Piercollo gently lifted him and we walked towards the north. Wulf joined us, then other men gathered round.
We halted in the shade of a huge oak where Piercollo laid the Morningstar carefully down, removing his white cloak and making of it a pillow.
The other men fell back, creating a circle around the dying warrior.
As the sun began to fade Brackban arrived, his officers with him. I had sat with Mace for an hour by then and he had said nothing. His eyes were closed, his breathing ragged.
With the gathering dark, men lit torches and held them high, bathing the scene in flickering light. I knelt to Mace’s left. Behind me stood Piercollo and Wulf; to the left was Raul Raubert, beside him Brackban.
Mace opened his eyes and looked at me.’
‘Surprised…you… eh?’
‘No, my friend. It was no surprise. I was waiting for you.’
‘Had… to come back, Owen.’
‘Why?’ I asked him, leaning in close, for his voice was fading.
‘I… wanted… another parade!’ He smiled weakly. ‘I… wonder if they… have… them… in Hell.’
‘You’ll never find out,’ I promised him. ‘Never!’
‘Make it… a good… song, Owen.’
He made me leave him then, and spoke quietly to Wulf and then Raul Raubert, and lastly Brackban.
I stood back from them in the torchlight and saw that the torchbearers were weeping, and I too felt the weight of it as I watched the tableau in the circle of light — the blood-covered warrior in his ruined armour of gold, the hunchback beside him and the giant standing close by.
I felt humbled by the scene, as Mace’s blood flowed to the land that had created him. Through him an entire nation had enjoyed a rebirth of courage, a renewal of hope. But then that is what heroes do, is it not? They make us all a great gift, our lives made larger and more noble by their existence. It matters not a whit that Mace himself was less than legends make him.
For what he gave to the future was far greater than he took from the past. As long as there is evil in the world, there will be men — aye, and women — who will say. ‘Stand up and fight it. Be strong like the Morningstar.’And I knew then, as Mace lay dying, that the song would soon be all there was.
He died just before the dawn and one by one the torchbearers snuffed out their lights, allowing the last of the night to close in over the tableau. We sat with his body until sunrise and then Wulf, following his instructions, took the body deep into the forest, burying it in an unmarked grave where no man would stumble upon it.
The hunchback would not even tell me where Mace lay, save to say that each morning the sun would shine upon him and each night the stars would glitter above him like a crown.
Raul Raubert was acclaimed as the new King, Brackban becoming his chamberlain.
And so what Mace had told me so cynically came to pass. Nothing ever changes… The Angostins ruled in the Highlands once more, and order was established in the northern world.
Raul Raubert was a good King, and there were many fine changes to the law. His standard remained the silver star embroidered by Astiana, and from then until this day the Kings of the Highlands are called Sons of the Morningstar.
And what of the others? Astiana went on to become an Abbess, a saintly old woman who cared for the sick. She became the princess of legend, Mace’s great love, a warrior-woman who helped him defeat the Vampyres. I tried to keep Ilka’s memory alive among the people, but no one wants to hear songs about mute whores, no matter how brave. No, Astiana filled their hearts.
Piercollo travelled back to his beloved Tuscania. He wrote me once to say he had entered the contest and won it once more. He dedicated his victory to the memory of Lykos, the man who had blinded him. I was pleased at that, for evil only thrives when it breeds and Piercollo had neutered its power.
And Wulf? I used to see him in the old days. I would journey into the forest and stay at his cabin for a while; we would hunt together and talk of old times and shared memories. But as the years passed his memory blurred and he began to remember a different story. He recalled a golden-haired man with a heart of unblemished purity and the courage of ten lions. At first I gently mocked him, but he grew angry and accused me of ‘slighting the greatest man who ever lived.’ Mace’s dark side, his callousness and cruelty, his womanizing and his greed, all became signs of a reckless youth and a sense of humour.
Such is the way with heroes. Their greatness grows with the passing of time, their weaknesses shrinking. Perhaps that is as it should be.
Wulf died ten years ago. The King — Raul’s eldest grandson, Marie — had his body moved to the royal tomb at Ziraccu. A statue was raised to him — a bronze statue. The likeness is almost chilling. Grafted twice life-size, the statue stands facing the south with a longbow in hand, keen bronze eyes staring towards the borders watching for the enemy. Wulf would have liked it.
Perhaps a statue will be raised for me one day soon.
As for Owen Odell, well, for several years I journeyed, staying far from the curious eyes of men who knew me only as a legend. I took passage on a ship that sailed the length of the island and stepped ashore on the south coast, making my way to my father’s castle. I found him sitting in the long room behind the stables. He was cleaning and oiling leather bridles and stirrups and he looked up as his son entered.
‘You should have known better than to drop your sword on a battlefield,’ said Aubertain. ‘And as for running among mounted knights… damn stupid! Lucky no one removed your head from your shoulders.’
‘You were there?’
‘Where else would I be when my King goes to war?’
‘You were the knight who saved me,’ I said, remembering the collision which stopped the lance piercing my chest. ‘You charged your horse into the lancer.’
He shrugged. ‘I’m a stubborn man, Owen, but I’ll not see my sons killed — even if they are fighting on the wrong side. Welcome home, son. Have you seen your mother yet?’
I don’t think I was truly complete until that moment. Megan told me once that there was a man I must meet who would make me whole, and she was right. And now I had found him again. He stood and opened his arms and I embraced him, the last of my bitterness vanishing.
My brother Braife had been one of the knights slain by Mace in that last charge, but my father bore the Morningstar no ill-will.
‘He was a man, by God,’ he said, as we sat by the hearth fire on a cold winter’s evening. ‘I’ll never forget that ride. And I’m grateful to him for what he did for you. I think he made a man of you, Owen.’
‘Aye, father. I think he did.’
I stayed in the south until my father died. It happened seven years after I came home, and only weeks following the death of my mother from the yellow fever. I moved back to the Highlands then, and built my house close to the oak beneath which is buried the skull of Golgoleth.
I have lived long, ghost, and I have seen much, but even I am beginning to believe in the song. Every spring, when the celebrations begin, I think of Mace, his easy smile and his casual charm.
And I listen to fathers telling their sons that one day, when the realm is threatened, the Morningstar will come again.
Oh, ghost, how I wish I could be there when he does!
EPILOGUE
Agraine awoke an hour before dawn, yawned and stretched. The window was open, the air cold and fresh, stars gleaming in the winter sky. He was cold, yet excited by the prospect of a morning meeting with the legendary Owen Odell. Swiftly he dressed, pulling on his warm woollen tunic and troos, his socks of softest wool and his boots of shining leather. He needed a shave and wondered whether the strange old man would allow him the use of one of the servants. Probably not, he decided. These Highlanders were a curious breed.