More Things In Heaven and Earth

By C.R.L. Porcelli

Glory Pax-Avis knows that strangers are dangerous. Strangers believe shape-shifters are witches. But there are no strangers in Glory’s life. The Last Druid cast shielding spells over Glory’s valley as he left to join the migrating Celts. Six hundred years later, the year is 1135. The place is the Border of England/Scotland where creatures of legend still roam the land.

Glory and her clan are Celtic shape-shifters. They have the magic ability to become birds. The ability to shape-shift was venerated by the Celts. However, most Celts have, over the centuries, drifted away to the furthest reaches of the island. Some brave souls remained in secret valleys and deep dark forests where conquerors were loath to go. In these secret locales, they were ignored as long as they kept to themselves and hid their beliefs — Twelfth Century “Don’t ask. Don’t tell.”

Glory’s life is ideal. She passed her 18th birthday without her father marrying her off to anyone. She doesn’t have suitors and she doesn’t want them. She‘s old enough to make some decisions for herself, and she has no husband to get in her way. Then her father dies. Suddenly, Glory is left with the responsibility of protecting her clan from discovery and from a neighbor who is trying to use witchcraft to take over her valley.

Who can she turn to for help?

Sir Huckelbard de Clermont, a war-weary Norman Knight, is the Captain of the Guard in the court of King Henry. Though not old in years he is tired of life at the court. The courtiers are disingenuous and greedy. Their ambition kills their humanity over time. The women are beautiful but jaded. Beneath their surface, every woman he knows wants him for his closeness to King Henry, not for himself. Even the battles his whole life has him trained for now seem tedious. Woven into Sir Huk’s Norman blood and his Mother’s Anglo-Saxon and Briton heritage are the wisps of forgotten Celtic ancestors. With his odd second-in-command, Sir Morph, Sir Huk is sent to Glory’s aid.

Do these strangers hold Glory’s clan’s survival in their hands?

Or ... if she trusts them will it lead to her clan’s ruin?

What an inconvenient time for romance.

• Language: English
• Publisher: C.R.L. Porcelli
• Release date: Dec 5, 2012
• ISBN: 9780615696560

C.R.L. Porcelli

C.R.L Porcelli graduated from Whatsamatta University and received a doctorate in Life from The School of Hardknocks. The author’s interest in history was awakened by Sherman, Mr. Peabody and the Way Back Machine. The philosophy of life the author holds dear is somewhere between The Arrow That Is Not Aimed and A Spoonful of Sugar Makes The Medicine Go Down.

Book preview

Acknowledgements

My first book is the culmination of the decades of my life and thoughts to this moment. As such, the people whose influence was my inspiration are too numerous to list. So, let me thank anyone who entered my sphere with a loving intent. You all helped shape me into the person I am and therefore are represented in the story between these covers. A special prayer of Thanks goes to the Benevolent Being whose omnipotence placed these people in my path.

Thank you to my family whose support is never wavering.

At the last hour, helping me through the puzzling process of publication, I want to thank my publisher Shelley Glasow Schadowsky and my editor Rea Myers. Their patience was phenomenal. Without their aid this book would never have been known to anyone but me.

Table of Contents

Acknowledgements

Prologue

Chapter I

Chapter II

Chapter III

Chapter IV

Chapter V

Chapter VI

Chapter VII

Chapter VIII

Chapter IX

Chapter X

Chapter XI

Chapter XII

Chapter XIII

Chapter XIV

Chapter XV

Chapter XVI

Chapter XVII

Chapter XVIII

Chapter XIX

Chapter XX

Chapter XXI

Chapter XXII

Chapter XXIII

Chapter XXIV

Chapter XXV

Chapter XXVI

Chapter XXVII

Chapter XXVIII

Chapter XXIX

Chapter XXX

Chapter XXXI

Chapter XXXII

Chapter XXXIII

Chapter XXXIV

Chapter XXXV

Chapter XXXVI

Chapter XXXVII

Chapter XXXVIII

Chapter XXXIX

Chapter XL

Chapter XLI

Chapter XLII

Chapter XLIII

Chapter XLIV

Chapter XLV

Chapter XLV1

Chapter XLVII

Chapter XLVIII

Chapter XLIX

Chapter L

Author's Note

Glossary

About the Author

Prologue

In 1135 history was much shorter than it is now…

There is an area on the Island of Britain that has, at various times in its history, been both northern England and southern Scotland. It is called simply: The Borders.

