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Synopsis and excerpt copyright (c) 2002-2006 by System Support Services, Inc.
Page last updated 1/3/06
"The historian describes what happened; the poet shows what might have happened, and so poetry is a more philosophical and serious activity than historical writing." -- Aristotle
If Gyanhumara was a Pictish warrior-queen, as I postulate in my series, then it follows that her fellow Pict, Angusel, would have served as her best and most trusted general.
However, because of Angusel's failure to rescue Gyan's infant son, Lohot, near the end of Morning's Journey, and his banishment from her lands and subsequent rejection by his own clan, his return to Gyan's good graces will prove to be far more difficult than he had anticipated.
In despair, he renames himself from Angusel (derived from the Gaelic phrase ainchis sal, meaning "raging sea"; hence the title of this book) to Aonar, meaning "alone." Since he has been stripped of clan affiliation, he identifies himself with the Dubh Loch (pronounced "doo lock" and a tie-in to the legendary "du Lac" title), or "Black Lake," an association Angusel makes to describe the condition of his soul.
Angusel's true quest, though it takes him most of the book to recognize it, lies not in the fulfillment of his obsession to redeem himself to Gyan by becoming the world's greatest warrior. He must first reclaim his identity.
EXCERPT (Chapter 1)
The former son of Chieftainess Alayna of Clan Alban stood on the bluff, staring at the gray-green sea churning against the Manx beach a score of paces below. The Saxon funeral pyre at his back enveloped him with its draconic heat and eye-stinging smoke and gut-wrenching stench. As dizziness washed over him, the sandy ground felt as insubstantial as the cloud-laced sky. Hand to sweating temple, he tossed off the surreal sensation with a quick shake.
Earth, sky, fire, water . . . as if he were a god imprisoned at the convergence of the elements.
He snorted.
He was no god. Nor a man, either, though some might protest that claim. One indisputable fact remained. No longer would anyone call him by his given name, "Raging Sea." Now he was Aonar: Alone. Physically, emotionally, spiritually alone.
He drew his sword. The blade bore mute testimony, in myriad notches and scratches, to the Saxons he'd consigned to today's pyre during last night's battle, but it gave him no satisfaction. He had prevented the death of the single most important person in his life, and in return she had displayed more care for that thrice-cursed battle trophy he had helped her capture.
If not for him, it would have been her head gracing a Saxon spear, not the other way around, and yet she had rejected him. Again.
Rage swept through him like a wave, making his hands shake. Tightening his grip, he lowered the sword to heart height, as though Gyan were standing captive before him, but he couldn't enjoy that fantasy, either. She had stripped him of his place, his family, his clan, his country, his very identity, but he could no sooner harm her than cut off his hand. His oath forbade it.
But the gods alone knew how much longer it would restrain him.
The soldiers of his unit moved on to build a new pyre, leaving him, indeed, alone.
Aonar.
He studied his sword. No sense in taking it with him when a smith's hammer could hone it for someone else's use. Too bad his life couldn't be salvaged as easily.
As he considered simply dropping the sword where he stood, the thunder of the sea gave him an idea.
The warrior who had named himself Aonar felt perfectly calm as he cocked his sword arm and launched the weapon into the heavens. He tracked its progress toward an outcropping of boulders near the water's edge . . . and swore.
"You, down there!" he shouted, hands cupped to his mouth. "Watch out!"
Thoroughly cursing his ill luck, he raced for the path that led down to the beach.
#
"Prioress, duck!"
Through Niniane's fatigue-dimmed senses, Sister Willa's warning sounded muffled and remote. A whirring noise intruded. She glanced up to see something streaking toward her in a bright, deadly arc. With a gasp, she flung herself from her donkey's back, landed with a painful thud onto the sand, and rolled. Braying wildly, her mount bolted. In which direction, and how far, Niniane could only guess. She stretched facedown, arms over her head. The object struck nearby with a resounding thwack.
A gentle hand came to rest upon her shoulder. "Prioress, are you all right?" Willa's voice trembled with concern.
Swatting sand from her face, chest, and arms, Niniane sat up and massaged her left shoulder. It was sore, but at least it hadn't been dislocated. "I am fine, Willa." She studied the sword with her physician's eye for detail. Its sweat-whitened leather grip, dried blood stains and nicks along the blade's edge proclaimed recent use. The sword had embedded point-down at the base of a rock, still quivering as the waves baptized it in sea foam. "Where in heaven's name did that come from?"
