floor up there, I am told, but the stairs have all rotted away.”
Uther, suddenly hungry, closed the tent flap despite his curiosity. He had no time for such mysteries. There was a rebellion to deal with, and he needed food.
“Fire and meat!” he called. “Colvarth, where is my venison?”
Garth couldn’t believe the druid wives were making him pluck chickens. Clean this. Pluck that. Chop these. Bring more wood. Always more wood!
It wouldn’t be half bad if they’d let him sneak a bite here and there. But after his second scolding, they refused to allow him near the roasting meat unsupervised again. Even Brother Loyt back at the abbey used to give him treats here and there.
“Stop yer dreamin’,” a greasy-mantled woman shouted at him as she plopped two more scalded chickens in the dirt. “Keep on pluckin’, or yer next meal will be a plate o’ piney cones!”
Garth sighed.
With a loud thunderclap, it started raining again. Muttering, Garth got up, pushed his bench farther underneath the pine tree and clopped it against the trunk. After retrieving the half-plucked chicken and the two new ones, he sat down again.
Two men interrupted his grumblings as they walked down the side of the tree-shaded hillside about three stone throws away. They had come from the circle, and Garth recognized Mórganthu on the left.
Ah, that’ll be my way out o’ this miserable feather tuggin’. The druid wives won’t dare yell at me while standin’ next to the arch druid. In his excitement Garth jumped up and poked his eye on a pine needle. He stifled a yell lest he attract the attention of one of the women, and rubbed his lid as he fell back to the bench. When he could see again, he looked out at the two figures talking in the distance.
Garth froze. The other figure was one of the monks! The brother stood with his back to Garth and had his hood up, making it impossible to tell who it was. But why was a monk talking with Mórganthu? Good thing Garth had been smart enough not to embarrass himself. The last thing he wanted was to talk to one of those bagpipe-stealing … Well, maybe he’d make an exception if it was Brother Loyt coming to bring him some steaming, buttered, and oh-so-perfect bannocks.
Better yet would be old Kyallna shuffling over with a steaming pot of her glorious soup. Then he wouldn’t have to bother with those monks at all. He needed to visit her house again soon. Real soon. Garth’s stomach gurgled as he picked up the chicken and slowly started plucking again.
Mórganthu and the monk conferred for quite awhile. Then the arch druid gave something to the monk, one of those bronze tubes with a wooden stopper. Just like the tube of oil Dybris used to anoint people. Didn’t the monk have his own oil?
And come to think of it, this monk was really tall. In fact, half a head taller than Mórganthu. Not like any monk I know. An’ why is there a strange bulge on his back? Looks almost like he’s hidin’ something under his cowl.
Soon they parted. Mórganthu walked back toward the circle of stones as the monk ran northward along the ridge.
But the abbey and village weren’t that way.
“Have them chickens cleaned?” The druid wife startled him. She bent down and snickered. He hadn’t even finished the first. “No midmeal for you,” she said as she stomped off. “What a lazy louse. No parents and won’t work a lick!”
Garth almost started crying, but he bit his lip instead.
“How much time has passed?” Crogen demanded as he closed the door to the chapel.
“Not long, Abbot. Two hours at most.”
“Two hours, Neot! Do you know what this means?”
Neot wrung his hands. “I know exactly. Herrik never came back with us from the meeting with the High King.”
“How could you have missed him?” Crogen said. “I know I’ve been visiting Troslam — and Dybris took off after Owain — but can’t you count, man?”
“I realized too late while preparing our meal at the chapel. Herrik could be anywhere.”
“But he was the one caught drawing the Stone!” Crogen beat his chest. “Oh, Jesu, forgive me, for I shouldn’t have taken him to the village green while the Stone was still there.”
“He’s been dragged away by his heart, and his blood will be on his own head.”
Crogen collapsed to a bench. “Oh, Neot, what have I done?”