Chapter Eight

"Missing? But how? I don't understand, cousin!" Princess Donna looked worriedly at Richard. She was dressed in her full battle armor, the picture of an Amazon-warrior princess, the Royal Golden Eagle holding a trident emblazoned on her shield.

"I don't understand myself, Donna," Richard replied shaking his head. He gestured with a small sheaf of rolled parchment that he held in his hand. "Bruce says that she was last seen at mid-morn the day he wrote this note. That was two days ago! Apparently she'd been arguing with Captain Gordon about accompanying the troop here to battle. Now, they have discovered several articles of clothing missing from my wardrobe."

"Richard, you don't think that she'd--?"

"That she'd dress up in my trousers and try to sneak into our compound as a man?" Richard interrupted. "Barbara Gordon? Headstrong, impossible, impetuous Barbara Gordon? *My* Barbara? I'm only surprised she didn't ride point when the Honor Guard went down to Fountain's Abbey!"

"You said yourself that she's an accomplished swordswoman, Richard. Her father's daughter. Perhaps Captain Gordon should have allowed her to march with them."

"Your highness, Barbara is an accomplished swordswoman, but she is no warrior. She'd never last in a real battle where men are trying to perpetuate the most violent means of hurt and death on each other. Our mothers were warrior-born . . . such a calling is in our blood. You have a sworn duty to your people to defend the realm, as does Prince Garth, as do your mother and father. For should Avalon fall to Mordant's Forces of Darkness, there will be no kingdom to rule over, just the charred remains of what was once the jewel of the North Sea." Richard gazed intently at his royal cousin.

"The good citizens of Avalon have no such God-given duty. Their task must be to survive this coming cataclysm; whether to live in slavery or freedom is not ours to say. But to survive into the next millennium they must. For even though we may fall in battle, Mankind must live on! Perhaps there will be another Emerald Warrior to take up the battle cry, *For freedom! For God and King! For Avalon!*." He paused, then added bitterly, "Avalon could certainly use a so-called savior who at least *knows* what the devil he's doing! Whatever our personal fate may be in battle, Princess, our people must survive to fight another day!"

"Nay, Richard! You are *wrong*! The evil that Mordant spreads throughout the realm and possibly the world . . . it is the God-given duty of each of us to stop its growing expansion. From the lowliest serfs who toil for their daily bread, to the highest nobles in the land, for should Mordant be allowed to gain foothold in Avalon, then surely a second time of darkness will soon descend upon this earth. He returns weaker than before . . . but he makes blood sacrifice of our very young, for only the blood of the pure and untainted has the power to increase his fearsome magics! If we do not stop his latest incursion into our realm of light, then may God have mercy on us all, for Mankind is surely doomed to a life of eternal damnation!"

Richard stood tall, arms crossed, his profile hard and still; he was immediately outside the open tent flaps to his field quarters. He gazed out into the sunset over the western sky. It almost seemed as if the very sky was aflame with the sweeping conflagration of war. It's coming soon, he thought. The end to all creation . . . what's left of humanity will once again be cast out of paradise, forced to scrabble like wild animals. Everything we have built . . . the sum total of all human knowledge will be lost in the Dark Ages close at hand.

"NO!!" He swore aloud, his gloved fist raised to the fires in the sky. "We will defend Avalon to our last dying gasp . . . men, women, children!" Donna came up behind him, and gently placed her hand on his bulging shoulders. "And should we fail today, we will fall back and live to fight another day . . . we will *never* surrender our island!" Sir Richard raised his voice so that it carried defiantly proud across the compound. Cooks, leatherworkers, smiths, and nobles lifted their eyes to the Emerald Warrior. "For Freedom . . ! For God and King. . ! For . . . AVALON!"

His shouts were met with resounding cries and cheers from the others throughout the camp: "For FREEDOM . . ! For GOD and KING . . ! For . . . AVALON!!!"

****

"We've already sent word to King Orrin of our departure and estimated arrival dates off the coastal waters of Abb's Head. We disembark there then force march inland to Dumfrieshire where we will reinforce his Majesty's ground forces." Clark was wrapping up his operations briefing to the combined general staff and admiralty. "We've also sent a courier to the Prince of Wales' own fusiliers and archers garrisoned in Cardiff to march or sail North and meet up with the main body at soonest possible speed. God knows we need every man who is currently on the active roster."

Clark lay down the long pointer he had been using. His headquarters' conference table was strewn with campaign and nautical maps, calipers, straight edges, writing quills, and what appeared to Wallace as an unnecessarily large amount of parchment. Wallace had never desired to work on a planning staff . . . too much paperwork. He preferred to be with the action. On the other hand, Richard at only eighteen years of age could show Clark and his staff a thing or two about tactics and planning.

However, Wallace had to admit that Clark's brilliant operations order left nothing to chance. He planned for almost every contingency, to include alternate disembarkation points, and alternate routes to march to Dumfrieshire. He even ordered the Navy to begin the evacuation of civilians located along the eastern coast to Metropolis and to impress all merchant vessels for the possible evacuation of survivors to the mainland in Normandy should Avalon fall.