"From me, Prioress."
Niniane whipped her head around to see Angusel finish sliding down the embankment, regain his footing to race toward her, and careen to a halt, breathless and contrite. He helped her rise.
"I am very sorry, my lady. I hope I didn't hurt you."
"No, I--"
Willa stepped forward, finger wagging. "And a good thing for you, lad. I ought to give you a sound thrashing!" When Willa raised her hand, Angusel didn't flinch but lowered his gaze.
"Willa, hold!" As Niniane drew abreast of her stalwart protectress, she laid one hand on Willa's arm and pointed with the other down the beach at the receding equine form. "Please see Heather safely home, and tell the sisters I shall be along presently. I can ride Ironwort." Niniane nodded toward their pack animal standing placidly nearby, pulling wisps of salty sea grass from the embankment.
Willa obeyed, though not before piercing Angusel with a stern stare. He continued to regard the tide inching toward his feet.
After Willa had retrieved Ironwort's pack frame and empty baskets, and was well on her way, Niniane hitched up her skirts and waded through the chilly September surf to the sword. It took several twists and tugs to free it, as if the sand and water were too greedy to part with their treasure.
She approached Angusel, who hadn't moved even though the rising tide had begun licking his booted feet. Holding the sword by the pommel, point down, she stretched out her arm. "This must be yours."
"Not anymore." An ocean of anguish resounded in those two whispered words.
Her arm aching from having spent too many hours, too recently, tending too many wounded soldiers, she lowered the sword's point to the sand and leaned on the hilt, as old Sister Octavia would use her cane. Niniane prayed for the right words, but none came, except, "What will you do?"
"What I must." He raised his head, clenched his fists, brushed past her, and strode deeper into the water.
"Angusel, no--wait!"
With the whitecaps breaking around his knees, he stopped and turned. "I am Aonar." She must have looked as puzzled as she felt, for he added, in her own language, "Alone." He squeezed his eyes shut. "Aonar a'Dubh Loch," he whispered. "Alone, from the Black Lake. And now I must return to it."
The force of his despair smote her.
"You are not alone, Angusel. I am with you." She drew a breath. "So is God."
"Fagh!" He made a chopping motion. "Keep your god, Prioress, and I will keep mine." He faced the sea again, his shoulders shifting in a sigh. "For all the good they do me."
"Killing yourself isn't the answer."
"Isn't it?" He regarded her, a sneer twisting his lips. "What do you, a dweller in the shadow of cloistered walls, know of answers?"
She thrust out her chin. "My life may be sheltered, but I know that wherever there is life, there should be hope. Where there is hope, courage. And where there is courage, strength." She lifted the sword with both hands and leveled it at him. "What I hear from you, Angusel of Caledonia, is that you lack the strength to take this weapon and improve your life." Shrugging, she lowered the sword. "Perhaps killing yourself will indeed be better." She turned to stalk toward the beach. "For everyone."
Something sounding like half sob and half gasp escaped his lips. The sounds of splashing told her he was following, but she didn't stop. They won free of the waves, and he dropped to his knees in the moist sand, head bowed, at her feet.
"I cannot deny the truth of your wisdom." The hazel eyes that met hers glistened with tears. "Please forgive me, my lady."
"I will, Angusel, on one condition." His upraised eyebrow inquired it of her. "You must forgive yourself."
Confusion warred with hope on his face. "How?"
How, indeed? No two people trudged the same road. Helping Chieftainess Gyanhumara to confront her grief over Lohot's loss had proved to be Niniane's key, but she'd had to discover it for herself, as would Angusel.
Lord willing, Niniane could guide him onto the right path.
But she sensed that, for now, his path needed to divert him as far from Gyanhumara as possible. "Return to the priory with me."
"What?" Surprise forced him to his feet. "How will that help?"
She gave him a frank appraisal. "First, those wounds need tending."
"These?" He gazed at the blood-encrusted cuts marring his arms as if seeing them for the first time, and shrugged. "These are nothing."
"For quiet contemplation, then," she suggested. "It has wrought many a miracle."
"I am a warrior, not a priest." Angusel thumbed the iron Dragon badge pinned to his short scarlet cloak. "Arthur's warrior."
"And Gyanhumara's," Niniane reminded him. He winced. "And so you shall remain, while your spirit heals in my care." Tendering a smile, she arched an eyebrow. "Physician's orders. I shall arrange it with them."
