heretic.”
The bishop released Ciarán’s arm. “Yes, I suppose that is what he would have told you.”
“How do you know who I am?” Ciarán asked.
The bishop gave him a cold smile as he turned to walk away. “All you need know,” he called back, “is that everything you have come to believe is a lie.”
CHAPTER TWO
HUNTED
A low baying cut through the hiss of the rain. Dónall grimaced at the sound. The Franks had unleashed their mastiffs . Down the oak-wooded swale behind him, twigs snapped and dead leaves crackled under the dogs’ massive paws. And far behind them, he could hear the halloos of men rushing through the woods.
Dónall peered through the streaming rain. A dense labyrinth of oak, ash, and birch thickets surrounded him, but they would provide no concealment against the dogs’ keen noses. He had hoped to work his way through the woods, around the peat bog, and across the hills to Aileach, his ancestral home, but that would have to wait.
His thoughts whirled and tumbled. Archbishop Adalbero of Reims was dead, his inquisition disbanded. So why had this new bishop from Blois traveled all the way to Ireland these twenty years later? Dónall struggled to remember whether he had seen the man before—working with Gerbert of Aurillac, perhaps, back at Reims.
The baying grew louder, punctuated with throaty snarls. Dónall hefted his staff. Sturdy and as tall as he, it had been cut from a lightning-struck alder and then painted with soot and flaxseed oil until it was as black as the tree that formed it. The staff was a formidable enough weapon against men, but Dónall knew it would be no match for the mastiffs. For these were the war dogs of Franks and Saxons, a terror to foot soldiers and strong enough to pull an armored man from his horse.
As the rain pattered against the bare branches and forest duff around him, Dónall saw the blur of a mastiff’s tawny coat, bounding toward him through the trees. From a pocket in his rough woolen habit, he took out an opaque white crystal the size of a hazel nut. With an effort, he ignored the onrushing beast and cleared his mind of conscious thought.
The mastiff burst through the undergrowth, barking ferociously, its great teeth bared and snapping at the air. Eyes on its quarry, it leaped into the natural corridor formed by a broken line of birches. Not ten paces behind it streaked a second mastiff, spittle flying from its massive jaws.
Dónall held the crystal to his lips and, blowing softly, whispered a single word: “Eoh.” Within the crystal, a tiny spark appeared. A verse rolled off Dónall’s tongue, the words neither Irish nor Latin. He thrust his hand forward, and the crystal’s spark flared into a soft yet brilliant white light. The two mastiffs skidded to a halt, just feet from Dónall. They ceased barking and cocked their heads, entranced by the light.
Dónall uttered another verse, and comprehension glimmered in the dark canine eyes. They sat submissively as the crystal’s light faded to a warm glow.
“Good dogs,” Dónall said, patting their heads. The lead mastiff let out a passive whimper. Then the pounding of boots and the faint chink of mail sounded from the woods. Dónall peered into the trees, looking for the Frank, but the man must still be well behind his dogs. Scratching the scruff of the lead mastiff’s neck, Dónall spoke another strange word, then waved toward the trees to his left. Both dogs darted away.
Through the trees, Dónall spied the mail coat of a Frankish soldier. Heart pounding, he ducked behind the trunk of an ancient oak. The light within the crystal had died, and he stowed it in his habit.
The Frank, sword in hand, rushed down the corridor of birches, raindrops streaming off his helmet as his weathered face peered left and right, searching for the dogs. The mastiffs were gone, but their paws had punched deep into the wet forest duff. He stopped at the sight of the prints and put two fingers to his lips. A
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