No matter which sovereign officially ruled the area at any given time, the Highland Scots consider the border people more English than Scottish. Englishmen anywhere to the south see the Borders as home to people too wild to ever be called English.

The people of this land, which alternates between being orphaned or coveted by all, have developed a unique sense of self-possession. They live much of their lives in a split universe. In public they live under a changing official authority, in private — beyond prying eyes and wagging tongues — they follow their individual hearts and accept others’ rights to do the same. Survival in the borderlands depends on appearances. Border people learn to play the game. They know that things are seldom what they appear to be.

Before Christianity became the official religion of the Roman Empire, the Celts and their Druids lived in much of what is now called Western Europe. Julius Caesar and his legions drove the Celts from Gaul to Britain and followed them across the Channel.

The Romans’ religion and their civil government worked together to subjugate the conquered. The Celtic Druids were a threat to Roman Supremacy. As such, extermination of the Druid class was a priority. It soon became evident that the Celtic peoples were independent souls not given to submission. The Romans could not allow the subversive nature of the Druids’ influence to continue. The Druids and their influence were driven north and west ahead of the invading legions. When the legions reached their farthest reaches, they built defensive earthworks and manned them with a minimum number of guards. This wall would be the final expression of the Roman presence in Britain. Beyond it where the Celts gathered, Roman civilization and Christian beliefs found little acceptance. Being a pragmatic people, once the Romans determined that Hadrian’s Wall would be the border of their Empire, they judiciously ignored what happened beyond it to the north. The Border area became a land of secrets. Everyone knew Celtic lands were mysterious and full of sprites, ghosts, ghoulies, and Druids.

The centuries passed, and Druids flourished in what would become Scotland until the days of St. Patrick and St. Columba.

Christianity spread through what was once the Roman Empire. These Christians had a mission beyond that of the Roman Empire. They accepted no boundary to their expansion, and this time around the Druids were seen as blocking the path to the one true God.

Despite what is written by Christian clerics in historic annals, no invasion or conversion is immediately successful everywhere. Though in jeopardy, the Druids secreted themselves into the most obscure areas north of Hadrian’s Wall. Again the centuries passed, and most of the Druids drifted farther from the wall into Wales and Ireland. There were some brave souls, who with the same tenacity as seen in Christian missionaries, held to the Old Religion in the face of the growing acceptance and pervasion of the New Religion.

History progressed. Fewer and fewer Druids existed.

The final and almost fatal blow came with the invasion of the Normans in 1066 AD. It was not only William the Conqueror’s knights that were victorious at Hastings that October but also a new uncompromising form of Christianity — a Christianity that saw itself not as a religion or even the best religion but as the only true religion. And so, holy narrow-mindedness and sanctimony almost succeeded where armed insurgency and persuasive missioning had failed.

In these years the Normans flexed their power in chaotic surges of invasion into Scotland. As always the border people kept their Celtic beliefs to themselves. In the dark of night, the occupiers stayed in their castles or gathered around their campfires hugging their swords; the night belonged to the Celts and their Druids. The Norman conquerors believed they had decimated the Druids. They believed they had converted the Celts. As long as they believed that, the last remaining Druids were left alone.

This unspoken agreement in which the Celts didn’t flaunt their beliefs and the Norman occupiers didn’t give credence to things that go bump in the night worked well: the blind could refuse to see. And so, years and years went by when Norman believers disregarded the Celtic beliefs in spirits and sacred oaks, and the Celts put on Norman masks for outsiders and let them think they believed their goddesses were now saints. There were some who lost their way in this play acting. Celts who forgot the old beliefs and began to see them as quaint folklore of an unsophisticated people. These Celts became indistinguishable from the outsiders. But skepticism cannot change the truth. What is, is, whether we believe it or not.

The Druids disappeared.

But they did not die.

From that time forth, no one would any longer venture into the forest, and it lay there in deep stillness and solitude, and nothing was seen of it, but sometimes an eagle or a hawk flying over it. This lasted for many years.

––Iron Hans

…Or so the Normans, the invader-occupier-newcomers of less than a century thought.

