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Canmore line as a long-awaited act of retribution: blood for blood, almost as if he had played some part
in it.
Wondering whether it could possibly be so-and he found a part of him hoping that it was-John
suppressed a shudder for the fates of his ill-starred forebears. Very briefly, as he and his father continued
on toward the citadel, a final intimation of the latter refused to be put by. His mouth went dry as he
became aware of a ghostly crackling in his ears, like the distant roar of a bonfire. A spectral gust of heat
swept past him, bringing with it the stench of burning flesh-imagination, surely.
Shaking his head to banish such echoes of the past, he turned his gaze to the present. Like the outer
ramparts, the walls of the ruined citadel had been partially repaired. Embedded here and there among the
plain building stones and rubble were other blocks inscribed with figures of charging bulls-fragments of
structures long ago tumbled to ruin in the wake of the White Christ's triumph over the gods of the Picts.
Well did John remember the night his father had been instructed to restore it thus. Only just coming into
his beard, at last permitted to sit with the men at table, he had listened enthralled at his father's side as the
man called Torgon, purporting to be a priest of the old gods, had declaimed the past glories of his ancient
deities with an eloquence and fervor rivaling that of the White Christ's devotees, calling upon the true
sons of Alba to rebuild the ancient holy places for her native gods. In specific, Torgon had instructed that
stone fragments bearing images or sigils of bulls should be inserted into the restored walls. So sited, the
array of bulls would present simultaneously a defensive barrier and an invocation of indomitable strength.
And it clearly had been done, according to Torgon's instructions!
The younger Comyn roughly recalled himself to the present as his father's voice intruded on his
amazement, speaking to one of his lieutenants, a powerful bearded battle veteran called Seward, who
had appeared within the open doorway to the citadel. The man's bare arms were painted with runic
symbols traced out in blue, and upon his forehead he bore the blue-traced head of a bull, the long horns
extending to the temples.
"Has all been prepared in accordance with my instructions?" Comyn demanded.
Seward inclined his head. "It has, my lord."
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"Away with you, then, and see that the men remain withdrawn from this ward," Comyn ordered. "I will
brook no intrusion or interruption of the proceedings."
With a parting salute, Seward loped off down the hill to carry out his orders, leaving the Comyns to enter
the citadel unattended. The enclosure was roofless, and the dull daylight did little to dispel the deep
shadows oozing along its walls. Within the circuit of those walls had been erected a broad altar stone, its
low sides carved with runic inscriptions that John knew were intended to invoke the intercession of the
old gods, who demanded blood in tribute and to whom captured enemies were sacrificed by drowning.
Both had been offered on the occasion of the younger Comyn's last visit to Burghead, though he had
seen only the sacrifice of a bull like the one tethered just behind the altar, whose blood had been smeared
on his face and hands in mark of his coming of age; and he had understood what would be the fate of the
trembling youth, no older than himself, whom the high priest Torgon led down into that dark stairwell, out
beside the monoliths, nude save for a crown of mistletoe and rowan, and with wrists bound behind his
back. Only Torgon had come out. On the ride back home, his father had assured him that the boy was
from without the land of Alba, taken in a raid across the borders far to the south, and therefore of little
consequence.
He therefore was not surprised to see another bull today-and vaguely wondered whether another captive
would be drowned. But behind the bull were ranged only a pair of soldiers to tend it, the bull sigil upon
their foreheads and garlands of rowan and mistletoe wound around their left arms to show that they had
been inducted into the mysteries; and to either side of them, the white-robed forms of Torgon and a
younger assistant, both of them bearded and tonsured ear to ear in the Celtic manner, the remaining hair
plaited in greasy braids to either side of their heads, both marked with the bull sigil and crowned with
leafy garlands. Torgon had around his neck a golden torc denoting his rank, and iron bracelets upon his
forearms, and in one hand a staff of gnarled black wood. The younger priest was holding the tether of the
bull, letting it nose among a few sparse tufts of grass springing from between uneven flagstones
surrounding the altar.
Comyn raised his hand in salute, and the priests bowed their heads in acknowledgment. At a sign from
Torgon, his priestly companion helped the soldiers heave the bullock up onto the altar slab-so placid,
John suspected it had been drugged-while Torgon himself took up a bowl with a leafy aspergillum and
began circling the altar widdershins, sprinkling it and the bull with aspersions of water infused with
mistletoe berries.
While this was taking place, the Black Comyn disarmed himself and stripped off to the waist, gesturing
for his son to do the same, letting the younger priest paint the bull sigil upon his brow. As the younger
Comyn also submitted to the ritual marking and joined his father in kneeling before the altar, he felt the
gooseflesh rising on his arms, not alone because of the chill and damp, this near the sea. [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]
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Canmore line as a long-awaited act of retribution: blood for blood, almost as if he had played some part
in it.
