Celtic Shores, Book 2 in the Celtic Steel Series Page 4

  What became of her own daughter, she had no idea. Odetta took the babe the moment she was born and sent Mavis to the auctions. “Unable to even look at her anymore,” Odetta said. This would not be the end, her end, or the end of Braeden. He was her life and she would save his even if it cost her…her very own.

  Mavis struggled to stay calm under the water; and reached to remove her boots, her plaid from about her shoulder and finally her overdress. Left only in her thin shift, she contemplated her fate. She knew that swimming would be much easier without the extra burden of the clothing and the boots that were weighting her down.

  Braeden tussled with the men in the boat until one of them accidently smacked him over the head with an oar he was using to try to get Mavis. Braeden fell back against the side of the boat and nearly toppled over before one of the men covered him again with the pile of linens and settled him in the bottom of the vessel.

  “’Tis just as well,” said the leader. “He’ll sleep for the journey.” They watched as Mavis’ clothing and boots floated up from the deep towards their boat.

  “She’ll ne’er make it back to the mainland,” one said. “Aye. She is as good as dead,” said another.

  FIVE

  O’Malley Castle—Master’s Chambers

  Darina inspected her image in the looking glass. The wedding gown her sister crafted was beautiful and her mother would have been be proud. Anya and Darina had shared a unique bond. As mother and daughter, they looked nearly identical. The eldest of Anya’s children; Darina was the one who favored her the most, both in character and appearance. Mistaken for sisters on several occasions, Darina had often impersonated her to get her way and garnered the wrath of her father and Uncle Ruarc because of it.

  The thought made her giggle and also sprang fresh tears to her eyes. She hadn’t cried much since the recent deaths of her parents, at least not where anyone would notice. Stoic as always; she knew her purpose was for her clan and her sisters which required her reservation to her fate.

  Is it really that bad? Really?

  Her Aunt Atilde told her that her father made a keen match with the MacCahan’s. Patrick was a noble gent and would most certainly be a loyal and steadfast husband and had already earned the respect of her Uncle; which by itself was no small feat. He would be good to her. She would be good to him. It might not turn out to be the heart fluttering love she secretly longed for, but it would do.

  “Love is a most honorable pursuit, Darina. Ye may still find it. Ye need only to open yer heart.”

  A chill ran down her spine and the hairs at the back of her neck stood on end. She rubbed her eyes, careful not ruin the powder her sister’s had placed there. Hesitantly, she peered deeply into the looking glass again.

  “Darina, ye are beautiful.”

  She was not dreaming. Floating in an ethereal mist inside her looking glass was the outline of her mother’s image; shining as if accompanied by a thousand suns. She could see right through the image but she knew it was her. A blissful smile adorned her mother’s lips and her blue eyes twinkled as if made of crystal.

  “Mathair?” she questioned, tipping her head to the side in disbelief.

  “Aye, Darina. I couldna bare the thought of not catchin’ a look atcha’ on yer wedding day,” the image spoke. “I have looked forward to this day since ye were but a wee babe; ‘tis why I asked Lucian and Father MacArtrey to make sure to have the wedding today, luv.”

  “Today?” asked Darina confused.

  “Aye, today is Samhain, Darina. The one day when the barrier between our worlds is the weakest. Father MacArtrey and the church call it All Soul’s Day. ‘Tis is a day to celebrate the dead. To honor those who have passed on to the next world. ’Tis when those in yer world can reach out to those who are from the next world.”

  “The next world?” she asked.

  “Aye,” her mother responded. Darina watched in astonishment as the outline of her mother faded in and out of focus in the looking glass before her. The image floated above the floor as if it were swimming on clouds. Tears now stormed Darina’s eyes and threatened to spill over.

  “Do no’ cry for me Darina. I have only a few moments to be here; and there is nay cause to worry on my account. I am well…and yer father…he is with me,” she whispered in an echoing voice.

  “But…where is that?” Darina cried and stretched her arms out to grasp each side of the mirror. “I want to be there too.”

  “‘Tis not the time, ye have an important mission to fulfill. Ye canna be with me now, but we will be together again. Remember, I am always watching, I am always near. I love ye lass,” she said and raised her hands as if to embrace her in return.

  Darina edged her face closer to the looking glass, as if she hoped she would fall in. “Mathair, what do I do?” she cried. “I feel so lost, so confused. What should I do?”

