Celtic Shores, Book 2 in the Celtic Steel Series Read online

  “I canna believe yer fathair sent ye all this way w’out telling you the full of it,” breathed Ruarc through clenched teeth. “I canna ken what he was thinking,” he said, shaking his head.

  “T-tell me about this curse,” sighed Patrick before taking a long deliberate drink out of his mug of ale.

  “Patrick, Odetta Burke placed a curse on our clan many years ago. It was said that the curse would keep an O’Malley heir from being born— but it has also kept any male from being born of the O’Malley clan, including our villagers and hired soldiers.” Ruarc took a shallow breath and paused before continuing, “We are woefully outnumbered…” he paused for reflection and shook his head, “Women,” he smiled in jest.

  Patrick choked back a hardy laugh and asked, “And…th-that is a pr-problem…how?”

  Ruarc returned the smile and continued, “We have nay men for our women, Patrick; none to marry the Laird’s daughters to; none to marry my daughter to either. But, most importantly, we have only a small military force; and our best soldiers are women.”

  “W-women? You l-let w-women fight?” asked Patrick.

  “We have no choice. We have to protect our lands and our port. Our women are highly skilled and trained, but we have need of men; strong, young, and unmarried men.”

  Patrick slammed his mug down on the table in front of him sending liquid splashing about. A maidservant hurried to clean up the mess before Ruarc could waive her off.

  “Aye, I see n-now. Me da s-sold me off for some men,” Patrick snorted.

  “Now hold on Patrick. That is no’ so.”

  “And— h-how is th-that, Ruarc?”

  “Yer da knew ye were the best hope for our clan. Because of yer…uh…skills…that is.”

  “Me sk-skills?” questioned Patrick. “Wh-what are you t-talking about?”

  “Odetta Burke, the younger sister of Cynbel Burke, the Lord of Burke territory—she is a pagan witch,” Ruarc added matter-of-factly.

  “And th-that has wh-what to do with me?”

  “Patrick,” Ruarc whispered and leaned in to speak with him quietly, “Ye are a druid, are ye not?”

  Anger rose visibly in Patrick’s face and he shot up and out of his chair and headed towards the hearth before Ruarc knew what happened. Of all the horrible reasons to send me here to marry the O’Malley lass—this has to be the worst I could imagine.

  Ruarc quickly ushered the servants out of the great hall and joined Patrick at the fire. “Patrick, have I said something to upset ye?” he queried.

  Patrick turned an angry glare towards Ruarc and wrung his hands together, searching for the words. If he could only just slow down his thoughts, he may be able to get it out coherently. His breathing was staggered and he could feel his pulse pounding in his ears. Never had he been so gut-wrenchingly mad at his father. Never had he ever felt so taken advantage of as he did just then.

  “R-Ruarc,” he started. Then he stopped, turned to pace the great hall and returned to Ruarc’s side again. “Ru-Ruarc. I am indeed a dr-druid. This much me da knows. What that means…my da…has n-no idea. If I am to b-be used as…if I in an-any w-way was bro-brought here to ….”

  “Slow down,” interjected Ruarc. “Yer da knew that verra little frightened ye Patrick. He said ye are the bravest of his sons and that ye would make a finer leader than he.”

  “H-he did?” Patrick swung around in disbelief and stood lock-eyed with Ruarc.

  “Aye, Patrick. It was he and Airard who chose ye to be the next ruler of our clan. When ye were just a wee boy; right after Braeden was sent to foster in MacCahan castle. We knew that none of our allies would agree to an alliance through marriage, because of the curse. Airard said that if there was a curse, it would no’ deter ye from yer duties. And, yer da believed that being of Scottish descent, ye may be able to reason with Cynbel Burke.”

  “Aye. Me m-ma-athair is a Scot. Me uncles, Alec and T-To-Torcuil Montgomery came with her from the Isles wh-when she married me da. Wh-what has that to d-do with anything?” queried Patrick.

  “The Burke’s are Scots, Patrick. They were sent here by the English many years ago and they managed to conquer the land they now hold. Cynbel may look favorably on an alliance when he learns ye are a Scot; he is a reasonable mon. After his fathair died, we had hopes that relations would ease between our clans. He is not easily swayed by his sister, Odetta. Most believe she is addled.”

