Shadows at Inverness

By Harry J. Boyd

It is a time of civil war. The power-hungry Macbeth has murdered King Duncan and proclaimed himself King of Scotland, but powerful forces oppose Macbeth and the country is plunged into a conflict it may not survive. To ensure his continued dominion, Macbeth seeks the Codex Diabolus; an ancient and mystical text which promises unlimited power to whoever can uncover its secrets. Gavin Hamilton, a young monk of the wealthy and prestigious Fortrose Abbey, is swept up in the drama and intrigue as he tries to keep the Codex from falling into Macbeth’s hands. But to do so he must traverse the haunted and forbidding Birnam Wood; a place where things are never what they seem. It is in Birnam Wood that Gavin is forced to examine his most closely held beliefs while being hunted by the ruthless and murdering Macbeth.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Harry J. Boyd
• Release date: Jun 29, 2015
• ISBN: 9781311823632

Harry J. Boyd

Harry J. Boyd is a retired police officer with over thirty years of service in law enforcement, and a former adjunct professor at both John Tyler Community College and Virginia Commonwealth University. Currently a security consultant, Harry is also an author, speaker, and psychic practitioner. Harry holds BS and MS degrees, with coursework at the doctoral level as well as advanced study in psychology and parapsychology. He has always had a keen interest in psychic phenomena and the paranormal, and draws on his widely diverse experiences as the basis for his novels. Harry is the father of three adult children and is a life-long resident of Richmond, Virginia.

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Shadows at Inverness

Harry J. Boyd

Copyright

Published by Harry J. Boyd

Copyright © 2015 Harry J. Boyd

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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Shadows at Inverness

It is a time of civil war. The power-hungry Macbeth has murdered King Duncan and proclaimed himself King of Scotland, but powerful forces oppose Macbeth and the country is plunged into a conflict it may not survive. To ensure his continued dominion, Macbeth seeks the Codex Diabolus; an ancient and mystical text which promises unlimited power to whoever can uncover its secrets. Gavin Hamilton, a young monk of the wealthy and prestigious Fortrose Abbey, is swept up in the drama and intrigue as he tries to keep the Codex from falling into Macbeth’s hands. But to do so he must traverse the haunted and forbidding Birnam Wood; a place where things are never what they seem. It is in Birnam Wood that Gavin is forced to examine his most closely held beliefs while being hunted by the ruthless and murdering Macbeth.

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

Many are those deserving of my thanks for their assistance and support of this book, but none more so than Diane Haworth on whom I’ve depended across uncounted lifetimes, and whose wisdom and love have sustained me through many a trial; Caryn Block, an exceptionally talented and accomplished author in her own right, without whose advice, counsel, and technical expertise the manuscript would not have left my laptop; Joe Manriquez who so generously donated his time, advice and computer skills to the project; all my friends at the Aquarian Bookstore in Richmond, Virginia, for their love, support and positive energy; and last but certainly not least, all my friends and co-workers at the Virginia Museum of Fine Arts for their continued and longstanding support and enthusiasm. Thank you, one and all!

DEDICATION

This book is dedicated to my three exceptional children, Mallory, Carrie, and James, and to their mother, my beautiful bride Barbara who was the catalyst for the project. I love you all!

Chapter One

FORTROSE ABBEY

Panic and terror greeted me as I entered the village. It was one of the numerous small, nameless communities clustered along the western shore of the Firth of Moray in Scotland’s North Country, and this night its population had taken to the streets. Months of warfare had strained sensibilities to the breaking point.

See, Holy Father, see! The sky burns red! cried an old man grasping at my robe.

Can you not save us? beseeched a woman holding a terrified child. Surely Satan is afoot this night!

It is not Satan you need fear, said a man among the quickly growing throng now surrounding me. It is the Norwegians.

They are one in the same, said another.

I would rather face Satan than the troops of Norway, said a third. They are demons from the foulest depths of Hell!

He had a point. I had never before seen Satan, but I had seen the troops of Norway, or at least the death, devastation and destruction they had wrought. Satan would be proud of their efforts. However, I did not believe that either Satan or Norway was to be feared at the moment.

