Sanctuary (Dominion) (7 page)

“This way,” he said, as if that answered my question. I would have pushed him for more information, especially about the menacing comments he made last night, but after working so hard to find him, I didn’t want to make him regret my company. So I stayed quiet, choosing instead to just observe and avoid antagonizing him. Truth be told, I was a little surprised he hadn’t abandoned me in the middle of the night. Had he done so, I’m sure I’d have woken up thinking he was only a dream. Albeit a dream that had rudely carried me to the middle of nowhere.

The morning skies were cloudy and gray, but not quite as fearsome as yesterday. The ground was dry, as were my clothes, which meant it hadn't rained overnight, but the cold stubbornly lingered. Leaves crackled under my feet, and acorns jabbed through the thin leather soles of my boots. Winter was taking hold in Wessex, and I hoped our destination would bring us to a place with a roof, sturdy walls and a hearth. All manner of towns and villages lay north of us but I had no idea which of them was the most likely stop for us. I'd heard of Viking raids in the northeast, and how they liked to specifically target churches. Perhaps that's where our journey would take us. I secretly relished the thought of seeing Arkael drive off a horde of Viking warriors.

Thankfully, Arkael kept a slower pace today, though not by much. My muscles protested constantly, but I managed to keep up with him. I even tried to make conversation, but he had little to say, so I spent most of our time together hoping he’d decide to talk to me without prodding. That didn’t happen, so instead I just convinced myself I would discover what I was looking for once we ended up wherever he was going.

We passed a village that morning. This part of the road, barely more than a wide trail, wove through another forest, and we found a cross path that led to a small collection of huts and awnings that sat a few dozen yards to our right. The awnings, nothing more than tightly wrapped branches strung together, covered a small market area that consisted of five large baskets of vegetables, another stand with salted meat, and an outdoor alehouse comprised of two long tables, some chairs and a barrel of ale served by the Briton couple who owned it. I tried to convince Arkael that we’d need to stop and pick up some food for the journey. In response, he flipped a silver penny at me and told me to get what I need and catch up. He kept walking, so I hurried to the market.

“What place is this?” I asked the smiling villager standing next to the meat.

“Calsey," he said. He was older, perhaps in his late thirties, with a long face, thin, stringy brown hair that fell to his shoulders and parts of a wispy beard scattered about his cheeks. His smile revealed a few missing teeth, and he stank pretty heavily of dung.

“Calsey,” I repeated, committing it to memory. I would write it down later when I found time to document this journey. I planned on capturing every detail, no matter how small. “I’ve heard of Calsey before. You have a man here who breeds hunting dogs, right?”

“Aye. His name’s Gabriel. He’s over past the smithy.” The man lowered his voice and leaned forward. “But between you and me, those dogs are a pest. Run around the place tearing everything up like the devil himself is after ‘em.” He looked at my clothes. “You a priest?”

“I am.”

“Coming from the shore?”

“Yes. Rogwallow,” I said, hoping he didn’t ask any questions. Talking about it would only make me feel guilty for leaving.

“I know that place,” he said, giving a courteous nod. “Knew a man who’d been there once. Coupla’ years ago. He was called Alfirth."

He looked at me expectantly, but I just shrugged and smiled politely. “Before my time, I think.” I requested a meager collection of items, a few strips of salted meat, some bread, and a radish. I handed him a penny and he smiled again.

“Safe travels, father.”

“Thank you.” I bundled the items into my satchel. “Before I leave, though, any word about any dangers ahead? Troubles on the road, perhaps?”

“Aye. Mercian bandits roaming about that way. Man named Brannic leads ‘em, about eight of ‘em. They come down here a few months ago, and they’ve been killing people in the woods along that trail.”

“Killing them? Not just robbing them?”

