Celtic Storms (14 page)

“It is possible, especially if Father MacArtrey is not located before your betrothed arrives.”

“Dervilla – I am not lacking in spiritual matters.”

“I didn’t say you were.”

“But you imply I worship no god.”

“Whom do you worship Darina?”

“No one. Myself. I rely upon myself and nothing else. No Pagan god or Christian god has altered my life. However, a pagan priestess has plagued our clan for over twenty years. I can’t say that her druid roots give me much hope for their cause.”

“You can’t compare all druids to Odetta Burke, sister. She is not a true druid, she is a woman who has tapped into magic and uses it for her own personal agenda. Lucian is not that way.”

“Aye. I know. It still leaves me suspect of all religions. No good has come from any of them. Prove me wrong.”

“I’ve no need sister,” replied Dervilla.

“And why is that?”

“Darina, follow your heart. That’s all I will tell you. You know what it is you need and others know what it is they need. The best we can do is to live just and honorable lives and cause harm to none.”

“Harm to none? What of those who cause harm to us?”

“That is the question sister, is it not?”

Burke Lands

“My lady, he is awake,” said Naelyn as she entered Odetta’s chambers.

Odetta pushed the linens back and arose from the bed stark naked, spent from her dalliance with Easal, her new husband. She grabbed her cloak and pulled her black hair back into a braid that fell just below her shoulder blades.

“See that he is not disturbed,” she said and pointed to Easal who lay snoring contentedly. “And have some food brought in a bit – set it on the table in the corner.”

“Yes, my lady. Shall we go?” asked Naelyn.

“Aye. We shall.”

The air was thick in the make shift chamber which had been prepared for the priest. Used previously as a storage room, there was little light and only a small cot that held his overly fed frame. His breathing was labored and it was obvious he had lost a significant amount of blood.

“Light some wall torches and bring some candles,” Odetta bit toward the maidservants, “and some food – at once. Where is the healer?” she asked.

“She went to attend to the birth of the first child of one of your generals. She said she would check in on him in the morning. She said he will live, but will be weak for a while.”

“Priest! Priest! Wake up and speak to me,” demanded Odetta as she shook the cot with all her might.

Nothing.

“Priest – I mean for you to wake now!”

Silence.

“Hand me that basin,” she ordered Naelyn. “Yes - that one,” she said as she pointed to the basin on the table near the window; before proceeding to pour its contents all over the man.

With startled eyes, Father MacArtrey raised his head and locked glances with the pagan priestess.

“Tell me,
Father
; why should I not kill you where you lay?” she asked sarcastically.

“Because you need me to locate the scrolls?” he asked sheepishly.

“Nay – that wouldn’t be it,” she said as she launched a hefty assault across his face. He grimaced and his cheek grew red – the clear outline of her hand mapped across the entire right side of his face.

“Because you have bigger problems on your hands, my lady,” he replied confidently and sat up, pushing his feet to the floor beneath him.

“And what would they be, my dear priest?” she asked.

“It has been storming for nearly three days my lady.”

“And why would that concern me?” she ventured.

“Because of the curse, of course,” he answered.

“What curse?” asked Naelyn.

Odetta’s face grew pale. She sat in the chair next to the bed and tapped her fingers on the cot before her.
Could it be? Nay. It’s not possible. Possible but not probable.

“What curse?” Naelyn asked again.

“The storm curse,” replied the priest. “The curse we called nearly three fort night’s past.”

“What am I missing here?” directed Naelyn to Odetta.

“You were not here; you had gone to see to your sister’s newest bastard child, Naelyn.”

“It was not recorded?” inquired Naelyn.

“Nay. It was. I recorded it with the older scrolls, I have it in my possession.” said Father MacArtrey.

“Where?” asked Odetta.

“In a safe place, near my chapel, on O’Malley lands.”

***

Hot breath on the back of her neck reminded her she was not alone. Her head lay on his long muscular arm and his left forearm gripped tightly about her rib cage. Their legs were entangled under mounds of bed linens and furs and a chill pierced the air as she shivered. Her nipples ached from the cold and she grimaced.