I saw that I must try and calm their fears; fears which were as contagious as the plague, so I said with as much confidence as I could muster, Friends, I am Brother Gavin Hamilton of Fortrose Abbey. I do not believe you are in danger. The war with Norway is ended. Scotland is victorious and all of the Norwegian invaders have been killed or driven back from whence they came.

I had no idea that was actually the case, but I had heard yesterday that Scotland was declaring victory in the latest war with its centuries old nemesis, and that a general rejoicing would commence as the word spread. My proclamation seemed to quiet them a bit, but now I was left to explain the hellish glow in the heavens. I am nothing if not a man of reason and I was convinced that Satan was not involved, however just what was causing the strange glow in the sky, I could not determine. At first I assumed it to be the approaching dawn, however taking note of my surroundings I realized that it was the southwestern sky which now showed red, whereas the sun should be approaching from the east. Indeed the rising moon which now illuminated the village also told me that it was not yet midnight so dawn was not the culprit in this heavenly mystery. Suddenly I hit upon an idea.

And friends, the glow you see are not the fires of Hell or of Norway, but the fires of celebration. Obviously those towns to the south have just now received word that the war is concluded and have lit bonfires to honor the brave troops of Scotland who have once again defeated the godless Norwegian horde! So you see there is no need for fear. All is well.

In the space of moments the town had gone from terrified to jubilant. I received the accolades of the town as graciously as I could, being not the least deserving, and explained that while I would love nothing better than to stay and revel, I must be on my way while the moon still lit my path. The abbey was yet a good distance ahead of me. I said a blessing over the villagers and bade them farewell, but as I resumed my journey I was uneasy. I had been away for several days on a planned visit to a number of outlying villages and was returning to the abbey when the unusual reddening of the sky caused such a commotion. In truth I had no idea what was causing the sky to glow red and just because Scotland had declared victory that did not mean the war had actually ended or that Scotland was in fact victorious. I rode for several hours, all the while observing the color of the sky which, while still plainly visible, was not so brilliant as before.

After a time my thoughts turned to other matters. These were indeed turbulent days, but as a Brother of the Order and a resident of the wealthy and prestigious Fortrose Abbey which overlooked the beautiful Firth of Moray, I had been relatively unaffected by the turmoil and chaos which had so long enveloped the country. Indeed, my life could have been described as singularly uneventful, but my quiet and settled existence was soon to be changed forever by a series of events the likes of which I could in no way have imagined.

Finding I could go no farther without rest I stopped the donkey on which I was riding and dismounted, but in a matter of moments the thunder of approaching horses reached my ears. Puzzled and alarmed, I took the animal and moved a short distance into the woods which lined the broad and well-traveled road to Fortrose. I was actually at the crossing of two roads; the Fortrose road and the road to Severus. Severus was a fairly sizeable town some distance to the south of the abbey, so named for the Roman Emperor Septimius Severus who had deployed Roman legions in this area centuries ago during Rome’s failed attempt to occupy northern Scotland. His name became associated with the town, possibly because disaffected Legionaries who had joined forces with the Celts eventually settled there. It was from the direction of Severus that the horses now approached.

In the light of the nearly full moon I soon saw a large body of horsemen headed my way at a gallop and in a matter of moments the crossroads was filled with what was obviously a contingent of cavalry, some thirty in number. The war having reportedly concluded just days ago, I was concerned lest these were Norwegian troops but by their manner of speech I knew immediately they were Scotsmen and from my vantage point I had no difficulty whatsoever in hearing their conversation. I quietly moved deeper into the shadows and prayed that the donkey would keep the peace and be of good behavior.

Think you he has already passed? asked one.

It is difficult to tell, replied a man who was obviously in charge, his immense horse making him appear much smaller than his companions.

If he has reached the Firth of Moray he may well have escaped, voiced another.

The first soldier shook his head. He has not had time and besides, we have cut off the Moray road.

I suspect he is somewhere west of here, said the leader. McClellan, you will hold these crossroads. He may attempt to reach Fortrose or he may turn north. In either case he must pass this way. Do not allow that to happen. I will take ten men and join the troops on the Moray road. Send a rider to me there with any news.

Aye, my lord, replied the one called McClellan.

And McClellan, said the leader in measured tones, you are aware of the consequences should you fail.