  “Follow the path that has been set, Darina. ’Tis one that was chosen long ago, but it is for the best. In time, ye will see. Ye are not alone, and ye are protected. There is a mighty spirit which surrounds ye, my child. Ye were chosen for this journey. Ye have nay need to worry, all will be well.”

  “But, I’m scared,” she sighed.

  “I know child. Ye will be scared, ye will encounter many frightening things—but ye will prevail. Take comfort in the counsel of others. Let others help ye carry yer burdens; ye’ve nay need to carry them alone. Patrick is a fine mon, Darina, trust in him.”

  ***

  “Must we really tend to this matter now?” asked Ruarc through halted breath; aggravated that Patrick had insisted on speaking with Lucian and viewing the scrolls that were found in the priest’s cottage. They climbed the last four steps of the third flight of stairs in the O’Malley strong house; the former castle of the O’Malley clan. It was now home to Ruarc and his family, Lucian, the scribe, and most of the clan council and high ranking military men; since the new castle had been constructed many years before.

  “Aye,” Patrick replied sternly. “I w-wish to g-get to the bottom of th-this im-im-immedia…uh…now,” he nodded, prodding Ruarc to continue upwards.

  “Verra well,” huffed Ruarc. Come along then, and watch ye step, some of these stones are wearing loose.

  Ruarc knew Lucian wouldn’t like being questioned and he knew he liked interruptions even less. Lucian and Galen had been holed up in his chamber for the better part of the day planning the wedding ceremony, for which both of them had a part.

  “I really have nay idea why these were hidden in Kurt’s cottage,” echoed Galen’s voice down the hallway. “I must confess he is a most troublesome mon; verra hard to get to know—and I’ve tried.”

  “I’ve nay doubt of that, Galen,” replied Lucian. “I think we can all say that. He seems a mon of many secrets, indeed.”

  “Aye, I ken we all can say that,” interjected Ruarc from the doorway.

  Lucian peered over the table stacked high with manuscripts and scrolls and motioned for Ruarc and Patrick to come inside. Galen tipped his head and scrambled to pull two three-legged stools towards the other side of the work bench for Ruarc and Patrick.

  “Patrick, this is Galen, Father MacArtrey’s cleric. I’m no’ sure if ye two have made each other’s acquaintance yet?” asked Lucian.

  “Aye, I have h-heard of ye, G-Galen,” replied Patrick, moving to grasp forearms with the robed cleric and nodding in respect. “Wh-who is Kurt?” he inquired.

  “Aye,” sighed Galen. “Kurt is Father’s MacArtrey’s given name. Ye may refer to him as Father MacArtrey, Father, priest, or Kurt, he minds none of them,” he chuckled.

  “Me wife, Atilde, calls him ‘that mon’ on most occasions,” interjected Ruarc, with a deep chuckle. “He manages to irritate her to no end. ‘Tis a talent I’m sure,” he nodded. “One he’s honed well.”

  Galen shot back, “And— it takes quite a bit to irritate Atilde, she’s a saint, she is.”

  Lucian passed two mugs of cider towards Ruarc and Patrick and sat down on th
e bench on his side of the table. “Patrick, are ye eager to discuss the ceremony?” asked Lucian, surprised to see him.

  “Nay, he wishes to discuss the matter of the curse,” Ruarc replied, shooting a concerned glance towards Galen.

  “Now?” asked Lucian, directing his gaze towards Patrick, and waving his arms above the overloaded work table.

  “Aye. I wish to b-be app-apprised of all th-that has b-been hi-hid, of everything that has-hasna b-been dis-disclosed to me. B-before the c-ce-ceromony,” he spat.

  “I can understand that Lucian. Can’t you?” Galen asked the elderly scribe.

  “Of course,” Lucian nodded. “Ruarc, what does he know?”

  “He knows there is a curse on the O’Malley clan that prevents a male heir from being born; and that the curse has evidently extended to all who reside in our territory.”

  Galen stood from the table and paced the chamber nervously, obviously discomfited. He gently rubbed the crucifix which hung about his neck and took a long deep breath before affixing himself at the window overlooking the bay, away from the others.

  “G-Galen, I m-mean no dis-disrespect to ye in di-discussing this m-matter. I hope you b-be-believe me,” said Patrick softening his voice.