  “An,d if my be-being a S-Sc-Scott makes nay difference to the Burke’s? Wh-what th-then?” asked Patrick.

  “Then Odetta Burke would finally get the enemy she deserves…in ye…Patrick.”

  “Well, ye h-have th-the right of th-that,” retorted Patrick.

  “What do ye mean?” asked Ruarc titling his head in confusion.

  “If th-this w-witch wants a f-fight—I’ll g-give it t-to her,” he whispered as he grabbed a mug of ale off a serving tray as it went by on the shoulders of a maidservant. “And Ruarc,” he smiled, “th-there is nay such c-curse.”

  Astonished, Ruarc tilted his head and squinched his eyes shut as if in contemplation. “What do ye mean?”

  “If there re-really w-was a curse, explain h-how Br-Braeden c-came to be b-born h-here,” replied Patrick triumphantly. “Th-there is something g-going on R-Ruarc; b-but it’s no’ wh-what y-ye th-think.”

  THREE

  O’Malley Territory

  Braeden had managed to stomp in every last puddle of mud and pile of horse dung to be found between the piers and the Inn. If Mavis let out another long aggravated sigh she was sure she would lose her breath altogether and succumb to the breathing frenzies. As it stood, only Braeden’s boots were muddy—not that the crazed excuse for a hunting hound hadn’t tried to sully his truis. No, Braeden and the hound had engaged in a sort of ritual dance all along the path to the Inn; with the floppy-eared hound running circles around him as Braeden dodged and ducked and pulled and pushed against the lead to avoid being mauled with muddy paws. It was a sight for sure.

  The sun was high in the sky and cast orange and yellow hued speckles across the bay. Music and laughter filled the air as guests prepared for the reception and Samhain festival later that evening; and the smell of venison and wild game rose up to greet them as they neared the Inn. Mavis’ eyes shot up as she caught a glimpse of Rory exiting the rear of the Inn carrying two large water buckets as he headed for the well.

  “Nay Rory, lemme have them buckets,” she cried. “Come and get this filth-ridden mutt from Braeden a’fore he spoils his truis.”

  Rory abruptly stopped and released his hold on the buckets; turning around to watch in astonishment the game that Braeden played with the pup. He had never seen such a thing, in all his years. Braeden gripping a four to five foot lead tied around the neck of a beautiful red-and-white spaniel pup whose only goal seemed to be focusing on climbing Braeden like a tree. And Braeden, intent on not dirtying his dress clothes, danced around and around in an attempt to avoid the muddy dog. Rory broke into a tirade of hysterical laughter, unable to catch his breath.

  “Go on now, git yer fill mon,” retorted Mavis, “’Tis nay as funny as all that.” Mavis rolled her eyes and fisted her hands in her skirts in aggravation. “Think ye can do more than laugh now, seeing as how we have other matters to attend?” she shouted to Rory.

  Braeden wiped the sweat from his brow and blew out a long held breath; obviously near to worn out. “Master Rory, couldja please come get this beast?” he asked through staggered breaths. “He is a’wearing me out!”

  “Is this the pup Patrick intends to gift to Darina?” asked Rory through uncontained chuckles.

  “Aye. I ken it is,” replied Mavis. “I’ve nay good idea what will become of him though, once she gets a look’a him.” Mavis could not contain her laughter any longer and broke down in a rattle of cackles that sent her into a coughing fit.

  “Help me!” cried Braeden over the laughter and amusement of Rory and Mavis. “I am going to let this dog go if somebody doesn’t come get
him away from me. I am worn clean out.”

  Rory straightened and pulled a strip of folded linen from his boot. “I’ll take him,” he said, walking towards the dog and uttering something Braeden didn’t understand. Immediately, the dog’s ears shot up at attention and he sat perfectly still on the ground as if awaiting instruction.

  Astonished, Braeden let go of the rope and asked Rory, “What did ye say to him?” The dog didn’t move. Rory uttered something else indistinguishable and the dog crouched on all fours, lying on his belly on the ground.

  “I told him to sit still and then to lie down,” replied Rory. “He is a finely trained dog, but just like little lads I know, without proper instruction, his mischievousness will get the better o’him.”