"No!" He sighed. "I am sorry, my lady, but no. Please do not tell--her. Only Arthur."
"As you wish. Consider it done."
He looked at the sword she still held, then back at her face, bewilderment dominating his expression. "Your god is not mine. What shall I do at the priory?"
"Those who aspire to greatness must first learn servanthood." She held his gaze. "No matter which god one follows, much good can result when one's focus is turned toward serving others."
A flock of terns caught his attention, and his head moved as he seemed to track them across the beach, scurrying to and fro with each new wave. "I thought I knew the meaning of service," he whispered. Something startled the birds, and they rose in a cloud to skim away across the wave crests. Angusel regarded Niniane steadily. "If there is more you can teach me, I am willing to learn."
She pressed the sword's hilt into his palm. "One day, you shall forge your anger and guilt and pain into something better." This she had Seen often: Angusel as an older man, in battle, felling foes like deadwood. She might be bereft of Sight now, but the only way to erase past visions was their collision with present reality. "Something," she said with a confident smile, "the likes of which the world has never known."
His fingers convulsed around the hilt. He regarded the weapon solemnly for a long time, then lifted it before his face in salute.
The set of his jaw and fierce glitter in his eyes promised that this vision would come to fruition.
#
The merchant puffed along behind the pair of guards as they escorted him to the audience hall. More guards followed him, bearing the chests containing his most expensive wares. He tried not to think about the sealed, ornately carved gilt trunk made of fragrant pine, the contents of which he could only guess.
Adim Al-Iskandar rubbed his arm where the gold dove-headed torc pinched his flesh, reminding himself to have the bauble lengthened at the earliest opportunity. The Picti chieftainess had certainly made the journey worth his while. And it was a bad business practice to ask questions about something that was obviously none of his concern. Questions to which he might not like the answers.
His Saxon escorts halted at the huge double doors of the audience chamber to exchange watchwords with the soldiers on duty. With a hand pressed to his silk-wrapped head, he took several deep breaths. The guardsmen swung open the oaken doors. Giving a final tug to his best green and red brocaded honey-gold robe and putting on his most genial smile, Adim Al-Iskandar of Constantinopolis entered the presence of the Overlord of the West Saxons.
In all his travels, from Alexandria to Tarabrogh, Al-Iskandar had seen few sights to compare to this throne room. Though he was no stranger to Winceaster Palace, its splendor always stole his breath.
The vaulted chamber was ablaze with light cascading from clusters of burnished gold lamps suspended on thick chains fastened to the ceiling. Dozens more illuminated the gleaming white limestone walls.
Pairs of tall, fluted, snow-white marble columns marched the length of the hall. Their heads and feet bore the intricate art of a master stonemason. From each column hung the rainbow-hued banners of the lesser kings and princes and nobles owing fealty to the Overlord of the West Saxons.
Arched recesses interrupted the two longest walls of the chamber at regular intervals. Within each recess stood a soldier of the Royal Guard. Over iron-linked hauberks, they wore purple surcoats emblazoned with the crowned White Horse. Each man was armed with seax and longsword, and gripped a spear in one fist and a tall, oval ashwood shield with a pointed iron boss in the other.
A magnificent tapestry smothered the wall between each guard-post. Here was the crossing of the first Saxons from the Continent to the Isle of Brydein at the invitation of the Brytoni king, Vortigern, half a century earlier. Over there was a bloody scene from Liberation Night--which the Brytons had dubbed Night of the Long Knives--when the Saxons rebelled against Brytoni authority by killing scores of nobles during a feast.
Many tapestries depicted heroic battle scenes, woven in vibrant crimson and azure and gold, to commemorate Saxon conquests on the island. Some portrayed hunts with hounds or falcons in muted forest green and gray and brown. Quarries ran the gamut the factual to the fantastic. The fleet stag raced beside the elusive unicorn; the fierce boar squared off opposite the ravening dragon; the quail covey fluttered toward the soaring phoenix.
How many hours of work these priceless treasures represented, Al-Iskandar could not even begin to guess.
The polished cream and jet marble floor was crowded with Saxon nobility dancing attendance upon their king. The men, tall and blond and robust, swaggered arrogantly about the hall attired in surcoats that matched the columns' banners. Their ladies were veritable blushing flowers of womanhood, lavishly perfumed and gracefully gowned and adorned with jewels enough to make Queen Cleopatra herself livid with envy.