  “Galen is familiar with what we discuss, Patrick. I’ve held back no information from him since the moment he arrived”, said Lucian. Galen nodded in the direction of the table and turned back towards the window. “Galen sent to Rome for help with the Burke Witch many years ago.”

  “Much to the ire of Kurt,” added Galen. “He felt it unnecessary and sent a message back telling them not to come.”

  “That’s when I began to suspect something was amiss with the priest,” said Ruarc. “We all did, really.”

  “Patrick,” interrupted Lucian. “What is it ye wish to know?”

  “I w-would l-like to review the c-curse w-with ye. H-how do you kk-en th-there is a curse to be-begin with?”

  “Good question,” piped Ruarc. “I told ye he was a sharp mon, Lucian.”

  Galen strode back towards the table and sat down. “Odetta Burke is no’ secretive regarding her intentions. She said from the verra beginning, since before Dallin O’Malley married Anya O’Connell instead, that she would curse their marriage and the O’Malley name. She made it quite clear both through missives and by word of mouth, that she placed a curse on the clan. Her ailing fathair paid her no mind; her brathair thought her addled and her mathair had long since passed. For a while, her clan simply ignored her. Until….”

  “Until w-what?” asked Patrick.

  Galen continued, “Until she had managed to raise a garrison of fighting men who are loyal only to her,” said Lucian. “It started slowly, a few missing sheep, some burned out cottages. We weren’t sure where the attacks were coming from. We thought we had an alliance with the Burkes.”

  “No one really believed she had any magic about her, or that she was capable of evil, until she overtook the monastery and killed all the clerics. She crucified three of the nuns, Patrick,” added Ruarc.

  Patrick’s face grew white then red with anger. “Go-go on,” he said.

  “Kurt, the priest, escaped to our lands and Anya begged Dallin to give him sanctuary,” interjected Galen. “He has been serving here ever since.”

  “After the birth of the third O’Malley daughter, Dallin began to believe the curse was real. Even our hired soldiers who moved here never bore sons,” Ruarc stated.

  “I s-see. M-may I speak open-openly of me ch-charge?” questioned Patrick.

  “Yer charge?” replied Lucian.

  “Aye, Braeden, me f-foster,” replied Patrick. “May I sp-speak openly of th-that matter?” Patrick searched Lucian’s face for permission.

  “Aye, Patrick, ye may. I’ve only just informed Galen of his identity. He is trustworthy. No need to worry about that,” replied Lucian.

  “If th-this curse is r-real, how is it th-that Braeden w-was born?” Patrick asked.

  “That is just what we were discussing before ye arrived, Patrick. And—we have no good idea why that is.”

  “Do ye kn-know the curse? The w-words to it? Mayhap I can h-help?”

  “We were just reviewing it,” said Galen. “Here, let me find that scroll.” Galen placed his mug down on the side table and began rummaging for the page in the scrolls that contained what they believed to be Odetta’s curse.

  “Patrick, here ’tis. Let me read it for ye,” said Lucian.

  “Nay , I w-will r-read it me-me-meself,” he retorted. Lucian gave Ruarc an inquisitive glance and asked, “Patrick, do ye read ancient Celtic languages?”

  “Aye, of c-course. ‘Twas yer own br-brathair wh-who t-taught me, L-Lucian. H-hand it to m-me,” he directed. “L-let me s-see what I c-can make of it.”

  Patrick flipped through page after page in the scrolls; oftentimes going back to the front sections and tracing his fingers around the knotted symbols. He’d settle on one page for a few moments, then go back to the beginning, then flip through more pages, then return to the original page. Much of the ancient writing didn’t appear as language at all…but instead…as detailed paintings and symbols in vibrant colors.

  Patrick sighed and rolled up the last of the scrolls and handed them to Lucian. An eerie quiet overtook the chamber and no one uttered a word. He took a long, lingering sip on his mug and let out a long-held breath.

  “Well?” asked Lucian impatiently. “What do ye make of all this Patrick?

  “Did ye find the curse?” asked Ruarc.

  “Aye, I f-found the curse,” Patrick nodded.

  “Can it be broken?” asked Galen. “Can we fight the curse?”

  Patrick raised his hand in an effort to avoid further questions. He stood and paced in front of the hearth before returning his gaze towards the table and the men who were looking for answers.

