwir, followed by Erik the Bald, entered his chamber.

"It is my understanding that there are tunnels beneath this castle that bring one to the Great Wood."

Copernicus set down his pen and cleared his throat to conceal his nervousness.

"I'm not sure what you mean."

Anwir bristled and put an arm on the desk, thrusting his face towards Copernicus.

"Don't toy with me, old man. I've treated you well, have I not? I've not harmed you. You are free to sit here in this...chamber of yours," he said, turning his nose up at the sight of all the decaying books and cobwebs.

"But be assured that if you do not cooperate, your privileges will be revoked."

Copernicus felt his conscience weighing on him.

Did he tell Anwir about the tunnels? What if Gryndall planned to use them to gain access to the castle when he arrived? The tunnels would be his best option - if not the only option.

But then, Ygraine was dead and Winifred had taken Tyrion. There was nothing to fight for and entering the castle would be sheer folly with four hundred Vikings milling about. And Anwir planned to tell Gryndall - whenever he arrived - that Ygraine, Tyrion, and Lionel were all well and safe. This would surely make Gryndall try to take back the castle. However, if he did so, the Vikings, with their superior numbers, would surely capture and kill him. The only solution therefore was to warn Gryndall of Anwir's deception.

But the priest had forbade all pigeons from leaving the castle.

He'd already checked the pigeon room in the tower and two large Vikings guarded the front door.

He would have to send a message. Perhaps Aidan, the stable boy. He could send him through the tunnels to the Great Wood to wait for Gryndall. Gryndall would surely arrive by nightfall.

He'd have Aidan tell Gryndall the situation. It would destroy that man to hear that his beloved wife was dead, but it would save him from running headlong into a death trap.

The tunnels would have to remain a secret.

But...then...Anwir would badger (and torture if need be) every member of the Court and every peasant imprisoned within the castle walls until he had the information he wanted. And he would get it. And once he'd gotten it, he would surely seek to take advangate of it.

Refusing to give Anwir the information he wanted, now, would only result in his being thrown in the dungeon - and then he would be of no help to anyone.

He should therefore give Anwir the information, but before the priest got the chance to make use of the tunnels, send Aidan through. Aidan was a fast runner and he could surely make it to the Great Wood and find a place to hide out while waiting for Gryndall.

Anwir's voice brought him rudely back to the present.

"Old man. Your silence suggests to me that there is something you're not telling me. Are there tunnels beneath this castle?"

Copernicus nodded. There was no going back now.

"There are."

He refused to add "your Worship".

The priest didn't seem to mind. Instead, he smiled.

"Oh? And will you show me where they are and tell me where they lead? So that I know you aren't just being clever and trying to get me or my men trapped somewhere."

Copernicus shook his head. "I will."

Anwir stood upright. He looked at Erik the Bald.

"See? That wasn't so hard," he said in Norse. "Once you show the people what you're capable of (he was clearly referring to his treatment of Morcant), they become most helpful. That's something Gryndall never understood," he added in Carthalian, his tone dark, as he returned his attention to Copernicus.

"So where are they then? How do we get to them?"

There were two entrances. He only planned to show Anwir one. The other, he would use to send Aidan to deliver his message to the king.

"In the cellar."

Anwir smiled. "How...inventive."

Copernicus shrugged. "So long as they provide their purpose."

"Which is?"

"They lead to the Great Wood."

Anwir's expression grew thoughtful and Copernicus suddenly wished he could read minds. What was the priest planning?

"Very well. You've been most helpful, old man. Continue to be helpful and you shall continue to live. I see no need to kill you. You are knowledgeable and reasonably intelligent. A good source of information. I'll be watching you closely if and when Gryndall makes his grand appearance. Remain loyan and don't assist him, in any way, and you can live out your days reading and writing and doing whatever else it is that you do," he said, waving a hand at the enormous bookshelf that leaned against the back wall.

"But betray my trust, and you shall share Lionel's fate. Are we understood?"

Copernicus nodded.

As soon as they left he would have to hurry and find Aidan. There was no time to lose.

"I understand, your Worship."

Anwir smiled. "Very well. As you were."