At the far end of the audience chamber, on a raised white marble platform, stood the gilt throne. On the wall overhead, the crowned White Horse pranced across a deep purple field. Behind and to either side of the platform stood a dozen more Royal Guardsmen. The mountain-sized warrior planted on the throne's immediate left had to be the guard captain.
King Cissa sat his throne in full gold-crowned, ermine-robed, amethyst-sceptered majesty.
As Al-Iskandar jostled through the gaily-colored throng, he squinted to discern the identity of the couple, a middle-aged man and a young warrior woman, chatting amiably with the king. They reclined on oaken chairs to either side of the throne, flanked by retainers whose black surcoats bore the Gold Hammer and Fist of the South Saxon overlord, King Aelle.
Like Cissa, Aelle was crowned and robed in ermine. It stood to reason that the woman must be Aelle's daughter, Princess Camilla. She wore a hauberk of exquisite silver links; purely ceremonial, Al-Iskandar recognized automatically, since unalloyed silver was too soft to afford much protection against the deadly bite of iron and steel. The scabbard strapped to her right hip also was made of silver, and studded with rubies. A pity that the scabbard was empty, in deference to her host, for Al-Iskandar would have traded half his possessions for a glimpse of the weapon housed by such sumptuous furnishings. A slim silver circlet bound the princess's long golden hair.
This had to be a state visit, then, perhaps to discuss trade agreements. Al-Iskandar congratulated himself on his timing.
As gracefully as his bulk would permit, he went to one knee before the dais. "Your Majesties," he greeted the monarchs in fluent Saxon, bowing his head. He repeated the gesture to the princess. "Your Highness."
"Well met, Master Adim." Beaming, Cissa rubbed his bejeweled hands together in childlike anticipation. "What fine weapons and armor have you to show us today?"
As news of the merchant's wares flew from mouth to mouth across the throne room, most nobles approached for a closer look.
Instinct warned Al-Iskandar to transact his regular business first. While he displayed his costliest swords, daggers, greaves, belts, breastplates and helmets, the ornate chest remained sealed. He politely but firmly sidestepped all queries about its contents.
Finally, with the jewelry and gold from the transactions safely stowed in the pouch hanging around his neck, Al-Iskandar cleared his throat and called for the last chest to be brought forward.
"And now, King Cissa, I present to you a gift from"--the guttural Saxon tongue lacked certain sounds for the proper pronunciation of the Picti name, forcing Al-Iskandar to improvise--"Queen Guinevere of Caledonia."
He bid a guard to sever the seals. Grunting, Al-Iskandar struggled with the massive lid. He was not completely unprepared for the sight within, or the pungent burst of preserving spices, but it made him blanch.
Camilla gasped, wide-eyed. Her left hand flew to her ivory throat. The men nearest the chest, including the two kings, fought to suppress similar reactions. Those who found their view blocked pressed forward to catch a glimpse of what was causing the stir.
Inside lay the body of a warrior meticulously outfitted for battle. The bronze-linked hauberk was not torn anywhere that Al-Iskandar could discern, and bore not a single fleck of blood, though several faded stains marred the green and gold surcoat. A garnet-inlaid gold buckle gleamed from the sword belt. The fingers of the right hand were frozen to the hilt of a naked seax. The left arm was bent, hand to chest. In the elbow's crook nestled a bronze helmet. The gryphon perched on its peak glared through baleful emerald eyes.
The portion of the body the helmet had been designed to protect was gone.
King Cissa stared at the corpse. "Merchant, who is this warrior? And who," he demanded, his brow darkening, "is this Guinevere of Caledonia?"
Wringing his hands and trembling in what he hoped was a convincing show of fear, Al-Iskandar related what he knew about the land and naval battles that had occurred at the Isle of Maun, now a week past. And of the demonically fierce woman warrior who had defeated Prince Aelferd. Al-Iskandar remained painfully aware that he trod precarious ground. An ill-chosen word could get him killed.
Or, worse yet, he'd have his gold and jewelry confiscated, and be thrown out to beg his way home.
A hush had blanketed the hall. Al-Iskandar's words trailed away to make the silence complete.
King Cissa beckoned to the guard captain and whispered into the man's ear. The guard captain bowed and grimly strode to one of the closer columns. All eyes watched him tear down the Green Gryphon and return to the dais. On bended knee, he offered the banner to his king.
