HE TWO MONKS LEFT BEFORE DAWN. The sounds of the night were mute now, as every creature waited for the rising of the sun. The road spindled down into the low country where they walked through a familiar web of dwellings—small hutches of the friendly peasants who knew the monks of the abbey. More than a few folk, rising early to work, stood silently as the two monks rode past. Ellias nodded to the men with whom he regularly traded, but Asprey, feeling out of place, kept to himself.

Soon they were beyond the domain of St. Mark’s and among the greenery that filled the valley. On every side the great forest encroached, a vast wood that stretched from the coasts of Cornwall to the highlands of Pictish country. It was said one could walk unseen from one end to the other. The forest seemed to wait for them, a silent witness to the ways of men.

Abbot Hubert’s last words hung in front of Ellias.

The world remembers you and hungers for you. Use every weapon, but let them be of the Spirit.

Such advice, Ellias thought with a trace of his old court-bred irony, might be called paradoxical.

Asprey felt a growing excitement at the miles ahead. As a novice he had not been beyond the precincts of the Abbey for two years; nor had he made many journeys in his life before. Now he urged his horse forward to catch a glimpse of the mountains across the valley, but Ellias called him back.

“Plenty of steps ahead, Asprey,” he said. “This is not a jaunt.”

Obediently Asprey slowed, and the two rode side by side with the pack mule, Maple, trailing behind. He kept pulling at his rope, and the two monks traded the task of leading him on. For Ellias, the cool breeze and the rustle of the leaves in the sun stirred memories of campaigns and old friendships. Almost unconsciously, he began humming a song, one his father had taught him when he first learned his catechism:

Now we praise thee, Mighty God,
The Guardian of Heaven,

Creator of the earth and sky—
The days that number Seven.

Glory-Father, Wonder Worker,
Whose mind has measured worlds!

He hummed the rest, as he had not recovered all the words from memory. Behind him the mule suddenly honked and squealed in excitement so that one of the saddle bags came loose. Quickly the monk leapt to the ground and tightened the knot.

“Woa-ho! You like my singing, Maple?” Ellias laughed and turned to the younger man. “There may be some sense in that mule after all. Just like Balaam’s—a worthy ass.”

“I sympathize with Balaam,” replied Asprey. He looked disdainfully at the mule who was straining at his rope again. “He almost killed his donkey.”

“Never harm a creature if you can help it,” said Ellias. “They are honest animals, all of them. Not like people.”

“At this speed, it’ll take us all day to descend the mountain,” Asprey lamented.

“We’ll make good time yet,” said Ellias, remounting.

The journey became less difficult as they reached the low ebbing of the hills. Stopping to fill their water skins from a nearby brook, Asprey noted that the water and the stones of the road struck out in different directions.

“It’s a pity we can’t follow the waterway,” said Asprey. “The sun is hot and we’ve already gone through half our waterskins. Wouldn’t it be wiser to follow the river?”

“A foolish idea!” said Ellias. “You are lost in your pages, Asprey. There is always water to be found on a road as any traveler knows. But a river will not always take you where you want to go.”

“But you’re familiar with the routes of waterways,” said Asprey. “One of these must connect to the river which runs alongside St. Alban’s.”

“How do you know?”

“Brother Severin told me. He was once familiar with the entirety of the isles, he said.”

“I don’t doubt it. But I don’t know the entirety of the isles, or even all the lands around St. Mark’s.”

“But you were a knight,” said Asprey, blundering into the topic he secretly wished to discuss. He had often played at knighthood with his elder brothers before coming to the Abbey, and he still had memories of the old games. “You traveled far and must have learned many a skill.”

He hoped this might lead Ellias into tales of knightly exploits.

“Many a skill involving horseback,” said Ellias, “and mostly using roads, which we will continue to do ourselves.”

***

AKING THEIR MEAL still astride, the two travelers plodded onward, letting the legs of their animals carry them. The ground began ascending again as the valley gave way to the mountains that bordered King Lludd’s land. They looked back on the vale behind them, a shaded depression turning crimson in the glowering sun. Soon the steepness of the road caused them to dismount and lead the beasts uphill.

“Surely the king of Linfoyle must be rich enough to build a better road,” said Asprey, wiping sweat with his sleeve.