  Rory wiped the dog’s paws and belly and removed as much of the crusted mud as he could. “I’ll have him washed and put him in the stables with Moya for now. She will see to him until Patrick is ready for him. He should get along just fine with the horses until the kennel is ready. You two best be tidying up yerselves before the reception,” he directed to Mavis.

  Mavis nodded and called after Braeden, “Alright, come along now. Let’s walk down to the piers again and wash off yer boots.”

  ***

  Galen Fleming sighed audibly at the sight of the priest’s empty cottage. Even the chapel was abandoned. Although Kyra, Ruarc’s daughter, and Murchadh, one of Ruarc’s best fighting men, searched the cottage for clues, there was no indication of what had become of the priest. They also searched most of O’Malley territory proper—and gone further into Burke lands than they should, to no avail.

  Galen was Father MacArtrey’s cleric, going on for close to fourteen winters and he was fond of the man, vices and all. When word reached Rome that the monastery on Burke lands had been usurped by the Burke’s, and that the priest was the only survivor; Galen was sent from his home in the highlands of Scotland to serve out his commission with the O’Malley clan.

  Galen was a familiar breath of fresh air for many of the Catholic soldiers; who were a mix of Viking, Roman and Scottish warriors, as well as some men from neighboring clans. He was the first to call the senior O’Malley “Laird” and the term stuck, a term of endearment and respect that the Scotsmen understood. Darina’s mother, Anya, was a Scottish noble. Her grandsire was a Lord of Parliament in Scotland and the O’Malley’s happily integrated Scottish and Irish cultures.

  “Still nay sign of the priest?” asked Lucian entering the cottage behind Galen.

  “Nay. Nay sign at all. I fear something is amiss,” replied Galen stroking his long gray beard and shaking his head. “How are ye me old friend,” he asked Lucian and clasped forearms with the elder scribe.

  “I fear ye are right,” sighed Lucian. “Except for the scrolls and manuscripts we found hidden in his bed frame, we’ve nay an idea what has become of him or why.”

  “I sent a message to Rome yestereve about his disappearance. I await instruction on how to maintain the chapel and the services. The coin they found, the church coffers, we have given to Minea for safekeeping.”

  “Good idea,” replied Lucian. “Walk with me Galen, let’s discuss the ceremony. Patrick nay doubt wishes my involvement, and Darina, wishes yers. I’m sure we can appease them both. What say ye?”

  “Sounds like a fine idea, Lucian. A fine plan, indeed.”

  FOUR

  Burke Territory

  Father MacArtrey rubbed the goose egg that rose upon his forehead and prayed for mercy. To whom he prayed—he was no longer sure. He was Odetta Burke’s spy in O’Malley lands and had been her puppet for far too long. And, his age was getting the better of him. He felt a small measure of redemption when he was able to save the young boy from certain death. By cutting his own wrist, along with the child’s, during the sacrifice to Teutates; he had spared his life, or so he thought. He only prayed the boy still lived. When the soldier came to dispose of the boy’s body, he wasn’t so sure his plan had worked.

  Another tortuous night spent below the monastery in the dungeons left him forlorn and distraught. Sharing what the servants called “food” with the rats soured his stomach, and he knew he would retch again if it weren’t for the fact that his stomach was already empty.

  “Father,” said the voice. “Father, are you there?”

  I must be losing me mind—I’m hearing things.

  “Father, wake up. Are you there?” it rang again.

  “Father!” it exclaimed much louder this time. So loud it made the rats screech.

  “Aye, I’m here,” replied the priest into the heavy darkness. “Who’s that?”

  “Cordal, Cordal McTierney. What are ye doing back down here in the dungeons?” he whispered as loudly as he could.

  “I spared the child during the sacrifice. I couldn’t let em kill him,” responded the priest.

  “What child?” gasped Cordal, rattling the chains that bound him to the wall.

  “The sacrifice,” replied the priest. “They took a small boy and used him in some sort of ceremony. They were attempting to drain his blood and made me do the deed. Instead of cutting him deeply; I cut my own wrist and used some of me blood to fill the cisterns so that ’twould look like he was dead when he fainted.”

  “They caught ye?”

  “Aye—and now I’m back down here and am told I am to perform another rite tonight during their great service, for Samhain.”

