Stephen snorted. “Perhaps he only favors ye, then. Why are ye on this path so early? Did ye sneak out of prayers again?”
The monk chuckled softly. “I could say the same of ye, Stephen, but I ken a part of your soul is tied to another faith, one that is present on the first day of spring.”
“Ye ken naught!” The silence between them stretched out. Only a slight breeze flitted past, and dead leaves whirled past Osgar. Even Grian stood motionless, as if waiting for something or someone to break the tension.
Casting his gaze to the sky, Stephen let out a deep sigh, and dismounted. Raking a hand through his hair, he turned his sight back to his friend. “I am...
sorry
, Osgar.” He winced as the pain in his temple throbbed. It would be a long day, one now filled with headaches.
“Ye had a vision?” Osgar asked softly.
Stephen’s shoulders slumped. He had hoped to keep it from him. “Aye.”
“Do ye remember it?”
Brushing past him, Stephen went to sit by an old oak, taking solace against its vast trunk. “Nae,” he muttered. For the first time ever, he lied to his friend. He was not going to divulge the vision until he could study it himself. “Pray tell me ye have food in your pack.”
“Dinnae I always?” Osgar stepped over a fallen branch and sat on a small boulder next to Stephen. Placing his pack down, he proceeded to pull out bread, hard cheese, and an ale skin. Grian trotted over to him and nudged his head against Osgar’s back, causing a bark of laughter to come forth from the monk.
“Aye, there’s something for ye too, my friend.” He retrieved an apple out of his pack and pulled forth a dirk from his boot.
Stephen arched a brow and muttered, “Traitor beast.”
“A fine one, too,” smirked the monk. He tore off a large portion of the bread, handing it to Stephen along with some cheese.
“Since when do ye carry a dirk? I ken none of the other monks carry weapons, so why do ye?” he questioned, taking a bite from the cheese and bread.
Osgar shrugged and removed the stopper from the ale skin, presenting it to Stephen first, who waved it off with his hand. Taking a swig, Osgar wiped his mouth with the back of his hand before answering. “I like to gather herbs for the kitchen, ye ken this. Besides, one can never take for granted what animal they might come upon.”
“Ye are indeed the strangest monk I have ever come upon. Ye are not like the others.” Stephen reached for the ale skin and drank deeply, relishing the cool liquid.
“Ye are correct my brother, but nor are ye.”
He noticed the wary look in Osgar’s eyes and briefly closed his. “Nae, I am not like the others,” his voice pitched low. When he reopened them, he saw the monk had flinched. No doubt from the shift in the color of his eyes.
“Then we are in accord,” said Osgar.
“Humph!”
They broke the rest of their fast in communal silence, allowing the food and drink to nourish and feed their bodies, more so for Stephen who still felt a bit weak.
Once upon a time early mornings were his favorite, and Stephen relished being the first to welcome the first rays of light. Especially on holy days such as this, but those days were gone. He’d tossed them aside when he awoke the day after that bloody night. Not only did he disregard his heritage, but also anything to do with the old ways. He had wandered for months with no clear direction. Then one day he came upon Osgar foraging for herbs. The monk persuaded him to come to the abbey—to take shelter, rest, and nourishment. Osgar also spoke with the other monks, convincing them it would be best if Stephen stay on with them, for however long he needed.
When the first vision came upon him, it was Osgar who stayed at his side, waiting until it passed. With the loss of his relic, the visions had become more violent. He had tried to keep to himself, but Osgar was ever watchful, keeping a keen eye on him and shielding him from the others. Once, a traveler recognized him, spewing vile comments about not only Stephen, but also his brothers, calling them heathens and murderers.
Osgar swayed the others, explaining all were under God’s protection, not just a select few. Did not the druids believe in the one God, he had questioned. Stephen smiled inwardly remembering that day. In the end the monks agreed, and welcomed him fully into their community. He would be forever indebted to the wise old man—one who seemed to be more druid than monk. Perhaps he was in his other life.
A blackbird swooped down from a nearby branch, landing close to them. It eyed the men with its black eyes, tilting its head.
“Good morn, my small feathered friend,” laughed Osgar. “Looking for some meager crumbs, I suspect.” He tossed bits of bread and cheese to the bird, who immediately lunged for the feast.
