David Gemmell – Rigante 3 – Ravenheart

‘It would have been had word leaked out,’ said Mulgrave. ‘I only knew of it because I was studying some of the works held in the church library, and I got to speak with the monk. He sent a letter to the Finance, telling him of the find. Soon after that a squad of soldiers arrived and forcibly removed the scrolls. They also took all copies the old monk had made. He wrote to the Finance, pleading to be allowed to continue his work. There was no reply. He wrote to his bishop, requesting that the king be petitioned, detailing in the letter all that he remembered from the scrolls. On my last day at the church a carriage came for him. I saw him climb into it. He was happy, for he believed he was going to be taken to the castle of the Finance, there to continue his work. His body was found two days later in a stream some three miles from the church.’

‘You are saying the Finance had him killed?’

‘I am saying nothing of the kind. The Finance disavowed all knowledge of the carriage, or the men riding with it.’

‘Then what are you saying?’

‘I am saying that history is always written by the victors. It is not about truth but about justification. The Keltoi were a proud warrior race. It does not suit us that they should remain so. So we denigrate their culture, and what we cannot denigrate we suppress. I do not know if the scrolls were true. How could I? The old monk could have been wrong in his translations. But I do know they have never surfaced again, for further discussion. That tells me much.’

Alterith sighed. ‘Why do you persist in telling me things that could put your life at risk, Master Mulgrave?’

‘Because I am a good judge of men, Master Shaddler. Your head may be filled with nonsense, but, deep down, you have a good heart.’

The teacher blushed. ‘I thank you for the . . . the half compliment, sir, but from now on let us hold to conversational topics that do not bring visions of the noose or the flame.’

Kaelin had never seen a more magnificent bull. As tall as a horse, black as a raven’s wing, the enormous beast stood in the moonlit paddock like an enormous statue cast from coal. Hidden behind a screen of gorse on the hillside above, Kaelin sat quietly beside Jaim Grymauch.

‘I have never seen horns so wide,’ the boy said quietly. ‘They must be seven feet from tip to tip. Is it a freak?’

‘No,’ whispered Jaim. ‘It is an Isles bull. One and a half tons of short-tempered unpredictability. One flick of that head and the horn would pass right through a man.’

‘Then how are we going to steal it?’

Jaim Grymauch grinned suddenly. ‘We’ll use the old magic, lad. I’ll summon a Seidh spirit.’

‘You shouldn’t joke about such things,’ said the youth sternly.

‘There’s nothing in this world that I cannot joke about,’ the man told him, his smile fading. ‘Sometimes, deep in the night, I believe I can hear the gods laugh at us. If they did create us, Kaelin, they created us for a joke. Nothing else. And a bad joke, to boot! I’ll mock the Seidh and I’ll mock the Sacrifice. I’ll mock any damn thing I please!’

Kaelin Ring loved and trusted the scarred warrior, but he knew when to fall silent. Jaim was just like one of the bulls he loved to steal, brooding, short-tempered, and wholly unpredictable. Dawn was still a little way off and Kaelin hunkered down into his borrowed coat. It was thick and warm and smelled of woodsmoke, coal dust and sweat. He closed his eyes and dozed for a while. Pain woke him, and he cried out.

‘Quiet, boy! What’s wrong?’ hissed Jaim.

‘I’ve cramp in my calf,’ muttered Kaelin, reaching down to the spot. Jaim knelt beside him, his huge fingers closing firmly over the knotted muscles. It was excruciating. Jaim dug deep into the tortured tissue. Kaelin tried to make no sound. Gritting his teeth, he held his breath for as long as he could. Just as it seemed he could take the agony no longer the muscles eased, the pain sliding away.