Instantly the fire sparked and rose, heating the room as daylight broke across the wall. He gripped her knee with his left his hand and lazily rubbed his way up her leg towards her hip in circular motions sending spindles of warmth down her spine until they pooled in her center.

This was no monk.
No monk indeed.

Her gown bunched about her waist and though he wore a night shirt, it would not hide his imposing erection pressed against her backside. She shivered and moaned and instantly his grip about her waist tightened.

How did he get in here?

“
You summoned me.”

He did not speak, for his mouth was busy nibbling her neck and shoulders while his hand was making promises of things to come. A burning ache rose between her legs which she quickly clenched together.

Impossible.

“Nay.”

“You heard me?”

He nodded into her back.

“Have we? Did we? Am I?”

“Shhh…”

“Who are you? What are you?”

“You know who I am.”

“How long have you been here – have we been – like this?”

“Shhh… Rest now, my lady.”

A thundering knock on the door awakened Darina from her haze. She grabbed the furs and bundled them about her tightly, turning over to find the bed empty, except for herself.

“Not again – I was having the best dream,” she wailed.

“It’s time to get up my sister,” said Dervilla as she marched toward the hearth and added more firewood to the chilly room. We have much to do to finalize the preparations for the feast, the Samhain celebration, and your wedding – I might add.”

“Ugh…” Darina replied as she sat up.

“Tell me about this dream,” Dervilla said. “You look remarkably sated for one who sleeps alone,” she chided. “Don’t make me come in there after it,” she teased as she pointed an accusing finger at Darina’s disheveled hair and tangled night gown.

“You’ll do no such thing. Stay out of my head!”

“Very well then, I will expect you downstairs shortly. Ruarc wishes to speak with you. Don’t make him wait.”

O’Malley Strong House – Lucian’s Chamber

Lucian had been studying the scrolls for hours. He had even had to call in for extra candles and torches as some of the manuscript was faded and worn and hard to clearly make out. As far as he could tell, there were two languages represented and several codes that needed deciphering – but he had been successful.
How do I explain this to Ruarc?

Ruarc arrived just as Lucian was rolling up the last of the scrolls and binding them again with the leather ties that had once encased them. Although several wax seals were broken upon their opening, he didn’t worry about explaining that to the priest. No – the priest would have plenty of explaining to do himself.

“So – what do you make of those?” asked Ruarc as he sat upon the bench in front of the scribe’s table where the scrolls had been laid out. “I couldn’t make heads or tails of them, I don’t recognize the lettering,” said Ruarc.

“Aye – it’s a very old language with symbols that haven’t been used in years.”

“Why do you suppose Father MacArtrey had these in his possession?” Ruarc continued.

“Well – considering the priests history, it doesn’t surprise me. You may not remember this, but Father MacArtrey came here seeking shelter over 20 years ago after Odetta Burke claimed the monastery for herself. Many of the monks and priests were killed, but he escaped with his life and a few belongings.”

“I seem to remember that. My sister insisted we build a chapel for him and offer him sanctuary.”

“Aye.”

“Then you are saying these are simply remnants of what he took with him from the monastery?” he asked.

Lucian cleared his throat, straightened his robes and retied the belt fastened about his waste. “In a manner of speaking.”

“I don’t understand,” replied Ruarc, a look of confusion washing over his face.

Lucian rung his hands nervously – unable to find the words. “Yes and no, Ruarc. Yes and no. The scrolls are most definitely from Burke lands and they may have even come from what was left of the monastery - but they do not relate to the Christian god, or the church that Father MacArtrey represents.”

“What do you mean? The Monastery on Burke lands has been there nearly a hundred years. What is in those scrolls?”

“They are old, Ruarc, I would assume from the texts that they date back as far as perhaps fifty maybe even a hundred years or more. They contain reiterations of ancient writings that go back further than that though. Ancient pagan witchcraft and demon worship.”

Ruarc nodded his understanding. “Druids – like you?” he asked.