“Up ahead we will give these poor beasts a rest,” said Ellias. “And our legs.”

Once they had achieved the mountain, they rested briefly and then continued into the cool shade of the leveling road. Odd swaying in the bushes nearby alerted Ellias, and he grew cautious. The trees loomed ominously, and the turns in the road were blind. As they rounded a corner they found the road narrowed beside a ravine.

A band of strangers sprung suddenly before them upon the road. At their head was a tall youth, gripping a strong staff with both hands. There was a wildness in his look, an unmistakable willfulness, as though mere desire gave him strength to defeat any who crossed him.

“Hold fast, monks!” he shouted. “There’s a toll on this road, you know.”

“I see no toll station,” said Ellias.

“You must be blind, then, as well as your little friend, and your beasts. We have found a troupe of the blind, my lads!”

The other bandits howled and whooped.

The leader grinned widely. Ellias noted how young he was.

The monk glanced at the trees to his left and the slope to his right. The grey mule shifted uneasily.

“What?” said the youth. “No further words? Discourteous you two have turned out to be. We’ll have to take the toll forcibly, for it’s unlawful to pass into King Lludd’s land without paying.”

The youth swung his staff up to rest on his shoulder. Ellias measured him from crown to foot, and let his horse slowly amble toward the band of youths. He could see shadowy shapes moving in his periphery. An older man with an uncouth look, clearly the main beneficiary of the unlawful tolls, stood commandingly on a rise to the left, arms crossed.

“We’ve no gold,” said Ellias. “But this poor mare might still be worth something. Here,” he said, dismounting. “Take her.”

Asprey gaped, speechless. The youthful bandit also seemed surprised. He glanced at the older man, looking for direction, then walked forward and took the reins from Ellias, twisting them around his hand as if to ensure his ownership. In the same moment Ellias whistled, reached back, and thwacked the mare on the rump.

The effect was dramatic.

The horse barreled down the road, and the youth, entangled in the reins, was dragged helplessly beside her for some distance. He cried for help, and two other youths rushed to his aid.

In the same moment, Ellias had covered ground to confront the older bandit.

“Look to the monk!” someone cried.

But Ellias was already upon him, swinging his staff with speed. The wood struck the robber’s shins, bringing him to his knees, and another blow to his chin sent him tumbling into the road.

Before the others could assist their fallen chief, the monk held his wooden staff over the bandit’s head.

“Tell them to throw down their weapons,” said Ellias.

“Do as he says!” snarled the man.

They obeyed, but not without sideways glances at one another. Ellias looked again at the seasoned robber.

“Tell the men in the bushes to come out.”

The man obeyed, and the shadows Ellias had seen earlier came in human shape—two more youths of the same demeanor. Five in all gathered on the road in a cluster, looking foolish as the chief robber groaned in pain from his bruises.

Asprey took each weapon and threw them one by one into the ravine.

Ellias whispered in the man’s ear. “Now you will leave this place and not return. Go! Or I will be less merciful.”

The man staggered to his feet, glanced at his recruits and, cursing them, scurried off. Though a scoundrel and a coward, he was no fool and placed no confidence in boys to deal with an old warrior.

When he was gone from sight, Ellias motioned.

“Bring me my mare.”

The first youth, drained of confidence but not of rage, led the animal to Ellias. Coming within reach of the monk he suddenly charged, but Ellias, quickly maneuvering his staff, struck him with a blow to the chin that knocked him cold.

There were no further attacks. It was clear Ellias had exhausted their spirits.

Ellias untied a saddle bag from Maple. “What are your names?”

“Tell us yours,” said one of them.

“Ellias. A brother from the abbey. A man of peace, though I don’t suffer robbers lightly.”

“He is a former knight,” Asprey blurted out.

This had a visible effect on some of the youthful bandits.

“What, a knight to King Lludd?” scoffed one of them.

“The King,” said Ellias, placing no emphasis on the words.

The youths shrugged, perplexed.

Ellias pulled a small pot from the bag and poured water inside it, stirring it hastily.

“Here,” he said, approaching the first youth who was still rubbing his jaw. “Apply this salve.”

The youth did so, impetuously, and once applied, threw the mortar and pestle. It broke into several pieces.

The youths now drew away into the trees.

