Enoch's Device (4 page)

A sickening feeling seized Ciarán. He ran to his cell and pulled the door shut. A moment later, it opened again. Niall’s face beamed with exhilaration.

“So what did you find?”

Ciarán shook his head, struggling for words. “Nothing really.”

“Well, you missed a fine time. Those Franks are probably lost in the woods by now.”

Ciarán slumped onto his pallet, waiting for Niall to finish his account of the chase. Then Ciarán pulled his blankets tightly around him. He didn’t know if he could ever tell his friend the truth. Shuddering at the thought of what he had uncovered, he recalled the bishop’s parting words. Indeed, what if everything he had come to believe actually was a lie?

F
ather Gauzlin paced through the
scriptorium the next morning, eyeing the monks like a fox circling a henhouse. The bookbinders in the center of the room did not whistle their lilting Irish lays, and the scribes along the rows of windows worked with head down, hoping to avoid the priest’s gaze. The scratching of pens and the fall of Gauzlin’s boots on the rush-strewn floor were the only sounds save for an occasional whisper between monks.

Outside the windows, a cold mist lingered beneath a cloud-darkened sky, providing only feeble light for the scribes at their desks. Ciarán stirred a blue dye made from woad leaves, and dabbed it with a horsehair brush, adding the color to interwoven vines that meandered down a page of Saint Augustine’s
City of God.
He cared little whether it was his best work, for images from the sorcerer’s tome tormented his thoughts, and the presence of the priest with his condescending gaze only added to Ciarán’s unease. A drop of dye spilled onto a verse of beautifully penned Irish script. Swearing under his breath, Ciarán tried to remove the dye with his thumb but only further marred the blessed saint’s words.

“Leave it—it’ll scrape off,” Niall said under his breath.

Ciarán shook his head in frustration.

“What’s wrong with you?” Niall whispered. “You’ve looked out of sorts all morning.”

“I’m fine,” Ciarán said tersely as the sound of footfalls stopped beside his desk. He looked up at the black cassock of Father Gauzlin, who stood leering down at the two monks.

“Out and about last night, were we?” the priest asked.

Ciarán tensed, but Niall looked amused. “Haven’t the foggiest notion what you’re talking about,” he replied.

The priest’s eyes flashed with anger. “You two are pushing your luck.”

“In case it’s news,” Niall said, “we Irish have a lot of luck.”

Father Gauzlin drew a hissing breath. “All things pass away.” Then he continued his excursion down the aisle, peering over the shoulders of the other scribes.

Once the priest was across the room, Ciarán nudged Niall’s sleeve. “What if he saw us last night?”

“No chance,” Niall said. “If he had, the bishop would have tried to arrest us by now.” He leaned closer to Ciarán. “Besides, I and some of the brothers have had quite enough of these Franks. We’re going to organize against them. We’re gathering before Vespers, at the grove. You need to be there.”

“You’re mad!” Ciarán hissed. “These are trained soldiers—killers.”

Niall shrugged. “And we’re Irish. Sounds as though we’ve got the upper hand. You coming?”

Ciarán looked away, despondent. All this because of Dónall—and, worse, the accusations were true.

Niall clapped Ciarán on the shoulder. “I’ll come get you before we go.”

*

An hour before Vespers, Niall and Ciarán made their way through the ground-hugging mist to the grove. The monks had gone there one or two at a time, to avoid alerting anyone that a dozen men were heading uphill for a gathering. Beyond the earthen walls, pairs of soldiers and their mastiffs patrolled the edge of the woods, but Niall was careful to make sure none were near the grove before the brethren headed there. Ciarán glanced around for any sign of Father Gauzlin, but in the thick mist and fading light, the monks’ cells looked like shadowy hills, and a gray habit looked much like a black one.

When it was their turn, Niall and Ciarán walked uphill to the edge of the grove. They passed through the ring of ancient trees, treading across a carpet of damp leaves and acorns that were rich with the scents of autumn. To the druids of old, the grove was a sacred temple born of the Earth Mother. Yet Ciarán found it strangely like the oratory, though three times its size and a hundred times as beautiful—a cathedral crafted by God. Its walls were tree trunks, and its ceiling was a canopy of arching branches ablaze with leaves of russet and red. Normally, the grove was a sanctum where monks came to think and pray. But today they came to plot an uprising.

Ciarán was surprised to see so many of his friends, and more surprised to find them armed. Murchad, one of the young blacksmiths, gripped his iron hammer, and Fintan, a thickset bookbinder, held a cudgel of ash wood. Senach, a wiry young shepherd, had a shearing knife in his rope belt, and the twin scribes, Áed and Ailil, held long-handled hay forks. A half-dozen older monks joined them, including Bran, Derry’s hulking butcher, cleaver in hand, and other scribes and fieldworkers with hatchets, sickles, and staves.

