Pagan Fire (11 page)

“It’s
your
faith, girl. You were the one who shared it with me that night the monk Bertrand did his evil. You just need to find it again inside of yourself.”

The pair grew silent as they approached the chapel doors. Built of thick oak and carved with intricate details of Christ’s sufferings, they had been hand rubbed over the years to a fine golden patina. Maere had always found comfort behind their heavy embrace, but now she felt stifled as the sisters stationed outside the chapel pulled them open. Now the doors became the hands of a huge dragon, beckoning her into its lair.

Maere froze, her face pale, as she peered into the chapel. The eyes of all the nuns, sitting on the stone benches, were on her. Father John stood off to the side, his arms crossed tightly in front of him, giving the impression he didn’t quite approve of the proceedings. Panic squeezed her throat. “I can’t do this,” she whispered.

Frantic, Maere began to plot her escape. She couldn’t go back out the way she came. Not with everyone behind her, watching. She’d have to go forward, try to make it to the side door before it was closed for the ceremony. She kept her eyes on the portal, considering the number of steps it would require to get to there – fifteen, twenty perhaps – until Abbess Magrethe approached, a tall candlestick in one hand, a worn leather manuscript in the other.

“Sign your name here as a record of your marriage.” She handed the book of parchment to the younger woman, along with a quill. She pulled a flask of ink from her robe.

Maere’s hand shook visibly as she took the record book and quill. Magrethe uncorked the ink bottle and held it out in front of her. “I’ll hold this for you.” As she spoke, moisture formed in her pale blue eyes and glistened in the candlelight.

Maere glanced at Seelie, who nodded at the parchment. Maere looked around the chapel. It was dark except for a few large tallow candles, their odor of fat as thick as smoke in the air, glowing brightly around the hand-hewn altar of stone. The flames illuminated the tormented figure of Jesus nailed to the cross, hanging directly above the altar. The shadows danced over the statue and seemed to highlight his agony. At this moment, Maere believed she knew how he had felt that fateful day, betrayed by all those around him, all those who professed to care. She swallowed hard, forcing back the bile that had begun to roil in the back of her throat.

She glanced at the side door again, wrestling with opposing notions: The idea of escape or of seeing her duty through. How could she stand in the way of what she had been taught was most certainly God’s will? Everyone knew your fate was determined the day you were born and was recorded by God’s own hand in a great book in heaven. If this is your desire, Lord, that I should marry this strange man, then I will abide by it, Maere prayed silently. If it is not, then please send me a sign before we are committed to each other for life. And quickly too.

Maere’s gaze dropped back to the anxious faces of the sisters, their eyes fixed on her. With a still shaky hand, she dipped the quill into the black ink and rendered her name on the wedding record, under the fancy curved handwriting of the person who claimed to be her betrothed, Dylan mac Connall.

Chapter Twelve

After signing her name, Maere silently walked up the aisle, toward the limestone altar. Carved on either side of the front legs were the letters
A
and
U
. The initials for Alpha and Omega, in Latin. The Beginning and the End. Is this how it would end for her? Married to a man she knew nothing about? Her heart skipped a beat as the subject of her thoughts entered the chapel from the same side door she had considered escaping through.

He had changed from his traveling clothes into a linen tunic and hose. A mantel of blue lined with emerald green was tossed over his shoulders, held in place with an intricately-wrought gold-and-garnet pin. His black hair was neatly combed and hung loosely to his shoulders. His expression was calm but expectant, not at all like the emotion Maere was certain showed on her face.

As Dylan took another step, he entered the candlelight fully and Maere’s stomachclenched. Oh, but she had to admit the man was handsome, with those luminous black eyes that seemed to see everything. Sweet Jesus, what was she thinking? The man was evil. He had to be! A warm blush crept over her face and just as quickly receded as another man walked into the candle’s glow.

Maere sucked in her breath. It couldn’t be! Oh, but it was, she realized with dread. The monk Bertrand, the same who had molested Seelie! Why was he here?

Maere spun around. Seelie was moving quickly toward her. The sisters began to chatter in hushed tones and a few leaned forward, eager to hear what the problem was. As her friend reached her side, Maere had the sinking feeling they should have revealed Bertrand’s deed to the abbess. Surely the two of them had imagination enough to come up with a plausible story so that the healing wouldn’t have had to be mentioned.

