Pagan Fire (7 page)

“Of course not!” She pushed him back and looked at the clearing again. She studied the base of the trees and circle of flowers from where she sat. Finally, Maere stood and shook the green moss off her skirt. “Well, that’s just fine, it is.” She leaned over Dylan and pointed a finger in his face. “You scared ‘em, you foolish, noisy boy. No wonder they ran and hid. Why, I heard you comin’ myself when you were still half a mile away.” She snorted. “A fine priest you’ll make. How are you goin’ to cast secret ceremonies when everyone’ll know where you are just by the sound of your big silly feet?”

Dylan squared his shoulders and raised his chin. “I am not a boy. I’ve lived through almost fourteen winters.”

“Are too.” Maere stuck out her tongue and rolled her eyes. “A wee babe, you are. I’m surprised you’re not cryin’ for your Da.”

It was Dylan’s turn to stick out his tongue. He then crossed his arms over his chest, a burst of maturity overcoming him, and considered the girl coolly. “As usual, Maere, I have no idea what you’re talking about.” He looked back at the clearing. “Just who, or what, have I scared off?”

Maere spun around and eyed him. In a fury, she rammed her shoulder into Dylan and shoved him backward as hard as she could. His gangly legs shot out from underneath him and he hit the ground with a yelp. He slowly pushed himself up on his haunches and rubbed his backside, groaning. “What’d you do that for?”

Maere stood over him, hands on her hips. She wrinkled her freckled nose and looked down. “For frightenin’ the fays, that’s why. They were gatherin’ toadstools, for dinner no doubt, and you shooed them away.” She sighed, wistful. “Why, I believe I even saw the queen herself there, with her long golden hair a-flowin’ behind her.” She lifted her own bright coppery tresses up over her head and let them float down.

Dylan scrambled to his feet. “
I
shooed them away?
You
were the one hollering for me to come see what you’d found.”

“Doesn’t matter,” she sniffed. “If you were the least bit concerned, you’d have come a whole lot quicker and been a whole lot quieter.” With a flip of her skirt, she turned and stomped away.

“Fays, indeed,” Dylan said, half-aloud. “Well,
I’ve
never seen one!” he shouted after her. “I think you made it up, I do!”

Maere shot him a look over her shoulder, her eyes narrowed. Without a word, she continued to walk toward home.

The woodsy chiming of wind-rustled leaves brought Dylan back to the present. Would she be the same as that girl? Full of fire and life – a force of nature – she was. When she made up her mind, there was no stopping Maere cu Llwyr. Or had the sisters of the abbey forced the life out of her, made her docile and quiet? The Maere he knew wouldn’t let anyone or anything change her or her mind. Eugis had tried, threatening beatings if she didn’t do as he said. Manfred always stepped in, though, and protected her from his twin. Now it was Dylan’s turn to watch over her and protect her as he had promised.

He swiped at his eyes. There had been so much friction between Eugis and his brother Manfred back when he and Maere were young. Intent on the events surrounding Maere’s birth and the belief she was blessed, Eugis demanded Manfred betroth him to the girl. Ignoring his brother’s desperate bid for more power than was already afforded him as a Dyrrwed high priest, Manfred instead betrothed her to Dylan during the Beltane celebration. The very same night Manfred and Rhea and Fox were murdered.

While Dylan knew in his mind there was nothing he could have done to prevent the slaughter, his heart told him otherwise. And so he grew into a man, his entire being intent on taking back what had been stolen from him. He’d not let Eugis win this time. He
would
take Maere
and
her power before her uncle had the chance.

He shook off the thoughts of the past. It would do no good now to ponder what might have been. The day had moved into night and tomorrow would see him at the abbey. Dylan pulled a blanket from his pack and spread it on the ground, on the soft leaf-littered floor surrounding the tree. Lying down, he wrapped the wool covering around his shoulders and forced his body to relax.

Dylan took a deep breath and let it out slowly. Another deep breath and he searched his mind. Where was she? Another breath and he moved deeper into a trance. Yes. His spirit found hers. She was asleep. He inhaled again and, as he exhaled, sent his essence to Maere, sent his spirit to her dreams.

