Enoch's Device (5 page)

“I can see the trouble in your eyes,” the bishop said. “You know where Dónall mac Taidg is, don’t you? Tell me where to find him.”

Ciarán clenched his jaw.

“Tell me now!” the bishop growled. He grabbed Ciarán’s right arm. Ciarán tried to pull away, but the man’s long fingers felt like blacksmith’s tongs clamping onto his flesh. Ciarán started to cry out under the bruising grasp, when another thought overwhelmed the pain.
If I confess, Dónall dies.

“It’s time you rejected his lies and saved your own soul,” the bishop said.

“I don’t know where he is,” Ciarán replied. “And I haven’t seen him.”

The bishop’s gaze seemed to bore into Ciarán’s thoughts, but he stared back, praying his eyes did not reveal the truth. From the woods, in the direction of the peat bog, came the shouting of men, joined by the barking of dogs.

“We have him!” a Frank yelled from the woods beyond the grove.

Bishop Adémar cocked one brow. “Sadly, you must still believe him. But no matter, it appears we have what we came for.”

Ciarán grimaced, praying the bishop was wrong.

The bishop turned to follow his men, who rushed across the grove toward the call. Then he glanced back at Ciarán. “Before Nocturns, your mentor will burn.”

Ciarán tasted bile in his throat as the bishop strode away, leaving him with Father Gauzlin. The priest flicked his wrist, and the two remaining soldiers seized Ciarán by his arms. “Let me go!” he cried, struggling, but the mailed gloves held him tight.

“Unfortunately, there’s no more need for you,” the priest said, taking a long dagger from one of the soldiers. Ciarán shrank back, but they had him.

Father Gauzlin pressed the dagger against Ciarán’s neck. “Where’s your Irish luck now?”

T
he moment he saw the
mastiff, Dónall knew that the soldiers could not be far behind. He had run down the trail that led to the peat bog, a winding pathway through dense woods, crisscrossed by fallen limbs green with moss. From the near darkness ahead came the sounds of men moving through the woods, confirming his fears.

Spotting a briar thicket at the foot of a gnarled old oak, he tucked the book satchel deep beneath the briars, in a hollow formed between two great roots of the ancient tree, and then plunged his staff into the thicket. Next, he drew the short sword from its leather scabbard hidden beneath his habit, and tossed it into the briars.

Down the path to his left, leaves rustled. Dónall darted to the right, with the dog following obediently behind him. It was the same mastiff who had heard the Fae word of power Dónall uttered two days ago. He had no idea how animals understood that primal, elemental language older than man or why they respected those who could speak it—only that they did. The dog posed no threat to Dónall, but not so his human pursuers. Ahead of him, two Franks emerged from the mist with drawn swords.

“We have him!” one of the Franks cried in Latin.

Dónall spun around to bolt in the opposite direction, but a third soldier burst from the mist and barreled into Dónall, sending him crashing into a slick of leaves and mud. He landed hard on his left shoulder. The Frank peered down, holding his torch high, showing a grin of rotten teeth amid an untrimmed beard. Shoulder throbbing, Dónall heard the noise of more men approaching. In moments, three more Franks came down the trail, followed by four more and then a taller man with a more stately stride, clad in a bishop’s robes: Adémar of Blois.

Under his breath, Dónall whispered a prayer for deliverance, and wondered for an instant whether he should have kept his weapons. But against so many men, they would have done little but hasten his own death.

The bearded soldier grabbed Dónall by his habit and yanked him to his feet. Clutching his aching shoulder, Dónall eyed the bishop. “I don’t remember you from Reims.”

Adémar of Blois made a faint smile. “I was not there,” he replied. “But I have spoken to those who were. I know of your crimes.”

“It’s been twenty years since I was in France,” Dónall said. “What brings you now?”

Adémar’s expression darkened. “I want the Book of Maugis d’Aygremont.”

“Why has the Church taken such an interest in a paladin of Charlemagne?”

“You know what that book contains,” Adémar snapped. “Tell me where it is!” He punctuated his words with a stinging backhand across Dónall’s face. The blow snapped Dónall’s head to the side.

“I know you have it!” Adémar said through gritted teeth.

The coppery taste of blood filled Dónall’s mouth, and he spat it at the bishop’s feet.

Adémar stepped back as the bearded Frank bashed a mailed fist into Dónall’s ribs. A rib cracked, and Dónall felt as if the breath had been sucked from his lungs.

“Tell me now!” Adémar roared. “Else, you’ll burn before Nocturns.”

“In . . . my cell,” Dónall wheezed.

“You lie,” Adémar replied. “We’ve searched it thoroughly.”

“It’s hidden in the walls,” Dónall said, gasping for a second breath. “In a space between the corbelled stones.”

Adémar glanced at one of his men, who just shrugged. “Show me,” Adémar demanded. “And the book had better be there.”

The bishop turned back toward the monastery as the bearded Frank pushed Dónall forward. His left side shrieked with pain. The Frank brought his face near and said, his breath reeking of ale and rotting teeth, “You’ll burn regardless.”