Not waiting for a reply, the leader chose ten others and they disappeared into the darkness.

Dismount and take positions in the woods, ordered McClellan.

The troops did as they were instructed and began selecting hiding places on both sides of the road. Now I had no idea who these men were or who they were searching for but under no circumstances did I wish to be found. I resolved to remain where I was in hopes I would be overlooked in the darkness. I pulled the hood of my black robe over my head and made myself as small as possible, but no sooner had I done so then one of the soldiers let out a cry almost in my ear.

Hold! An ass! I’ve found an ass!

Are you certain? came a reply from the road. You have difficulty finding your own ass with both hands. This wry witticism occasioned a round of laughter.

What’s his name? called another. I always suspected you were of that persuasion. More laughter.

It is tied to this tree… said the first ignoring the insults and moving ever closer to my hiding spot.

I was crouched no more than an arm’s length in front of him and as he approached to investigate, he stepped squarely upon me. Startled, he let out a yell, jumped back and drew his sword. I prepared for the worst but before either of us could do anything my would-be assailant was tackled by another figure which leapt from the darkness. An instant later there came screams the likes of which I had never heard and suddenly men were rushing in from all sides. A melee ensued, and as I scrambled to find safer ground, fierce fighting erupted all around me. Somehow I managed to extricate the donkey and moved away from the battle as quickly as possible.

I could see some of the troops attempting to remount their horses but before they could do so, another group of horsemen came galloping down upon them and cut them to pieces right there in the road. It was clear that McClellan’s men were no match for the newcomers and in a matter of but a few minutes, possession of the all-important crossroads had changed hands. Now thoroughly terrified, I once again hid in the darkness lest I be taken for an escapee and dispatched before I could prove my identity, although I had no more idea of who the victors were than I did the vanquished.

My lord, we have won the field, said a mounted officer.

Indeed and well done, lads, came the reply. Have any escaped?

One or two, said another.

Then we must move quickly before they can raise the alarm, said the leader. Send riders to announce the way is clear. We will hold this ground until he passes. Go!

Two soldiers put the spurs to their mounts and far sooner than I would have thought them able to reach their destination, I heard the sound of galloping horses coming from the direction in which the messengers had gone. I watched from the woods as a group of perhaps eight or ten riders careened down the road at a mad dash and continued out of sight in the direction of Fortrose. No sooner had they passed then the remainder of the victors mounted and galloped off in the same direction with equal rapidity. As the last of their hoof beats faded away, the night lapsed into an eerie silence. I resolved to wait until I was sure everyone had left before leaving my hiding place but I was afraid to linger too long, lest those who had escaped the ambuscade should return with reinforcements. After a time, I slowly stepped into the road and cautiously peered in all directions. There was no sign of anyone except the dead who were lying motionless in the moonlight. As I mounted the donkey, which appeared no worse for the experience, I wondered if McClellan now lay in the crossroads he had been charged with protecting. I said a hasty prayer for the fallen and promptly left for the abbey. It was then I noticed the smell of smoke. It was strong, held low to the ground by the thick summer air, but it was not the usual smell of cooking fires or the blacksmith’s forge. This was a pungent, penetrating odor as one might expect of a large and all consuming blaze. Another mystery to ponder but at that moment my personal safety was first and foremost on my mind. I travelled quickly, wary of every movement and sound along the road. Thank the Almighty, the rest of my journey was uneventful and I reached Fortrose just as the new day began to brighten the sky.

As I passed through the outer wall of the abbey by the back entrance I was immediately aware that something extraordinary was taking place. There was far more activity than was to be expected at that time of day; activity that had the air of urgency about it. I discharged the donkey to a stable hand, and as I made my way across the grounds I observed some twenty soldiers milling about the church. I looked and saw more soldiers pouring through the front gate. In the pre-dawn twilight of that August morning it was difficult to make out the identity of individuals, but I immediately recognized the abbot scurrying across the churchyard accompanied by several men in hooded capes. As they disappeared into the narthex a soldier grabbed me by the arm.

Priest, are there access points through the abbey wall other than the main gate? His agitation was apparent.

Of course, I answered. This is an abbey, not a castle.