He turned then, ushering Erik the Bald out the door, and Copernicus was once more alone in his chamber.

Still riding through the Great Wood, Winifred is holding Tyrion, whispering into his ear and humming softly to calm herself.

"There, there, little one. Everything's going to be alright. Just a little further. Winifred's got ye."

The maid, still clutching the young prince close to her breast, felt a tear slide down her cheek. She thought of Ygraine.

Poor Ygraine. Poor, poor Ygraine.

Gone. Gone forever.

Another tear slid down her cheek.

How long would it be until she could return to Clarendon with Tyrion?

The trial of Lionel Galbraith, Ygraine's nephew. There's a raised platform in the centre of the courtyard. Lionel is locked in a stockade. Two Vikings stand guard, one on either side. Erik the Bald is seated in a chair a few feet away. Anwir is reading from a sheet of parchment.

"Lionel Galbraith. For breaking the vows you took as a Brother of the Cycliad and for abandoning your monastic community, your brethren, your flock, you are hereby sentenced to death."

Anwir's voice carried across the courtyard, penetrating every nook and cranny, every balcony, every alcove.

Men and women and children. Butchers and blacksmiths and shepherds. Peasants and courtiers. Vikings and Carthalians. There were nearly a thousand people gathered in the courtyard. Seated on hay bales. Hanging from flag staffs. Watching from rooftops.

"Keep moving boy," Copernicus growled. "You don't want to see this."

Aidan, the stable boy, had stopped momentarily to watch the proceedings.

"You don't want to witness any of it. Terrible stuff. Terrible, terrible stuff."

He pushed him forwards, towards the stables where they were headed.

That poor boy, Copernicus thought as they got moving again, past the throngs of the morbidly curious, milling about the courtyard and leaning against every wall, all anxious (and horrified) to see what would happen to the queen's young nephew.

It pained him deeply that he could do nothing. That he was powerless.

If only Gryndall were here...

His dour mood and the crushing guilt weighing on him made him desperate to thwart Anwir's plans to deceive Gryndall.

I may not be able to save the boy, but I can save the king.

They reached the stables a minute later, and squeezing through a line of people, hurried inside.

"Where inside the stables is this entrance to the tunn - "

"Quiet!" Copernicus hissed, checking over his shoulder to make sure none of the people outside had heard.

"This is secret. Keep it that way."

Aidan nodded solemnly and remained quiet as Copernicus lead him towards the last stall inside the stables. There was a hatch in the floor used to store food and supplies and Copernicus pushed the stable boy toward it.

"Through there, boy. Open it."

Aidan shot him a quizzical glance.

Had the old man finally gone off his rocker?

"Open it," Copernicus repeated impatiently.

Without a word, Aidan knelt down and pulled open the heavy hatch in the floorboards.

"Good."

Pushing him aside, Copernicus descended into the darkness, the rickety steps shaking beneath his weight.

The lantern he carried showed the way and he stopped once he'd reached the bottom.

"Come on, boy," he growled, beckoning the stable boy.

Aidan descended and stopped beside him.

Copernicus thrust the lantern at him. "Take this."

Aidan took the lantern and waited patiently for his next instructions.

"Now...where is that switch..." Copernicus mumbled, moving towards the back of the cramped space and searching the wall in front of them.

Switch? A switch to open something? Aidan had never seen a switch in the space before. Just horse feed and buckets and a few spare rakes...

He watched intently as the old man scanned the wall, rubbing his hands over the bricks, probing the recesses with his fingers until finally there came a click and the wall - well - it had been a wall until a second ago - swung open.

He gaped at the opening and took a step towards it, shining the lantern into the darkness.

"There you are, my boy," said Copernicus proudly. "Now I want you to take this water flask and this bag of food," he slipped out of the leather straps around his shoulders and exchanged the two items for the lantern, "and go through the tunnel."

"Wait. What? You want me to go through there?"

"It is not that I simply want you to go through there," said Copernicus impatiently, "it is that you must go through there. Your king needs you. You need to tell him about Anwir's plan to deceive him and that Ygraine has been killed. Tell him Winifred took Tyrion to her cousin's near the marsh. Tell him not to agree to hear Anwir's terms or to anything that man tries to tell him as it will most certainly be a a lie, if not a trap. I want Gryndall to leave. Tell him I told you that he must go to every other city in Carthal and raise an army and return here only when he's got one thousand men behind him."

