Celtic Shores (3 page)

O’Malley Territory

Braeden had managed to stomp in every last puddle of mud and pile of horse dung to be found between the piers and the Inn. If Mavis let out another long aggravated sigh she was sure she would lose her breath altogether and succumb to the breathing frenzies. As it stood, only Braeden’s boots were muddy—not that the crazed excuse for a hunting hound hadn’t tried to sully his truis. No, Braeden and the hound had engaged in a sort of ritual dance all along the path to the Inn; with the floppy-eared hound running circles around him as Braeden dodged and ducked and pulled and pushed against the lead to avoid being mauled with muddy paws. It was a sight for sure.

The sun was high in the sky and cast orange and yellow hued speckles across the bay. Music and laughter filled the air as guests prepared for the reception and Samhain festival later that evening; and the smell of venison and wild game rose up to greet them as they neared the Inn. Mavis’ eyes shot up as she caught a glimpse of Rory exiting the rear of the Inn carrying two large water buckets as he headed for the well.

“Nay Rory, lemme have them buckets,” she cried. “Come and get this filth-ridden mutt from Braeden a’fore he spoils his truis.”

Rory abruptly stopped and released his hold on the buckets; turning around to watch in astonishment the game that Braeden played with the pup. He had never seen such a thing, in all his years. Braeden gripping a four to five foot lead tied around the neck of a beautiful red-and-white spaniel pup whose only goal seemed to be focusing on climbing Braeden like a tree. And Braeden, intent on not dirtying his dress clothes, danced around and around in an attempt to avoid the muddy dog. Rory broke into a tirade of hysterical laughter, unable to catch his breath.

“Go on now, git yer fill mon,” retorted Mavis, “’Tis nay as funny as all that.” Mavis rolled her eyes and fisted her hands in her skirts in aggravation. “Think ye can do more than laugh now, seeing as how we have other matters to attend?” she shouted to Rory.

Braeden wiped the sweat from his brow and blew out a long held breath; obviously near to worn out. “Master Rory, couldja please come get this beast?” he asked through staggered breaths. “He is a’wearing me out!”

“Is this the pup Patrick intends to gift to Darina?” asked Rory through uncontained chuckles.

“Aye. I ken it is,” replied Mavis. “I’ve nay good idea what will become of him though, once she gets a look’a him.” Mavis could not contain her laughter any longer and broke down in a rattle of cackles that sent her into a coughing fit.

“Help me!” cried Braeden over the laughter and amusement of Rory and Mavis. “I am going to let this dog go if somebody doesn’t come get him away from me. I am worn clean out.”

Rory straightened and pulled a strip of folded linen from his boot. “I’ll take him,” he said, walking towards the dog and uttering something Braeden didn’t understand. Immediately, the dog’s ears shot up at attention and he sat perfectly still on the ground as if awaiting instruction.

Astonished, Braeden let go of the rope and asked Rory, “What did ye say to him?” The dog didn’t move. Rory uttered something else indistinguishable and the dog crouched on all fours, lying on his belly on the ground.

“I told him to sit still and then to lie down,” replied Rory. “He is a finely trained dog, but just like little lads I know, without proper instruction, his mischievousness will get the better o’him.”

Rory wiped the dog’s paws and belly and removed as much of the crusted mud as he could. “I’ll have him washed and put him in the stables with Moya for now. She will see to him until Patrick is ready for him. He should get along just fine with the horses until the kennel is ready. You two best be tidying up yerselves before the reception,” he directed to Mavis.

Mavis nodded and called after Braeden, “Alright, come along now. Let’s walk down to the piers again and wash off yer boots.”

***

Galen Fleming sighed audibly at the sight of the priest’s empty cottage. Even the chapel was abandoned. Although Kyra, Ruarc’s daughter, and Murchadh, one of Ruarc’s best fighting men, searched the cottage for clues, there was no indication of what had become of the priest. They also searched most of O’Malley territory proper—and gone further into Burke lands than they should, to no avail.

Galen was Father MacArtrey’s cleric, going on for close to fourteen winters and he was fond of the man, vices and all. When word reached Rome that the monastery on Burke lands had been usurped by the Burke’s, and that the priest was the only survivor; Galen was sent from his home in the highlands of Scotland to serve out his commission with the O’Malley clan.

Galen was a familiar breath of fresh air for many of the Catholic soldiers; who were a mix of Viking, Roman and Scottish warriors, as well as some men from neighboring clans. He was the first to call the senior O’Malley “Laird” and the term stuck, a term of endearment and respect that the Scotsmen understood. Darina’s mother, Anya, was a Scottish noble. Her grandsire was a Lord of Parliament in Scotland and the O’Malley’s happily integrated Scottish and Irish cultures.

“Still nay sign of the priest?” asked Lucian entering the cottage behind Galen.

“Nay. Nay sign at all. I fear something is amiss,” replied Galen stroking his long gray beard and shaking his head. “How are ye me old friend,” he asked Lucian and clasped forearms with the elder scribe.

“I fear ye are right,” sighed Lucian. “Except for the scrolls and manuscripts we found hidden in his bed frame, we’ve nay an idea what has become of him or why.”

“I sent a message to Rome yestereve about his disappearance. I await instruction on how to maintain the chapel and the services. The coin they found, the church coffers, we have given to Minea for safekeeping.”

“Good idea,” replied Lucian. “Walk with me Galen, let’s discuss the ceremony. Patrick nay doubt wishes my involvement, and Darina, wishes yers. I’m sure we can appease them both. What say ye?”

“Sounds like a fine idea, Lucian. A fine plan, indeed.”