He hurried off making no reply. Most of the troops appeared to be gathering at the church so I went in that direction hoping to learn just what was disturbing the morning’s repose. I joined a number of Brothers who evidently were of like mind and from our vantage point we could easily overhear the conversation then taking place.

Is he safe? came the question.

For the moment, came the reply. The abbot has taken to him to a secure place.

That would be the Tower, I said aloud to no one in particular. The Treasury Tower, or more simply the Tower as it was called, was attached to the rear of the church and was a place where valuables and articles of interest were placed for safekeeping. Evidently someone of importance had just taken up residence therein.

He cannot long remain here, said another. Macbeth’s troops are already en route to this place. He must not be here when they arrive.

I turned to Brother William who stood next to me. Why would Macbeth be sending troops to the abbey?

I take it you have not heard, said William crossing himself.

I grimaced. Nothing annoys me so much as someone stating the obvious. If I had heard, William, I would not now be asking.

My sarcasm was lost on the ever bemused William who replied, King Duncan is murdered.

Angels in Heaven! I said in disbelief. When?

Sometime the day before yesterday, answered William, at Inverness, the castle of Macbeth.

I was well aware of who lived in Inverness Castle.

Who are these men? I asked, pointing to the now thirty or so who were milling about the churchyard, speaking in low voices.

Soldiers of Malcolm’s bodyguard, replied William.

The king’s son? I asked. Is that who the abbot has taken to the Tower?

It is, came a reply from behind us. We turned to see a soldier of obvious authority.

My lord, I ventured, what is taking place?

The newcomer walked over and joined our group. Duncan was murdered while asleep within Inverness Castle. Macbeth immediately accused the king’s two sons of the deed and attempted to arrest them both but they escaped capture by mere moments. The brothers took flight separately in order to increase their chances of reaching safety. Malcolm is here. I know not to where Donald Bane and his party have fled but their parting is prudent. If one brother is captured, the other may still return and claim the throne.

Claim the throne? I asked.

The newcomer nodded. By Duncan’s death Malcolm is the rightful heir, but Macbeth has convinced many of the nobility to support his lie that the sons murdered the father. They are even now urging Macbeth to proclaim himself King of Scotland.

My lord, Macbeth will surely come to search the abbey. What shall we do? asked William.

Pray the abbey does not meet the same fate as has befallen Severus. Macbeth’s troops received information that Malcolm was being hidden there. It is now in flames. And with that, our informant turned and disappeared into the darkness.

So that was the cause of the smoke and the strange glow in the southern sky; Severus was burning. It was also clear to me now what had happened on the Fortrose road. I had encountered a contingent of Macbeth’s troops attempting to block Malcolm’s escape to the Firth of Moray. But troops loyal to Malcolm had reached the crossroads first and had waited in ambush. Once the way was clear, Malcolm and his party had fled past me in the darkness and sought asylum within the abbey.

Just then a voice echoed over all the commotion. Hamilton! Come quickly!

There was no mistaking it was the abbot calling to me from the church. The voice of Father John Fletcher was as unappealing as his person. The beady, close set eyes, the furrowed brow, the long, spindly fingers, the pointed nose, the eternal expression of disgust on his face; I loathed the very air he breathed. I know, I know; he was the abbot and a mentor of sorts to me, but at his best I found him officious, condescending, and rude. He was far more interested in money and politics than in religion, and how the Brotherhood put up with him for as long as it did is a mystery, but given the urgency of his tone, I hastened inside.

Sunrise was upon us and the first rays of a glorious dawn were pouring through the enormous stained glass window which adorned the chancel, casting a multi-colored mosaic on the stone floor. I had no time to marvel at its beauty however, as Father John took me by the arm and all but dragged me toward the rear of the chancel. Two soldiers accompanied us.

I assume we are going to the Tower? I managed as we sped along the hallway which led from the rear of the main church.

I received no reply, but my theory was confirmed as we passed through the large wooden door that led from the chancel into the turret that was the Tower. While the Tower did in fact rise some four levels above the abbey, the majority of its interior space was below ground and it was down the dark and narrow staircase that I followed Father John and the two soldiers, through a labyrinth of dimly lit corridors until we approached the largest of several subterranean chambers. As we entered the room there was no mistaking the son of Duncan. Malcolm was a young man of some twenty-five or so years. His hair was dark brown, its length just to the collar of his shirt, and he wore a very neatly trimmed beard and moustache. Taller than I, his regal bearing was apparent. He wore a hooded cape and was obviously one of the persons I had earlier observed entering the church with the abbot. Emotions were running high.