“Aye. Killing ‘em. They drag ‘em off the road, tie ‘em up to trees and cut ‘em over and over until they die. Then they just leave ‘em up there to rot. And I don’t know that they’d go easy on priests, either. The new king, Aethelred, he finally sent some men last week but we ‘aven't heard a thing from 'em.”

“Is there another way we could travel?”

“You could go to Bath, then go north from there, maybe.”

“Bath?” I said, more to myself. “That’s where Saint David’s Monastery is, yes?” He shrugged, but I already knew the answer. Bath was an old city, built by the Romans, and legend had it that King Arthur’s victory at Mount Badon, or Mons Badonicus as the Romans called it, was nearby. That would be a safe diversion, and a good place to rest for the night, if we could make it by nightfall. “How do we get there?”

“You’ll reach a fork about midday. Left will take you west to Bath. You could get there by tonight if you walk fast.”

"God be with you, my friend," I said, heartened by the news. I hurried down the path and caught up with Arkael.

“I spoke with one of the villagers back there and he mentioned that some Mercian bandits were in the area ahead of us. He makes them sound ruthless. Perhaps we should take another route?”

“Every trail has bandits.”

“But these are particularly dangerous ones," I said. "The kind who like to kill priests.”

“Well then, I would not begrudge you for turning back and going home, where it’s safe.”

“No. No, of course not. I’m not about to turn around now. We’ve only just started.” I smiled, covering my worry. “I just wondered if it might be more prudent to take another route. We’ll hit a fork in a few hours, and the left fork will take us to Bath. There’s a monastery there we could stay at. I’m sure we could get some hot food from the monks. Maybe even a roof over our heads? The skies look threatening today.”

Arkael said nothing.

“They’d be eager to meet someone like you, I’m sure. You’d be praised as a hero and possibly a saint for what you did at Rogwallow.”

“You should feel free to go to this monastery, then, and tell them all about it. You have my permission to embellish your story any way you see fit.”

I bit my lip in annoyance, and I gave up on convincing him to change our route. If it wasn’t clear to me before, it certainly was now. He would be traveling his own way, and I was free to either keep up or give up. I only hoped that his sword was as effective against bandits swooping in from the shadows as it was against raiders plundering a church.

*****

The road stretched ahead into the autumn-touched countryside, meandering north-east through dense clusters of oak groves. Most of the trees had lost their leaves and the grassy hills they sprouted from didn’t have their normal bright green luster, leaving the world in several dull shades of brown. I pulled my robe tight and rubbed my arms, fighting off the chill that returned once the sun dipped low in the sky. We passed another village in the afternoon, which I anxiously pointed out. But Arkael continued on as if I’d said nothing, which was exactly how most of our conversations started, and ended. I eventually asked him if he planned on stopping at all this night, and that’s when he asked me if I was tired. I told him I was, but I was more concerned with finding a safe place to make camp. He grunted, and left it at that.

As afternoon turned into evening, dark clouds again rolled in from the south, but unlike yesterday, these actually brought rain. It started as a trickle at first, though we didn't notice it while staying in the trees. Just before the downpour started, Arkael turned off the path and walked through the forest, moving between the thick trunks, stopping every so often to pick up a stray branch or a dry handful of grass. Eventually, he darted around a mass of fallen trees and brush at the base of a small, jagged hill, and then disappeared. When I followed him, I discovered why - he'd taken us to a cave.

I stepped inside and immediately crouched down because I could barely see in the darkness. Arkael was already hunched over, several paces in, just past a bend in the cave. He’d laid down the branches and grass, pushing them together into a clump, readying a small fire. I smiled and rubbed my hands. It wasn't the kind of roof over my head I'd expected, and there was no guarantee we wouldn't be surprised by a pack of boars in the middle of the night, but it was dry, and would soon be warm. I laid out my robes and blanket and sat down, thankful to be off my aching feet. A moment later, a spark ignited the grass and kindling in Arkael's fire, illuminating the small cave and providing us with the first hints of its warmth. The cave was narrow at this point but it opened up toward the back. I had no desire to explore any of it, but I couldn’t help but notice a structure in the darkness, short, stout, about waist high and flat at the top. It didn't seem to be a natural formation, which made it stand out.

