Pagan Fire (2 page)

Manfred waved her away impatiently. “Nonsense, woman. Girls have their value, and my daughter will aspire to greatness.” He puffed his chest out. “She will be a leader of the Dumnonii. Nay, of all the Keltoi tribes.” He gestured to the sky. “Tell me you don’t see the signs!” Manfred lowered his hand. He ran a rough finger down the babe’s cheek and stroked the downy thatch of dark red hair that covered her head. “Leave the babe with me and go watch over my wife in case she wakes.”

“But, Sir. It’s gettin’ much too cold fer the child to be out here.” She glanced around, as if hoping for someone to support her position. “Sir?”

Manfred’s expression grew dark. “You heard me. Off with you.” When she hesitated, he barked, “Now!” The midwife took a step back, then turned and ran into the hall, her shawl trailing behind her.

He chuckled, then gazed down at his new daughter. “Dylan,” he whispered as he crouched down. “This is an important lesson and I want you to remember it. Look at this babe. Life is sacred. It should never be taken from another in vain or for the purpose of calling up healthy crops.” He sighed. “There are those who disagree with me on this matter, but, as your teacher, it’s important to me that you understand.”

“I’ll remember, Sir.” Dylan leaned forward, his eyes wide as he looked at the baby. “She’s beautiful. Prettier even than the lady in the stream.”

Manfred laughed. “Of course she is. And, because of your vision, I have decided to name her Maere, after the water spirit.”

Dylan smiled, proud. But as he continued to watch the babe, his smile faded. He touched the child’s tiny hand and whispered, “I swear by all the gods and goddesses that I will protect her for you and the Lady Rhea.” He raised his eyes to his teacher’s. “Always.”

Chapter One

Eighteen years later

April 883 A.D.

St. Columba’s Abbey

Glastonbury, Isle of Great Britain

The form of a man emerged from the darkness of the fog, his body a lean dark silhouette against the swirling gray mass. The moonlight touched his
hair and it glowed blue-black in the night. Stars danced about him and the very trees themselves tipped and bowed as he passed.

Walking – nay, gliding – he moved with purpose and determination along the road leading toward the abbey. The evening offered him a cloak and he wore this mantle proudly, becoming one with the nighttime.

Stealthily and in silence, he approached the old, ivy-covered stone walls of Saint Columba’s as if it were a cornered animal. He paused for a moment, glanced about him, and then pushed forward, moving in for the kill.

The young woman, deep asleep, struggled against the bed linens that had become entangled around her limbs. Her slender legs pushed and shoved at them, her hands pulling and tugging, until she was finally free of their unrelenting grasp.

The man’s breath billowed out in front of him and surrounded his head, obscuring first his face, then his entire body. Still moving ever forward, he passed in silence through the walls of the abbey itself, and entered her small cell. He reached for her, extending his arms from the fallen cloud, his fingers grasping. The feral glow of his eyes penetrated the thick fog and touched her with their intensity. “Come to me,” he whispered, his fingers but inches from her face. “Come to me.”

The woman bolted upright. Her chest heaved as she tossed the offending linens to the floor. Sweat covered her fair, lightly freckled face, and ran down her back, soaking the thin sleeping gown she wore. Her heart beat so fiercely against her breast that she feared for her life. She clutched at her throat. She couldn’t breathe. She glanced frantically around the small room. The walls seemed to move in toward her, threatening to crush her. She felt faint. Panic set in. Where was he? Where had he gone? Was he still here?!?

“Sisters!” she screamed. “Help me!”

Within moments, Abbess Magrethe shoved open the cell door and rushed to the younger woman’s side. “What is it, Maere?” She searched her face. “What troubles you so?”

Maere huddled against the wall where the head of her small cot was shoved against it, her knees drawn tightly to her chest. Her dark copper hair fell down over her face, clinging to her damp skin. Slowly, she raised her green eyes to the Abbess’s and peered at her through the long, wild strands. She tried to speak, but the words caught in her throat.

“It was another nightmare, wasn’t it?” Magrethe asked, as she sat her candle gently down on the nightstand. She drew Maere to her.