As the meeting broke up, Clark walked up to Wallace and invited him to dinner with his wife, Lady Lois.

"It would indeed be an honor, Sir Clark; however, I am already engaged for the evening. Please extend my regrets to your good Lady."

"Nay, Wallace, there is no need for apology. Tonight is your last evening before we sail into what could be a terrible battle. 'Tis best you spend your last few hours with someone who will make them memorable. I shall see you tomorrow at the loading docks! Fare thee well!"

"Good night, Sir Clark . . . I shall meet you at the loading docks tomorrow before the cock crows!" With that Wallace turned and went outside. There he found the temporary mount that Clark had loaned him. He quickly mounted and headed towards the outlying districts of the Capital City. After several minutes of riding through the quickly lengthening shadows, he came upon a familiar street and turned in. Wallace dismounted and tethered his horse to a white fence that bordered a tiny one-room cottage at the end of the street.

The delicious smells of home cooking wafted their way into his heart. Freyja could easily be the best cook he had ever met. Certainly better than his Aunt Iris, and quite possibly as good or better than Castle Wayne's master chef. Taking a moment to just enjoy the peaceful solitude of the early evening residential street, Wallace felt himself relaxing after a long day of tense negotiations.

"Negotiations! More like petty jealousies!" he said disgustedly. And mostly on the part of the Admiralty. They'd been outraged at Clark's effrontery in commandeering the Navy; however, the King's orders were explicit: Clark was to move the remainder of the Metropolis garrison north. Clark translated this to read, "by any means available." Lord Admiral Jones grudgingly agreed. There was no time for argument; they'd work out the logistics of Army to Navy compensation for services rendered at a later date.

"Should anyone survive to *bill* the Army," Wallace said sardonically.

****

"Lord Wayne . . . Lord Wayne . . . a word, please!" Wayne looked up impatiently. He had been concentrating on his final preparations for departure. Alfred was anxiously trying to get his attention. Wayne immediately stopped what he was doing, and called one of the stable hands to continue saddling Nightstar. He'd moved up the garrison's departure time; if  they deployed now and force marched all night, then they'd meet up with the main body before sunset on the morrow.

"What is it, old friend? As you can see, you have caught me in the middle of something?" Wayne turned this last statement into a question. It was not like Alfred to interrupt him while he was so busily engaged.

"My apologies, milord," Alfred said breathlessly. "But I had to speak to you about a most urgent matter . . . in private!" He immediately pulled Wayne out of the stables to the relative privacy of the noisy and chaotic parade grounds. "Milord, I was in Sir Richard's quarters this morning . . . to tidy up, perhaps find whatever last minute articles I deemed that he might need while he's on this extended campaign." He stopped for breath.

Wayne looked at him patiently. If Alfred had something to say, he'd say it in his own good time.

"I was dusting his quarters, when on impulse I wondered if anyone had taken the time to clean under his bed. You know the young master . . . so untidy at times, leaving his riding boots under the bed, or bits and pieces of leather straps. At any rate, I bent down to inspect and I found . . . this!" Alfred held out a ruffled handkerchief made of fine linen delicately embroidered with the initials "JR."

Wayne shook his head and shrugged his shoulders. It seemed an ordinary enough handkerchief, probably from some eager maiden who'd offered it to Richard as a token remembrance. "And . . ?"

"Sniff it, sir," Alfred urged. As Wayne was about to breathe the slip of cloth's scent, Alfred stayed his hand. "Carefully, sir!" Wayne raised a single eyebrow. Bringing the handkerchief carefully to his nostrils, he took a tentative sniff. His eyes immediately watered and he felt himself involuntarily gag. He started coughing uncontrollably.

"What in heavens name . . ? Are you trying to poison me, man?" Wayne asked gagging helplessly. Alfred took the handkerchief back from his lord.

"Before I came here, milord, I took it to Fra Haly . . . he is an expert in the apothecary's arts as is the Lady Selina. They both identified the vile smell as a residue from a powerful sleeping potion. Most has been dispelled now, but as you can tell, it is still quite strong! Milord, this handkerchief suggests that Lady Barbara did not leave of her own free will, but rather that she was taken!"

"Alfred, we must find out to whom the initials 'JR' belong. You *must* investigate this yourself, Alfred . . . get Lady Selina to assist you. She is a clever and resourceful woman. Do *not* let Captain Gordon know about this, at least, not yet. I will leave you Sir Roy to help; I will let him know what goes. He is extremely fond of both Richard and Barbara . . . I know that he will gladly stay to find her." He paused, laying his hand gently on his loyal friend's shoulder. "I am sorry to leave you like this, old friend, but I must away to the north. I know you'll do your best."

Clasping each other's hands, the two men bade one another farewell.

"God speed, milord!"