“Ciarán!” Murchad said with a broad grin. “Knew you’d come!”

Ciarán forced back a smile, but his stomach tensed at the sight of these would-be warriors. Bran handed Niall a curved-bladed knife with a hooked spine, used for gutting pigs. It looked as though it could do much the same to a man.

“Glad you’re all here,” Niall addressed the group. “Because it’s time we took back Derry!”

Nods and amens resounded from the monks.

“Last night it hit me,” Niall continued, “when I lured two of them into the woods. That’s when I realized how we should take them. We’ll come at ’em like they did in the days of Cú Chulainn, harassing them at night, stealing their armor and weapons. We’ll lure ’em into the woods for the others to find bound and battered, just as they found that Frank two nights ago. We’ll move like shadows and make ’em think the spirits of this very grove have come from the Otherworld to haunt them. Me and Murchad will make the first sortie tonight, between Vespers and Nocturns. Then we’ll take turns each night after that until these Franks hie off and sail from our shore!”

The monks nodded and clapped, while Bran uttered another amen. But Ciarán shook his head. “And what if they come at us en masse?”

“Then we take a stand!” Niall insisted. Muffled cheers followed his words.

“That’s mad!” Ciarán said. “We’re monks, not warriors. And yet, you’d risk your lives. But for what? Brother Dónall?”

The monks quieted. “Wouldn’t you risk yours for him?” Niall asked.

Ciarán glanced at the leaf-laden ground. “We don’t know what happened in France,” he said. “What if these charges are true and these men have just cause?”

“Haw!” Bran scoffed.

“Then why did he run?” Ciarán asked.

“Because he’s not daft, lad,” Bran said. “These black-robed priests are liars, as everyone knows.”

Ciarán sighed. “He was standing right beside me when their ship arrived, and then he was gone before the bishop even leveled his first accusation. Dónall knew they’d come for him.”

“Listen to yourself!” Niall snapped. “You’ve known Dónall mac Taidg your whole life.”

“How well can we know what
anyone
did twenty years before we were born? And if he’s guilty, are we all to fight and die for his sins?”

Niall’s face darkened. “We fight because we’re brave and we’re Irish, because these Franks have no business coming here and lording it over us, regardless of what Dónall may have done!”

Ciarán stared at his closest friend, unable to summon another retort.

“We’re all in,” Niall said, “and it starts tonight. You’re either with us or you stay out of our way.”

Niall stormed from the grove, and the others followed by ones and twos. Ciarán glanced away from his friends. He could feel their disapproving looks prick him like daggers. He waited until they were gone. They didn’t know what they were about to do. He should have told them about the tome.

As Ciarán fought back the growing surge of guilt, he heard the shuffle of leaves. His heart jumped, and he spun about, fearful that Father Gauzlin or one of the soldiers had overheard everything the monks had said.

From the shadows between two great oaks, a figure emerged, but it seemed to be robed in gray, not black—the imposing figure of Dónall mac Taidg.

*

“So, a heretic, am I?” Dónall mac Taidg leaned on his blackened staff. The mist shrouded him like a veil.

For a moment, Ciarán was too stunned to speak. But then his anger flared. “I found the tome hidden in your cell,” he said bitterly.

“I figured that was you,” Dónall replied. “Didn’t think you’d find it, but then, you always were a clever lad.”

Ciarán recognized the leather book satchel slung over Dónall’s shoulder, the one containing the sorcerer’s tome. A chill crawled up his spine. “It’s a spell book, isn’t it. The one from Reims. Did you kill for it?”

“I’m no murderer, lad. And you have no idea what that book is.”

“I’ve seen the symbols!”

“What you saw,” Dónall said, “is an ancient language, older than Noah and the Great Flood, preserved by Maugis d’Aygremont two hundred years ago.”

“Was he a sorcerer, too?”

Dónall chuckled. “Hardly. He was one of the twelve paladins of Charlemagne, who recorded the secrets of the Fae.”

Ciarán shook his head in disbelief. “The Fae? Then it
is
magic, and you practiced it. That’s condemned by the Church.”