  “By the stars, Odetta is more addled than I thought. Don’t worry; her brathair Cynbel will put a stop to this as soon as he finds out. He doesn’t abide her nonsense. If he knew I was down here, he would release me himself.”

  “If only that were so,” murmured the priest. “If only that were so.”

  “What do ye mean, Father?” asked Cordal.

  “Her brathair is dead, Cordal.”

  “How do ye know,” he gasped.

  “I watched her kill him with me own eyes, I did,” he replied. “She has married Easal and he is the new chieftain and Lord of Burke lands. And worst of all—he is a bigger puppet than I.”

  ***

  “Now Braeden, ye need only go in as far as the top of yer boots, ye hear me?” hollered Mavis over the sounds of crashing waves along the shoreline. “I won’t have ye getting soaked through; we’ve a reception to attend this eve, ye ken?”

  Braeden kicked at the sand and picked up shells on the shore beside the piers in his lazy attempt to wash off the mud and grime from his boots; before heading back to the castle. It was unusually hot for the season and the combination of light rain from a leftover storm, and the hot sun, cast a humid mist around the piers and draped them in a cloud of white billows.

  “Don’t venture out so far Braeden, I canna see ye from here,” she yelled. Braeden walked so far into the waves, his truis were getting wet above his knee-high leather boots.

  “Braeden. Braeden, do ye hear me?” she screamed. Mavis rose from her sitting position on the beach and ran towards the water, searching for any sign of the boy. “Braeden,” she cried loudly again into the hazy mist in front of her, cupping her hands and screaming at the top of her lungs.

  Panic engulfed her and her pulse quickened as she began to shake. Frantically she ran up and down the beach searching and calling for him. Sweat drenched the back of her neck as she threw her cloak on the ground and stepped knee deep into the crashing waves searching for any sign of the boy.

  “Can we help ye lass?”

  Startled, Mavis turned to her right and saw three men near a small boat, tugging at the vessel attempting to set off from the shore.

  “Aye…I’ve lost me charge…that is…the boy I was watching. He was only here just a moment ago, and now he does no’ answer me call.”

  “Ah, Lassie. Git ye here in this boat with us and mayhap we can find him together.”

  Reluctantly, Mavis let the burliest looking man assist her into the small boat. Now thoroughly soaked and frightened, she broke down in a medley of violent tears.

  “Don’t ye f
ear now, lass. I’ve nay doubt we’ll help ye find the boy,” he said.

  Mavis nodded her understanding, but grew cautious. The boat was not moving along the shoreline. Instead, they were headed towards the Isle of Women; between the mainland and the island, and no doubt out towards the deeper sea. She continued calling for Braeden but the men were not helping her search. They were busy rowing the boat as fast as they could.

  She heard a muffled moan from the front port side of the boat, and one of the men struggled over a heap of clothing lying tangled near the bottom. She called for Braeden again, and this time the moan was louder and the heap of clothing thrashed about.

  Mavis’ eyes grew wide in terror. Before her, not ten feet away, lay Braeden at the bottom of the men’s’ boat—his hands and mouth bound with rope. Their eyes met briefly and she knew what she had to do. The burly man rose to his feet and lurched towards her, stepping over the wooden bench slats as quickly as his plump body would allow him— tipping and shifting the boat from side to side.

  Braeden nodded to her, and in one clumsy instant, Mavis flung herself over the side of the boat and into the frigid sea water. Her breath caught in her throat and the weight of her clothing dragged her down under the waves. A frenzy of rough hands blurred her vision as the men atop the water searched and reached to grab her. Soon paddles poked about her and she wasn’t certain if they were trying to save her or kill her.

  Mavis, she thought to herself. Catch yerself lass. Ye’ve nay wish to drown today. An eerie calm came about her and she floated lightly under the waves for what seemed a millennium before regaining her composure and full consciousness.

  The last eleven years of her life were spent caring for Braeden, the baby that saved her. Literally. If it were not for Braeden, the O’Malley men would not have bought her at the slave auction. She would not have a home, a family, a people to call her own. Since her sister Odetta Burke imprisoned her and her husband Cordal for marrying behind her back, the only focus and purpose she had was caring for the boy.