****

Images of Barbara pervade Richard's dreams that night. Barbara's flaming hair billowing gently in the breeze . . . Barbara's head turning back towards him, a smile lighting her fair features. Barbara playing with the younger children, clasping their hands in a circle, chanting "Ring around the rosie . . . " He recalls that Barbara has always loved the younger children, makes special time for them, and reads to them by the fireside hearth on the cold winter evenings.

He dreams of a particular evening when she reads from Master Chaucer's _Canterbury Tales_. His parents are only two months gone, and although he's been fully knighted, he still feels like a lonely lad of nine. He sits close to her, her arm around his shoulder, proximity to her bringing a warm feeling of comfort . . .

. . . The image begins to blur, to fragment . . . They are no longer sitting by the fireplace in the Great Circular Hall in Castle Wayne. Instead, he is sitting on her lap, held gently, protectively in her arms, his head resting on her bosom. He looks up to where her chin rests gently on the top of his head. He looks down . . . he is no longer a young man of eighteen years. He is . . . Richard surveys himself . . . he can't be more than a mere toddler; in fact, he feels a decidedly uncomfortable dampness from the seat of his trousers.

"Oh, you poor, cherub . . . Here, Timmy, let us do something about that, why don't we?" Barbara speaks lovingly to him, then lays him on his back and starts undressing him. Richard lies helplessly, unable to stop her ministrations. Another voice speaks above him.

"I have one last piece of cloth that should do the trick, milady." A girl of about twelve comes into his line of vision. Her auburn hair is scraggly, as if it hasn't been washed in ages. She smiles down at him. "Timmy-lad, we'll have you good as new in just a blink." She tickles his tummy, then playfully tweaks his nose and cheek.

Richard/Timmy hears himself gurgling happily. "May'n . . . Baw-bwa . . . love you . . . " Richard/Timmy's arms reach up eagerly for Barbara, who smiles and willingly lifts him into her arms.

"Lady Barbara, he's so happy . . . and we are all doomed . . . oh, what is to become of us?" The girl lays her head on Barbara's shoulder and openly weeps. Barbara gently sits Richard/Timmy on her lap and caresses the girl's cheek.

"Now, none of that, Meghan. We must be strong for the others. We must have faith, too. Remember that all Mordant can do is take our corporeal selves, our souls belong to God. Should we meet our untimely deaths at his evil hands, we will only suffer for a short while. When we go to our Father, we will go to a place of unbridled beauty and peace . . ."

****

. . . The scene dissolves again. He finds himself standing outside the grounds of Melrose Abbey. He remembers the place from his childhood: his parents are laid to rest here.

"Why am I here?" he asks himself.

"He has desecrated your parents' graves, Richard." He spins around. Barbara stands before him, a small group of children huddled around her. She holds a babe of about two in her arms. He knows instinctively that this must be the boy, Timmy. He begins to walk tentatively towards her.

"Mordant has committed unspeakable atrocities on the very altar of God. The statuary of the saints and holy family has been destroyed; the crucifix of our savior has been vilely profaned. He commits these sacrileges in the very house of God where you were baptized, where your parents' marriage was consecrated, and where they were laid to their eternal rest . . ."

He reaches out with his right hand, his fingertips lightly caressing her cheek.  She closes her eyes at his touch; a lone tear begins to wend its way slowly to her chin. He gently wipes it off with his thumb and cups her face lovingly in his hand. Barbara opens her eyes, and sadly gazing into his, continues her tale as if without pause.

". . . He commits these obscenities in the very house of God where countless generations of Graysons have been baptized, married, and buried. He mocks you, Richard . . . he goads you to come to him before you're ready. The blasphemies are but a means to anger you. The children and myself are but a means to an end." A soft green aura begins to surround her. "'Tis you he wants. Forget me . . . forget us . . . we go to a better place soon . . . take care, my love . . . " She and the children slowly dissolve in the delicate green light.

"No wait! Barbara . . . you must have faith . . . you *must*! Remember that I love you . . . I *love* you . . !"

****

. . . His cries awoke him. He was sitting up in his camp cot, sweat streaming down his chest, his jet-black hair matted to his head in damp streaks. Had it been only a dream? It had seemed so real. His right hand was still moist from her tears! The Emerald Eye began radiating a green glow from where it hung around his neck. He looked down at it and grasped it in his trembling hands.

It began pulsating to the beat of his heart. The boy, Timmy, and the girl, Meghan . . . they had looked vaguely familiar as if from some half-remembered dream. Of course, his earlier dream-walk under the influence of the Emerald Eye, these were the same children he'd seen tortured and killed at the hands of Mordant's evil minions.

Did this mean that they lived still? That Barbara was being held with them as a means to get to him? Well, if Mordant wanted him, then he'd get his wish! Richard immediately threw off his covers and jumped out of bed.  He began dressing in the pre-dawn darkness. If Barbara was being held prisoner at Melrose Abbey, then he was going there to get her out!

Chapter Nine

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