Maere slept quietly on the narrow anchorage cot, her chest gently rising and falling. She sighed and rolled from her side to her back. A thin ray of moonlight found its way through the window, carried on the cool night breeze as it pushed and tugged at the curtain.

She sighed again, her full lips parted. A voice entered her dream.
I’ve missed you
. And in an instant, she was in the forest, near a gentle splashing stream. She kicked the covers away, falling further into the dream.

She knelt at the water’s edge and looked at her reflection. Her long auburn hair fell over her shoulders and danced on the liquid surface. The perfume of night flowers filled the air around her. A dragonfly darted by. Maere held out her hand and it landed on her palm.

Sensing another’s presence, she looked beyond her hand. There, at the forest edge, was the shadowy form of a man. He held his arms out to her.

Maere stood. “Come to me,” he whispered. And she went to his open arms eagerly, without hesitation. He held her close, stroking her cheek, murmuring words in the old language of the emerald hills that were her home. No, she thought.
This
was her home.
Here
. With
him
.

As Maere dreamed, a dense fog began to work its way under the anchorage door. It crept in silently, long thin tendrils stretching out into the room. Maere stirred and lost the gentle dream of safe arms and comforting words as the wind whipped the curtain. She sighed and drifted back to sleep.

The fog continued its course, hugging the floor, moving silently forward. It reached the edge of the mattress and floated upward. A long finger of smoke reached out and caressed a bare ankle. The fog moved along Maere’s exposed calf. It traveled up and over the mattress until it completely enveloped her.

Maere stirred again. Her hand moved, guided by the fog, over her cheek, down her throat, and across her chest. She pushed back the blanket and her hand returned to her breast. Still sleeping, she rubbed the rosy nipples into hardness through her thin shift. Maere sighed and wet her lips dreamily as her hand drifted down her belly. She imagined her gown was being gently lifted by some unseen force as her fingers continued to trail down to her thighs. She let them rest there for a moment until her hands started to move again.

She caught her breath as her fingers began exploring the soft, damp flesh between her legs. What was this exquisite sensation? Her finger dipped inside. She was wet and smooth, like warm honey. Maere squirmed when her hand began to massage her most sensitive place.

Sweet Jesus, she thought sleepily. She continued to rub with one hand, riding the fingers of the other as she began to move up and down. Ah, what was this sweet agony building up inside of her? Just as she thought there would be no release, the sensations crested and carried her away.

Slowly, Maere opened her eyes. She laid still, staring at the ceiling, waiting for her ragged breath to return to normal. Tears streamed down her cheeks as she realized what had happened. How could she have done such a thing? Never mind that she was sleeping while it happened. It happened just the same. Oh, it had to be the devil forcing her into submission! There was no other explanation!

As she lay there sobbing, the fog receded out through the narrow doorway, sliding along the compacted dirt floor with all the grace of a raven in flight.

Chapter Seven

“Greetings. Is there an occupant within this anchorage?”

Maere stirred as the words entered her dreams and awakened her. She groaned with effort as she pushed herself to her feet. After falling asleep on the cold, hard ground, every bone and muscle in her body ached.

“Aye,” she answered, her voice a raspy whisper. “I am here.” She raised a water skin to her lips and quenched her thirst. All the crying she’d done the night before had left her throat raw and tender. She took another sip, splashed some in her hands, then over her face to soothe her sore eyes. She rose and stood near the window. The sun’s rays were just beginning to cast an outline around its black covering.

“Is everything well with you? Should I fetch a sister to help?”

“Of course I am well,” Maere answered, her voice growing stronger. “Why do you ask this?”

“You sound near to death’s door. You may not be seeing things all that clearly.”

Maere bristled. Death’s door, indeed. If he only knew what she’d been going through. Wait a moment. Her mouth fell open as she realized she was talking with a man. And not a very old one, by the sound of him.

She cautiously placed her palms flat on either side of the window and leaned forward ever so slightly. The stone wall was cool and rough beneath her hands and smelled of damp earth. She wrinkled her nose and squinted her eyes as she tried to peek past the edge of the curtain. What kind of ridiculous rule was it anyway that wouldn’t let you look at the person you were speaking with? Maere pulled back, aggravated. She couldn’t see a thing. And she couldn’t very well push the curtain aside. Someone would see her for certain if she did.