Lucian shot Ruarc a warning glance making his unease well known. “Nay. These manuscripts contain records of abductions, human sacrifice, demon summoning, evil curses, plague, pestilence and war – all manner of evil doings. I have seen nothing like it before in my life. The curse of the male offspring that Odetta placed on our lands years ago is recorded inside.”

A look of astonished rage boiled over Ruarc’s face. “What do you think Father MacArtrey was doing with these scrolls? Why wouldn’t he have burned them?” Ruarc rose, grabbed the scrolls from atop the table and strode towards the hearth to extinguish the evil in the fire. Lucian suddenly blocked his path and reached for them.

“Wait!” commanded Lucian. “By the gods – leave them be!”

“Why?” Ruarc asked as he reluctantly handed them back over to Lucian.

“At first, I thought to do the same. Then – I pondered why the priest would have kept them. Perhaps he kept them intact to discern a way to break the curse. Perhaps he kept them and intended to send them to Rome,” responded Lucian.

“Aye, they are very old. I would imagine the Vatican would have cause to examine them,” Ruarc acknowledged.

“However.”

“However?”

“However, as I looked through them – I mean as I said before, they go back years. Long, long, years before. But – there is a recent entry. On the last page of the scrolls - it was written probably this year sometime.”

“And only Father MacArtrey knew where the scrolls were – so he would have been the one to make the entry,” sighed Ruarc.

“That’s my concern, Ruarc. Just how involved is this priest in the contents of the scrolls?”

Ruarc tightened his cloak about him. “’Tis verra cold in here Lucian. May I stoke the fire?”

“Please. I became so involved in examining the texts I haven’t had the time to be about my daily chores.”

“Could you make out the contents of the last entry?” asked Ruarc.

“Aye. Tell me Ruarc – did you encounter unfavorable weather in your travels to the MacCahan keep?”

“Aye – we did – on MacCahan lands. It stormed the entire time we were there. Indeed – it had stormed for nearly three fort nights prior to our arrival and many cottages were lost from flooding. Even the Laird’s wife perished when she was swept out to sea assisting the villagers.”

“Then - we must prepare,” stated Lucian forlornly.

“Prepare for what?”

“The coming storms.”

***

They had traveled all day through the blinding storms and sounds of thunder. The young boy lay in the back of the cart next to Braeden; who would not let go of his hand. Carbry had helped Mavis tie off her own wound and she had worked feverishly with the boy; offering him food and drink – to no avail.

The color had come back in his face and his wound dressings had finally stopped oozing blood. Patrick had prepared an elixir from herbs he had carried with him and gotten some of that down him; while Mavis made a salve with some others he had brought and used that to quell the bleeding in his wrist. They still hadn’t heard him speak but he brightened when he recognized they were going in the direction of O’Malley territory.

“I assume he is from O’Malley clan?” asked Mavis to Deasum.

“Aye. I would imagine so. He appears to acknowledge the direction we are heading.”

Carbry lead the group and Patrick followed on Deasum’s horse while Deasum manned the cart wagon.

“How m-much f-further do you think?” asked Patrick as they rose to stop at the top of a steep hill just past the last of the streams. Daylight was slowly retreating and Patrick did not wish to stop again. They had been on the road for nearly a fort night – much longer than expected – and what he wouldn’t give for a dry place to sleep.
I feel like a dried up prune. I am in dire need of a bath and some good ale.

“Not more than two hours – maybe three - or so; I think. I would expect we would be met by O’Malley soldiers shortly. We shall cross the border in probably half an hour,” he replied.
“Ha-have you a quality h-he-healer?” Patrick inquired glancing back at the boy and Mavis who were both now sleeping beside Braeden.

“We have. She was commissioned some time ago. Our previous healer left several years back. Couldn’t seem to get along with our priest.”

“Pr-priest?” asked Patrick – now concerned.

“Yes – an unfortunate situation really.”

“G-go on.”

“We are not a religious people by any means; I wouldn’t say. However, we have a chapel and it is attended by a Catholic priest – Father MacArtrey. He came to us over twenty winters back. He was a fugitive of Burke lands. Odetta stormed the monastery and killed all the monks. He came to us for refuge.”