Maere nodded and began to sob. “Who is this man that haunts my sleep? Why won’t he let me rest?”

“If only I knew,” she murmured. Magrethe held Maere out at arm’s length and searched her face once more. “Was it the same dream? Was he coming for you?”

“Aye, Mother. He’s close, too. I saw him outside the abbey walls. He walked right through them.” Maere’s voice shot up a notch. “He was here!”

“Poor child,” Magrethe sighed. “If you had not been having these dreams for many years now, I would believe the pleasures of the flesh were calling to you.” She released Maere and picked up her candle, lighting Maere’s with it. The light cast tall shadows on the wall, mimicking the woman’s motions.

“You believe that’s what these dreams mean? That I am thinking of being w-with a man?” Maere rolled the edge of her gown between her fingers as tears fell onto the fabric and stained it. “If that were true, why does he appear as if he is hunting me down, like a deer or fox?” The small flame flicked and sputtered. She turned her eyes away from the light. “Why does he want me dead?”

“I cannot explain the devil’s lure, but it’s widely known he seeks young women such as you, those nearly ready to take their vows.”

Maere rubbed her eyes furiously. “I appreciate your counsel, Mother.” Maere let her head fall gently back against the wattle-and-daub wall. “If you think this is Lucifer’s work, then I must do penance. I must seek forgiveness for bringing him to me.”

“Maere, you’ve been disturbed by these images for more years than you’ve been a young woman, so this may not be the case with you.” She sighed. “I’m sorry that I know not the answer, child.” The abbess drew the young woman to her breast again. She stroked Maere’s hair until Maere was calm and her breathing even. “I think it would help if you prayed about this. Perhaps enter into a fast and meditation. It’s possible the answer will then come to you.”

Maere remembered the glowing red eyes. They were animal-like, fierce in their determination to seek her out, more frightening than anything she could ever remember seeing before. “Do you really think that would help, Mother?”

“With God anything is possible. You know that, girl.” Magrethe patted Maere’s cheek, then gently directed her with her hand back down to the flat, straw-filled mattress. “For now, try and sleep. It’s almost time for Matins and Sister Aubrey will be most put out if you doze off during prayers.”

Dear Aubrey – her lined face – came to Maere. The image of the old nun tapping the sisters and novices on the top of the head with a thin willow stick as they fell asleep during the two-thirty a.m. service made her smile.

“There, now, that’s much better,” Magrethe said, as she stood and blew out the candle.

“Thank you, Mother,” Maere whispered.

Magrethe nodded as she left the small cell. She stopped outside the doorway to talk to the sisters who had gathered there to find out what the commotion was about.

“It’s the night terrors again, isn’t it?” whispered Sister Bernard harshly. “It’s the pagan soul in her, I tell you. The girl is tainted.” The tall, thin nun made the sign of the cross over her breast.

“Really, Bernard,” another scolded. “Her mother and father may have followed the old ways, but she’s been with us many years now, raised since but a small child to be a good Christian.”

Magrethe frowned. “Enough of this,” she quietly ordered, shooing them away with a wave of her hand. “Everyone, back to bed. Maere’s fine and there will be no more of this discussion tonight.” She offered one last glance at Maere’s now-sleeping form, Sister Bernard’s words echoing in her mind. Pagan soul. Tainted. With a shiver, she closed the creaking door behind her.

* * * *

“Come,” the sweet voice bade. “Come to me.”

Slowly, Dylan mac Connall opened his eyes and rose from the herb-and-grass stuffed mattress that served as his bed. Had he heard something? “Yes?” he whispered. He didn’t want to disturb his teacher, Aethelred, who was fast asleep in the adjoining room.

He pulled on his tunic, glancing about the small plain room that had been his home these past ten years. Attached to the back of Aethelred’s sod-and-timber home, it wasn’t more than five cubits wide and three cubits across. Despite the size, it served him well in his studies and had been a good place to live. If there could be such a thing for him, since the murder of his father, Fox.

“Come,” the voice called out again.

Dylan went to the window and pushed back the homespun curtain. To the west, the full moon was still high in the sky. He should be sleeping, but something inside of him was restless, eager to move. The breeze caressed him, pulled at him. Did he really hear a voice or was it his own imagining? He tugged at the strings of his tunic and went outside.