Standing, he shook out his robes, and more crumbs fell to the ground. “It is time I made my way back to the abbey.” He placed a gentle hand on Stephen’s shoulder. “Stay, enjoy the morning’s light. Besides, the bells of the abbey might not be good for one’s head.” He tapped his finger lightly on Stephen’s skull.
Stephen let out a groan. “Aye, Osgar, ye are correct.”
“Seek me out when ye return. I’ll mix a brew for your head.”
He nodded, watching as the old man wandered off through the trees. Then he glanced back at the blackbird. “I ken why ye are here, and I will only say this once. I am no longer a Knight, nor do I honor the gods and goddesses. This may be the first day of spring, but nothing more. Go tend to a druid and leave me!”
Chapter Two
“When the dragon unfurled its wings, she presented them with acorns, dandelion, dogwood, honeysuckle, jasmine, rose, tansy, and violet, the herbs of spring.”
Stephen awoke suddenly, the bitter coldness of the afternoon touching his face. He had fallen into a deep sleep after Osgar departed. Whenever he suffered from a vision, he required rest, and this time was no different. Slowly he eased his eyes open. The sky still held a gray overcast, but now the smell of snow and the sea filled his senses. Though it might be the first day of spring, winter still held a firm grasp on the land.
Rubbing a hand over his slightly bearded face, he stood and nodded silently to Grian. Reaching for his fur cloak, Stephen paused. For a brief moment he longed for his plaid. Why he thought of it now, he could not answer. He had not worn it since he entered the abbey. It lay folded at the bottom of the chest in his room.
A reminder of his past and a life he wanted no part of ever again.
“Time to go my friend, before it snows.” He quickly mounted Grian, before pausing to glance back at the river. This vision troubled him greatly, and he would have to ponder its meaning later. The monks were now his family, and he would do everything in his power to protect them. What disturbed him greatly more was the fact he held the bloody sword, as if he had slain them all. Shaking his head to rid the horrific thoughts free, he gave a nudge and mumbled a click for Grian to set out.
Stephen entered the village near the abbey’s gates, and into the midst of a great commotion between one of the monks and the young lad, Ian. Brother Timmons was scolding Ian for something to do with a basket, which lay upon the ground. Usually, he stayed far away from the villagers, considering his past and pagan heritage. Yet, when Brother Timmons raised his hand dangerously close to Ian, causing the lad to flinch, he steered Grian over to the ruckus.
“A good day to ye, Brother Timmons and Ian,” greeted Stephen, keeping a stern look on Timmons.
“Stephen,” replied Brother Timmons, folding his hands within his robe. “Is there something I can do for ye?”
“Nae. I was just passing through and thought I could lend a hand.” He kept his expression neutral, but noticed the lad shaking a bit. “Are ye having trouble with your basket, Ian?”
“The basket may be his, but the contents belong to the abbey,” hissed the monk.
In one swift move, Stephen dismounted causing Ian to jump backwards. Perhaps his heritage and size frightened the boy. “Step forward, lad. Show me what ye have.”
Ian trudged toward the basket and pulled out an apple, presenting it to Stephen. He swallowed before placing it in his outstretched hand. Stephen knelt beside the basket and glanced inside. Tossing the apple into the air, he peered over his shoulder at Brother Timmons, who now stood hands clenched at his sides. Stephen took a bite, and smiled. “Hmmm, indeed.”
“I say ye do not have nearly enough. Let’s say we go and fetch some more.” He stood and ruffled the lad’s hair.
Ian’s eyes grew wide, and he glanced quickly to Brother Timmons then back at Stephen. His hands fidgeted, and Stephen understood the lad was probably torn between picking up the basket, gathering more apples,
or
running away.
“Those apples belong to the abbey, and ye have no right letting the boy take them. He stole them from the abbey and not only should he return them, but he should be punished, too,” demanded Brother Timmons.
Stephen narrowed his eyes at the man, and then turned back to the lad. “Tell me, Ian, where did ye find these apples?”
“Oh sir, I did not steal them from the abbey. They were lying on the ground by the walls!” he exclaimed.
“All the same, they belong to the abbey, and he and his family are heathens,” spat out Brother Timmons.