Dónall gave a weary sigh. For unless a miracle happened in short order, the Frank was right.

*

Within the oak-circled grove, the priest’s dagger bit into the flesh of Ciarán’s neck. Father Gauzlin’s grin widened, while the two soldiers held his victim tight. With another flick of the blade, it would all be over. A scream gathered in Ciarán’s throat, but before it could erupt, another cry overtook it. A Gaelic cry.

Father Gauzlin spun toward the sound as the burled head of a cudgel smashed into his jaw. Blood and teeth arced across Ciarán’s feet and onto the ground, followed by the flailing priest. Over Ciarán’s shoulder, a blacksmith’s hammer clanged against the helmet of one of his captors, whose arms fell instantly limp, releasing Ciarán from his grasp. The second Frank made a mewling noise as the pole of a pitchfork cracked into his groin from behind, practically lifting him off his feet. Niall’s fist finished the job, sending the Frank sprawling onto the carpet of acorns and leaves.

Around Ciarán, twelve Irish monks grinned with the thrill of battle. Fintan the bookbinder stood triumphantly over Father Gauzlin, who moaned but did not try to rise. Murchad gripped the hammer that had felled the first Frank, while Áed held the tines of his pitchfork above the second Frank’s throat.

“We saw ’em skulking their way up to the grove,” Niall said. “Figured you were still up here.”

Ciarán didn’t know what to say. Then a desperate thought overwhelmed him. “They have Dónall!”

“He’s
here
?” Niall asked.

“He came to me in the grove,” Ciarán said urgently. “They caught him downhill, near the bog. They’re going to burn him. We have to save him.”

Niall glanced at the others. “You’re damn right, we do,” Bran replied.

“That’s what I like to hear,” Niall said, exchanging his knife for one of the Franks’ sword. Bran grabbed the other Frank’s blade and led them in a silent, loping charge toward the bog.

They could hear the Franks rustling through the woods, speaking in their native tongue and making more noise than a drove of cattle. From the direction of the sound, it was clear they were heading back toward the fields just outside the monastery’s earthen wall. Night had fallen over Derry, and Ciarán feared they might lose their way through the trees in the darkness, wasting precious time. He was following behind Murchad, who vaulted easily over a fallen tree on the narrow path, when something glimmered weakly in the moonlight. He stopped and peered at the roots of a twisted oak.

“What’re you doing?” said Fintan beside him. “Let’s go.”

Ciarán reached down and picked up a short sword with a leaf-shaped blade—the very one from Dónall’s cell. And from the briar thicket poked the tip of a blackened staff, and tucked away beside it was a leather bundle.

“Wait!” Ciarán hissed.

Fintan stopped, and Niall doubled back. “What is it?”

“Dónall must have tossed these away before they found him.”

“That’s
Dónall’s
?” Niall asked, marveling at the weapon, which was more finely wrought than the Frankish blades.

Ciarán slung the leather book satchel over his shoulder, still feeling uneasy about what it held inside, and picked up the staff with his free hand. “He didn’t want the Franks to find these.”

Ahead, Murchad called out softly, “I see ’em!” Ciarán and Niall rushed downhill to where the monks had gathered in a small clearing amid a copse of birches. “They’re heading along the edge of the woods,” Murchad said, “back toward the monastery.”

Ciarán peered through the trees. Farther downhill, the glow of the Franks’ torches illuminated a band of ten soldiers and the bishop, along with three of the huge mastiffs and their gray-robed prisoner. They moved through one of the fields, beside a half-dozen haystacks that rose like hills in the darkness. The Franks were nearly as many as his twelve brethren and himself, yet the thought of attacking a band of trained fighters put a knot in his stomach. He had never used a weapon like the one he now held, nor had the thought ever occurred to him, for Church law forbade any monk or priest to shed blood.

“What do we do now?” he asked Niall.

Niall knelt on one knee, watching the Franks intently. “Like I said, we take a stand. Just like Saint Columcille would’ve done.” He glanced at his friends, making eye contact with each of them. “We’ll move through the woods, along the edge of the fields, quiet as we can until we get close. And once we’re a stone’s throw away, we’ll charge ’em.”

“We’re going to stay and fight?” Fintan asked, his pudgy face etched with concern.

“Only as long as we have to,” Niall replied. “You and Ciarán try to get Dónall. Once you do, head for the woods; we’ll follow you. We can lose ’em in there.”

“Those dogs will be trouble,” Bran said.

“It’s no different than protecting the sheep from wolves.” Niall nodded toward the twins. “That’s what those hay forks are for.” He rose to his feet with a resolute look in his eye. “Now, let’s go.”

Gripping Dónall’s staff in one hand and clutching the short sword in the other, he hesitated in his first step as Niall took off, scurrying deftly over the fallen branches, his sandals landing softly with each footfall. Murchad and Bran were less adroit, rustling dead leaves with every stride and snapping a twig now and then. Ciarán felt the blood rush to his cheeks as he charged after his friends, darting around trees and over deadfalls. Rushing through the darkening woods, the band of monks sounded like deer running from a wolfhound.