With unutterable sorrow, King Cissa rose, accepted the proffered standard, and laid it over the mutilated body of his nephew. Princess Camilla walked to the coffin, kissed her palm, and pressed it to Prince Aelferd's chest, tears streaking her cheeks. After she withdrew her hand, King Cissa yanked the lid down. The dull thump echoed around the chamber, and died.
"Merchant, I have a message for Queen Guinevere of Caledonia. Tell this woman she must answer to me." Grief twisted Princess Camilla's lovely face. After she dashed away the tears, her gray eyes glittered with diamond-hard hatred. "I shall not rest until she has paid with her life."
"As you will, your Highness." Al-Iskandar summoned his sincerest smile, touching fingers to chest and forehead in the traditional bow of his people.
King Cissa granted his leave, and Al-Iskandar quit the throne room as quickly as dignity allowed, silently thanking Al-Ilyah for his good fortune.
Were he to deliver such a message to the mercurial Chieftainess Gyanhumara, Adim Al-Iskandar would need more far protection than one god could possibly bestow.
# # #
Names and "foreign" words used in this excerpt are given below.
Pronunciations (in parenthesis following the word) are approximate!
Adim Al-Iskandar - Arabic arms merchant.
Aelferd - Saxon prince killed in battle by Angusel at the end of Morning's Journey; nephew of King Cissa.
Aelle - king of the East Saxons and father of Princess Camilla.
Alayna - Chieftainess of Clan Alban and Angusel's mother.
Alban - Angusel's clan; also, the ancient name of Scotland, and a variant of one of the traditional names of Arthur's realm, "Albion."
Al-Ilyah - pre-Islamic moon god.
Alexandria - ancient Egyptian city famed for its vast library.
Angusel - known to literary history as Lancelot. 'Nuff said. Full name: Angusel mac Alayna, son of Chieftainess Alayna of Clan Alban.
Aonar a'Dubh Loch - the name Angusel gives himself in despair for his failures; literally means "alone from the black lake."
Arthur - in my version of the Legends, he's a Romano-Celtic warlord, which, arguably, comes the closest to what the historical "truth" might have been, if in fact he did exist. Full name: Arthur map Uther (son of Uther; Brytons use the patronymic form).
Brydein (bri-DEE-an) - refers to the main island of Britain.
Bryton (BRI-tun) - an inhabitant of Brydein.
Brytoni (bri-TONE-ee) - of or pertaining to the inhabitants of Brydein.
Caledonia, Caledonian - Pictland, Picts; thought to be aboriginal inhabitants of Britain, or perhaps they migrated to the island from Scandinavia several millennia prior to the setting of this story. Ancestors of most modern-day Scots.
Camilla - princess of the East Saxons, King Aelle's daughter, and Prince Aelferd's fianceé.
Cissa (KEE-sah) - king of the West Saxons and Prince Aelferd's uncle.
Constantinopolis - ancient name of Constantinople (modern-day Istanbul).
Gyan (GHEE-an) - heroine's nickname, of my own invention.
Gyanhumara (ghee-an-huh-MAH-rah) - heroine's full given name, also of my own invention, based on one of the most ancient forms of Guinevere, "Guanhumara." Chieftainess of Clan Argyll. Full name: Gyanhumara nic Hymar (daughter of Hymar; the Picts in my story use the matronymic rather than the patronymic method of identification).
Lohot - firstborn son of Arthur and Gyan.
Manx - a person or thing hailing from the Isle of Maun.
Maun, Isle of - ancient name of the Isle of Man.
Niniane (nee-nee-AHN-ay) - prioress and prophet who has a quaint habit of bestowing swords upon promising young warriors; otherwise known to literary history as the Lady of the Lake.
Pict - name first coined by the Romans to refer to the aboriginal tribes dwelling in what is now the Scottish Highlands (Caledonia).
Picti - of or pertaining to inhabitants of what is now the Scottish Highlands (Caledonia).
Saxon - name applied to Germanic tribes originally invited to Brydein by Vortigern as mercenaries.
Seax - the style of war-knife (12-18" blade) from which the Saxons derive their name.
Sight, the - term applied to the manifestation of Prioress Niniane's prophetic visions.
Tarabrogh - ancient name of Ireland's Tara.
Vortigern - Brytoni king who tried to hire Saxon mercenaries to fight the Picts and Scots, and was assassinated when he was less than forthcoming with the mercenaries' payroll.
Willa - one of the members of Prioress Niniane's order.
Winceaster - ancient name of Winchester.
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