“Seelie,” Maere hissed, her voice a harsh whisper. They hadn’t seen the man since his deed, so they thought he had moved on to another monastery. Maere glanced back at him. His face was so serene, almost beatific, not at all the face of a murderer. Never mind the fact that Seelie was still alive, that had not been his intent. And now he had the audacity to stand before them, looking saintly in his monk’s garb. Who knew how many other women he had lured to their death?

“It doesn’t matter.” Seelie said into Maere’s ear. “Ignore him and go on with your ceremony.”

“You can’t be serious.”

“I am. I’ve forgiven him.”

“Forgiven him? How in the name of God could you forgive him for what he did?” Maere gestured toward the monk and struggled to keep her voice low. “He killed you, girl.”

Gently, Seelie turned Maere around and began escorting her toward the altar. “Being faced with death makes a person realize what’s important in this life. Carrying grudges and past hurts isn’t what matters. What matters is we do the best we can with the time God has given us.”

Maere heard the words, even felt them, but they didn’t make any sense. Her breathing grew shallow as she remembered holding Seelie as she lay dying. Maere leaned on Seelie and moved now as if in a dream, everything around her taking on a distorted, unnatural appearance. Why couldn’t she catch her breath? The sisters’ smiles were exaggerated, the chapel windows grew long and thin, even Father John looked angrier than he had earlier. As they reached the altar, she and Seelie stepped into the embrace of the candlelight. Maere took a deep breath and forced herself to focus as her eyes found the monk.

But Bertrand’s stare was fixed on Seelie. He took a step back. “You!” he hissed. “What are
you
doing here?”

Seelie raised her chin and stared back at him.

“Is there something amiss, Brother?” Father John asked from his place on the altar.

Bertrand didn’t respond but instead raised his arms heavenward, then dropped them in the direction of the gathered guests. “I would tell all of you. This woman,” he said, pointing at Seelie, “is a sinner in the first degree against our Lord God. Against the holy men of the cloth.”

The murmurings of the sisters grew louder and echoed through the small chapel. Abbess Magrethe stood and stepped forward, her gaze level with the monk. “Of what do you accuse our Seelie?”

“She is a whore. A temptress! She seeks to lure men away from God’s sacred calling!” Bertrand looked around, his expression wild. Perspiration glistened on his forehead. He reached a thick hand toward Seelie, grasping for her.

Maere stepped between them and pushed his arm out of the way. “How dare you accuse her? How dare you blame
her
for what
you
did!”

Bertrand shoved Maere out of the way and grabbed for Seelie again. Maere stumbled on the altar step and Dylan quickly moved to her side as she regained her balance. He eyed the monk. “Do not touch the lady again,” he said.

“What happened? Of what is Bertrand speaking?” the Abbess demanded. Had he taken yet another young girl’s innocence? She laid a gentle hand on Seelie’s shoulder. “You need to tell me so I can help.”

Seelie glanced from the Abbess to Maere. She chewed on her bottom lip, then dropped her head in resigned silence.

Magrethe sighed. “Nothing, eh?” She looked at Maere. “Would you speak here this night?” She nodded toward Bertrand. “I have a notion of what has happened, since I have seen it before, but one of you must speak out on the matter.” Magrethe glanced at Father John. “I am bound by a vow to keep silent.”

Maere shook her head. She had promised Seelie she wouldn’t tell. If her friend wanted the abbess to know, that was one matter, but she couldn’t betray the confidence placed in her, though the man deserved to be punished mightily.

Father John plowed past Magrethe, Dylan, Maere, and Seelie, stopping when he reached the other side of the altar where the young monk was standing. “What is this about, son? What did the novice do to you?”

Magrethe scowled at the priest and turned toward Bertrand with knowing eyes. “I will have answers and I will have them now. What have
you
done to
her
?”

Outside the window, a raven beat its wings against the leaded glass and cawed, its voice loud and raucous. Bertrand grabbed his head. “Pain!” he gasped. He began sweating profusely and dropped to his knees, his once-handsome face contorted. “She tempted me!” he shouted. He waved his arm at Seelie. “Don’t you understand?”

