The Dove (23 page)

Carlisle Corrigan and his Tuathan and Irish sailors welcomed the Templar Knights with a grand banquet held in one of the town’s surviving inns.  Carlisle’s reaction at seeing his father as a young man was almost comical.  At first, he thought it a joke perpetrated by his brood of nephews, but Edgard had finally called him out and threatened to run him through if he did not recognize his own father and Grand Master of the Order of the Poor Knights of Christ with the proper dignity and respect accorded to the position.  The flamboyant King had finally tested his father with a series of questions and then accepted him, proclaiming him to be almost as fair as his royal self, offering to have a feathered cloak made for him. 

They had then set down to dinner and discussed their impending trip across the Mediterranean Sea.  The talk had finally come around to the comet and King Corrigan had listened with great interest as Izzy and Lavon explained the anomalous star that rivaled even the sun in broad daylight.  When they had hashed through all the details of the crusade, bashed the Church and the Papacy thoroughly and grown quite drunk on good local stock, most of the company retired for the evening leaving only the King, the Grand Master and a few body guards that the King insisted were necessary for security purposes. 

Corrigan offered his father a pipe of Paddy’s blue tobacco grown in the fields surrounding Kilkenny, but Edgard had declined.  He knew the stuff quite well.

“There is something I must ask you.”  Corrigan reclined in his seat at the head of the destroyed banquet table.  “Seeing you in your new form has raised an old question.  I swore that I would never ask you, but…”

“But what?  I seem to be receiving a great deal less respect as a young man as I did when I was older.” 

D’Brouchart laughed and picked up his glass.  In spite of the controversy his new face had caused him, he was obviously enjoying himself.  He was still basking in the reactions of Meredith Ramsay and his granddaughter, Oriel.  The good Queen of the Franks had quite fainted away when he had revealed himself to be her indomitable grandfather and for once, it had been he and not some younger fellow who had caught her up and laid her out on the sofa.  It was good to be young and strong and able to do all the things he had thought he had not missed, such as riding a horse for hours on end and sliding lightly to the ground afterwards, being able to stand and walk with little conscious effort.  He had taken up sparring again with Barry of Sussex and had given the Seneschal a few good knocks on the head.  And he had caught more than one fair eye on the journey, not that he had noticed, of course.  Even the innkeeper’s daughter had let him know she kept her own room, where it was and what time she went to bed.  Not that he would seek her out.  But it was a good feeling to know that he could have.

“I was wondering about my mother.”  Corrigan let out the words in a rush.

“Aha!  So you didn’t wonder about her before because you couldn’t imagine that you could have had a mother, is that it?”

“What do you mean?”  Corrigan’s ageless face crinkled into a frown.

“I mean, you didn’t think it was possible for an old fat man to have ever fathered a son as fair as yourself.”

“That’s ridiculous!”  Corrigan shook his head and his red-gold curls brushed his feathered epaulets.  He protested the thought even though he knew it was true.  “I just never found the right opportunity to bring it up, but since we are about to go off and die together, I thought I might ask before I missed the chance once and for all.”

“Oh, I see.”  Edgard nodded.  “Well, you get your looks from me, of course, but your mother was a beautiful woman in her own right.”

“So my mother was a woman?  A normal woman?  She is dead then?”  Corrigan leaned his elbows on the table.

“Not exactly.”  Edgard also leaned on the table and looked off into the distance.  “I
thought
she was a normal woman when I first saw her at the river.”

“At the river?”

“Yes, she was washing clothes in the water.  Beating her linens on the rocks.  It was quite a lovely scene.  There she was, down in the water with her skirts tucked up in her apron.  She had fine legs.  Very fine and white.  Not like these scrawny things, who bake themselves in the sun all day.  I like a woman with meat on her bones.  One that can keep you warm on a three-dog-night.  Your mother had meat on her bones.”

“That is not exactly a pleasing picture.  She could have been a sow” Corrigan’s frown deepened.