“What’s that?” I asked, leaning closer.

Arkael sat on the ground opposite me and pulled his boots off. “An altar.”

“What kind of altar?”

“Mithraist.”

“Mithras,” I whispered. The cult of Mithras was a warrior cult that began during Roman times and found its way to Britain. They sacrificed bulls to the god Mithras in exchange for glory in battle, but they were incredibly secretive, and no one really knew anything else about them. I stood up, intending to see it up close.

“I wouldn’t go back there. The blood might still be fresh.”

“They still use it?” I sat back down, suddenly unwilling to wallow through gore.

“They’re not using it tonight.” He produced a rough strip of wool from his pack and began thoroughly wiping the mud and grass from his boots. He seemed genuinely interested in caring for them, and completely unconcerned about this cave’s normal purpose, so I forced myself to relax as well. I warmed my hands, hesitant to say anything that would interrupt him, or aggravate him as I had earlier. That was difficult, though, especially since I’d learned nothing about him the entire day. I couldn’t shake the notion that I was wasting valuable time, so I decided to try a new approach. I would tell him about me, and perhaps he’d reciprocate.

“I saw a druid when I was young," I began, "in Eoferwic, north of here. I didn’t know what a druid was, of course. I just saw a man in a blue robe, wearing this expensive silver chain, with some strange symbol on it. I grew up in the church there, the one dedicated to St. Peter, and I asked one of the priests if he was also a priest, because I remembered seeing that same medallion before. He said no, but he refused to tell me what he really was. He just said not to talk to him, no matter what, because his words would twist my mind and darken my soul. ‘Druids and their riddles,’ he would say. I had no idea what that meant. I guess I still don’t. I didn’t find out what a Druid was until months later, from a clerk who brought us messages from the monastery in Jarrow. He told me about their Order, and I was so completely fascinated that I spent the next two years trying to learn everything I could.”

“No one at the church would talk of it. I’d be beaten for even bringing it up. So I asked the other boys in town, and the guards, and the sailors, and the merchants, and anyone who would tolerate having me bother them. I think it was the search itself that I found most interesting, the mystery. In the end, I learned a lot of things that probably aren’t true, and maybe a few that are. But the best lesson I took from that experience has stayed with me ever since, and it has nothing to do with Druids. You know what that is?" I asked.

Arkael raised his brow expectantly.

"I learned that if you want to understand something, you have to question it. You have to poke it, and prod it, and examine it from every angle. No one does that. No one asks why, and when they do, they get chastised, or locked away. Had I not asked any questions, I’d be ignorant, just like everyone else, living a closed off life surrounded by stone walls and self-important chanting.” I shook my head in annoyance. "So I ask questions. And I get myself into trouble. Or, I end up in a cave with a man I don’t quite understand, who lets me prattle on endlessly about myself."

Arkael frowned, staying frustratingly silent. He continued with his scrubbing.

"I'm not really a priest." I wasn’t sure what made me admit that, but I figured a man sent to restore my shaky faith would already be able to see into my dishonest soul. “You keep calling me that, but I'm not. People assume I am, but I've never been ordained. I'm not a priest, or a deacon, or anything really. I was even sent to an abbey near Rome to become a monk, but I left. Scurried away in the middle of the night, like a disgraced rat. So I'm not even that.”

I watched him carefully, waiting for any sign of disapproval. But beyond a curious glance in my direction, his expression never changed. His eyes barely left his boots.

“I believe in God, and what the Church stands for, of course, and I don't pretend just so I can take advantage of anyone. I only let them think I’m a real priest because it’s easier than explaining the truth. I went to Rome to study, but things became complicated and I was asked to leave.” I held my hands out in a self-deprecating fashion. “I asked too many questions.”