Written In Stone

to the castle to retrieve the spear. Riding past the castle to the abbey, he entered the sanctuary. Genuflecting at the door, he crossed himself, went to the altar, and lifted the bench off the floor. Inside the hollowed seat, wrapped carefully in furs and hides, lay the Holy Spear of Christ. The Llewelyn would be livid if he knew how close he'd been to it at the wedding. Muredach left the item carefully wrapped, sealed the opening of the bench, and returned it to its original position.
    Returning to the valley loch, he held the spear across his thighs. When he arrived, Llewelyn had Bettina's hands tied behind her back, a cloth stuffed into her mouth, and his hand fisted in her hair. "Let her go," Muredach said calmly.
    "Show me the spear," Llewelyn spat.
    Muredach slid to the ground, unwrapping the spear. Holding it up, he turned it around in his hand. "Send her over to me," Muredach instructed.
    "Not 'til I 'ave the spear, lad."
    "When ye send Bettina to me."
    "Then ye'll not be gettin' her." He pulled Bettina's hair hard enough that she made a muffled cry.
    "Doona hurt her! I'll lay the spear on the fur and walk away. Ye let go of Bettina and walk away on that side. I'll go to her and ye come to it. Agreed?"
    "Agreed," the Llewelyn said.
    Muredach laid the spear carefully on the furs and held his hands out, stepping slowly away. Llewelyn released Bettina and moved away from her. Keeping a wary eye on one another as they walked, they circled until reaching what they wanted. "Come to me, Bettina," Muredach said softly. "Walk slowly toward me, lass." Bettina took a few slow steps then was in Muredach's arms. He quickly removed the gag and untied her hands. "Are ye alright?" She nodded and clung tightly to him.
    "Mor!" Llewelyn shouted. "Ye will both die now!"
    Muredach pushed Bettina behind him and the Llewelyn let the spear fly through the air, piercing through Muredach's stomach, the soft flesh and muscles doing little to stop it or alter its path. Muredach looked down in shock. The Llewelyn used the Holy Spear of Christ to kill him! It was a Holy relic, not a weapon, and Muredach did not expect anyone to use it as one. He grasped the spear and pulled, but it didn't move. Suddenly, the Llewelyn's men filled the valley, but right behind them stood Muredach's men.
    The battle began in earnest. The Mors, having called kinsman to arms along the way, greatly outnumbered the Llewelyn's. The clang of steel against steel rang from one end of the valley to the other, along with the screams of men run through or mortally wounded. The acrid smell of blood mingling with the smell of horseshit, filled the air and made it difficult to breathe. The battle raged on. No one knew exactly how much time passed or even which side was winning. Every man was tired, muscles ached, lungs burned. Then finally, everything was quiet.
    Every Llewelyn died that day by the valley loch.
    Fergus found his son during the mêlée and tried helping him. "Oh, son." Fergus nearly collapsed into tears.
    "Help pull it out," Muredach ordered.
    "I'll be havin' to pull it through," Fergus said sadly. "'Tis gone through ye into Bettina." Fergus paused and gasped a breath of air, then said, "She's dead, son."
    Muredach began to shake as Fergus pulled the spear through. He fell to his knees, gathered Bettina to him, and fell on top of her. Muredach was a gentle man, not given to rash behavior or fits of temper. Never loud, he never lost his temper, not even in battle. After all, it wasn't personal; it was only war. Muredach Mor began to shake violently, rising up on his knees as his blood ran thickly from his stomach to the ground. He leaned his head back with Bettina held to his chest and he screamed. The entire valley fell silent, quaking at the sound. The Mor guards retreated and left the bodies where they lay. All that remained was Muredach holding Bettina, Fergus, and two of his brothers.
    Muredach held her a long while, feeling lightheaded from the loss of blood, but no one could persuade him to leave. "Just let me be, Da. All of ye, leave me be for a while." They all nodded and left him alone. Muredach lay down on the ground beside his wife and cried, stroking her silky hair. His hands covered with his own blood, her throat and chest covered with hers. Muredach buried his face in her hair, in the curve of her neck, tasting her blood on his lips. He stroked her face, rubbed his thumb over her lips, leaving his blood on her. Then, he lay down and died.
    ~