“She was no sow!”  Edgard sat up straighter.  “She was as beautiful as Venus of a summer’s evening.  Her hair was like the softest lamb’s wool, spun out in ebony strands.  And her eyes were like ripe melons.”

“Melons?!  She had red eyes?”

“No!  Like the skin of a ripe melon.”  Edgard turned his frown on his son.  “Green.  Dark green.  Have you ever seen a more inviting combination than dark emeralds set against black velvet?”

“So she was beautiful.”  Corrigan nodded.

“Quite.  And strong!  She knocked me smooth out of the saddle.”  Edgard smiled at the memory.

“Oh?  You were smitten so quickly?”

“Not smitten as you might think.  I mean she literally knocked me out of my saddle… with a rock.  The one she had been pounding her linens with.”

“Really?”  Corrigan’s face lit up.  “Why?  What did you do?  Insult her?”

“I suppose so, but I didn’t mean to insult her.  I thought her just a girl, you see.  I didn’t know who or what she was.  Fine ladies are not generally given to washing their own sheets in the stream, you see.”

“I realize that.  What was she doing there?  Where were her servants?”

“She had no servants.  She had no need of them.  In fact, she had no need of bed linens.”

“I don’t understand.”  Carlisle leaned back in his chair and picked up his goblet.

“She was simply passing the time.  Waiting for a stranger to come by.”

“Why?  So she could throw rocks at him?” 

“Not exactly.  You see, it was her way.  She usually appeared close to battles.  It was said if the washer at the ford was seen before a battle, death was eminent.  I had always thought that she was a horrible hag with filthy hair, drenched in blood.  Not so!”

“So my mother was
the Corrigan
!”  Carlisle stood up suddenly, knocking his goblet over on the wood.

“Yes.  The Corrigan.  Goddess of War.  Or so they say.”  Edgard shrugged slightly.  “If that is all, I’d best be off to bed…”

“Oh, no you don’t!”  Corrigan sat back down.  “You will tell me this story!  Were you on your way to battle?”

“Yes, as a matter of fact I was.”

“And so the old tale is wrong.  You didn’t die.”  Corrigan narrowed his eyes.  “Is it because of your immortality?”

“No.  I can be destroyed.  You know that.  She told me she had been waiting on me to pass by, that it was her sad duty to inform me that I would not survive the impending fight with the enemy.”

“And then what happened?  Was this before or after she hit you with the rock?”

“Before.  I laughed at her and told her to wash the dust from my feet and my greaves because I didn’t want to die filthy from my journey.”

“Was that when she hit you?”

“No.  She laughed and brought some water in a pitcher and poured it on my feet and she dried my armor with her apron, declaring me a most impudent young man.  I told her that she was wrong.  That I would be victorious, and then I would come back and see her.”

“So she threw her rock at you then?”

“No.  She said I was not only impudent, that I was arrogant and sure of myself that I could not be unseated and I told her that it was a simple fact that no warrior had ever unseated me.  That I was a champion and King of the Tuatha de Danann.”

“What?!  You were King of the Tuatha de Danann?!”  Corrigan’s mouth fell open at this startling revelation.

“Yes. Yes.  But that was long ago.  Before Lugh.”  Edgard tossed his head.  “I had led the people of Danu from the mainland to Ireland and found them a nice home.  All they had to do was route the current occupants and it would be theirs.  Sound familiar?  I thought this woman was one of the local inhabitants and she would be more or less spoils of war.”

“Oh.”  Corrigan nodded.  “Spoils of war.”

“Yes, well.  She then proceeded to laugh at me and jeer at me in front of my men.  To say the least, she was most unflattering.  I was appalled.  No one had ever treated me thus.  I kicked my horse, drew my sword and determined to cut her beautiful head from her shoulders.”

“Aha!  So that’s when she hit you with the rock!”  Corrigan said proudly.  Pleased that his mother had shown such courage.