Horatio: O day and night, but this is wondrous strange!

Hamlet: And therefore as a stranger give it welcome. There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, than are dreamt of in your philosophy.

––Hamlet Act I, Scene 5, 164-169

CHAPTER I

Scottish-English Borderlands

Anno Domini 1135

Nature grieved Willum Pax-Avis. Mourning clouds shrouded the valley. Drizzle beaded the coffin tracking tears down its sides, sides rubbed with warm beeswax; the Laird was loved. Glory marched through the bleakness, the cumha bagpipe dirge droning in her ears, following her father’s casket. Frost wet her feet through her slippers, slippers too thin for outdoors. Her father’s casket would rest in the last grave pre-dug in the fall. Glory’s heart grieved while her brain wondered: If her step-mother’s Norman priest ordered one less grave dug, would her father still be standing beside her? Did this Norman God make decisions designed to make His priests look smart? His priest says dig five graves; his God determines that five people must die to fill those graves: Could that be?

A false spring allowed the people of the valley to believe winter was over, and only two graves were filled. The empty graves laughed; one woman washing by the river fell and drowned. Two graves remained. A woman died in childbirth. One grave beckoned. Winter, being a capricious season, returned. The whole valley contracted the cough and wheezing chest. Who would lose the throw of the dice and spend eternity in that hollow grave? Spring came; the coughing and wheezing subsided without taking a life. The grave still gaped.

The grave gaped no longer. Willum Pax-Avis had hunted boar since he was 14 years old. Why did his foot slip this time? Why was he fatally gored? Glory’s mind dwelt on the question of why.

Glory watched the priest hurrying away after the last Amen; the door of the coach opened for him. Glory’s step-mother unwilling to muddy her slippers for the burial of her husband waited within. The jingle of the trappings was drifting into the distance when the last shovelful of dirt was thrown onto the grave. The finishing three pats with the back of the shovel were completed. One retainer stood, his head bowed, dusting the grave’s soil from his hands. He looked toward the disappearing caravan carrying his mistress back to her family holdings. He took a step toward Glory then hesitated, pulled his forelock, replaced his cap, and hurried after the tail end of the caravan. Willum’s widow was leaving the valley she hated. Also leaving the valley was the narrow-mindedness that came with her.

Glory remembered their argument of the night before.

I will not allow your father to be buried according to the dictates of any beliefs other than those of the Church. Willum’s widow declared.

My father followed your rites to please you. He followed Celtic beliefs his whole life. To bury him as a Norman would be to make a mockery of his faith. Glory was so mad she couldn’t see her stepmother’s scowl through the tears brimming in her eyes.

After tomorrow this valley and all of you in it can go back to your heathen ways without any interference from me, but Willum Pax-Avis was my husband. I will send him to his maker in a Church ceremony. Do not push me on this Glory. You will not win. Your father’s soul is at stake, and I will not be swayed. When riled Matilda Pax-Avis nee Burgoyne was formidable. Though a mere five years older than Glory, Matilda was the chatelaine of her own keep and the wife of Willum, Lord Laudavis, for more than five years. Matilda towered over her step-daughter. Every lesson of her convent life was evident in her glare.

Glory knew that look; the same look Matilda used when Willum tried to refuse Matilda’s priest the freedom to force their valley people to follow her Church’s dictates. Matilda got her way, never understanding the Celts could embrace much of the New Religion with no sense of betrayal. The religion of the Druids was flexible and all-encompassing. It was the Church that came to Britain with William the Conqueror, which was the limiting religion. So the people of the valley placated their mistress and her priest with the full knowledge of their lord. They accepted the Mass. Then in the quiet of the forests they practiced the Old Ways.

In this spirit, Glory backed down from her step-mother’s challenge. She bowed her head.

Matilda released a sigh and put her arm around Glory. My dear girl, you have just saved your father from an eternity in Hell. I knew you would see the light. She tried to pull the girl to her side. Then, huffing at the failure of her last attempt to be friends with her husband’s daughter she shrugged. I must pack. You will sit with your father until nightfall; then I will take over the vigil. Matilda stalked away, anxious to return to the abbey she’d never wished to leave. She viewed her years as a wife as just another duty to God she was required to fulfill.

