How I Met Your Mother

Chapter 1 of "A Sword for Wellington", Book Three of The Môrdreigiau Chronicles

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The story began in A Grail for Eidothea and continued with A River Trembles. Now the Chosen Court seeks another Arthurian treasure. New here? Save this post and have a binge read. You deserve it.

If you missed the replay with me reading out the essay that I found in the documents stashed in the trunk in my attic, you can find it here.

Only movement stopped the nightmares. Hugh Devenish dragged himself out of bed. He left his snuffed-out candlestick on the bedside table. The moon cast a white sheen through the small gap in the drapes. He didn't need light to see by. In this house where he had spent many summers, he could traverse the entire building blindfolded.

He strode down the hallway and entered the upper gallery. Life-sized portraits of his aunt’s ancestors marked the broad passage at equal intervals. Opposite, tall arched multi-paned windows draped with sheer netting let in the moonlight, bleaching each portrait into garish light and shadow.

This is where he walked, paced, until he forced out the nightmares as the fevered imaginings of his crippled body.

True, he walked with hardly a limp, his leg seizing up in bad weather, but after the damage done to his face, he wasn't fit to be seen by anyone.

He paused in his midnight wanderings, his eye caught by a light outside that was not the moon.

At first, he dismissed it. His left eye didn't see well and he often caught odd flares from it.

But what if some interloper foolish enough to wave around a lantern on these grounds intruded on his privacy?

Hugh pushed aside the sheer curtain and gazed into the night.

The moon cast its defining light over the forest’s treetops that surrounded this house, now his home. He stared but couldn't spot the telltale yellow glow from lantern or torch.

Damn eye. Hugh grimaced in disgust. Totally useless.

He resumed his angry pacing along the carpeted hall, the thick pile of the Axminster carpet cushioning his bare feet.

At the end of the gallery, he turned and retraced his steps.

An odd, ice-blue glow, too unnatural to be moonlight, pulsated on the low hill opposite.

The standing stones.

He blinked, rubbed at his eyes to make sure he saw true. His left eye smarted at the brusque treatment. The odd blue lights dancing and swirling around the stones remained. Even if he closed his bad eye, he swore he saw dark figures writhe at the stones' rim and in its centre.

Had his nightmares transferred into waking life? Or— He remembered his aunt on the eve of an extended visit to a friend just a day’s drive away, begging him to keep watch over the stones for her. Was this why?

"There is nobody but you," she had said. "Your sister is in London enjoying her first season and she cares not for this family's legacy. You, on the other hand..." She patted his good arm, the other still swathed in bandages and a sling back then. "You will stay and keep an eye on the stones."

He'd grimaced, grunting in pain as the wound across his cheek pulled in a taut reminder of the severity of his injuries. "The stones aren't going to go anywhere."

"It is what the stones will bring," his aunt had said, her gaze focused sharp upon him. "And if the stones do not awaken, you must be sure to pass on this responsibility."

He forbore to snort, although he longed to express his disbelief, but his facial wounds would not bear sudden actions. “You’ll only be gone for a few weeks.” Why would he pass on an old woman's fevered ravings? And who would he pass them on to? None would have him for a husband. Perhaps one of Susan's children, yet it seemed wrong to create a new generation as obsessed with the stones as his aunt.

Standing at the upper gallery window, he remembered his aunt from his youth, taking he and Susan to gambol among the stones and spinning stories of druids and enchantresses.

Eerie blue light danced there now. His lip curled in a silent snarl. Whoever fooled around within his aunt’s sacred space would get a right thrashing.

He hastened back to his bedchamber, pausing long enough to light a candle from the fire's banked embers in order to have a little light.

He shoved his feet into the slippers he usually wore to breakfast and grabbed his walking stick. To delay by stopping to dress would let those rapscallions escape.

He let himself out the front door, using the smaller delivery entrance built into one of the large heavy doors that stood two men high.

His slippered feet skidded across the marble steps, rendered invisible by the shadow of a large oak tree. Its reach extended across the wide gravelled drive. He skirted the gravel, in case the noise happened to wake one of the servants, and headed down the green hollow before ascending to the standing stones.

Heavy dew soaked his kid slippers and a light breeze sent the long ends of his night shirt flapping against his knees. His walking stick swung free at his side, skimming the earth.

Mud caught at his slippers at the base of the hollow, but he ignored their ruination and kept going. Ebullient life bounced through his veins as it hadn't since— He blocked the thought, not wanting to lose the hope that at last he was of some use, ridding his aunt’s land of these trespassers. Even his bad leg didn't twinge as he climbed the low hill.

This close, the ice blue lights blinded, forcing him to avert his gaze. He knew of nothing, not even in the army engineer's arsenal, that shone so bright.

Reaching the crest of the hill, outside of the stone circle, he shaded his eyes against the blaze and distinctly saw a human figure in the centre.

All at once, the mysterious lights extinguished, leaving nothing but the moonlight to see by.

In the centre, a person swirled, holding a thick sword blade that scattered shiny black droplets. A wave of braids fanned out in an arc, his bloodstained surcoat of undyed linen rising to his trousered knees. The braids hit his cheek when he came to a stop. The youth’s bare arms, streaked with blood astonished Hugh the most. Tattooed from elbow to wrist, blue dragons writhed, seemingly alive.

The strangely attired youth bent over and noisily cast up their accounts, his back heaving with the effort.

"You!" Hugh found his voice and stepped into the stone circle, ignoring the faint hum from stones that should not make any noise at all. "What—“

The creature spun and faced him, sword aimed at Hugh’s chest. Hugh thumbed free the clasp on his walking stick and revealed the hidden rapier within.