“You fancy yourselves outlaws,” Ellias called after them, taking Maple’s reins, “but those days are finished for you. Certainly if you cannot vanquish a troupe of the blind, as you so eloquently named us, you will not be able to rob a more able defender. Be grateful for the mercy of God that has brought you such a stroke of good fortune today!”

“What good fortune?” asked one of the youths, looking back in amazement.

“Think it over!” said Ellias.

Asprey picked up the broken pieces of the medicine maker and placed them into his own satchel.

“What fools,” he said. He expected a remonstrance.

“Yes,” said Ellias.

***

HEY TRAVELED BRISKLY for some time, and Ellias thought of the youths and what lay ahead. Already it seemed that the land of King Lludd was troubled. It also came to his mind that Asprey, a youth of nearly the same age, might have easily been among their number if Fortune’s Wheel had spun differently. Entrusted to the abbey at twelve, Asprey had proved a sensitive youth, a boy of artistic skill and bad prayer habits, hardworking when the notion struck him, and unceasingly curious about the heroic past. This excursion to St. Alban’s, however brief, would test the boy. Ellias understood now that Ciaran had done more than grant the novice a holiday. And holiday it was, for Ellias had not told Asprey all the contents of Bartholomew’s letter.

“Well, what do you think of the journey?” asked Ellias. “A nice change of pace as Ciaran’s under-study in lettering?”

The question caught Asprey off guard. He had been imagining Ellias’ movements from an hour before, over and over again, awed by the deft motions and speed, wondering if he might also learn such skill.

“Y-yes…very much so,” he stammered.

“Do you think those ruffians imagine themselves heroes?” said Ellias. “I have not forgotten your eagerness to discuss heroics.”

“I doubt they have any imagination,” said Asprey. “Nor any honor. They fled from you like rats from a barrel! I did not think I would see you attack them all at once!”

“I did not attack them all at once. That would have been foolhardy.”

“Forgive my impudence, Brother Ellias, but I thought as a monk you had forsworn violence?”

“I forswore killing when I vowed myself to prayer. No, I saw a way of resolving things without too much harm to anyone. But since it interests you, by the grace of the abbot, the abbey still retains my old sword.”

“You mean you didn’t sell it?”

“Sell the blade that was the gift of King Arthur? Now that is impudence!”

“Arthur gave you a sword?” Asprey’s face was blank with surprise.

“It wasn’t his favorite,” Ellias assured him. “I won it in a game, a tournament. But it was bestowed from his own armory. Now it rests in the chapel treasury.”

“I have never been in the chapel treasury,” said Asprey, disappointed.

***

HE ROAD FLOWED ON and the day aged, and the silence of the wood swallowed their thoughts like quicksand. Thirty-five miles they had ridden from the summit of St. Mark’s to the peaks of the neighboring hills. The sun was westering when they came to the bridge where the road crossed the river Foyle at its headwaters. Here, on the border of King Lludd’s land, soldiers kept an outpost, an old relic of wood and stone, with a tower to light a beacon and survey the area below.

Two soldiers, ambling to the left and right, stood upright as they rode close.

“Hallo!”

One of the soldiers stopped them in the uneasy dusk.

“Good evening to you,” returned Ellias. “We travel from St. Mark’s. I am Brother Ellias, and this is Brother Asprey.”

The other soldier, a ruddy-faced lad, took two steps back, and rapped on the door of the outpost gate.

“Captain Killian!” he called.

Another man appeared, his livery sharp. He was drying his hands. “I heard you both, Ohthere! What’s your business over the bridge, monks?”

“God’s business only, captain, you can be assured of that. We travel to St. Alban’s to help Fr. Bartholomew. But you might be interested in the bandits that set upon us some miles back at the crest of the mountains. Did a band of youths pass by here?”

The captain’s face showed recognition.

“Not through here. They know the mountains well. You may pass, but I warn you—this is King Lludd’s country. Your abbot has whispered sedition against him. We will not stand for it here.”

Ellias’s face was unpeturbed. “I have never heard such talk from the abbot, but apologize now for any past disrespect. My lips are for prayer, not for politics. I would be obliged if we might shelter here for the night under your protection, as we find ourselves in parts unknown to us.”