  “The c-curse is r-real, but it is n-not a th-thorough curse. Tell me Ruarc, d-did Darina’s p-par-parents ever tr-travel outside of the O’Malley lands?”

  “Aye,” he replied. “They went to Edinburgh to visit with our family there. We are Scots you ken?”

  “Aye, I kk-en, as was m-me ma-mathair.”

  “What has that to do with anything, Patrick?” asked Lucian.

  “T-tell me, Ruarc, how l-long ago w-was th-that?” asked Patrick.

  “About twelve summers, I believe. Right before we began construction on the high castle. Dallin met the Roman architect while they were there. Why?” asked Ruarc, now confused.

  “B-because the c-curse only ap-ap-applies to o-offspring con-conceived on O’Malley l-lands. Br-Braeden must have b-been c-conceived in Scotland,” he added.

  “Is there a way to break this curse?” asked Galen, urgency in his voice.

  “I th-think there is,” replied Patrick. “But we h-have bi-bigger pro-problems than th-that.”

  “What’s that ye say?” Lucian asked, growing concerned.

  “The b-boy we found on B-Burke l-lands, he w-was dr-drained of his bl-blood, was he no’?”

  “Aye, he was. His wrist was cut, and he said they let it drop into bowls a’neath an altar in the monastery. ‘Twas to be mixed with wine and partaken of by Odetta and her followers,” stated Lucian.

  Galen’s eyes grew large and his face grew pale. He steadied himself on the stool and clenched his fists on top of the table. “I canna believe it,” he said out loud angrily.

  “Believe what?” asked Ruarc. “What are ye talking about Patrick? What is going on?”

  “I ken,” said Galen who rose to stand by Patrick. “I’ll send to Rome, we must have help.”

  Lucian shouted, “Now just wait a minute. What on earth are ye talking about?”

  Patrick chose his words carefully, not willing to cause unnecessary fear or speculation. How to say this without sounding daft?

  “The B-Burke w-witch, she is a D-D-Dearg-due,” said Patrick reluctantly. “A bl-blood s-sucker.”

  “Dearg-due!” exclaimed Ruarc. “’Tis no�
�� possible! They do not exist, ‘tis simply a myth,” he whispered, astonished at the theory.

  “Hold on,” said Lucian. “Ye may be right Ruarc. She is probably not the Dearg-due we have heard tale about, but she is most definitely a drinker of blood. Patrick— do you really think she has lost her mind to the point she thinks she is the red blood sucker?”

  Patrick nodded. “She has pr-proven ca-capable of b-banishing her own sister. Sh-she has t-taken male ch-children for th-the p-purpose of dr-draining and dr-drinking th-their blood. She no d-doubt be-believes she h-has an un-un-un-earthly p-power. Sh-she m-may b-believe sh-she is Dearg-due.”

  “She is possessed of the devil!” interjected Galen. “We must call to Rome, we must have help!”

  Lucian cast a wary glance at first Galen and then Patrick. “I see no need to involve the Church in this matter; we are more than capable of addressing this matter ourselves.”

  “I’m no’ so s-sure a-about th-that, Lucian,” said Patrick. “I f-fear we m-may n-need all th-the help we c-can get. Galen, call to Rome,” he directed.

  SIX

  O’Malley Territory—Strong House—Kyra’s Chamber

  Kyra O’Connell, daughter of Ruarc, threw up for the third time in less than an hour. After meeting Payton MacCahan, Patrick’s brother, and his fifty fighting men, and taking them to the river; she returned to her chamber feeling ill. She was attempting to dress for the wedding ceremony and reception, as well as the Samhain celebration later that evening, when her stomach got the better of her.

  If I retch one more time, I think I may faint. Surely this is from swallowing the river water when the men pushed me in. I can’t imagine why I’d be ill otherwise.

  “Kyra, I’ve brought ye some broth, dear,” said her mother, Atilde. “Ye look a might peaked, lass. Are ye sure you didna eat something spoiled?”

  “I’m sure. It must be that awful river water that’s making me ill. I think I swallowed more than a mouthful,” replied Kyra.

  “I still can’t understand why that mon thought to play ye thus. What an inappropriate display of brawn. He must be an eedjit to think he can just treat our people this way. Who does he think he is?” spurted Atilde under her breath.