Macbeth was in charge of my father’s safety and now my father is dead! shouted Malcolm. Think you that is by happenstance?

I understand, sire, but we have no proof that Macbeth is the murderer, replied a man who was apparently one of Malcolm’s aides.

Proof? What more proof need you, Kirk? thundered Malcolm. He has already proclaimed himself king! Even if he did not stab my father with his own hand do you honestly doubt that it was on his order? He is a traitor and a thief.

Father John cleared his throat. My most sincere apologies, Your Majesty.

Malcolm turned. Yes, abbot.

Father John bowed slightly. You have my deepest sympathies, sire, as does your royal brother, but we must look to important matters. Your life is in grave danger. We must act quickly if we are to enable you to assume your rightful place upon the throne of Scotland. There is malice and treason afoot and we must be cautious.

Once again let us waste time stating the obvious, I thought to myself. The abbot was obviously relishing his role as advisor to the king, but I had known Father John my entire life and there was no doubt in my mind that this show of patriotism was calculated to bring him some personal gain.

He continued, As you know, by a tradition shrouded in antiquity, a new king must be approved by the nobility in a ceremony at that most sacred of places, Scone. Macbeth can call himself whatever he wishes, but until that ceremony is completed, he is no king of Scotland.

Well said, abbot, agreed Kirk.

The others in the room voiced their agreement. I had not noticed before, but in addition to the six or seven soldiers present, there were three persons all wearing hooded robes, who kept conspicuously in the shadows. I had initially assumed them to be Brothers of the abbey, but now that my eyes had adjusted to the lighting in the dimly lit room, I could see their robes were a dark green in color. I found this to be odd because all robes of our Order were black. And while we entertained guests from other orders from time to time, I knew of no religious order which wore green.

The abbot is correct, said Kirk. That is why until Macbeth has been confirmed as king he cannot take control of the military. Indeed, even if he is confirmed, there are many who will not fight under his banner. We must take this time to make good your escape and rally an army loyal to you, sire.

Have you a plan? asked Malcolm.

My lord, I would prefer to discuss that in private, replied Kirk.

Clear the chamber, ordered Malcolm, and all occupants filed out into the corridor, leaving Malcolm and Kirk alone.

We had no sooner left than Kirk stepped out and motioned for Father John to return. The rest of us stood in silence. I was hoping to be able to hear what was taking place inside but it was to no avail so I began inspecting my companions. It was obvious that the soldiers were all men of wealth and station; the leaders of Malcolm's personal guard, no doubt. But those of the green robes were a mystery. They appeared ill at ease and eyed me askance. I had resolved to speak to them when suddenly the door opened and Kirk again stepped outside.

He spoke quickly to the soldiers. Macbeth's men are even now scouring the countryside. It is only a matter of time before they arrive here. Gather your troops. Form three groups and each go in a different direction. Make certain you are seen by as many people as possible so that when questioned by Macbeth’s troops, they will give contradictory information as to which way Malcolm has gone. Make haste and may God go with you.

And they were off in a flash. I still did not know what my role in this adventure was to be, but I was determined to remain patient until I was so advised. I had not long to wait for just then Father John stepped into the corridor and motioned for me to enter an adjacent room. I did so and he shut the door.

Hamilton, you obviously know what has happened, he said.

Yes, I replied.

He lowered his voice. We must assist Malcolm to make good his escape.

Whenever Father John said we, it invariably meant someone else and in this case, we was me.

"How are we to do so?" I asked.

A ship even now awaits Malcolm at the Firth of Moray, he replied. Once safely aboard, it will transport him to England where he has powerful friends.

I was exceedingly tired given the exertions of the night past, but the Firth of Moray was only a modest distance from the abbey.

Very well, I said, that should not take long by the main road.

Father John rolled his eyes. Why not simply stab him in the face, Hamilton, and present his body to Macbeth? he sneered. Think you not that Macbeth already patrols every main road within miles of Inverness? If you travel the Moray road, you will both be corpses before nightfall.