Wondering whether it could possibly be so-and he found a part of him hoping that it was-John
suppressed a shudder for the fates of his ill-starred forebears. Very briefly, as he and his father continued
on toward the citadel, a final intimation of the latter refused to be put by. His mouth went dry as he
became aware of a ghostly crackling in his ears, like the distant roar of a bonfire. A spectral gust of heat
swept past him, bringing with it the stench of burning flesh-imagination, surely.
Shaking his head to banish such echoes of the past, he turned his gaze to the present. Like the outer
ramparts, the walls of the ruined citadel had been partially repaired. Embedded here and there among the
plain building stones and rubble were other blocks inscribed with figures of charging bulls-fragments of
structures long ago tumbled to ruin in the wake of the White Christ's triumph over the gods of the Picts.
Well did John remember the night his father had been instructed to restore it thus. Only just coming into
his beard, at last permitted to sit with the men at table, he had listened enthralled at his father's side as the
man called Torgon, purporting to be a priest of the old gods, had declaimed the past glories of his ancient
deities with an eloquence and fervor rivaling that of the White Christ's devotees, calling upon the true
sons of Alba to rebuild the ancient holy places for her native gods. In specific, Torgon had instructed that
stone fragments bearing images or sigils of bulls should be inserted into the restored walls. So sited, the
array of bulls would present simultaneously a defensive barrier and an invocation of indomitable strength.
And it clearly had been done, according to Torgon's instructions!
The younger Comyn roughly recalled himself to the present as his father's voice intruded on his
amazement, speaking to one of his lieutenants, a powerful bearded battle veteran called Seward, who
had appeared within the open doorway to the citadel. The man's bare arms were painted with runic
symbols traced out in blue, and upon his forehead he bore the blue-traced head of a bull, the long horns
extending to the temples.
"Has all been prepared in accordance with my instructions?" Comyn demanded.
Seward inclined his head. "It has, my lord."
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"Away with you, then, and see that the men remain withdrawn from this ward," Comyn ordered. "I will
brook no intrusion or interruption of the proceedings."
With a parting salute, Seward loped off down the hill to carry out his orders, leaving the Comyns to enter
the citadel unattended. The enclosure was roofless, and the dull daylight did little to dispel the deep
shadows oozing along its walls. Within the circuit of those walls had been erected a broad altar stone, its
low sides carved with runic inscriptions that John knew were intended to invoke the intercession of the
old gods, who demanded blood in tribute and to whom captured enemies were sacrificed by drowning.
Both had been offered on the occasion of the younger Comyn's last visit to Burghead, though he had
seen only the sacrifice of a bull like the one tethered just behind the altar, whose blood had been smeared
on his face and hands in mark of his coming of age; and he had understood what would be the fate of the
trembling youth, no older than himself, whom the high priest Torgon led down into that dark stairwell, out
beside the monoliths, nude save for a crown of mistletoe and rowan, and with wrists bound behind his
back. Only Torgon had come out. On the ride back home, his father had assured him that the boy was
from without the land of Alba, taken in a raid across the borders far to the south, and therefore of little
consequence.
He therefore was not surprised to see another bull today-and vaguely wondered whether another captive
would be drowned. But behind the bull were ranged only a pair of soldiers to tend it, the bull sigil upon
their foreheads and garlands of rowan and mistletoe wound around their left arms to show that they had
been inducted into the mysteries; and to either side of them, the white-robed forms of Torgon and a
younger assistant, both of them bearded and tonsured ear to ear in the Celtic manner, the remaining hair
plaited in greasy braids to either side of their heads, both marked with the bull sigil and crowned with
leafy garlands. Torgon had around his neck a golden torc denoting his rank, and iron bracelets upon his
forearms, and in one hand a staff of gnarled black wood. The younger priest was holding the tether of the
bull, letting it nose among a few sparse tufts of grass springing from between uneven flagstones
surrounding the altar.
Comyn raised his hand in salute, and the priests bowed their heads in acknowledgment. At a sign from
Torgon, his priestly companion helped the soldiers heave the bullock up onto the altar slab-so placid,
John suspected it had been drugged-while Torgon himself took up a bowl with a leafy aspergillum and
began circling the altar widdershins, sprinkling it and the bull with aspersions of water infused with
mistletoe berries.
While this was taking place, the Black Comyn disarmed himself and stripped off to the waist, gesturing
for his son to do the same, letting the younger priest paint the bull sigil upon his brow. As the younger
Comyn also submitted to the ritual marking and joined his father in kneeling before the altar, he felt the
gooseflesh rising on his arms, not alone because of the chill and damp, this near the sea. [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]