Page 9 of The Dragon Ring
Beside me, Abbot Jerome gazed up at the sky as though for inspiration, his ascetic face composed and peaceful. He possessed an air of spiritual serenity that encompassed everyone about him. My thumping heart calmed, and the nervous tremble in my hands diminished as I studied his face. Abbot Jerome didn’t look like someone who would allow me to get hurt.
I hoped.
The four laymen led the ponies across the cobbles toward us.
Abbot Jerome descended from wherever it was his thoughts had been, and turned to face me. He had the hands of a workman– rough and calloused, nails ingrained with dirt. I raised my head and his eyes held mine.
“Now, I realize you are a stranger, as did my villagers. And you yourself say you shouldn’t be here, which is true. In these times the presence of a stranger, even a woman of high birth, such as yourself, rouses suspicion. And getting you back to where you come from depends greatly on where that is.”
“It’s rather hard to explain…” I began, shoulders sagging.
“Yet,” Jerome continued, “I can see you could be one of us because you speak our tongue like a native. Although that, perhaps, is why you were chosen to spy here, if indeed you are a spy. I find it hard to believe that the heathens would want to spy on us in Ynys Witrin. We have no armies, no warriors, no gold to speak of. But the mystery of how you come to be here still remains. You must go now with my men and plead your cause in Din Cadan and be judged.”
Speak his tongue like a native?
“But you’re speaking English,” I protested, ignoring the rest of his speech. “Just like me.”
His dark brows furrowed. “I do not know this word, ‘English’. You are speaking my tongue, which is Celtic, but I remarked that you also understood when I addressed you in Latin, so I can see you are a lady of education.”
I’d never learned a word of Latin in my life. Not to mention Celtic. I probably knew what “Welcome to Wales” was in Welsh because it was written on the western side of the Severn Bridge, but that was all I knew of anything that might be thought of as Celtic. What was he talking about? How could I be speaking and understanding two languages I had no knowledge of? Impossible.
I rubbed my forehead with the back of my hand, and as I did so, the rather muddy ring on my finger must have caught the feeble sunlight. The abbot gave a gasp of surprise, and lifted his hand, long fingers extended. Taken aback, I stepped away from him, but Brother Caius jerked on the rope to stop me.
“Give me your hands.” The abbot’s command sliced through the damp air.
I had no option but to do as I was told.
As he bent his head over my hand, the golden ring glowed as though a flame burnt within it. He raised curious eyes to gaze into mine, this time clearly searching for something. After a moment a look of satisfaction came over him.
“This is a very old ring. Like the bracelet, it is marked as the property of the kings of Dumnonia. Where did you get it?”
Now I was really confused. Of course I’d heard of Dumnonia. Glastonbury was in it. At least, it had been in the Dark Ages. The ancient Dark Age kingdom of Dumnonia had once encompassed the modern counties of Devon and Somerset. I looked down at the ring again, but it was still just a ring. Nothing special other than its beauty, and, of course, the fact that I’d found it inside the tower on the Tor, and as soon as I’d touched it all these strange things had started happening.
But the abbot didn’t know that, so there was nothing to make him think it was special. Yet from his expression I could see he was thinking just that. He let go of my hand, and I drew it close to my chest, fist clenched.
I kept my face blank, but my mind was whirring again. Could the ring be keeping me here? What if I took it off? I moistened my dry lips. What wouldn’t I give for a nice cup of tea?
“I found it on the ground up on the Tor. And when I picked it up, I found myself here. And I want to go back, not stay.” If I could have done so I would have pulled the ring off my finger and given it to the abbot, but my bonds prevented me. “You can have it. I don’t want it.” I offered him my bound hands.
After a moment’s hesitation, the abbot slid the ring off my finger and turned it over in his hands.
Nothing happened. I was still standing in the cold on the cobbles in what seemed more and more likely to be a genuine Dark Age abbey with a man who belonged in a history book.
He twirled the ring, examining it closely. After a moment, he pushed it back onto my finger.
“The ring is yours by the ancient law of finders. It was made for your finger and now it has found its place. Keep it.”
Well, wasn’t that an odd thing to say to someone he suspected of ill-doing? I’d expected him to hang onto it. Why did he think I had a right to it?
I could think of no reason to refuse, so I gave it a surreptitious little polish against my coat, thinking of Aladdin and his lamp, and whispering under my breath, “There’s no place like home.” But it didn’t work like the lamp or the ruby slippers, and nothing changed. I was still looking at Abbot Jerome in the middle of the cobbled yard on a cold misty day in early winter.
The four lay brothers vaulted into their saddles, leaving the fifth pony’s reins held by Brother Mark, waiting for me to mount.
I finally ruled out the possibility that this was a re-enactment. I was being sent to Din Cadan, which surely had to be the iron age hill fort of South Cadbury Castle, the only fortified stronghold in riding distance. Were things going to look up, or was I just getting deeper and deeper into danger? Part of me wanted to throw myself on the mercy of Abbot Jerome, whose whole being made me feel the safest I’d felt since I’d picked up the ring.
However, I couldn’t, and riding a horse sounded as good a proposition as any. I’d spent my teenage years, when I wasn’t on digs with my father, down at the local riding school working in return for rides and was proud of my riding skills.
I quailed at the thought of having to put myself at the mercy of the four rough and ready lay brothers. Their persons bristled fearsomely with knives and swords at their belts, and spears slung from their saddles. Their shaggy ponies, about the size and build of Welsh cobs, stood maybe fourteen hands high. However, the saddles looked unlike anything I’d seen before. Four solid horns jutted up, one at each corner, a little like the one on the front of a Western saddle. They would wedge a rider into position on the horse’s back far more securely than a modern saddle– a useful feature, as there were no stirrups.