He had a point and I had first-hand knowledge of Macbeth’s patrols.

What is the alternative? I asked.

You will escort him through Birnam Wood, replied the abbot. While Macbeth may have patrols in the forest, they will not be of a sufficiency to cover every passageway.

I was incredulous. Birnam Wood? Of course Macbeth will not have men in Birnam Wood. No one has men in Birnam Wood.

Precisely. You will be far safer in the forest, answered Father John.

But abbot, Birnam Wood is of vast dimensions. I will most surely become lost, I protested. "And furthermore there are many strange things in that forest. Many strange things."

It was common knowledge that Birnam Wood was haunted. Only those possessive of the greatest courage or the greatest stupidity ever ventured within a mile of that forsaken woodland. It was said that Satan himself held court in Birnam Wood, and even now blue lights are regularly reported floating about its midst. I was not optimistic about my prospects.

Nonsense, scoffed Father John, but I have secured guides for you. They know every pathway, stream, and meadow of Birnam Wood.

What guides? I asked. Then I remembered the strange figures in the corridor. Those of the green robes?

Indeed, replied Father John. They are Druids.

I stared at Father John. You have secured Druids to escort Malcolm to Moray? He nodded. Abbot, they are Pagans and hence cannot be trusted.

Father John put up his hands. I admit that Pagans and Christians have enjoyed but a tempestuous coexistence, Hamilton, but there are none more capable of guiding you safely through the forest.

I was not to be bought so cheaply. Abbot, for the love of Heaven, our kind have hunted and killed their kind for centuries. You know yourself that even now there are those of our Order who are convinced that Pagans are in league with Satan and that they regularly practice witchcraft and divination. Indeed, it is a mandate of the Church that we capture and punish them, although thankfully we do not do so with the zeal we once did. Why would Pagans even consider helping a Christian king and moreover, a Christian priest?

Although I had never so much as spoken to a Druid, I had visions of my own murder at their hands no sooner than we left the abbey.

The Druids and I have reached an understanding, replied Father John. I have promised that the Church will no longer molest them and Malcolm has likewise promised to offer them his protection once he rightfully occupies the throne.

How can you make such a promise? I scoffed, convinced Father John was lying. You do not have the authority to speak for the governing body of the Church. Although perhaps he did; as much as I disliked the man, he was exceptionally adept at the strategy and tactics of politics and all its attendant intrigue. Furthermore, I continued, there is no assurance Malcolm will be able to defeat Macbeth and claim the crown. Macbeth is extremely popular among the nobility. It is they who will decide our next ruler and if the military joins with Macbeth, Malcolm will stand little chance.

Hamilton, you stress very unimportant matters, said Father John in his patently dismissive tone. You are in no danger from the Druids and you need not concern yourself with promises you have not made. I am sending an emissary to accompany Malcolm and it shall be you. You need go only as far as Oak Ring. A contingent of troops will meet you there and escort Malcolm to Moray Firth. Once he is safely on his way, you may return to the abbey.

The Oak Ring was a large circular meadow ringed in ancient oak trees that was located some miles distance into Birnam Wood from Fortrose. I had never been there but it was reported to be a very mysterious place where ancient Pagans once held religious rites and conducted human sacrifices to their nature gods. The fact that I need go only as far as Oak Ring offered very little comfort.

We waste valuable time and time is of the essence. Come. And with that, Father John opened the door and we stepped back into the corridor. Upon Kirk’s instructions, we again entered the main chamber and stood with Malcolm.

Sire, said Father John, this is Brother Gavin Hamilton. I have instructed him to accompany you to your rendezvous at the Oak Ring. He will insure your safety until you are in the company of your troops.

Satan take the abbot. I saw absolutely no reason for me to accompany Malcolm anywhere. I could provide him no protection; he had soldiers and Druids for that. I was becoming angrier by the moment but Malcolm turned to me, extended his hand, and in a most solicitous manner said,

Brother Gavin, I am most grateful for your assistance although I cannot imagine more trying circumstances under which to seek it. I have always held the clergy in high regard.

Never expecting a king to behave thus, I managed only to take his hand and mumble, It is my honor, sire.

