the scarred and tattooed flesh underneath.
“You are wondering … why I hadn’t told you?” Prontwon asked.
“Yes.”
“All the brothers know, but I needed to discern your spirit and was waiting for the right time.”
“Tell me now.”
“The youngest son of a farmer, I despised my father’s simple ways. I … wanted to see the world. How foolish.” Prontwon studied the distant reaches of the thatched ceiling. “I met Mórganthu’s older brother, Mogruith. He taught me, and I … became a druid. Gave my all, I did.”
“How old were you?”
Prontwon thought for a moment and then spoke with labored breath. “Seventeen winters. Mogruith in his late twenties. Missionaries came from Padraig and … brought Christianity. I hated Jesu because … the people turned away from us. They neither needed our protection from witches … nor our gods and holy days. Christianity was too simple … or so I thought. How could there be only … one God? How could there be no more need for … sacrifice? How could water wash away … guilt?”
Dybris wiped sweat from Prontwon’s forehead. “As many thought.”
“Oh, but I was … naive. Thought I held the secrets of the ages when I … didn’t even understand to ask the right questions.” A tear streaked across his face. “Then my poor mother grew sick.” He swallowed. “She was dying … as I am now.”
“No, you’re not. Rest a few days.”
Prontwon wiped his tears and shook his head. “I tried my druid arts to heal her … but she only ailed the more. My father told me in his simple way … I should call on the Christian God. Oh, I laughed in his face. But as my mother … fell into death-sleep, I wept.” He smiled now as the tears streamed down. “There, with Father’s arm around me … I prayed to Jesu, and told him I’d … follow him if he would heal my mother.”
“Was she healed?”
“No. She died that hour. But beforehand … she opened her eyes, reached to the heavens, and — with the most pure joy on her face — called, ‘Jesu, I come to you!’ My father, he told me … about the monk, Guron, who brought the true worship … of the Lamb to the moor and founded our western abbey. After my time of … grieving, I went to Guron. Mogruith never saw me again.”
Dybris studied the old man’s eyes. “Why have you hidden the druid scars from me? From the people of the village?”
“Ashamed … of my past, mostly.” Prontwon shook his head. “Even afraid … of leading astray. Were any more from the abbey deceived last night?”
Standing up, Dybris gave Prontwon as reassuring a look as he could. “None! None of the brothers followed Mórganthu. Just Garth.”
“It is … sufficient, we will pray.”
The door to the chapel opened, and Brother Offyd stepped in. “A word with you, Dybricius.” His face was ashen.
Dybris tried to let go of Prontwon’s hand, but the older man gripped his wrist. “Don’t leave me … alone.”
“Only for a moment. Brother Offyd needs to speak with me.”
“Ahh …” Prontwon let go.
Dybris followed Offyd outside and closed the creaky door. “What is it? You look sick.”
“It’s Brother Herrik. Crogen had just arrived at the abbey when he found Brother Herrik in the scriptorium.”
“And what? Doesn’t Crogen want us working on the parchments?”
“That’s just it. He wasn’t copying Scripture. He was drawing a … a diagram of sorts.”
“A diagram of what? Speak plainly.”
“Of the Stone. The Druid Stone. He was drawing it.”
Dybris shut his eyes tightly. “Dear God, give us strength.”
Merlin heard the slashing of the sword as it whirled dangerously near. He pushed Natalenya behind him and faced the madman.
“What do you want of us?” Merlin demanded.
The man did not speak but swung his sword in another arc. This time it swept a rush of air past Merlin’s cheek.
With a loud, vibrating jolt, the sword jammed into the wood between Merlin’s feet.
“He’s bowing,” Natalenya whispered.
The man’s damp hair smelled like wet peat. With his heart pounding, Merlin asked, “Are you Muscarvel of the marsh?”
“I am that I was. Thy glucking servant, scarred one. I am poor Musca, now old and frail, but this fish longs to bite the fetid trunks, does he not?”
“What would you have? Do you need food? Coins?” Merlin reached for his bag and pulled out a few brass ones. He held them out.
The man slapped Merlin’s hand, and the coins plinked into the water.
“Need not the janglings of men!” Muscarvel shouted. “Marsh feeds