Glory sat with her father’s body in the chapel her father built for his wife. The depictions of the New Religion’s three-in-one God could also be seen as The Green Man, The Spirit of the Bird, and Nature. The wisdom of the ages passed along by the Druids was comfortable in the Churches of the Normans. Glory, Willum, Willie and their people sat easy in this cozy blend of New and Old. Matilda’s theological blindness refused to see the evidence of compromise. Her chapel was Norman. She cared not what the others saw.

Standing by the grave hearing the fading noises of the caravan, Glory listened to the silence of her valley. This silence was alive; in it were the whispers of the trees and rocks, the breathing of Mother Earth, the dropping of the rain. Her valley was magic, and by following the Celtic beliefs, her people acknowledged the magic and lived with the Spirits of Nature that the Normans betrayed. Glory could not blame the invaders. Their lands were cut off from Nature so long ago they never knew the magic. The people of her country knew the magic, however, and still most gave up their beliefs in the face of powerful enemies. Those people she could blame for the darkness that descended on her country.

Glory’s Laudavis Valley was isolated, and many members of her clan lived and died without leaving their home. There were others of the clan who ventured out to report back the news of the world. Knowledge was power. Through the centuries Glory’s clan watched the decline of Druidism and the rise of the New Religion. Every morning their song to the sun became more heartfelt as they were thankful for the Druidic protection of their valley. The wards were put in place almost a thousand years ago and were still strong.

Glory’s musings continued, glancing toward the caravan, almost over the rim of the valley and out of sight, Matilda’s heart and mind already back in her nunnery; Glory strode toward the forest. She left behind the Norman graveyard where her father‘s empty coffin now rested.

The forest closed around Glory. She felt the presence of The Source embrace her; stopping to commune with the Spirits of Nature, she reached out to the soul of her father knowing death was simply a doorway to another part of life: The Otherworld. The magic that was Druidism gave her the power to feel his soul. She wrapped her emotions in the faith that her father’s soul was ever-present and only his body was dead. She proceeded deeper into the forest; her heart strengthened as she shared with the Otherworld. By the time she reached the grove of sacred oaks, she was chanting her faith. Her chant told of her belief that each of us is but a part of the Source and when our body dies our soul returns to the Source. Her song reminded her that since the Source is ever present no soul is ever far away from its loved ones. No one is ever lost to us.

She entered the grove and took her place beside the figure standing at the head of her father’s body. His body was swathed in layers of linen painted with runes. Glory and the Druidess chanted and sang to the sun, the sun hidden by grey clouds, the body of Willum Pax-Avis awaited its final journey. The day passed and every hour saw more people entering the grove. The chanting grew in volume until just before sunset. Then with the whole valley present, on a signal from the Druidess the chanting stopped.

Celtic burial rites are solemn but not sorrowful. Those who do not believe in death celebrate life.

The Druidess threw back her hood. Hear us! she cried to That Which Watched. See us! Inhale our breath and know us for a part of you! We return this man to you. He is yours.

He is yours! The gathered souls cried with one voice.

Glory felt herself filled with the strengths and abilities bequeathed by the generations who came and went before her. Their potency hummed through her, and her soul burned with primordial fire.

At the moment the horizon colored with the setting sun; a torch was touched to the pyre. Glory watched as the flames licked around the body that a day ago housed her father’s soul, flames reaching out to the Source of Creation, light mimicking the light of the sun, the sun that gives life to all. Though soaked to the skin, Glory did not feel the discomfort of the flesh; her soul was soaring with her father in the embrace that was the Source.

Sunrise on a brilliant new day, souls singing their song to the rising sun, those at the pyre joining their voices with those around the valley. Then they returned Willum’s ashes to the oaks. They buried them amongst the roots. There his ashes would sink back into the Earth that is Mother to all flesh. The roots would be nourished by the substance of Willum Pax-Avis; plants would grow containing part of him. Glory liked to think of her father becoming part of the oaks. She did not weep. There was no reason to weep. Nothing is ever lost; it merely changes. Death is a cobweb we brush through, not the last thing, but the least thing.

Willum’s spirit permeated the grove. Glory knew, beyond words, beyond faith, her father continued to exist. His soul was a permanent part of the Source, Creator of stars and spider webs.