As Malcolm and Kirk conferred, Father John motioned for me to join him and my Druid guides on the other side of the chamber. I approached with more than a little apprehension.

Brother Hamilton, said the abbot, these are your guides.

I knew not what to say, so I murmured, God’s blessing to you all.

I reasoned that even if they did not acknowledge my God, they could substitute one of their choosing.

The Druid I took to be the leader stepped forward and said, And may the Creator cast Her blessings upon you.

I was surprised by the soft tone of the voice, but even more surprised when the green hood was removed and I found myself looking into the face of a woman. She appeared to be in her mid-twenties, had very long reddish-golden hair, and her face, while quite attractive, bore a countenance that conveyed the conviction with which she approached her mission.

My surprise must have been evident, because she said, You were not expecting a woman?

I bowed slightly. My lady, I have never in my life seen a Druid, man nor woman, much less conversed with one. I have no idea what to expect.

I was being completely truthful. Her eyes glowed with a green fire which seemed to penetrate my very soul.

I am Morgane, she said. Follow my instructions without hesitation and all shall be well. Do not, and your fate is in your own hands.

It is time, said Kirk. We must away.

Father John led the way down the corridor which was lit at intervals by wall sconces. The farther we progressed, the stronger the smell of damp earth and the colder the temperature became. Even in summer the Tower corridor was cold and I could see moisture dripping down the walls, making the footing somewhat treacherous. This corridor led under the outer wall of the abbey, emerging some distance into the surrounding forest. The exit was well concealed and the chances of anyone discovering it without knowing its exact location were slim, but I was convinced that upon surfacing we would find Macbeth and his entire army lying in wait. As we continued on in silence I had a disturbing thought. What if the Druids were in league with Macbeth and were leading Malcolm to his death in order to receive the reward which I was sure Macbeth would have by now placed on Malcolm’s head? After all, they were Pagans. The corridor narrowed considerably and began sloping upward, a sign we were approaching the exit.

I leave you here, said Father John. Angels protect you, King Malcolm.

Malcolm stopped, turned and embraced the abbot. Thank you, my friend. Rest assured I shall not forget your efforts on my behalf.

The only effort I had seen him make was to order me to protect the king. Then to me, Father John said, Hamilton, report to me immediately upon your return.

As you wish, I muttered, knowing full well that the last order was solely for Malcolm’s benefit; so that Father John could be seen as being in charge. If the Lord was merciful enough to allow me to return, I was certain Father John would be nowhere to be found.

We are nearing the end? asked Malcolm of me.

Yes, sire, I replied.

Good. Lead the way, came the command.

Now it seemed to me that one of the soldiers who accompanied us should have been better suited to handle the onerous task of leading the way; after all, both were armed and I was not, but nonetheless I squeezed past the Druids and took the vanguard of the procession which consisted of myself, Morgane, one of Malcolm’s guards, Malcolm himself, Kirk, the other of Malcolm’s guards, and the two remaining Druids bringing up the rear. In a few moments, the corridor ended abruptly at a wall with a ladder attached. The ladder was approximately the height of five men and led up to the surface. I climbed as quietly as I could and gently pushed upon the door which gave entrance to the forest. I had expected difficulty, the access not having been used in a very long time, but to my great surprise it opened easily. Obviously Father John had given instructions that it be cleared of undergrowth and debris prior to our arrival. Perhaps he had made an effort after all.

I opened the portal just enough to peer out, but all I could see were trees and vegetation. There could have been a thousand men at arms within my reach and I would not have seen them, but I reasoned they likewise could not see me, so I slowly opened the access door and crawled out. Even though the day was now fully upon us the forest was cast in an eerie twilight. My reason told me this was due to the thickness of the ancient trees stifling the sunlight, but I could not rule out the possibility that the Druids had cast some magical spell upon the place. Morgane followed close upon my heels, but no sooner had she emerged than she disappeared. Malcolm’s guards likewise surfaced and made a reconnaissance of the immediate area before allowing Malcolm to leave the tunnel. He and the two Druids exited and I closed the Tower access, concealing it so as not to be visible to the casual observer.

I was wondering just what to do next when very near to me I heard a sound I could not identify. It seemed to be music but I saw nothing that would have caused it. Afraid to move, I lay there hidden among the low-growing foliage. Then suddenly there were more sounds. Now they were coming from all around me as if a ghostly choir was offering up some mysterious hymn. As I marveled at these musical tones, one of the Druid guides touched my shoulder.