Aidan nodded, his face growing fearful at all the responsibility being heaped on his bony shoulders.

"I know this is a lot for you, boy, but you're the only one that I trust to get the job done. You're fast. You know the Wood. You need to hurry through the tunnel and as soon as you get to the Great Wood, look for Gryndall. When you find him, tell him that I am alive and well and that I shall send him regular updates on Anwir's activities and about what's going on in the castle. Tell him that I will send these letters via pigeon to the mayor of Darnfell."

Copernicus clapped an old, withered hand over the fourteen year old's shoulder. "Any questions? Do you know what you must do?"

Aidan gulped and nodded.

"Good. Now go - there's no time to waste. Come back as soon as you've found Gryndall and delivered the message. I don't want you getting caught up in any fighting that might occur."

"I shall."

"Off with you then," said Copernicus, pushing him through the doorway and handing him the lantern. "And good luck."

"Thank you."

The boy hurried off down the passageway and when Copernicus could no longer see the light from his lantern bobbing and bouncing off the walls, he turned, closed the door, and made his way back up the rickety set of stairs.

Back outside, he pushed past the people stopped in front of the stable doors. Their horrified expressions suggested Lionel had been executed.

Please let it be over already...

"The head of Lionel Galbraith will be put on a spike - "

Merlin's beard. What kind of animal is this so-called priest?

" - and put on display for all to see. May he serve as an example of what happens when you cross me, Anwir of Lindisfarne, High Priest and now ruler of Carthal."

Several hours later. Anwir is standing on the ramparts, watching the Great Wood - and the clearing that spans the space between the forest and the castle - for Gryndall. He feels somewhat confident and somewhat ill at ease.

"Anwir."

The priest turned to look at Erik the Bald as he waddled along the ramparts towards him."

"Are your men ready?"

The plain that stretched from the castle to the Great Wood was quiet. Calm. Still.

No sign of Gryndall yet.

The sun was slowly sinking behind the mountains. Pale pink light. Streaks of white cloud on a darkening blue sky.

"They're ready. But we need to re-negotiate the terms of our agreement."

Anwir's jaw tightened involuntarily. "What do you mean, re-negotiate the terms of our agreement?"

The fat Viking hocked a lump of snot over the ramparts and wiped his mouth with the back of his sleeve.

"Gryndall is no doubt on his way here with his famous knights. They are going to inflict some heavy damage on my army."

"We discussed this already," replied Anwir tersely. "Weeks ago."

This was the problem with having a boorish, unintelligent brute for an ally.

The jarl nodded passively, shrugged and stared into the distance with a somewhat bored expression on his face.

"Yes. We did. But now I'm telling you, the terms of our agreement need to be re-negotiated."

He was in no position to argue...

He needed the Vikings. But then, he'd given them those three favours. They'd made a great deal of gold.

Didn't they owe him now?

"What about all the gold I gave you?"

Erik the Bald sniffed and picked casually at something on his tunic. He was always doing that. Probably because he was such a slob and would get food all over himself. It annoyed him.

"We did the work, Anwir."

"I gave you those chests of gold! The ones Gryndall gave me. I gave them to you! Every last coin!"

The Viking looked amused. "Two hundred and fifty kroner. That would have bought you fifty men. I've provided you with an army of four hundred."

Anwir frowned. "You're getting the southern cities. Brinsley and Hawthorne. You can reap everything from Carthal and ship it to Vinland. Your trades will boom."

Erik the Bald shrugged. "It's not enough. For what I'm investing. I need more."

The priest stiffened. "How much more?"

"I want the castle."

"No! I...no. I'm get the castle. That was our agreement."

"You are welcome to stay at the castle anytime you like. But it shall be my domain."

His mind reeled. How could this be happening?

Stupid, stupid, stupid, Anwir! This is what you get for dealing with Vikings!

Patience. You're an intelligent man. You'll think of something. Once Gryndall has surrendered his crown and once whatever rebellions that spring up are put down and Carthal has fully capitulated, I can make a move on him.