Gloriana Pax-Avis sat at the highest point of her home; the roof of the keep of Castle Laudavis waiting for strangers to enter her domain. Since she first toddled her way up to this perch, taking years from her father’s life or so he shouted at her at the time. She used the air at this height to cleanse her mind of her problems. Today even the breeze at this height couldn’t cleanse the doubts from her mind.

Castle Laudavis and its people shared a secret. They were blessed with abilities passed down from generation to generation, abilities from the shadows of a time when Druids held rituals in oak groves throughout the land, from a time before the Church came and separated religion and Nature. Their ability was handed down from a time when man still understood he existed solely as a part of the Universe. In those times their ability was seen as a blessing. With the invaders came a different point of view. Danger now existed in revealing their secret. Many now believed them to be bewitched and bedeviled.

Glory wondered how they would keep their secret from the strangers she was forced to turn to for help. She had no choice. Was she bringing salvation or ruin to her people? That question would be answered by living with her decision. Would it then be too late? She sent the young men of the castle out of the valley. They were the most reckless with their abilities, exposing them willy-nilly. She spoke with every person in her valley about the importance of concealment and abstinence, but she feared it was inevitable that the strangers would learn their secret. … Glory and her people could transform themselves into birds.

Unfortunately, a person changing into a bird is not something one is likely to dismiss. Even so, how could anyone believe that such an ability could be from an evil power? Anyone with an imagination could picture themselves soaring above trees and castles, weightless hours with the warmth of the sun bathing your wings, a song in your throat and heart, placed there by the Creator, your vision full of Her creation.

Glory and her people were not hypocrites. The breadth of their beliefs allowed them to embrace much of the Norman religion. They learned early, as did most of the conquered people, what they chose to retain of their beliefs was private. It became apparent that the invaders were wary of the forests they conquered. The forests, sacred to the Druids, were left to the people leaving them free to practice their rituals.

Therein lay the seeds of Glory’s present situation. Time transformed the invaders into occupiers, and the occupiers finally into the powerful people in what most now considered their homeland. Glory had nowhere to turn for aid but to the powerful, the aristocracy who had not acknowledged her people’s existence for years because her people were not seen and not considered important. Now necessity forced Glory to place her people within the power maelstrom. She wished, as she did every minute of every day, that her father was still alive.

Glory shook her head to clear the doubts. The action was taken, the consequences yet to be learned. She rose from her perch knowing she was long enough away that someone, Jayne or Jacob or Willie or any number of people, were sure to be searching for her. She took one last look at her valley and whispered, to any God or Goddess good enough to be listening, a prayer to help her keep it peaceful.

CHAPTER II

The forest clearing rang with the clang of steel against steel, and the following whine as swords, wielded by warriors, refused to surrender to each other. Warrior bodies are separated from warrior minds. In the midst of a struggle to the death, lives are lost if a mind takes time to acknowledge the pain of a wound. Bodies concede the effort of battle without the permission of the mind, however, so grunts, groans, bellows and snorts harmonized with the clanking and squealing of mail tunics over boiled leather hauberks as the swordsmen twisted their bodies in the ballet steps of battle.

The combatants’ large bodies, expanded by armor, weaponry and adrenalin, filled the pathway. This pathway led from the road to a well-used watering spot in the more-than-creek, less-than-river body of water that paralleled the path through the forest. The adversaries were equally hampered by the terrain. If either warrior wanted a more difficult battlefield, they would be hard pressed to choose one that was harder on their legs and feet. Hundreds of years of wagon ruts exaggerated the mid-path hump, and past Spring runoff dug deep into the ditches on each side. Curses filled the forest with descriptions of unholy unions and unnatural pairings. Aspersions were cast on the maternity of each warrior. The questionable identity of each other’s fathers was yelled into the chaos of battle. As always, the use of strange mammalian couplings and explicit genitalia suggestions is the universal material of effective cursing.

A passer-by would question why the two warriors were fighting. Nothing in the surrounding area pointed to a reason for combat. Peasants would shake their heads, shrug their shoulders, and continue on their way; it was not healthy to question the behavior of knights. After all, they were of the aristocracy.

These two examples of the upper levels of feudal society continued their war oblivious to their surroundings. They each reached the point; it felt like hours ago, where they were praying that their opponent would be the first one to make a misstep.

