The Mistletoe and the Sword by Anya Seton

Author:Anya Seton [Seton, Anya]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Historical Fiction
Published: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

Quintus slept a short time that night beneath a hazel bush and opened his eyes into a fine mist, through which the new-risen sun could not penetrate. An extraordinary looking man, like an ape, was squatting beside him, gnawing at a chicken drumstick.

“What in Hades are you?” cried Quintus, reaching for his spear, which lay beside him. The man put down the drumstick and made a chuckling noise. His hairy hand pawed around in a deerskin bag, and bringing out a large oakleaf he handed it to Quintus. There was some Latin writing crudely scratched on the leaf. Quintus scowled at it until he made it out. The writing said, “This is Bran who will guide you to Gloucester. Trust him.”

“Bran?” said Quintus, frowning harder for he was exceedingly puzzled. The man nodded, pounded his chest, grinned amiably, and began to gnaw the drumstick.

“Where did you come from? Where are we?” said Quintus in painstaking Celtic.

Bran shrugged, opened his mouth to show Quintus he had no tongue and could not answer.

This happened before in a dream, Quintus thought; where did I dream it? He rubbed his eyes and stared again at Bran. But where is Pendoc, he thought, and the campfire we were sitting by in the forest last night when we broiled the fish? WHERE IS REGAN?

At this he was overwhelmed with a feeling of pain and loss, far greater than he could understand. For amidst the dream-like confusion, he had a certainty that there was nothing wrong with her. She was in no danger. Then she and Pendoc must have slipped away in the night, leaving him this extraordinary guide and the message? Could Regan write Latin? That was strange, and yet the only explanation. But then had Regan deceived him all along? Had she never intended to take him to Stonehenge and her grandfather at all? This , thought hurt him, even while a part of him denied it utterly. He knew that Regan was trustworthy. And yet so many things were strange; faint dream memories slipped in and out of his mind, bright sun and huge sinister stones, angry voices, a room of mysterious shadows, many trees. And something lost. Something beautiful and very precious. I’ve had a fever, that’s what it is, he thought. He touched his cheek and found it cool. Well, he was all right now, whatever had happened, and on his way to Gloucester. That was the important thing. His military mission. How long had he been delayed?

He read again the message on the leaf, then tore it into tiny bits. “Well, come on then, Bran! Hurry--on to Gloucester!” He reinforced his Celtic with gestures.

The man nodded and threw away the drumstick. He pointed toward two ponies Quintus had not yet noticed, though one was his own; the shaggy native pony, on which he had left the Regni fort. At least he was certain of that, Quintus thought slightly reassured. They mounted and Bran set off in the lead, as the mists lifted and merged into a grey sky.

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