They were still forty yards from the Franks when the first soldier spun toward the noise. The soldiers with torches held them high as an alarmed chatter broke out among the Franks.

They can hear us,
Ciarán realized as he strode to keep up with Niall,
but they can’t see us in these shadows
. Ahead, Niall slowed to a halt and waited for the others to gather around him, while a chill breeze soughed through the trees.

“Let’s show ’em what happens when you cross the Irish,” Niall told them. “On the count of three.”

Around him, the monks drew nervous breaths. “One,” Niall said, as some made the sign of the cross. Bran recited a psalm:
“Vindicate us, O God, and defend our cause.”

“Two,” Niall counted. Ciarán’s heart drummed in his chest.

“Three!”

Another Gaelic cry rose from the woods, and Niall raised his sword. “Columcille!” he yelled.

Murchad led them, joined by Bran and Niall, while Ciarán stayed close to Fintan, searching for the quickest path to Dónall. They bounded down the grassy hillside, past two of the haystacks, but the Franks stood ready with swords drawn, forming an arc around the bishop and the burly Frank who held Dónall. The thrill of danger surged through Ciarán’s veins as the monks closed on the mailed soldiers. Then the Franks unleashed their mastiffs. The first beast barreled into Senach and sent the young monk flailing backward, his screams blending with the dog’s vicious snarls. Áed set his pitchfork, and the second mastiff pounced. Skewered on the tines, it howled in pain but took down Áed under its weight while, beside him, his brother fell to the third dog. The remaining monks collided with the wall of Franks, and around Ciarán everything became a flash of chaos and blood.

One of the Franks collapsed under a blow from Murchad’s hammer, but then a sword blade ran the brawny monk through, and his eyes froze in shock. Bran cleaved through the arm of another Frank as, beside him, Niall ducked the blade of his nearest attacker and swung his sword upward between the Frank’s legs. Then he lunged toward another soldier on the left, who had cut down Brother Ewan, one of older monks. Niall’s blade sliced across the back of the Frank’s neck, and as the soldier fell, Ciarán saw a clear path to Dónall, who gazed wide-eyed at the scene before him. Fintan, too, charged through the gap, smashing his cudgel into the face of Dónall’s captor. Dónall, still weaponless, drove his elbow into the base of the same Frank’s jaw, sending him crumpling to the ground.

“Well done, lads!” Dónall shouted as he grabbed his black staff from Ciarán’s outstretched hand.

Beside Ciarán, Fintan spun to face another soldier, then doubled over as the Frank’s sword caught him with a broad, arcing sweep. Ciarán watched in horror as viscera spilled from the opening onto the ground. Then a battle cry sounded behind them, snapping Ciarán back into the moment. He whirled to see a dozen more Franks charging up the hillside.

“Look out, lad!” Dónall shouted.

To Ciarán’s right, a soldier lunged at him. Ciarán pivoted away, and the blade swept wide, its tip landing in Ciarán’s side. The force of the blow sent him tumbling hard onto the damp grass. He groped for the wound, fearing what he would find. But his palm felt leather instead of bleeding flesh. The blade had caught the book satchel, and while it had scored the leather from top to bottom, it had pierced no further than the flap.

The Frank hit the ground next, his nose smashed by a whack from Dónall’s staff. As Ciarán picked himself up off the grass, he saw Niall ten yards away, still holding his ground, with two Franks lying wounded at his feet. He fought a tall Frank, and Ciarán gasped when he realized it was the bishop. Adémar of Blois had grabbed one of the fallen Franks’ sword and now parried Niall’s blows as deftly as any skilled warrior.

The bishop’s face burned with rage. “The days of Gog and Magog are upon us!” he shouted above the clamor of battle. “When death and damnation shall be the price of heresy! And the time of prophecy is nigh!”

Ciarán gasped at the bishop’s words, so similar to Brother Remi’s warning. Then the bishop’s blade arced out with a cleaving strike. “No!” Ciarán yelled.

Niall’s body staggered backward, a yawning red wound opening from his shoulder to his waist. Bran stepped into Niall’s place, but the bishop swung hard, and the hulking monk fell with a feeble cry. More Franks filled the gap between the bishop and the remaining monks, who fought and screamed, falling fast to the soldiers’ blades and their mastiffs.
This cannot be happening!
Ciarán thought. It seemed more nightmare than waking reality, and in a heartbeat, he wondered whether he had passed into the realm of dreams. For around him the air sizzled, and the blades of grass stood on end as if being drawn upward, where, in the twilight, ghostly blue flames wreathed the tops of the haystacks, like the fire of Saint Elmo before a storm.

“Get behind me, lad,” Dónall commanded.

Ciarán turned to find Dónall holding a torch in one hand and his black staff in the other. Dónall uttered a string of words that were neither Irish nor Latin, and, as if in response, the torch’s flame leaped to the tip of his staff, which flared with a plume of fire. Ciarán retreated behind Dónall, hardly believing his eyes. A half-dozen Franks stood before them, swords drawn, looking in awe at the fiery weapon. Dónall stepped forward, his face a mask of fury. “Stand back!” he yelled.