Anwir glanced surreptitiously at Erik the Bald.

I can slip some poison into his ale. Send a whore to his room to bury a dagger in his back. Pay some peasant lad to push him down a flight of stairs. With Erik the Bald out of the way, the Viking army would disperse. Many of them would return home to Vinland. He was sure of that. Some would stay and take lands for their own. But as long as he got the castle - and held Clarendon - Carthal would be his.

He stole a second glance at Erik the Bald. The Viking's beady eyes were staring right back at him and Anwir knew he was imagining and plotting his death. He turned and set his gaze once more upon the landscape beyond the castle.

He would have to strike first.

Gryndall and his knights. It is late afternoon. Supper hour. Twilight.

"My Lord. We're getting close."

"I'm aware of that, Donal."

"We can't be more than five miles away."

"I realize that."

"Our king knows what he's doing," Dalwynn growled as their armed contingent of riders sped relentlessly forwards, the thunderous sounds of their horses' hooves echoing through the trees.

Donal ignored the larger knight's remark.

"My Lord," he continued, "they may be expecting us. Everything else has been so calculated. They could easily be planning an ambush. And bottlenecked here on this road, we'd be cut down like dogs."

"Oh, would you shut your mouth already!" Dalwynn complained.

"No," said Gryndall. "Donal's right. The Vikings could be planning an ambush."

He slowed his horse and the others followed suit.

"Muirfinn! Conan! Junius!"

"Yes, my Lord?"

"Yes, my Lord."

"Here, my Lord."

At the sound of their names, the three knights drew up alongside Gryndall, Dalwynn, and Donal.

"You'll come with us to scout out the final stretch," said Gryndall. "The rest of you," he said, turning to face the rear guard. "Stop here. Prepare your weapons. Prepare your armour. We don't know what awaits us ahead. Wait here and if you hear my horn, charge."

"Aye, aye, my Lord."

"Yes, my Lord."

Similar replies came from the eighty-man column of knights, militiamen and volunteers.

"Very well."

Turning his horse back around, Gryndall cracked his reins - gently - and he and the knights surrounding him set off at a brisk trot.

Donal drew his bow and notched two arrows. Dalwynn pulled his sword from its sheath. The weapon made a metallic, sliding sound and it gleamed in the light from Junius' torch.

The others, Gryndall included, scanned the trees for signs of Vikings.

"It'll be pitch black in a half an hour," Donal whispered. "Not the best time to launch an attack."

"That depends, I guess," Gryndall countered. "We need to exploit every advantage we can. Low light means less visibility for them as well."

"Quite right. Kill that torch, Junius."

"Yes, my Lord."

The knight wrapped a corner of his cloak over the head of the torch, extinguishing the flame.

Their horses trotted on silently, with purpose, seeming almost to sense from the urgency in their riders' voices that trouble might lie ahead.

"I still can't believe that Vikings might have seized the castle. They're completely stupid in land warfare and to orchestrate such a careful operation..." Donal's voice trailed off as they rounded a bend in the road.

He knew it was just two miles now to the edge of the Great Wood. Soon, the castle would come into view.

"My Lord, do you think perhaps - "

The loud and sudden snap of a branch echoed throughout the forest and all six of them yanked on their horses' reins.

"PROTECT THE KING!" Dalwynn roared as his horse reared ups on its hind legs, his booming voice oddly out of place to the silent, darkening forest.

"WHO GOES THERE? SHOW YOURSELVES!"

Gryndall reached for the horn around his neck and was about to put it to his lips when Aidan stumbled out from the trees and onto the road.

"Aidan! Damn it, boy!" Just what do you think you're playing at!? Do you know there are Vikings about!?"

Six angry faces glared down at the boy.

"My Lord...I'm sorry...I'm really sorry, but Copernicus - "

"What's happened?" Gryndall snapped. "Is he alright?"

Aidan nodded solemnly. "He's fine. He sent me to warn you. Anwir. The priest. He's going to deceive you. Do not believe him. Do not agree to whatever terms he - "

"Wait, wait, wait. Hold on a minute. Anwir? The High Priest of Lindisfarne?"