Dónall growled, “This is not the sorcery spoken of in scripture! It is not the magic of the angels condemned to the abyss, nor the work of demons. This is the stuff of our Celtic heritage—the mysteries of the Tuatha Dé Danann, and Merlin of Britain, and the paladins of Charlemagne. Do you take
those
men to be evil? And what of the three magi who honored our Savior in Bethlehem? Were they sorcerers, too? The symbols you saw may be the language of creation—words that harness a power that, I’m convinced, exists within our immortal souls and can reach out to affect the elements of nature. Whether that power is used for good or for evil is the choice of the man who wields it.”

“Yet you’ve kept this secret all this time.”

“How could I expect you or anyone else to understand? It took me years to comprehend it myself.”

Ciarán ran a nervous hand through his mist-dampened hair. “What has any of this to do with me? I found some warnings, hidden in another book that came from Saint-Germain-de-Prés. Whoever wrote them suggested
my
life was in danger, too.”

“I know,” Dónall said. “I went to Áengus this morning, before cockcrow. He told me of the book sent by Brother Remi, an old friend from Reims. I found it on your desk and discovered the messages. But despite what Remi thinks, this has nothing to do with you.”

“Then why did he write it?” Ciarán pressed.

“Because Remi suffers from what the Greeks call
paranoia—
he often perceives threats where none exist.”

“Aren’t these Franks a threat? He could have been warning us about them.”

Dónall shook his head. “Perhaps, but I doubt it. Remi mentioned the prophecy, and something that may have happened to our friend Nicolas.”

“What prophecy?” Ciarán demanded. “What does it mean?”

“It means, among other things, that I have to go to France to see Remi. To find out what is happening and whether it has anything to do with this black-robed carrion bird of a bishop. But for now, all I want you to do is stay here and keep safe. And restrain your friends, too. Áengus told me that Dub-dá-leithe sent a secret message to the King of Aileach. So by tomorrow, there’ll be a host of Irish warriors at Derry’s gate. These Franks won’t challenge them.”

Ciarán drew in a long breath. The thought of the king’s men brought a wave of relief, but the need for more answers clamored within him. “Did any of this have to do with my mother?” he finally asked. “The bishop called her a heretic.”

Dónall winced at the question.

“It does, doesn’t it!”

“Your mother was innocent.”

Ciarán reeled. “You lied to me about her?”

“Almost everything you’ve learned about her is true,” Dónall insisted. “She was a nun of Kildare and met your father on a pilgrimage in France. And she loved you more than anything in all the world. She died tragically, but not from a fever. I lied to spare you from that awful truth. Perhaps I was wrong.”

Tears stung behind Ciarán’s eyes. “How did she die?”

“She was accused of a crime she didn’t commit, but I assure you, the truth was of no moment to the black-robed priests who condemned her. She was a victim of an archbishop’s inquisition,” Dónall said softly, “and was burned at the stake. Just as this Bishop Adémar would do to me now.”

Ciarán felt as if the air had been stolen from his lungs.
Heretics
burned at the stake.

For an instant, Ciarán felt guilty about his anger toward the man who had raised him. And yet, Dónall
had
lied—about his mother’s death at least, and perhaps about other things. Ciarán wondered if he had it within him to forgive such a betrayal. But then he noticed movement amid the trees, and the soft rustle of paws padding over leaves. Dónall turned and saw it, too. Ten yards away, a mastiff stood watching them. It gave a low, guttural growl.

At the sight of the massive animal, Dónall said, “Stand still. It’ll follow me. And remember, do as I’ve asked.” Raising a hand toward the mastiff, Dónall slowly backed away between the two oaks, heading in the direction of the peat bog. The great war dog, suddenly docile, trotted after him.

Ciarán stood dumbfounded as the mastiff disappeared into the mist and shadows. He waited a moment to see if Dónall might return, but as the grove grew darker, Dónall didn’t come. Ciarán knew he had to get back, to tell Niall and the others about Abba’s message to the king.

Nearing the edge of the grove, he heard the chink of mail. Moments later, six Franks stormed out of the mist-shrouded oaks. Two of the soldiers held blazing birch-bark torches, while the others had drawn swords. Father Gauzlin emerged from their ranks. And behind him strode the towering figure of Bishop Adémar of Blois. Torchlight reflected off the silver crucifix around his neck and cast his face in a sinister glow. His eyes held predatory gleam, while those of Father Gauzlin burned with sanctimonious triumph.

“As I said, my lord,” the priest announced, “we counted thirteen of them going to the grove, but only twelve returned. And this one who lingered is chief among the troublemakers. I swear to you, he’s up to something.”

Ciarán shivered. Between the bishop’s thin lips flashed the ghost of a smile. “Ah, yes, the whelp.” In the torchlight, the bishop’s eyes narrowed as if he were studying every pore on Ciarán’s face. Ciarán stood too alarmed to speak.