Burke Territory

Father MacArtrey rubbed the goose egg that rose upon his forehead and prayed for mercy. To whom he prayed—he was no longer sure. He was Odetta Burke’s spy in O’Malley lands and had been her puppet for far too long. And, his age was getting the better of him. He felt a small measure of redemption when he was able to save the young boy from certain death. By cutting his own wrist, along with the child’s, during the sacrifice to Teutates; he had spared his life, or so he thought. He only prayed the boy still lived. When the soldier came to dispose of the boy’s body, he wasn’t so sure his plan had worked.

Another tortuous night spent below the monastery in the dungeons left him forlorn and distraught. Sharing what the servants called “food” with the rats soured his stomach, and he knew he would retch again if it weren’t for the fact that his stomach was already empty.

“Father,” said the voice. “Father, are you there?”

I must be losing me mind—I’m hearing things.

“Father, wake up. Are you there?” it rang again.

“Father!” it exclaimed much louder this time. So loud it made the rats screech.

“Aye, I’m here,” replied the priest into the heavy darkness. “Who’s that?”

“Cordal, Cordal McTierney. What are ye doing back down here in the dungeons?” he whispered as loudly as he could.

“I spared the child during the sacrifice. I couldn’t let em kill him,” responded the priest.

“What child?” gasped Cordal, rattling the chains that bound him to the wall.

“The sacrifice,” replied the priest. “They took a small boy and used him in some sort of ceremony. They were attempting to drain his blood and made me do the deed. Instead of cutting him deeply; I cut my own wrist and used some of me blood to fill the cisterns so that ’twould look like he was dead when he fainted.”

“They caught ye?”

“Aye—and now I’m back down here and am told I am to perform another rite tonight during their great service, for Samhain.”

“By the stars, Odetta is more addled than I thought. Don’t worry; her brathair Cynbel will put a stop to this as soon as he finds out. He doesn’t abide her nonsense. If he knew I was down here, he would release me himself.”

“If only that were so,” murmured the priest. “If only that were so.”

“What do ye mean, Father?” asked Cordal.

“Her brathair is dead, Cordal.”

“How do ye know,” he gasped.

“I watched her kill him with me own eyes, I did,” he replied. “She has married Easal and he is the new chieftain and Lord of Burke lands. And worst of all—he is a bigger puppet than I.”

***

“Now Braeden, ye need only go in as far as the top of yer boots, ye hear me?” hollered Mavis over the sounds of crashing waves along the shoreline. “I won’t have ye getting soaked through; we’ve a reception to attend this eve, ye ken?”

Braeden kicked at the sand and picked up shells on the shore beside the piers in his lazy attempt to wash off the mud and grime from his boots; before heading back to the castle. It was unusually hot for the season and the combination of light rain from a leftover storm, and the hot sun, cast a humid mist around the piers and draped them in a cloud of white billows.

“Don’t venture out so far Braeden, I canna see ye from here,” she yelled. Braeden walked so far into the waves, his truis were getting wet above his knee-high leather boots.

“Braeden. Braeden, do ye hear me?” she screamed. Mavis rose from her sitting position on the beach and ran towards the water, searching for any sign of the boy. “Braeden,” she cried loudly again into the hazy mist in front of her, cupping her hands and screaming at the top of her lungs.

Panic engulfed her and her pulse quickened as she began to shake. Frantically she ran up and down the beach searching and calling for him. Sweat drenched the back of her neck as she threw her cloak on the ground and stepped knee deep into the crashing waves searching for any sign of the boy.

“Can we help ye lass?”

Startled, Mavis turned to her right and saw three men near a small boat, tugging at the vessel attempting to set off from the shore.

“Aye…I’ve lost me charge…that is…the boy I was watching. He was only here just a moment ago, and now he does no’ answer me call.”

“Ah, Lassie. Git ye here in this boat with us and mayhap we can find him together.”

Reluctantly, Mavis let the burliest looking man assist her into the small boat. Now thoroughly soaked and frightened, she broke down in a medley of violent tears.

“Don’t ye fear now, lass. I’ve nay doubt we’ll help ye find the boy,” he said.

Mavis nodded her understanding, but grew cautious. The boat was not moving along the shoreline. Instead, they were headed towards the Isle of Women; between the mainland and the island, and no doubt out towards the deeper sea. She continued calling for Braeden but the men were not helping her search. They were busy rowing the boat as fast as they could.

She heard a muffled moan from the front port side of the boat, and one of the men struggled over a heap of clothing lying tangled near the bottom. She called for Braeden again, and this time the moan was louder and the heap of clothing thrashed about.

Mavis’ eyes grew wide in terror. Before her, not ten feet away, lay Braeden at the bottom of the men’s’ boat—his hands and mouth bound with rope. Their eyes met briefly and she knew what she had to do. The burly man rose to his feet and lurched towards her, stepping over the wooden bench slats as quickly as his plump body would allow him— tipping and shifting the boat from side to side.

Braeden nodded to her, and in one clumsy instant, Mavis flung herself over the side of the boat and into the frigid sea water. Her breath caught in her throat and the weight of her clothing dragged her down under the waves. A frenzy of rough hands blurred her vision as the men atop the water searched and reached to grab her. Soon paddles poked about her and she wasn’t certain if they were trying to save her or kill her.

Mavis
, she thought to herself.
Catch yerself lass. Ye’ve nay wish to drown today.
An eerie calm came about her and she floated lightly under the waves for what seemed a millennium before regaining her composure and full consciousness.

The last eleven years of her life were spent caring for Braeden, the baby that saved her. Literally. If it were not for Braeden, the O’Malley men would not have bought her at the slave auction. She would not have a home, a family, a people to call her own. Since her sister Odetta Burke imprisoned her and her husband Cordal for marrying behind her back, the only focus and purpose she had was caring for the boy.

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.

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 the 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.”