Matt only stared. So did Sergeant Brock.
“Learn that there were female druids, too,” Old Meg told him, “and that some are still abroad in the land.”
She waited while her words sank in, and to good effect— Matt had a very strange feeling, almost as though his skin were vibrating in resonance to old, arcane magic, and Sergeant Brock began to tremble.
“So,” Matt said softly, “you are a druid—a real druid.”
“I am, and can tell you the name of my teacher, and of her teacher, and her teacher’s teacher, back to the days when we held the island of Mona as our right. There are true druids in Erin, too, more than in Bretanglia, though not so many as there should be,” Meg told him.
Matt wondered about that “should,” but only said, “Why are you helping me, then?”
“Because I hate and despise these mock druids who defame and debase our noble religion!” Meg spat. “They seek to imprison the people, not to free their hearts and minds! They seek to use the gods as tools for their own ends, not to devote themselves wholly to the deities! And in their blasphemy, they shall make the reputation of we who truly hold to the Old Gods even worse than the milksop monks and nuns have done!”
“We have a common enemy, then?”
“Aye, and a common champion, too! I have told you I seek to aid the true king, and you know my opinion of Drustan!”
“But you think his son Brion is true,” Matt interpreted.
Rosamund gasped.
“True in heart, true in mind, but more importantly, true to the land and the people who dwell in it, far more true than either his father or his brothers have been! Nay, this much I can tell you—that Brion’s body is indeed in Erin, and that holy men have borne it there by magic!”
“But you can’t tell us whether or not he’s still alive,” Matt inferred.
“If he is, he looks most amazingly dead—though his body is not corrupted, unless the rumors that pass from druid to druid are false.” She fixed Matt with a burning eye. “But alive or dead, he shall bring you men to help you in your quest— this I know! Go to Erin, go to the Isle of Doctors and Saints, and bring back an army of truth to help you disperse the purveyors of lies who defame my Order!”
“I’ll try,” Matt said slowly, never taking his eyes from her, “but it’s apt to be dangerous. Maybe we should leave the princess with you—she should be safe enough”
“Oh, no!” Rosamund cried. “I must go with you to find Brion!”
“It is even as she says,” Old Meg agreed. “Her destiny does not lie in a small fishing village on the shore of Bretanglia. Take her to Erin, wizard, and let her read her weird.”
The room seemed gloomy, but there was no candle at his bedside, and King Drustan raised a hand to gesture as he called for light—but the hand would not rise at the command of his will, and he could hear only the harsh caw of his tongueless voice. Prince John stepped into his range of vision, and there was enough light to see him, at least. The boy bent low, his voice soothing. “The drapes are opened wide to the sunlight, Father; the room is as light as we can make it. Let the doctor examine you, and perhaps he can make the day seem brighter—though it is indeed gray and gloomy.”
Drustan grumbled something affirmative and relaxed. His stomach was roiling, making him faint with nausea. It had been getting worse for days.
John stepped back, and the doctor stepped forward. He held the king’s wrist for a little while, frowning in concentration, then leaned over to peer closely into his eyes. Brows bent, he straightened up and probed the king’s stomach.
Drustan bellowed in agony, eyes bulging.
“It has been too long since your bowels moved,” the doctor said with false heartiness, “only that, my liege, and nothing more. Rest, drink only small beer, and wait.”
But as he stepped back, Drustan’s nausea spread upward to heartsickness. He gargled a curse at the man, recognizing the falseness of the tone—and his heartsickness turned to panic as an archbishop stepped up to his bedside. Drustan tried to push himself upright, mouthing denials.
“Gently, gently, Your Majesty,” the archbishop soothed. “I have heard your confession every month, and given you the Eucharist every week, for six years. Surely there is no need to alter that now.”
A little relieved, Drustan sank back on his bed and muttered a querulous phrase.
“It has been a month, yes, a month and more.” The archbishop raised his head. “Your Highness, I beg you withdraw for some minutes. What His Majesty confesses is only for the ears of himself, myself, and God.”
“But how shall you understand his words? I must explain them to you!”
“God shall understand them,” the archbishop said, “and after sixty confessions, I fancy I shall recognize every word he says. Leave us, Your Highness—leave him to me and God.”
John stood outside the door and fretted. When the archbishop finally came out and said, “You may go in again,” John bolted through the door and smelled the aroma of the priest’s scented candles. He hurried to his father’s bedside and saw the gleam of anointing on his forehead. His smile had a vindictive quality as he bent over Drustan. “Gave you the Last Rites, did he? Well, that was wise of him, old man, for you’re dying now, and there’s no doubt of it.”
Drustan’s eyes widened; he gargled in anger.
“How dare I tell you that?” John grinned. “Because it’s true enough, you old goat, and in less than an hour you won’t be able to hurt anyone anymore! Aye, at last I’ll be safe from your whims and your rages! At last I’ll be able to build a life for myself! At last I’ll be rid of you!”
Drustan struggled to rise, face livid, mouthing outrage.
“Behold the king!” John mocked. “Behold the mighty Drustan, before whom all men tremble! Here, O Man of Power, hold this cup!”
He pressed a silver goblet into his father’s hand, then took his own hands away. The vessel clattered to the floor.
“If you cannot grasp a cup, how shall you hold a sword? No, the days when all men feared Drustan are done, for Drustan himself is done—and no man need fear you now!”
He thrust his face close, so close the reek of his breath nearly stifled Drustan as John spat, “How can I be so sure? Why, because it’s I who have done it, you poor benighted old fool! It’s I who brought you your cup and bowl, I who spooned the gruel into you, I who mixed poison with wine and porridge! It is I who have poisoned you, and I wish you had not confessed or taken Extreme Unction, so that you could have gone to Judgment with your sins on your soul!”
Drustan roared with rage, anger so intense that he actually managed to start up from his bed, to lift an anvil-heavy arm and grope for John’s throat. With a cry of terror, John sprang back, hands up to defend, shrinking into a corner—but the huge red swollen face before him abruptly turned white, and the king fell back, senseless, with eyes wide open.
John waited, heart hammering. He waited for what seemed an impossibly long time, then waited longer. Finally he dared creep up to the bed, dared even further to reach out and touch his father’s hand, ready to leap away and flee—but the hand stayed unmoving. Daring even more greatly, John took Drustan is wrist and felt for the pulse. It was a task he had done every day for weeks, so he knew exactly where to probe—but felt nothing. At last he plucked up the courage to touch the great vein in the king’s neck, felt and waited, dreading, hoping—and felt not the slightest tremor of blood moving beneath the skin. Finally, he dared to reach up and close Drustan’s eyelids. Triumph began to boil up inside him; his face split in an idiotic grin; but he held it in while he fished in his purse for two pennies, then laid them on his father’s eyelids. “Money for the ferryman! Copper to hold your soul away! Rest in agony, Father, as I have when I’ve dreaded your anger! Rest uneasily, rest angrily, rest painfully, but rest, rest, and never come back!”