Capt. Huk feinted to the left and brought his sword up under his opponent’s chin. Aha, Morph. Your head is now bouncing away!

Lt. Morph took a deep breath, rebalancing himself on spread legs. He had yet to best Capt. Huk in their training sessions. He gritted out between breaths, If one must be killed, he rasped, I suppose it hurts less to be killed by someone you respect. He attempted a grin but managed a grimace.

Sir Huckelbard De Clermont sheathed his sword. He too was attempting to return his breathing to normal. Under one raised eyebrow, his words dripped with sarcasm, The object, Lieutenant, is not to be killed at all.

Lt. Morph’s laughter exploded through his wheezing. As soon as I am sure I’m not dying from the strain of fighting you, sir, I shall endeavor to remember that advice.

The men squired each other, removing their chain mail and the padded boiled bull hide jackets worn beneath their armor. They stacked it. When their compliment of foot soldiers caught up with them, the squires would clean and polish their military kit.

For the moment Capt. Huk and Lt. Morph were alone. The silence that surrounded them in the glade Sir Huk chose for the end of their day’s journey was companionable. The men stripped down and submerged their bodies in the stream. Capt. Huk would direct the squad of foot soldiers to set up camp in the forest out of sight of others who knew of this watering spot. But for now the men each kept an ear tuned for man-made noises or a disruption of the rhythm of the woods.

Both men were dark and larger than average men. Huk was the older of the two as evidenced by the scars and the lines of worry on his brow attesting to years of attention to detail. Morph’s smile was quicker and his body smoother, and yet, there was a knowledge of life that dwelled in his eyes. The two were brothers-in-arms. Their thoughts were their own.

Huk allowed himself a time of relaxation. He knew Morph’s senses would warn them of any approach. Being away from court was like being freed from beneath a boulder. As Captain of the King’s Guard, Sir Huk’s presence was required at any function that didn’t directly inhibit his hours of training his men. King Henry decided that meant his captain was free almost all evenings and a couple of days per week. Huk would have apportioned his time differently. Priorities differ with one’s perspective. The king felt safe;, therefore, guard training was less important than frivolity. If the king’s sense of security fell, so would some heads, and then guard training would move up on the priority list. Such was Huk’s world, and he knew his world. A captain of the king’s guards’ world also entailed missions outside the castle, and that was the reason Sir Huk strove to surpass all others in his sovereign’s service. Warfare, pitting his abilities against another, was life to him and usually death to his foe. A smile sped through his features with his thoughts.

Morph left the water, grabbed his blade, and secreted himself in the foliage. Capt. Huk was also aware of the riders. His trust in his own abilities backed by Morph’s presence allowed him to make a pretense of the riders surprising him as he was donning his braes and hose leaving his sword on the ground within easy reach. The riders were coming straight at them. The captain and his lieutenant worked as one mind. They had experience with this type of situation. Huk continued tying his hose to his braes while the riders drew near. When they reined in, he lifted his eyes.

His surprise was not feigned. The knight astride the well-lathered stallion was known to him. Daffydd. Well met. Were you in search of me?

Get over yourself, Huckelbard, I am not a messenger. My duty at court is over for the year. I have a fief to run. You knew I inherited, did you not?

Aye, I did.

Angling for flattery from Huk wasn’t going to work, and Lord Daffydd knew it. When men grow up together, only respect or coercion will force one to bow to the other.

Where are you bound Huckelbard? Daffydd demanded in his most imperious tone.

I do the king’s bidding, Capt. Huk responded seating himself to pull on his boots. Yourself?

Lord Daffydd could never best Captain Huk man to man. He contented himself with demanding shows of obedience from the knight when they met at court. My friend Capt. Huckelbard and I, he said as he dismounted and threw his reins to his squire, have things to discuss. Water the horses. We will continue anon. He sauntered over to Huk. With Huk seated Lord Daffydd stood tall in his perceived advantage. I assume your beast is nearby?

Huk allowed his amusement to show. My steed is hobbled in the woods.

Lord Daffydd’s cheeks colored.

And my foot soldiers have the pack animals. Huk said.

Your Morph? Lord Daffydd snapped.

Ah, my Lieutenant of the King’s Guard? Oh, yes, he is around somewhere. If he’d been of another temperament, Huk would have chuckled. Daffydd was transparent.