“Aye,” said the captain. “Dismount and come inside. You’ll do better to start again in the morning than to continue your journey in the dark.”

The other soldiers took their mounts, and the two monks, with a small satchel, followed the captain of the guard inside.

“These bandits you mentioned,” said Captain Killian, “they are youths from St. Alban’s. You are likely to meet them again.”

“Thank you for the warning,” said Ellias. “Allow us to share this small jar of honey in exchange for the hospitality.”

“Well!” said Killian, taking the jar. “This is something! Given by monkish bees?”

“In a manner of speaking,” said Asprey. “I help tend the beehives.”

He was eager to tell the whole story.

“Brother Dunstan captured the original hive himself from a nearby oak tree four seasons past. The bees grow very angry when we gather the honey, but I suffer no stings. All it takes is rolling in mud beforehand, something I’ve done since I was a boy!”

Killian laughed and Asprey knew he’d told the story right.

The gatehouse was for guards, not travelers, so there was little room. Ellias and Asprey found a less damp corner of the old Roman structure, sat on the floor, and ate their supper. They noticed another stranger near them and soon knew him for a fellow traveler rather than a soldier.

Captain Killian, sitting silently and slathering honey onto a slice of bread, watched all three of his guests with interest. The young monk was fair-haired, very green behind the ears, as they say, and perhaps clumsy. Such folk, the captain ruminated, were better off cloistered in monasteries. Better there, growing vegetables and gathering honey, than in a guardhouse. The older monk was somewhere around his own age, and his eyes showed a steadiness of nerve. Here, perhaps, was a wise man in the guise of a monk. Killian then considered the third man, entirely different from them all, but no less poor—the traveling bard. A handsome type. ‘Luke-o-the-lute’ was the irritating way he’d introduced himself. A court-hopper.

“Bard,” said Killian suddenly. “Our monk travelers have gifted us this honey. Time for you to add your own contribution, save that it does not annoy our guests—do you mind, brother monk? A bard’s lyrics might set the ears of a holy man on fire.”

“Whatever the song, at least let it be a beautiful one,” said Ellias.

The bard stood. His countenance suggested noble feeling. His eyes were intelligent and gentle.

“A beautiful song…” he said, strumming a little on his instrument. “Now let me think if I know any beautiful songs. You, young man—of what shall I sing with beauty?”

“Of King Arthur’s reign,” said Asprey, predictably.

“His reign was indeed a thing of beauty, by all accounts. But that’s too ambitious. That great subject requires a whole cycle of lyrics, which I’ll have to compose someday. A more mournful lyric for tonight, I think.”

Without further comment he began singing of the queen, Guinevere, who sat in Caerleon all dressed in Eastern gold; how King Arthur had wed her; how her charms had made every knight strive for nobler deeds. Only a passing mention was made of the rumors that had reached the common folk, and which even Asprey had heard. Ellias’s face grew dark as the music came to a close.

Killian slapped his knees. “You’ve done it again, bard!”

“Offended you with my voice?” said Luke.

Killian laughed again. He had come into a merry mood.

“That was well sung, in the Gallic manner,” said Ellias. “And yet the English words have been placed as carefully as in the original.”

“You speak as one who knows, kind brother, and I thank you for the compliment,” said Luke.

The evening passed with a few more songs until Killian called for the change of the night watch. Ohthere and Egbert came into the guardhouse as they took their turn for supper, using nearly all of the rest of the honey.

As Asprey asked the bard of life in the court, Killian was keen to display his knowledge of weaponry and soon found that Ellias knew as much as he did. The captain had a fine dagger, a Roman relic, which Ellias studied with interest.

“There’s more to you than meets the eye, monk,” said Killian, respect showing in his voice. “I would not have guessed you to be a man with interest in martial matters.”

“Appearances may deceive, captain.”

The fire dimmed and sleep began to steal upon them.

The bard retired first.

“Good night to you all, my lords,” said Luke. “Your shared company has delighted me as much as in any noble house.”

“Sleep well, bard!” said the soldiers.

Ellias got up from his seat. “We also must travel early tomorrow.”

Killian rose with him. “First, there is something I would show you from the tower. It would do well that you knew, since you are traveling there.”