The boy nodded quickly and the men exchanged curious glances.

"I don't believe. What's he got to do with it?"

"He's one of them, my Lord. He's allied with the Vikings."

"That whoreson."

Dalwynn spat.

Grnydall looked horrified.

"Anwir..."

"And...there's more, my Lord."

"Go on."

The boy was shaking now, unsure how to proceed.

"Have they taken the castle?"

"They have."

"And how many are there? How many men have they got?"

"At least four hundred, my Lord."

"Four hundred? Blimey!"

"Four hundred..."

Aidan nodded, swallowing nervously as he looked up at them.

"Very well," said Gryndall severely. "And what of the others? My wife? Tyrion? How are they?"

The stable boy looked at the king with fear.

"Go on. What's the matter?"

All eyes were on him now. Probing. Staring. Waiting.

"Your wife...she's...she's dead, my Lord."

The silence that followed was palpable. No one spoke. Not a word. Gryndall opened his visor and removed his helmet. He let it drop to the ground.

"My Lord," said Donal, reaching out to touch his king on the shoulder.

He knew Gryndall. He knew what effect such news would have on him.

"My Lord!" he repeated, louder and more frantically this time.

Gryndall ignored his knight. "And my son? How is he? Is he dead as well?"

He dropped from his horse and landed firmly on the ground. His face wore a vacant expression.

Aidan shook his head quickly, happy that he could give the king some good news. "No, my Lord. Winifred took him to her relations near the marsh."

"My Lord," Donal interrupted. "Please, boy, don't say anymore. He's heard enough. Dalwynn, grab his horse."

"You grab his horse."

Donal gave the larger knight a look of exasperation and took hold of the reins of the king's white stallion.

"My Lord. Please. Get on your horse. There could be trouble - "

He stopped speaking at the sound of voices from up ahead. It was a foreign tongue. The words were incomprehensible.

"But my wife..." said Gryndall slowly as he trudged slowly towards Aidan, "...she's...dead?"

Aidan nodded, backing away as the king approached him, zombie-like and dspondent. He'd never seen him behave this way before and it frightened him.

The voices in the distance were growing steadily in number and in volume. They sounded upbeat and boisterous. Chatty and energetic, the occasional barking laugh standing out from among them. Accompanying the sound was a steady clink-clink of metal.

"What in the name...?"

Muirfinn spurred his horse forwards.

"MUIRFINN!" Donal shouted as the knight disappeared around another bend in the road.

Donal's shouting seemed to catch Gryndall's attention and shake him, somewhat, from his stupor.

The king turned and looked at his knights. They were almost invisible now, the darkness having enclosed them within the past quarter of an hour, and Gryndall could hardly make out their faces.

Meanwhile, the voices coming from the road ahead, had stopped.

But then, all of a sudden: "VIKINGS!"

"Damn it."

The screeching of swords being drawn. The sound of visors being snapped shut. Horses whinnying.

"VIKINGS!"

Muirfinn's second outburst seemed to spur the king into action. Drawing his sword, his jaw set in firm concentration, Gryndall took off running in the direction from which Muirfinn's voice had come.

"MY LORD!" Donal roared after him.

Gryndall flew forwards, headlong, running hard.

"MY LORD! WAIT! WAIT FOR THE REAR GUARD!"

Desperate, Donal turned to Junius.

"Junius! Sound your horn! MY LORD!"

Junius sounded three loud blasts with his horn as Donal raced after the king.

Fifty - if not more - Vikings. On the road. In plain view. Less than a hundred yards between them.

"VIKINGS!"

Three more loud blasts from Junius' horn.

"MY LORD! WAIT FOR THE REAR GUARD! MY LORD!"

"Aidan!" Dalwynn snapped. "Away with you! Find somewhere safe!"

The stable boy nodded and took off running as Dalwynn cracked his reins and raced after Donal.

"VIKINGS!"

"MY LORD!"

The sound of war drums. Armour. Swords. Arrows being notched.

"Whoresons! Get out of Carthal!"

"MY LORD!"

Donal pleaded with the king to stop. To turn around. To wait for the rear guard. But it was to no avail and Gryndall hit their front men full on, racing hard, thrusting his sword into whatever body he could find.

