Excerpt - The Arthurian Omen
© 2007 - G.G. Vandagriff
All rights reserved.
Photograph by William Whitaker
Prologue
WALES
MARCH 1409
Brother Gruffyd's old heart trembled with excitement. He sat staring at his find. At last. The omen they had all been awaiting -- a confirmation that the magic of the Once and Future King was abroad in the land, that his hand was at work in the present rebellion.
With thick, shaking hands, Brother Gruffyd caressed the old parchment documents. Written in Latin in the round Breton script, they were embellished in gold Celtic knotting with maps in colors still brilliant. The details of Arthur's Gallic campaigns. He was actually holding them in his ordinary, mortal hands -- hands that had done nothing more than pray, carve, and tend sheep during all that he remembered of his life. Never, even in a boyhood spent in heroic dreams, had he imagined that he, Gruffyd ab Blydn, would be an Instrument. Only the strongest of Arthurian magic could account for the manuscript's being here, waiting for this moment, just behind the wall in his cell.
Believers had been seeking it for three centuries. Doubters had said that no one and nothing could prove that Arthur had ever existed, had ever reigned over all of Britain and Gallic Normandy. Anglo-Saxon fools! In his hands was the evidence that Arthur was real, far grander than even legend had made him. He had conquered Gaul.
As a lad, Brother Gruffyd had listened for hours while his father, a bard of great renown, recounted tales of King Arthur and the old Wales, ancient Cymru. For the young Gruffyd, his jewel-green land had been dressed in a mist of enchantment, where Celtic goddesses led and heroes followed, where strength and valor were proved not only by might but by virtue.
Now Cymru's time was here again. Prince Owain Glyndwr had united his country against the English infidels, just as Arthur had. He even flew Arthur's standard, the Red Dragon.
To be sure, the Welsh prince was in peril at the moment, besieged at the castell close by. Henry, that cursed son of the English king, claimed to be victorious. Cymru was black with his burning and pillaging. If Glyndwr's forces could not hold him, he would take the castell.
Brother Gruffyd put up his rough cowl and thrust the manuscript inside one loose sleeve. There was no doubt about what he must do--take it immediately by the monks' secret entrance to the castell. The power of this omen was inestimable. There was no more magic name in all of Cymru than that of King Arthur. Awaiting the day of his return, Cymru alone had remained the guardian of his legends, his language, his ancient religion. Now! An account of the triumphant Gallic campaign--just at the moment when Prince Owain was fighting this descendant of the Gauls, the Norman pretender, the barbarian who had decreed himself the Prince of Wales.
To know he was on Arthur's quest, repeating Arthur's deeds, would surely invest Prince Owain with the powers of the Divine. Brother Gruffyd knew his timely find was no accident.
The night air was cold and raw, but spring was approaching. He could almost smell the scent of the summer's wild roses that would cover the slate wall that bounded Dafydd ab Huw's fields. Barefoot on the rocky slope, Brother Gruffyd made his way down the hidden path below the monastery leading to the castell. Even at this season, it was nearly impassable with wiry heather and boulders.
Squinting in the darkness, he made out what looked like a small, moving torch. Alarmed, he scurried back up the trail, secreting himself behind a boulder, clutching at the parchment in his sleeve. His toes were freezing, but he tried not to heed them.
Sounds carried in the still spring night, low, deep laughter and voices�English voices. An advance party of Henry's men, come to spy out the land.
His heart thundered so that he could hardly hear. Gritting his teeth, he willed it to slow. He must think. Should he still try to reach Prince Owain?
Brother Gruffyd agonized as sweat broke out all over his body, running rivers inside his habit despite the cold. Could he, an old man, possibly outwit these young, fit soldiers and make it to the castell? The pasture was an open field. Without doubt, he would be caught before he could get there. If it were only his life, of course, he wouldn't hesitate. But what of the manuscript? What would happen to it, if he were captured? It could be lost again, perhaps forever. Destroyed by infidels.
He watched helplessly as a party of three spies scrambled past him. They smelled foreign, barbaric. He sensed their bloodlust and hate.
If the prince had fled, they would believe he had come here, to this obscure place in the mountains, for safety. But they would not ask questions. Henry was the destroyer. These men would return with an army that would burn and smash Brother Gruffyd's monastery until not two stones were left standing one atop another. And everyone would be slain. Henry would never forgive the Brothers of Castell cadarn a'i safle grymus ar ben y graig for supporting Owain Glyndwr against the English king. The old monk had no doubt that the soldiers would leave behind only smoking ruins and the bodies of holy men for the crows to gorge upon.
Panic galvanized him at last. He must secure the manuscript. He knew a more direct though far more tortuous way to the monastery. Luckily, the moon was half full, and it was a clear night. The heather impeded him but cushioned his feet from the sharp rocks as he labored up the hill. Once the spies located the monk's retreat, they would be back with an army by dawn.