Its thin metal would snap on a direct hit from the stranger's heavy blade. Again, he'd been reduced to uselessness, but he wouldn't acknowledge his disadvantages to this creature. He would get him off his land if it was his last act on earth. The earth would be well rid of the useless Sir Hugh Devenish, if he failed this night.

The creature wiped his mouth and snarled something incomprehensible. It sounded like Gaelic or Welsh.

"Put your weapon down," Hugh commanded, speaking slow. He had the strongest suspicion he would not be understood.

The creature bared his teeth, the moon turning them white. Hugh took opportunity of the stand off by examining him. He wore a simple woodman’s outfit, unchanged by the centuries, although he had never seen anyone wear boots like those, bound with long strips of leather.

The creature was also no man, Hugh realised, recognising the feminine in the swell of the hips. Not a child either.

At her feet, a clump of white mist shifted.

The woman sensed the movement and glanced downward. Her head shot up again, piercing him with her feral gaze. A moan of pain emanated from the shapeless mist.

He lowered his rapier, but didn't yet sheathe it. What had happened here? Who was she? Until he had answers he refused to let down his guard.

The creature knelt, keeping him in view with frequent glances. She cooed something in her foreign tongue and Hugh heard tears in it.

He dared to step closer. The white mist faded, revealing a woman in a simple linen robe. She lay in a careless sprawl of limbs that reminded Hugh of the aftermath of battle. Her robe, once white judging by the shoulders, was besmirched by blood.

The woman on the ground spoke, her lips bubbling black. A trail gushed down her chin.

He dashed forward. The swordswoman snarled and he almost impaled on her sword, stopping just in time.

He backed off, certain he saw fatal wounds. He had heard that wet sucking sound too often.

The two women seemed to know it too. The swordswoman gently lifted the dying woman's head, slipping off a primitive necklace that held a stone pendant.

She dropped it over her own head, the stone settling on her neck at her larynx. "Olwen says you will understand me now."

Somehow the dying woman must have seen him. That thought tripped over his astonishment at her speaking excellent English. "I do."

She returned her attention to Olwen, murmuring some words. He saw the last breath. His left eye flared again, seeing a wisp of white rising from the ground. Rising from Olwen, if he had to be honest.

The woman closed Olwen's sightless eyes, pulling two pieces of copper from a pouch at her side. "Olwen never had to carry her own," the woman muttered, her voice thick with unshed tears. "She never needed to." She bowed her head, the long braids concealing her face.

Hugh waited. One respected the passing of a life.

After a time, the woman moved and began stripping Olwen's body of her few possessions. She tucked Olwen’s pouch into her belt, alongside a leather scabbard.

Hugh's lip curled. He hated scavengers. "She's still warm!" he snapped, his rapier snapping to the en garde position.

She picked up her sword and held it steady before her. Even in the moonlight, Hugh read grim determination in her eyes. This one would go down fighting.

And he wasn't all that sure he would win. "Who are you? What's your business here? Who killed Olwen?"

"My name is Gwenddydd. My dearest companion was killed by a Saeson. I must complete her mission to her honour and that of the Sisterhood."

"Saeson?” At least this so-called mission gave a good reason for her purloining Olwen's possessions.

Gwenddydd glanced around her, eyes widening. "They were here. They are gone now."

"I have not seen any of these 'Saeson’. Just you, and then her." He pointed to Olwen's body.

"You lie!" With a deep, guttural cry, Gwenddydd charged at Hugh.

He backed away, his rapier raised in defence. If he aimed to block her blow near the base of his thin sword, he might save it from shattering.

He dodged her stab, leaping to one side with nimble feet. He thought he'd lost that skill for good.

No time to wonder at it. Their blades hooked together and he let her shove him against one of the standing stones. A surge of electricity crackled along his back.

Gwenddydd forced their swords high, until both blades lay along his neck.

"I do not lie," Hugh got out between gritted teeth, taking account of her strength. It exceeded that of than any woman. If he was at full fighting trim with his cavalry sword—this scene might be different. "I do not even know who these Saeson are."

Gwenddydd shook her head, her braids shuddering, her upper lip curled in a disbelieving sneer. "Invaders."

Hugh frowned. "The French?" The word sounded a little French. He had to get control of the situation and soon. He'd be dead if he couldn't discover his way out.

She shook her head again, confusion on her brow. "Who are these French?"

Hugh kept his voice calm. "You are not from around here, are you?"

She eased off, the sword edge still perilously close to his skin. "I was born not two milles passuum from here in the 60th year of the Emperor Zeno as Rome calculates it."

Hugh blinked. Rome? This woman had to be deranged. Had she killed that poor girl behind her in her delusions? “It is the year 1815 and you are standing on my land."

Perhaps a dangerous statement to make, given that she currently had the advantage, but he had to remind her that she broke the law. It might make her back down.

She bristled. "This is sacred land. The Sisterhood are stewards of it. Nobody owns it."

He let his gaze smoulder. Once upon a time it had worked, when he'd had a pretty face. "As much as I enjoy being this close to you…” He forbore to mention the stink of vomit on her breath and the foul stench of sweat and blood. "How about you lower your sword while we figure this out?"

It would give him time to plan his next move. The woman had not a stitch of armour, and although it galled him to attack a female, clearly she endangered the neighbourhood.

Gwenddydd stared into his eyes and he wondered what she saw in him. After a long moment, she stepped back, lowering her sword.

Hugh let his aching sword arm drop to his side. "Your emperor—“

She spat into the grass at her feet. "He is not my emperor."

With barely controlled patience, he continued, "He is one thousand, four hundred years dead. Approximately."

Her eyes grew round. "It worked."

He knew he would regret asking this. "What did?"

She told him.

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