Stephen held up his hand to silence the monk. “Truly, there is no harm with apples picked from the ground
outside
the abbey? They would have shortly rotted if left there. Do not ye think it best for a family, regardless of their religious beliefs, to benefit from these rather than they rot?”
The monk’s face contorted with suppressed fury, and he pointed a finger first at Ian then at Stephen before he stormed off.
“Well, that went verra well.” He rubbed his jaw.
The lad stood with a shocked look across his features. Finally, he nodded and lunged at Stephen, embracing him in a big hug. Stunned, he could only return the hug. The simple act of the lad’s compassion was too much for him, and a wave of sadness engulfed him.
He missed his family.
“The next time ye need any apples, or anything else, come seek me out. My name is Stephen,” he croaked.
The boy stepped back from the embrace, a smile upon his face. “I ken who ye are.”
Stephen crossed his arms over his chest and asked, “Truly?”
“Oh sir, ye are the great Dragon Knight. We all ken that,” he boasted.
Letting out a big sigh, he bent to retrieve the basket full of apples, handing it over to Ian. Placing a hand on his small shoulder, he shook his head. “Nae, I am just Stephen, lad. I am no longer a Dragon Knight.”
Ian just shrugged his shoulders then added, “Once a Dragon Knight, always a Dragon Knight. It is what my father says.” Turning, he sauntered away, then halted, and turned. “Thank ye kindly, Sir Stephen. I will always remember this day.”
Stephen stood still. Ian’s words touched a part of him that had been sealed off for many moons. “God be with ye, young Ian,” he whispered.
Upon entering the abbey walls, Stephen went immediately to seek out Brother Osgar. His headache had subsided, but he still felt queasy. The strength of the vision had sapped much from him this time. He gave a nod to several passing brothers, understanding this was their time of silence. Living among them had brought a sense of peace, not that he wanted to join their order, but it allowed him to heal. In the process, he repaid their kindness by helping with the continual building of the abbey. Some of the brothers formed the red sandstone, and the villagers lent their talent, too. He was content to lift and move the stone, for it allowed his body the manual labor he sought.
Then there were times when he would escape the confinement of the abbey walls, sword in hand, to search out a desolate place to wield it in practice. After such days, he would mourn not being in the lists with his brothers.
Walking through the cloisters, he proceeded to stroll through a back gate, which led him down another path. Pushing aside a heavy wooden door, Stephen stepped through to a massive garden, one filled with many herbs and vegetables.
“Ah, Stephen, I have just finished preparing your healing brew,” greeted Osgar, as he brushed dirt off his robe. “Spring is here. Just look at the wee flower buds on the lavender.”
“Ye could have fooled me with the smell of snow in the air,” muttered Stephen.
Osgar tilted his head and smiled. “Aye, but she will come forth.”
He narrowed his eyes at the old man, “Osgar, if I did not ken better, I would say ye were a druid.”
“Perhaps ye are correct, my son,” stated Osgar, giving him a wry smile.
“Nae,” Stephen spoke in a shocked whisper.
The monk sighed deeply, and then turned toward his workshop at the back of the garden. Waving his hand for Stephen to follow, he ambled along slowly.
“Bloody hell, Osgar!” Stephen was at his side in two strides, pulling him around to face him. “I’ve been here these past ten moons, and ye are just sharing this wisdom about yourself? Ye do realize how I feel about them and their kind!”
Osgar slowly glanced down at where Stephen had his arm in a tight grip. “Please do tell me, Stephen, since ye yourself are one of their
kind
.”
He released his hold of Osgar as if his hand was on fire. “I no longer keep company with them,” he snapped.
“Aye. Yet, ye are one of them.” Osgar eyed him cautiously. The monk moved into the work space and Stephen followed.
Slamming his palm onto a workbench, he fixed his friend with a glare. “There is naught I can do about the blood which flows within my body, but I do have a choice on the path I have chosen.”
Osgar picked up a mortar and pestle and gathered some herbs. Placing them within the bowl, he proceeded to grind them. “True, your blood does flow with that of the fae, but tell me this, what is the path ye are on?”
“Humph!” Stephen pushed away from the table. He stood by the small arched window, gazing out at the darkening sky. Did he really know himself? Would he always be doomed to wander the land, unsure of his next step? When he came to the abbey, he prayed for answers to the questions he sought, but with each passing month, uneasiness slipped its fingers within him.