Reaching his cell, Brother Gruffyd debated what to do with his treasure. This, he knew, was his first responsibility. If the monastery were to burn . . . the floor! The floor was made of fitted stones, one of which he had carved in the long night hours when he couldn't sleep. It bore the sign of Arthur's dragon holding aloft the Celtic cross. It would not burn. Going to the stables, he secured a large pitchfork.
He worked steadily to dislodge the stone, sweat streaking down his face, his heart beating erratically. Doubtless it was a bad sign, but he could not stop. What he was doing was too important. It was his sacred duty to preserve this relic of Arthur for some future day. Some day more favorable than this one. Such a day would come. The so-called Prince Henry might ravage the country until no one was left, but he could never destroy the spirit of Cymru. It was eternal. It would live on in the hills, the rivers, the land, until Arthur returned to reclaim them.
Finally, the stone loosened, and Brother Gruffyd dug out a cavity beneath. He savored the strong smell of earth. This was his Cymru--thick, black, magical. This piece of ground had not been disturbed in almost two hundred years. It would make a fitting vault. Carefully wrapping the manuscript in the skins his father had given him years before, he put them into a pewter box that formerly had stored candles. He secreted his treasure in the ground, fitted the stone back into place, and beat it with the handle of the pitchfork. Then he prayed.
The monastery bell chimed out the futile alarm. Henry's army was upon them. Now that the manuscript was safe, Brother Gruffyd felt nothing but relief. Replacing the cowl over his head, he fled toward the giant mountain that had sheltered his community for centuries.
Some time later, as he sought a foothold on the cliff face, the monk turned to look back down at the monastery that had been his home for fifty years. As he watched the flames, a bitter wind carried the smoke to his nostrils. The acrid smell of defeat. Grief overwhelmed his former relief. Tears filmed his eyes. Below him, Henry's men rode into sight, their torches ablaze. He could hear their shouts, and though the words were unfamiliar, their meaning was clear.
Black remorse seized him. He turned his eyes from the flames destroying the monastery and his former life. There was no place for him in Cymru now. He lacked the faith of his forefathers. He should have trusted to the magic of the omen and reached Prince Owain in time for him to stage a miraculous victory.
Turning his face to the cliff wall, he felt his heart convulse, as though it would wrench itself free from him in shame. Pain shot through his back and down his arm. Even as he fought to hang onto the rocks of the cliff face, he could sense his strength ebbing. Now in his darkening mind's eye, he saw the precious document trampled under the feet of Henry's men. Arthur and all his glory under the feet of these infidels! It was too much. His old heart broke, his hands released their hold, and his body arced through the morning mist, two hundred feet down toward the valley floor.
Chapter One
Chicago
Present Day
The telephone call came at the end of a frustrating day. Maren had just pulled off her long black wig and given her daughter some frozen yogurt when she heard the ring.
"Maren? It's Rachael."
She sat down on a nearby chair with a thump. Her sister, who was in Oxford for the summer, hadn't called her in five years. "Hi" was all she could manage in her surprise.
"Listen. I think I know where it is--the Breton manuscript."
"The what?" Maren tried to switch gears from a day of tracking drug dealers to Rachael's world of Celtic scholarship. Why in the world was she calling?
"Remember when Geoffrey Ashe came out with that book, Discovering King Arthur?" Maren detected her sister's impatience.
"The one you and Daddy were so excited about?"
"Yes. Oh, Maren, I wish Daddy were still alive. He'd be so excited about this! It's the ultimate treasure hunt. Ashe built his whole theory of who Arthur really was on the secondhand evidence of this manuscript. But no one even knew for sure it existed."
Some of her sister's enthusiasm penetrated her tired brain. Arthur was still common ground between them. From the time they were little girls their Welsh father had nurtured them on legends of the great King of the Britons, taking them to Arthur's supposed birthplace on the angry coast of Cornwall and then to pastoral Cadbury Castle, the hypothetical site of Camelot.
"Yes," Maren said slowly. "I think I remember now. Ashe thought Arthur was some Roman general who conquered Gaul, didn't he?"
"Right!" Rachael crowed. "He based it all on the theory that this fifth-century manuscript told about Arthur's deeds in Gaul--the same deeds the Roman general is known to have done."
"I don't remember the details, Rachael. But I'll take your word for it. And you think you've found this manuscript?"
"I think I know where to find it. I want you to come over and help me hunt for it. It would be just like old times, Mareny. It would make me so happy."
Maren was stunned. Rachael wanted her? It would make her happy? Then her practical mind took over. "You realize what it would mean to the world if you found this?" she asked. "If you could prove for sure who King Arthur was and that he really existed?"
"It's probably priceless, I know. But I don't care about that. I'm going to give it to the Arthurian Society. It could be the beginning of a whole new era . . ."
