sun had begun to sink, and soon the small abbey bell would ring, calling the brothers in for their evening meal.
There in the distance, Offyd worked near Garth, and beyond them Brother Neot instructed a group of other monks.
Offyd was breaking up the earth, and his wooden mattock sent up sprays of dirt, while Garth’s hoe barely dented the soil.
“God’s blessing, Offyd,” Dybris called. “How is the planting today?”
“Fine … if you count blows to the ground.” He glanced at Garth. “Poor … if you count the earth we’ve broken up.”
Garth glared at Offyd but said nothing.
Dybris sat down on a hump of earth about ten yards from them and called out, “Garth, come sit with me a bit.”
Garth dropped his hoe and approached Dybris, a downcast scowl on his face.
“Might as well give him the rest of the evening off,” Offyd called.
“Peace,” Dybris said, “this won’t take long.”
Garth sat, clamped his jaw, and squirmed his shoulders to keep Dybris’s arm off.
Withdrawing his arm, Dybris selected a stalk of grass and began breaking it into tiny pieces. He didn’t look at Garth. “I came to speak to you about your bagpipe.”
“Do you have to sell it?”
Dybris closed his eyes for a moment. “You know why.”
The boy picked up a clod of dirt and flung it far out into the field. “All I know is I hate you an’ I hate Tregeagle. Get yer gold another way.”
“From where?” Dybris asked. “This abbey isn’t rich. If we have another bad harvest, we’ll barely make it through the winter. I checked our stores in the cave just yesterday, and there’s almost nothing left.”
“You can’t have me bagpipe!” Garth raised his fists and threatened to pound Dybris’s shoulder.
Dybris covered each of Garth’s fists with a hand and gently pushed them down. “It’s already gone.”
“G-gone? You f-found it?”
“Sold. A week ago. A traveling merchant bought it.”
Garth’s shoulders slumped, and his voice cracked. “Got nothin’ now.”
“I know it seems hard, but God can see you through.”
“Me father’s buried in the sea, and now his bagpipe’s gone too. Got nothin’.” He scrambled to his feet and stood with his back to Dybris.
Dybris rose as well. “I’m sorry.”
“It was my only anchor! An’ now I got nothin’ to hold on to.” Garth stuck his hand into a bag hanging from his belt and fumbled inside. “Almost nothin’,” he mumbled.
“You still have your memories of your father. And when you’re older, I’ll help you buy another bagpipe.”
Garth turned and yelled at him, “Not the same! … Sellin’ me as a galley slave would o’ been better!”
“Garth —” Dybris began, but the sound of feet thumping in the distance interrupted him. They both turned. Dybris’s stomach tightened. A great mob of men — maybe a hundred or more — marched up the hill from the river valley.
With a racing heart, Dybris stepped forward, looking for weapons, but spotted just a few knives and small hatchets hanging from their belts. Most of the men carried dried wood, as if they planned to make a bonfire somewhere.
If they weren’t a war band, then who were they?
One man set the pace, and behind him seven men in green robes advanced in a circular formation. Each carried a short pole looped through the edge of a stitched leather tarp, which bore something large hanging in the middle.
The bearded leader of the group strode forward on long legs, his black and gray hair blowing in the wind. He wore a green linen robe that matched the others’, yet with dark leather cuffs and a blue-lined hood. He carried an etched staff with a flashing gem on top.
The other monks gathered behind Dybris and Garth as the group marched closer. When the leader passed, he no more than glanced at most of the monks, yet when his gaze landed on Garth, it seemed to linger. Had Dybris imagined it, or had he seen a glint of recognition?
Dybris looked down in time to see the boy pull from his bag a small, shiny black crystal of tin ore — the kind they mined in the area, and then crushed and smelted. Garth held tightly to this, but his gaze brought Dybris’s attention back to the strange men. Many of their knives were made of brass and curved slightly, the leader’s the largest. Sickle knives. He examined the men closely. Their arms and legs had been scarred with blue tattoos. The word was on his tongue when he heard it murmured by the monks behind him.
“Druidow.”
“Explains the smoke