***

S THE PARTY dispersed, Killian led Ellias up the wooden steps to the tower outlook. In the clear night sky one could see over the mountains of the Kingdom of Linfoyle.

It took only a moment for Ellias to see the distant red light.

In the darkness under the moon the forest moved like a vast creature, a living thing that remembered and groped and willed. Tales of these mountains were mournful—older knights, returning from unnamed missions, had seldom spoken of their journeys here, but intimated strange things.

“It burns once a week, sometimes twice,” said Killian. “But I do not know whose work it is.”

“It must be a large fire to burn so brightly,” said Ellias.

“It is not from Fellgap Beacon. That is further south,” said Killian.

“Do you mean to say it shines from St. Alban’s?” asked Ellias.

“Close by,” said Killian. “There are ruins a half-day's ride beyond the village. That part of the forest has a black name. I’d not seen firelight until a fortnight ago.”

He fixed Ellias with a look. “What business do you have in St. Alban’s?”

Ellias remarked no motive in the question and was candid.

“To heed a call of distress, in a letter we received only yesterday from Father Bartholomew. We began our journey very early this morning. Surely you must have met the messenger passing through on the way to the abbey?”

“Not met, but given his speed we had little time to speak with him. He threw a sack of coins for the toll.”

“Which I intend to pay also,” said Ellias.

“In older days monks paid no toll, and I don’t mean to take it this time,” said Killian.

“No, I have it here, captain.” Ellias extended his hand with two pieces. “From the treasury of the abbey, given to the monks who must travel.”

Killian took the coins hesitantly.

“It seems to me that you and I are alike,” he said. “Sent by our superiors to deal with thankless tasks in forgotten corners. But our duties are doubtless important nonetheless.”

The distant flame behind them did not flicker, burning steadily out of the shadow of the wood.

***

It was a half day’s journey more to St. Alban’s, but the final stretch of the road proved uneventful, and Asprey remarked more than once that it was much more pleasant to travel without highway robbers stopping you along the way.

“Oh, I don’t agree,” said Ellias. “I enjoy highway robbery. It makes one feel young again.”

The conversation of the previous night had revived the jesting spirit of the old courtly banter.

“That is very jovial coming from you, Brother Ellias,” said Asprey, almost scolding. “But I would keep my purse and my life’s blood.”

“Look!” said Ellias suddenly.

The parish of St. Alban’s came into view, still some distance away. It was a fine village, though modest. From where they stood it lay in this manner:

The church, built by the saint himself, and set some ways apart from the village, rested at the foot of the mountains and was of a very simple stone structure: four walls, a high arched roof, and a paved yard around its sides. A hundred persons, perhaps, might fit inside. A small building, of the same stone build, stood beside the church. This appeared to be the living quarters of Fr. Bartholomew.

The road cut across the front of the church, but a smaller road diverted down the hillockside where the village houses stood. The houses were quaint, but nice to look upon, built with wood-and-thatch, properly erected, and larger in most cases than the houses they had seen on their journey. The people of St. Alban’s seemed industrious, as well, in the keeping of animals. Barns and stables littered the lush green of the low plain that met a strong flowing river.

Most beautiful of all was a singular house on the other side of the river, but as visible as a centerpiece on a royal table. Ellias had seen the style before, the remains of which were scattered over England. Red roofs, handsome walls and gateways, and though they could hardly see it through the trees that hedged the property, the house must be built around a small courtyard with a garden at the center. A Roman villa, even in partial ruin, was beautiful to look upon. This house, in full splendor, might yet retain the intricately-woven tiled floors. It was, as the knights used to say of imported goods, outlandish. It delighted Ellias to see it, and he anticipated meeting the owner.

It was evening, and as the light faded, Ellias and Asprey walked purposefully toward the chapel.

A stooping figure met them on the road, near the entrance of the church.

“Good evening!” said Ellias.

“You must be the abbey monks,” said the hooded figure. The voice belonged to a woman.

“I am glad you have arrived quickly, though for all that, not quickly enough,” she said. “I am Margret, one of the church caretakers. Father Bartholomew told me about his letter to the abbey. He said to expect you tonight.”

“May we see him now?” asked Ellias.

He saw now that her shadowed face was pale beneath the hood.

“You must know, brothers, that something terrible has happened. Father Bartholomew is dead.”