"Rachael, you must take care. There are people who would kill for such a thing! It could be the greatest find since Tutankhamen!"
"You've spent too much time chasing drug dealers. Don't worry, I haven't told a soul. You will come, won't you?"
Maren thought frantically, casting her eyes around her small and tidy kitchen and then resting them on her flame-haired daughter who was looking at her out of Patrick's big blue eyes. There was almost nothing she wanted more than to be happily reconciled with her sister. This was clearly the opportunity of a lifetime, but . . ."I'm sorry, Rach. I can't go into it, but things are really unsettled right now. I don't think I should leave Claire." Her four-year-old daughter was the only person in the world who could take priority over her sister's plea.
"If you don't want to leave her with Ian, you can always take her to stay with Mother or Robert and Kathryn. They're crazy about her."
Maren wondered at Rachael's instinct that what was wrong was connected to Ian. But, of course, she was right. And Claire's uncle and aunt had provided a lot of stability in her life since Maren's remarriage. Her daughter had a complete wardrobe, a playhouse, and even a pony at their lakeshore mansion. She needn't tell Ian where she was going. She could just leave. If Claire were safely taken care of, there was nothing to keep her.
"Any clues about what I need to pack?" she asked, allowing a wave of excitement to overcome the weariness that never left her
.
"Jeans and boots. And bring me some while you're at it."
"I'll try to catch a plane tomorrow night, Rach. Where are you?"
"Somerville College. I'll expect you. And remember, not a word to anyone."
"You, too. I know what you're like when you get carried away."
When Rachael at last hung up, Maren kept the phone to her ear in wonderment. That's how she happened to hear the click. Ian, her husband of three months, had been listening on the extension.
Chapter Two
Oxford, England
The man who sometimes knew himself as Prince Owain Glyndwr sat, unaware of his more dangerous personality, looking at the woman across the table from him in the candlelight. "So what is it you think you've found?" He smiled the smile that won hearts without effort. Waiters clattered about them with plates of oysters and steaming bowls of onion soup.
Rachael looked like the cat who'd swallowed the canary, her classic features framed by burning red hair. "What makes you think I've found something?"
"I'm a trained observer. I know you're on some kind of quest. You've spent all day in the Bodleian Library. Your eyes are sparkling. You look impish." He toyed idly with his creme brulle. This was all a game. Would she tell him?
"It's really the magic, though, isn't it?" she asked, seeming to test him.
"The magic?" He raised an eyebrow.
"You're a Celt. You know exactly what I'm talking about."
Puzzled, he wondered if she was a bit daft. "I'm afraid you're wrong. I actually have no idea."
Laughter gurgled from her. "You look so uncomfortable. So British. Relax. I'm not nuts."
For some reason, her words offended him. He could feel anger stirring somewhere inside his breast. Closing his eyes for a moment, he took a deep breath. What was wrong with him? These powerful emotions were coming so often now that he seemed a stranger to himself. And he suspected there were blanks in his memory, as well.
"How much do you know about King Arthur?" she asked.
The query kaleidoscoped his world. Lightning struck in the back of his head, and the restaurant became a baronial hall, the waiters, minions. He knew suddenly he was a ruler of legendary power. "Arthur is my liege lord," he said solemnly.
"I thought you might feel like that," she said, her grin merry. "You're Celtic to the bone, aren't you?"
He swelled in rage. "My country is dissolving, Rachael. The English are committing cultural genocide. Only a quarter of the Welsh know their own language." Ancient passions roiled within him. "We've been gutted by the miners and the slate barons. Arthur wouldn't recognize his own homeland. The Celts are losing their identity."
"What if I told you I knew the location of a manuscript that could prove King Arthur was a real person, not just a legend?"
Now there was only Rachael, curiously sexless-a sprite out of myth. Had she been summoned by the magic?
"What are you saying?"
She leaned toward him, confiding. "I know all about the divine void you feel. I feel it, too. I think Arthur has the answers. And I can prove he was real."
It was the magic. The timing could not be accidental. "You have found the Breton manuscript?"
"So you know what it is, then?"
"Of course I do. Where is it?" This must be the divine seal to his plans. It was the eleventh hour-a matter of days. Arthur's omen would rally his countrymen behind him as nothing else could.
She gave a tiny, knowing smile. "My sister is coming. I know right where to look. We're going to find it together."
All at once, he was maddened beyond reason. Did this woman have any idea what she had discovered? How could she? How could some naive American schoolteacher possibly understand the importance of such a document to the future of the world? Tossing a handful of five-pound notes on the table, he rose. "Let's leave."
The night had the crystal perfection of early September. The moon was full, shining down on Rachael's hair. Infuriating fairy sprite. He would choke the secret out of her if he couldn't get it any other way.