Follow me, he whispered.

And with that he crouched low and began moving along a path I had not noticed before. All of the others followed single file with a Druid bringing up the rear. We followed the path for some distance until we came to a small clearing, and there to my astonishment was Morgane in the company of another of her kind, also female. They were both mounted on large horses and the newcomer held the leads of seven other mounts, just as large. Now I am not overly fond of horses. In fact they terrify me; possibly because one of the evil beasts ran away with me when I was but a child. Had I not thrown myself from the heathen animal, I am certain I would have met a most unpleasant end, and since that time I have done my best to avoid any activity which might involve any animal remotely resembling a horse. I am not certain which I disliked more, horses or Father John, although I found them to be quite similar in nature; ill tempered, unpredictable, dangerous, and full of manure.

Adding to my astonishment was the fact that Morgane was naked. Well, not totally so, but very nearly. She had shed her robe and now wore a leather garment of remarkably minimal proportions. Her body was covered in a substance that tinted it a haunting shade of blue-green which contributed to her surprising appearance. Her companion was likewise clad and no sooner had we stepped into the clearing than the male Druids removed their robes revealing that they were similarly dressed and that their bodies were of a comparable hue. Each handed his robe to one of Malcolm’s guards.

Morgane said, All of you don the green robes provided, and her female companion handed two like robes to me, saying, Priest, your robe is black. It will serve as is.

I understood the green robes were for Malcolm and Kirk, and I assisted Malcolm in putting his on.

I must have again looked bewildered, for Morgane said to me, It is so we cannot be so easily observed in the forest.

I once had occasion to speak with a visitor to the abbey; a world traveler and explorer who told me of serpents that actually change colors according to their environment in order to escape predators. It occurred to me that Pagan nature worship might actually have a practical side.

The horses were likewise distributed and I mounted, seeing I had no option. The beast was huge but docile enough and soon we were riding through the forest, to where I knew not. We rode in silence with Morgane in the lead. The Druids rode on either flank of our party and from time to time would disappear into the forest returning after brief periods. But in time we left the familiar woodlands which adjoined Fortrose and entered Birnam Wood itself. It was then that I began to catch glimpses of what appeared to be figures in the woods surrounding us. They would appear for a moment and then be gone in the blink of an eye. I found this most disconcerting and wondered if anyone else was seeing the same thing. They never approached but the deeper into the forest we rode, the more prevalent they became. Finally I could stand it no longer. I urged my horse forward until I was abreast of Morgane and as I did so, I noticed that she wore a symbol which I did not recognize around the entire circumference of her upper left arm. As I looked more closely, I could see that it was not a bracelet or other ornament she wore but rather that the symbol had been etched into her skin.

My lady, a word if you please. I must admit that while Morgane frightened me beyond measure, I found myself strangely drawn to her. My lady, I see figures in the woods.

She looked at me but said nothing.

Do you likewise see them? I ventured.

I do, came the response.

I am concerned they may be troops of Macbeth, I said.

She looked at me for a moment longer then said, There are many beings in these woods, Christian. Some allow themselves to be seen and some do not.

That was not the response I was hoping to receive. But my lady, you are not concerned we are being stalked by these beings, whatever they are?

No sooner had I spoken than I was nearly unhorsed by a man who sprang from the brush no more than an arm’s length from me. Startled, I halted as did the rest of our party as the newcomer approached Morgane. For a moment I feared we were under attack, but I saw that he was also tinted blue so I took him to be a Druid. He spoke to Morgane in a language I did not understand, but by his demeanor I inferred there was a problem. They conferred for a few moments and the messenger was gone.

Morgane turned to us. Malcolm, your troops have been intercepted while en route to the Oak Ring by those of Macbeth. A fight has ensued.

With what outcome? asked the would-be king.

I am informed your forces have bested the attackers, said Morgane, but with significant loss. Macbeth’s men have likewise been bloodied, but some few have escaped.

They will no doubt inform Macbeth and summon reinforcements, said Kirk, a look of alarm on his face.

Morgane smiled. No. They will not.