Maere took another drink and cleared her throat. “What do you need?” she finally asked, a little afraid of the answer. Could it be the man she saw last night? Or was it the red-eyed demon? Had he found her already?

“Ah, you sound much better now, but very young. Are you certain you’re old enough to be offering consultations?”

She could hear the amusement in his voice. This curbed the fear that had begun to swell within her, quickly replacing it with annoyance. Well, lucky for him she was inside this anchorage, praying and performing charitable duties, or she’d be forced to give him a tongue lashing for sure.

“I’m only recently enclosed, but I assure you I will help in any way I can,” came her reply, though she wasn’t certain how she managed to be so polite. “Perhaps you could tell me who you are, Sir. What is it you seek at St. Columba’s?”

“To tell the truth, I am only a poor pilgrim on my way west,” he said. “West to Tintagel.” There was a pause before he added, “Have you ever been there?

Something in the name of the region stirred Maere’s blood. But why? Should she know of this place?

The man interrupted her thoughts. “Draw back the curtain,” he bade, echoing her own desire. “I would like to see to whom I am speaking.”

Maere looked sharply at the embroidered white cross. As tempted as she was to comply, she couldn’t. “I’m sorry, but I cannot. It’s not allowed by the law.”

“By whose law?”

“It’s the law of the Church. The law of God.” What an odd manner of pilgrim, that he wouldn’t know the proper etiquette for approaching a hermitess.

“Of which god do you speak? Anu? Lugh? Or one of the others?”

Maere took a step away from the window, her eyes wide. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

The man laughed, the sound sending a chill up Maere’s spine. “How can you not know? Have these Christians cleansed your brain so thoroughly you would forget the tales of the Dumnonii?”

“I know nothing of which you speak,” she insisted, close to tears. What was he saying? That she was pagan? That she should know these things?

“Answer these questions for me, Anchoress. Is your hair dark copper like a chestnut horse? Are your eyes as green as the sea?” His voice grew gentle. “Do light brown freckles dance across your fine nose and high cheek bones?”

Maere put her hands over her ears. How did this man know everything about her? “Stop it! I tell you, you must leave!”

He pressed on. “Can you deny you are Maere cu Llwyr, daughter of Manfred and Rhea?” His voice was smooth, but there was no denying the strength beneath it, almost as if he were daring her to lie to him.

Maere’s hand flew to her mouth and she stumbled against the chair, knocking it over. How could he know her name? Before she could reply, she heard the sound of feet crushing their way through dried leaves.

“Good day, Pilgrim. Is there anything I can help you with this beautiful spring morning?” Abbess Magrethe asked.

Thank God, Maere thought, for the dear lady and her careful ways.

“No, thank you. I was just leaving. Peace to you, Anchoress. Please accept my gift.” He pushed a rolled piece of parchment past the curtain. “May God have mercy on your soul.”

Maere’s head reeled as he spoke the words that had become a litany for her. Over and over she repeated them last night as she cried. Until, finally, she’d fallen into an exhausted, dreamless sleep. Her hand shook as she took the offering. More rattling of leaves told her he was walking away.

“Maere?” the abbess called. “Appears a good thing I thought to check on you this morn, what with already receiving your first visitor. I hope you weren’t caught  unawares at being approached so soon.”

She swallowed. Unawares was barely a fitting description for what she was feeling at this moment. Her insides were all in a knot and she felt feverish.

“Maere?”

“I - I’m sure I’ll be fine. It’s just as you said. He did surprise me. I wasn’t expecting anyone so early.”

“Good day to you, then,” the abbess said.

Maere stood still, firmly rooted. Her hearing keen, she listened while the older woman walked away. When she was certain the abbess was gone, she righted the chair and sat down.

Slowly, she unrolled the thin skin. Her face blanched. Her hand flew to her mouth and she cried out. The painted image of her own face stared back at her. Green eyes, dark red hair – even the freckles on her nose were there – just like he’d described to her earlier. In the background were several images: To the right, a dark-haired man, partially obscured. To the left, an older man, gray-haired, wearing a white robe. A fire burned in the foreground. Above her, the full moon, and above that, a raven’s head, its wings sweeping out to serve as a frame for the entire painting. Whether the gesture was protective or possessive, Maere couldn’t be certain.