The buzzing sound of insects vibrated in his ears, urging him forward. He walked in the direction he was being drawn, the same as he’d done so many years ago when Aethelred had called him to her.

It was night then, too, when he’d evaded capture by Eugis’s men. They had been hard after him following the Samhain massacre, after he’d lost Maere and everyone dear to him, after he’d witnessed the murder of her mother and father and his own Da. He’d survived the treachery only by diving into the thicket and tumbling down a steep hill. They thought him dead and left him where he lay.

The buzzing intensified, his senses heightened. He pushed his way through the dense covering of bushes at the edge of the clearing, through the trees and saplings. Then, the faint gurgle of the stream and the tangy scent of the sea touched his spirit and he understood. Morrigu was here.

He hadn’t seen the goddess since the night Maere was born, but he always felt her presence nearby. He somehow knew, deep inside, that she guided him. Cared for him. Loved him.

“I’m here,” he whispered. A raven cawed in the distance, in response. Its raucous song came closer and closer until it seemed to come from all around, enveloping him. Dylan looked up. Sitting in the branches of a sacred oak was the bird, as large and unmoving as any he had ever seen. It stared hard at him and he stared back.

“What is it you cry so loud and hard for, Friend Raven?” he said. “What is it that brings you here to me in the middle of the night?”

The bird cocked its head to one side and the white moonlight touched its eyes. “Caw!” it screamed again.

“Were you, too, awakened from a dream-filled sleep and lured to this very spot, the same as me?”

In response, the raven let loose with a furious beating of its wings, then descended from the branch and landed on the ground in front of Dylan. It took a step forward and, as it did, slowly grew taller and taller, its very shape transforming before his eyes.

Dylan took a step back, his gaze transfixed on the sight before him. He’d seen much of magic over the years, during his lessons with Aethelred. Water that flowed in reverse, lead turned into gold and back again, fairy folk and all manner of strange beings. But he found – to his surprise – that he was unprepared for the shape-shifting raven.

As he watched, the bird continued to metamorphose. It beat its wings again and they changed into shapely arms. It stomped its orange claws on the ground and they turned into long, well formed legs. It tilted its head from side to side as if its neck ached, and the feathers and sharp yellow beak were slowly replaced with a woman’s face. The cheekbones were high and angled, the eyes slanted at the outside corners. The hair, as black as the feathers, cascaded down her back. Everything changed but the color of the eyes. They remained the same luminous silver as the raven’s own.

“Who are you?” Dylan said. His throat was tight and dry and the words were more of a croak than actual speech. Wide-eyed, he stared at the naked woman that stood before him. Her breasts were creamy and ample, her hips round and full.

“I am Morrigu,” she said, her voice low and husky. “Do you not know me?”

Recognition dawned on him. “Forgive me, goddess. I saw you but once and I was only a child then.” He spoke quickly. Morrigu’s temper was legendary among the people who still followed the old ways. It could be deadly to cross her.

Morrigu’s eyes roamed over his slim, muscular form. “Not so any longer.” She smiled and the moonlight reflected off her wine-red lips. She ran her tongue across them, wetting them, drawing his attention to their fullness.

“Why is it I never saw you again?” he said. “I’ve sensed you, knew you were here—”

She took a step nearer. “The moment wasn’t right.”

Her musky scent rose on the air and reached Dylan. The aroma entered him like a potion. It silenced his tongue and he couldn’t speak. He continued to watch her as she approached.

Morrigu reached up and ran a long fingernail down the side of his face. He felt a  thin trickle  of blood as it seeped through his skin where she touched him. “Until now.”

Dylan opened his mouth, then closed it, still wordless. He shifted uncomfortably as the damp ground chilled his bare feet. What was going on here? Was he dreaming?

“No. No dream, my love,” she said, quietly. “I’ve been waiting for you all these years. Waiting for the perfect time to show myself to you.” She reached for his hands and placed them over her breasts. With gentle motions, she showed him how to knead them, how to pull at the dark rose peaks and tease them to hardness.