"MY LORD! MUIRFINN! PROTECT THE KING!"

Muirfinn was already there. Donal arrived a second later. Dalwynn was quickly catching up. As was Junius.

They slashed and hacked and blocked the vicious swipes from the Vikings' axes and shields raining down on Gryndall.

It wasn't enough.

"MY LORD!"

"ARGGGGGGHHHH!"

Donal hacked off the head of one Viking and jabbed an arrow into the exposed face of another.

Man after man rushed forwards, the Vikings forming a wave of solid iron and muscle and ramming them backwards.

"MY LORD!"

Chaos now as the rear guard arrived and smashed into the Vikings. Battle cries all around. The screams and gutteral gasps of men dying. Heads splitting. Bellies spilling And all the while, Donal and Dalwynn sandwiched in the middle and searching in vain for Gryndall who had been swallowed up by the angry horde surrounding them.

"MY LORD!"

Swords swinging through the air. Horses braying. Hooves flying. Shields battering. Blood gushing. Bodies falling.

"MY LORD!"

"Donal..."

The voice was faint, but nonetheless audible.

"MY LORD! DALWYNN! HE'S HERE!"

Firm hands gripped the king as the knights closed in around him and battled the the remaining Vikings back.

"My Lord..."

A long gash on his cheek. Another on his shoulder. An oozing, open wound at his side. An axe buried in his right thigh.

"My Lord..."

"QUICKLY! GET HIM OVER THERE!" Donal bellowed, pointing to a spot beside the road.

The battle was moving away from them now as the Carthalian riders corralled the Vikings and pushed them back down the road, away from the king.

"QUICKLY!"

Dalwynn dropped his sword and shield and hoisted the king onto one massive shoulder.

"Over there! We can work on him over there!"

Donal was already opening the pouch in his saddle bag that contained yarrow and Angelica Archangelica \- two potent, medicinal herbs.

They reached the edge of the road and Dalwynn laid the king down gently against a large oak tree as Donal set to work.

"Here, my Lord! I've got ye! Stay with us, my Lord!"

Gryndall muttered something unintelligible.

"What was that?"

He coughed. Blood flowed from his lips.

Donal made a sound with his mouth and wiped the blood from Gryndall's lips.

"My son..." he said weakly. "Find him...raise him...teach him...take back...the throne..."

"I'm sorry, my Lord. I can't hear ye properly. Just a second. Please. Hold on, I've got ye."

Dalwynn steadying the king's head as Donal ripped desperately at the gauze in his hand and began stuffing and wrapping Gryndall's wounds.

"Stay with us, my Lord," said Dalwynn anxiously.

"My son...teach him...he will...win back...the throne...help him..."

"STAY WITH US! MY LORD!"

He was losing consciousness. His breathing was growing more laboured.

"Kill them all...avenge my wife...free our people...find my son...those...your...final orders...men..."

The light left Gryndall's eyes then and Dalwynn released his head, letting it fall comfortably onto his chest.

Tears flowed down Dalwynn's cheeks as he gripped the king's hand and bowed before him. Donal felt his cheeks grow hot. He didn't want to cry. He was a grown man. He stood up and turned away, unable to bear the sight any longer.

He breathed out through his nose.

In. Out.

Deep breaths.

As the pounding in his chest subsided and air filled his lungs once more, the knight relaxed and let the calm of the blackness and the twinkling stars above and the towering, darkened trees all around, envelop him.

They would avenge the queen. They would find Tyrion. They would free Carthal.

The End

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Originally from Saskatoon, Saskatchewan, Adrien Leduc makes his home in Ottawa with his fiancée and their two crazy cats. He is a graduate of Carleton University (BA '10) and is passionate about Canadian history. An avid reader and writer, Adrien hopes to write and publish many more books in his lifetime.

Be sure to check out Adrien's other e-book titles, available in a all e-book formats from all on-line e-book retailers and distributors: A Place To Call Home, The Dumnonian Hoard, The Good Servant, Godfrey: Book One, Godfrey: Book Two, Back To The Bronze Age, Dreams Of Andalusia: Three Short Stories, and The Lady Of The Lighthouse.

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