Lord Daffydd made a great show of constraint straining not to look for Morph. A spot in the middle of his back twitched imagining the feel of a blade. And how are things going on that front? he sneered.

My trainees know what I expect from them; if not they are no longer my trainees. Huk stated with assurance just short of arrogance.

Then you have been able to curb his natural tendencies? Daffydd probed.

Daffydd, have you forgotten everything we learned as boys? Military training removes ‘natural tendencies’ and replaces them with strategy. Huk outlined basic squire training.

Lord Daffydd’s sun-burnt cheeks increased their color.

I begin to think it a good thing you did inherit. Strategy never was your strength as I recall. Huk’s barb found its mark and ended the show of fraternity.

Lords of the realm hire men like you to worry about our strategy. Daffydd slung back. And I have wasted enough of my valuable time here. His shoulders squared and his spine stiffened as he attempted to grow beyond his dimensions when Huk rose up beside him. Abelard, he called to his squire, bring my horse.

Huk saw, as the black-clad lord mounted, that his war horse was accustomed to mistreatment. He shook his head when Lord Daffydd Maleforte forced the animal to rear and pivot in a last show of bravado. Watching the riders gallop from sight, Capt. Huk felt Morph’s presence as his lieutenant eased behind him.

That popinjay is not your friend.

Lt. Morph, you state the obvious. Maleforte and I spent our boyhood and young manhood together. We know too much of each other’s hidden selves to ever be friends again. Capt. Huk strapped on his sword. The men will be here forthwith. We might as well be awaiting them with a show of impatience. It will make them feel they should have pushed a bit harder. He almost smiled sharing a training secret with his second-in-command.

CHAPTER III

A day and a half after the meeting with Lord Daffydd, Capt. Huk and Lt. Morph reached their destination. The way was hidden. Without the trees with markings of birds on the wing they were instructed to follow, they would have missed the valley. Its existence remains unknown. That was presumably why the king was surprised to receive this request for aid. Henry was unaware of the existence of this corner of his kingdom. Huk’s mission was multi-fold — help the lord attain his vow of fealty and keep his own eyes open for a complete report to Henry.

In this vein Huk mused aloud, Though they are hard to find if you aren’t looking for them, I am a bit surprised that this group who so value the secrecy of their valley carved directions on the trees. It seems a contradiction, does it not?

Morph never withheld anything important from his superior, but his experiences in some areas were beyond the pale. Morph was familiar with these types of markings and knew that for anyone not expected the carvings would not appear. These signs were a manifestation of a power Capt. Huk did not acknowledge. Therefore, Morph answered, The carvings are hidden; if we didn’t know where to look, we wouldn’t see them. I think this is one of those times when one weighs the pros and cons. Being completely concealed makes it difficult to tell others where you are. Morph’s eyes twinkled.

Ahem. Lt. Morph, I often wonder if you are serious enough for this job.

Sir, I am always serious when the occasion calls for it.

See that you are, Lieutenant. See that you are. Huk admonished his second in command.

Morph took in the pass they approached and memories of another time came flooding back. Memories a man his age should not have — memories of a time when Druids ruled the land and magic was the result of living in harmony with the source of all life. It was a Druid’s job to maintain the harmony between Earth, Man, and the Otherworld. When he succeeded the magic that resulted permeated every living thing. The memories that Morph tapped into were more than a thousand years old, and still, in his mind’s eye he could see all that happened to the body that had previously held his soul.

Centuries in the past he stood in this same pass. The trees were still huge. They housed the Spirits of Nature. His Druid-trained mind knew that no one is alone with trees, and his Druid-trained eyes glimpsed the fleeting shadows of the Gods of the forest pacing in antlered splendor along the borders of reality. Goddesses of moss and greenery moved in and out of the trees. They made no effort to hide themselves as long as he accepted their presence without trying to look directly at them. They kept him company; their Otherworld overlapping his world. In the forest, perception altered with every step. Patterns of bird and leaf and pebbles changed with each step and with every breath of wind. Sound was muted by the living columns of the forest. In this past Otherworld reality, his Druid-trained ears heard things his companions could not hear. His past-self signaled the knowledge that there was a boar lurking nearby, and the warriors with him deployed to capture their victim. For the ritual, it was necessary to capture the boar alive — not easy. Only the best warriors were honored and blessed to engage in this task. The existence of life in their valley was at stake. As their Druid, he consulted other wise men before they left the isle in the wake of the first Roman efforts to rid Britain of the Celts and their Druidism. Now, in the past, was the time to put their ritual to work. He needed two live male boars. The captured one was being purified for sacrifice, and soon they would capture another.