“No.  When I rode past her, she simply dodged the blow and continued to laugh at me.”  Edgard frowned in frustration as his son smiled in satisfaction.  “She kept dodging me again and again and my anger seethed at her audacity!  To make a fool of the King in front of his men.  Some of them actually laughed with her!  I could see I was getting no where and tiring myself out.  It suddenly occurred to me this might be exactly what she intended.  To wear me down so her fellow countrymen could kill me when I was tired.  So I made one last pass by her, leapt from my horse and took her down in the water.  When I dragged her out on the bank, I kissed her soundly and then shoved her back in the stream.  I had the last laugh.”

“So when did she hit you with the rock?”  Corrigan’s face fell.

“When I came back by later, after the battle, covered with blood.  I stopped and asked her if she would like another kiss from a dead warrior.”

“So that’s when you got it!”  Corrigan nodded.

“No.  She smiled and puckered up her lips and closed her eyes, waiting for the kiss.  But you see, I had lost a great number of my men in the battle, and I was not in the mood for romance.  I shoved her in the water again and told her go and tend to her dead.  I got back on my horse with the intention of riding away, and
that
is when she hit me with the rock!”

“Oh.”  Corrigan continued to nod thoughtfully.  “I fail to see how I ever came to be.”

“Ahhh.  But you see, those were not her people.  She had no people.  I fell off my horse into the water and would have drowned… or so she thought, but since I had won the battle, she felt sorry for me and dragged me out of the water.  She put me on my horse and took me to her cave.  Like I said, she had no bed.  She had a sort of nest, I guess you could say.  Anyway, she tended to my wounds and the rest is, as they say, history.”

“But that had to be a very long time ago, Father.”  Corrigan shook his head.  “I’m not that old!”

“You are not as young as you think.  You simply do not remember your life before you came to be found in Wales.  I don’t know what happened to her, but I know she brought you out of the underworld, knowing that I would find you and recognize you, which I did and that is how you came to be the Knight of the Golden Eagle.”

“And you have never seen her since?”

“No.  But I would recognize her, if I did.”

“Would you?”  Corrigan narrowed his eyes.  “I’m not so sure.”

“She would not have changed.  She must have gone into the west.  I don’t know.”

“Hmmm.”  Corrigan stood up, somewhat shakily.  “So what would you say to her… if you ever saw her again?”

“I would not insult her.  I would give her the kiss.”  Edgard laughed.

“A wise decision, no doubt.”  Corrigan smiled at him.  “Well, we’d best get some rest.  We have a long day ahead of us.”

((((((((((((()))))))))))))

Jozsef Daniel slammed the handset back in the cradle on the radio and kicked at the rear of the truck on which it sat.

“Abaddon!”  He shouted and his companion jumped.  He had been standing only a few feet away, conversing with one of the commanders of the cavalry.  They were running low on water.

“Yes, Your Grace!”  The general snapped to attention.

“What do you make of that?!  I can make no sense of the reports from New Babylon.”  Jozsef pointed angrily at the brilliant light in the sky.  “Is it something Hubur has sent upon us?  Is she out to destroy us?  I should have sent her back to perdition!”

“I am no astrologer, your Grace.”  Abaddon backed away slowly.

“Do we have anyone among us who practices the ancient arts?  A circle maker?  Anything?”

“Some of the men from the northern tribes are versed in the Arcana, your Grace.  Descendents of Mani or some such.”

“Christians?”  Jozsef frowned.

“I do not know what they are, sir.”  Abaddon shrugged.  “But I am told they are quite adept at reading the Heavens.”

“Then call them to do whatever it is they do.  I want to know what that is and what it means!  Now!”  Jozsef ordered and then stomped away from the communications truck.

Abaddon hurried back to where the camels lay in the dirt with their riders sitting patiently under tiny canopies made of their mantles held up by their quirts.  He soon had a small group of men clad in flowing black robes, scurrying about the desert, collecting stones.  They laid out a rough circle, aligning the stones with the use of an ancient hand held compass made of highly polished brass.