Magrethe glanced at Seelie and Maere, but both maintained their silence. She leaned forward, her features without expression. “I understand all too well. Get a hold of yourself, man. The pain is your penance!”

“This is obviously not a matter for you to be questioning, Abbess,” Father John said. “You have no place here with this man.”

“I am responsible for these two girls.” She nodded at Maere and Seelie. “It is up to me to protect them and if it means questioning one of God’s own, I’ll do it. This is my vow.”

Bertrand dropped his head and sobbed. “She cannot tempt a priest without facing the consequences. She’s a whore. Whores must die.”

The raven screeched again and Dylan turned toward the sound. “Morrigu,” he whispered. He took in the scene before him. He should have recognized her touch. This was the goddess’ doing, all of it!

“You women do not understand. The devil himself lives in your bodies and causes you to flaunt them.” Bertrand rose to face Magrethe. His voice grew quieter. “She came to me and I took her, pounding God’s love into her.” He stared at Seelie. “Not that she deserves God’s love!”

“By the Virgin!” Magrethe’s hand flew to her mouth. “You are perverted,
brother
, to believe such a thing.”

“No. I am God’s messenger. He wanted me to right this wrong, to destroy the temptress. And that girl there,” he nodded toward Maere. “She is the devil’s offspring, she is. She brought the whore back to life.”

Magrethe’s face paled and her lips drew tightly together. She took a step back and crossed her arms. Her fingers found the cross hanging from her neck.

“Ask her!” Bertrand said, desperately. Dylan stepped forward, standing between the monk and Maere. Bertrand fell prostrate on the altar and began praying out loud, his words a jumble. The raven found an open window and flew in to the chapel, circling and cawing, its song a taunting melody.

The abbess turned from the sight of the tortured man. She and the other sisters surrounded Maere and Seelie. “You healed her, didn’t you?” Magrethe asked quietly, nodding her head as if she now understood . “The night we found her in your room. You said she’d fallen. It was magic, wasn’t it?”

Father John entered the circle of nuns and novices and gripped Maere’s shoulders. “Did you raise this one from the dead?” he nodded toward Seelie. “As this most blessed man of God has claimed?”

“He’s no man of God.” Maere pulled away from the priest. “He is a rapist and deserves to be punished for his actions.”

“He took me against my will, Father, and then tried to kill me to cover his deed,” Seelie said. “Don’t you understand? Maere tended to my injuries. That’s all. If it weren’t for her, I wouldn’t be alive now.”

“So, it is true,” the abbess said, more to herself than out loud.

Sweet Mother, the deed was out in the open! Maere glanced around, frantic. All eyes were on her. In desperation, she explained, “Bertrand broke his vow of celibacy. He hurt her. He’s the one who broke the law of God. Not Seelie. Not me.”

Father John’s face remained solemn as he spoke. “I always knew there was something very wrong with you, girl.” He looked at the faces around him. “Go about your business, all of you. This wedding will not take place until we have been able to discern the facts surrounding this incident.”

“You are wrong, old man.” Dylan stepped forward, his eyes intent on the priest. “None of this concerns Maere.” He nodded toward the prone, broken figure of Bertrand. “It’s more than obvious the problem lies within him, not these women. I will see us wed tonight if I have to rouse every priest in the monastery ‘til I find one to perform the ceremony.”

“That will not be possible, sir. None of them would do such a thing without my permission.” Father John’s stare remained fixed on Maere. “We must find out what demon has possessed her, in order that it may be exorcised from her soul. I am curious to discover the nature of her magic that we might break the spell she has so obviously cast on our dear brother Bertrand.” He set his mouth in a firm line, his eyes watery as he spoke. “Even if we must beat it out of her.” He tore his gaze from Maere and looked at Dylan. “You certainly should consider yourself lucky that all of this was revealed before the marriage took place.”

Maere wrapped her arms around her shoulders and took a step back. It was as if everyone was reaching for her now, trying to push her along down the aisle and back toward the convent corridor. A few moments ago, she would have gladly welcomed the opportunity to avoid the strange man with the wild hair and burning eyes that looked into her very soul. But everything was different now. Dear Jesus, they knew about her! The priests would whip her until she confessed to performing black acts. She knew this in her heart and in her soul. And in the end, they would just as surely murder her as Bertrand had tried to murder Seelie.