The fear this last Druid felt for his people was alive in Morph now, hundreds of years later. He felt the desperation and the danger of defeat within this man who is the last of his kind — the last to leave his people to the influence of the invaders. He is not a coward. It is a case of priorities. Saving Druidism is more important than saving any particular clan. Over the centuries, the Druids were pushed further and further west across Gaul and then across the Cold Waters to Britain where they could breathe free for a time. Then, even in Britain they became hunted. They moved further west and north, and some crossed over to Ireland. Now Morcant of Muir, Morph’s soul-body in those times, was the last Druid south of the Hebrides, and his existence was made possible by the secrecy of this valley. It was the necessity to keep this valley secret that drove Morcant to perform the ritual to That Which Watched to protect his people for the centuries to come.

Morcant’s mind pulled Morph’s Druid-mind back to the ancient present. The commotion in the trees was closer to him than he expected. He could hear the boar crashing through the undergrowth, coming toward him. The three warriors tensed and closed ranks in front of the Druid as the boar broke through the bushes and faced them. His red eyes rolled, his lathered sides heaved, his heat and breath mixed with the morning mist. Morcant marveled at the strength of spirit in the beast. He knew this sacrifice would be a testament to the Source. The chasing warriors broke into the clearing forcing the creature to spin on his haunches toward them. The beast tried to keep the warriors behind him and the Druid ahead of him all in his field of vision by dancing around trying to face both directions at the same time. Morcant reached out with the power of his mind and connected with the spirit of the boar. He explained his need to the spirit, and his Druidic chant rose to the tops of the trees. The boar’s eyes became heavy and quietly it kneeled down to sleep. The warriors with the net secured the creature as he slept, and he remained in peace until they placed him in the cage. He too was to be purified for sacrifice.

The two male boars were dosed with a purgative and then fed an oat mixture laced with herbs, honey and ale. They became the most serene boars in existence. Every sacrifice is an act of returning a part of Creation back to the Source. To send it back in a state of fear would be an insult to the Source.

The morning determined by astrology to be optimal for the sacrifice arrived to find Morcant and his assistant alone in the grove of Sacred Oaks. The boars were resting on the sacrificial altar. The Druids threw back their hoods and sang to the rising sun. Morcant’s head glistened with sweat; his assistant was not tonsured. There were a number of reasons for this, not the least of which was that Morcant’s assistant was a woman. She was chosen because she was a woman. The priests of the Church held women in contempt. They did not believe women could commune with spiritual beings. They believed women were lesser beings, the corruptors of men. Morcant knew better as did all Druids. After all, The Earth is female. Females birthed us all. Females are Creation.

Morcant lifted the sacrificial spear and called to That Which Watched to accept his sacrifice and to preserve his people by leading them in the way to live unnoticed among the enemy. Show them the patterns, and help them to read your plans for them.

Morcant leaned over and whispered words of encouragement in the ear of the first boar. Then with one hand comfortingly on its head he slit the throat. His assistant caught the blood in the ritual bowl. The process was repeated with the second sacrifice. The Druids chanted through the day while they placed the boar-heads on pikes at the edge of the bone-fire to dry. The bodies were reduced to ashes in the sacrificial fire that night. In the morning, they stirred the blood into the embers then divided the ashes of sacrifice and the blood of life among the oaks. The circle was complete, from the Source to the Source.

The boar’s skulls were soaked in lye and scrubbed until they glistened. The spear was broken in two; it would be needed no longer. Morcant used the spear’s point to carve triskeles, runes, crescent moons, and stars into the bone. He rubbed blood and ashes saved from the sacrifice into the symbols to enhance the power of the magic.

It was time for him to leave this valley. The days of the power of the Druids were ending. From this day forth, the lands that passed back and forth from England to Scotland would not have a Druid in residence. Morcant closed the cottage that had sheltered his body through the life and death of five generations in the valley with no remorse. It was not his home.