Pagan Fire, page 2
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.
“Tell me, Dylan mac Connall. What do you want more than anything from this lifetime?”
His face hardened. He found the full strength of his voice and answered, “Revenge.”
She tossed back her head and laughed, the sound a spell in itself. It stroked and taunted him. He felt desire begin to burn in his loins. Desire for the goddess and desire for the death of the man who had destroyed his life.
Morrigu’s eyes locked onto his. She touched his shoulders and forced him to his knees. “Remember this feeling,” she said. “The desire for revenge can rage as hot as the desire for a woman. But do not let one interfere with the other.”
He looked up at her, puzzled.
She laughed again. “For now, do not fret over what I say. You will have time enough to ponder the meaning of my words.” She leaned over him and dangled a full breast above his lips. He took it in his mouth like a ripe peach and suckled. Morrigu wrapped her fingers in his black hair and pulled his head tighter against her bosom. “Sweet Dylan,” she moaned, “you shall have all that you wish from me. Tonight, I will teach you the magic of love. Tomorrow, I will set you forth on your quest for vengeance.”
Chapter Two
The iron chapel bells clanged loudly, proclaiming time for Matins. Maere pushed herself up and out of the bed. Her bare feet landed on the cold stone floor without a sound. Yawning, she stretched and rubbed her eyes. It seemed as if she’d only just fallen back to sleep after that terrible dream. She shivered, feeling the eyes still upon her.
“Oh, Mama, I wish you were here,” Maere whispered as she sat back down on the cot. She hugged her arms around her, tears filling her eyes. Sweet Mary, but it’d been such a long time since she’d even thought of her mother. Too long, she realized. She searched her memory for anything she could hold onto – eyes that smiled, the curve of a cheekbone. Did her mother smell of the cooking fire or of sage and lavender and heather? Did she look like her, with dark copper hair and freckles across her nose?
Try as she might, she couldn’t recall much except the remnants of a warm smile and comforting hug. Maere rubbed her eyes again. Why did those cursed Vikings come to their land, wreaking death and destruction? And why did it have to be her family who was struck so brutally, leaving her orphaned and alone?
If only she could remember, perhaps she could begin to understand what happened that night when her mother and father were murdered. But even now, with nearly ten years passed, she only knew of their fate at the hands of the Northmen because Abbess Magrethe had told her it was so. She sighed and hung her head. Her mind was blank to what life was like before coming to St. Columba’s. Abbess said it was because of the shock of witnessing such an evil act. Maere had prayed many a night, until she was hoarse, asking the Virgin for intercession. Maere so wanted the memories to return. Still, her pleas went unanswered.
Maere thought she recalled an uncle, but wasn’t sure it was a true remembering, or the result of Abbess mentioning him from time to time over the years. Magrethe said Eugis was a kind man who had taken her in when Mama and Papa were killed. Being unmarried, he had thought it best that Maere receive her education at the convent. He had promised to return for her when she turned eighteen, that she might be married.
In her heart of hearts, Maere secretly hoped that in the span of the years she’d been here he’d forgotten about her and would let her be. Then she’d be free to take her vows and join the sisters as one of them. They were all dear to her and, in truth, the only family she had ever known. She sighed again. Or, at the very least, the only one she could remember.
“Sweet Jesus,” she prayed as she stood and pulled on the rough tan habit of the novitiate, “Please guide me that I may know what to do.” With a long tired breath, she fastened her black mantle over her shoulders with a simple silver clasp. Then she braided her long hair into a single plait.
A sharp rap sounded at the door and sent her thoughts scattering. “Maere? You’ll be late!”
“Yes, sister. I’m almost ready,” she called back. She arranged a short veil on her head. As she readied to leave the room, Maere paused at the door, the conversation with Magrethe the night before on her mind. Could it be that what the older woman said was true? Could it be that she’d actually invited the devil himself into her dreams? That he was seducing her with thoughts of the flesh? If it were the devil’s work, then surely there would be some sign. A flash of red eyes flickered in her mind’s eye, a startling reminder of her dreams. Fear washed over. Oh, but she was tired of being afraid all the time, afraid of the dark and fire and cows, of all things! The devil be damned, she thought, refusing to consider the possibility any further.
Her hand on the door, she realized there were other young women at St. Columba’s who were plagued so with thoughts of men and the flesh. For their penance, the priest had stripped them to the waist and beaten those ideas out of them with a leather whip. She shuddered as she imagined herself bared for the world to see, the sting of leather tearing into her soft flesh. She instinctively crossed her arms over her full breasts, held almost flat by the binding cloth the sisters insisted all the women wear.
Maere shook her head again. Why in heaven’s name did the abbess have to suggest such a notion? She knew Maere would fixate on it and worry over the sanctity of her precious soul.
No, she decided. She would not tell the priest. She would try to be more careful, to not be so afraid, to not cry out and talk of a man coming after her. She slipped on her suede sandals as the bell rang again and padded softly out of the room.
After Matins, Lauds, and Prime, the sisters gathered in the dining room at eight for a silent breakfast of hot cider and thick crusty bread. They sat elbow-to-elbow on hard benches at a table long enough to seat all twenty of them, ten on either side. The only sounds in the white-plastered room were wooden sticks beating against the clay cups as the sisters stirred their drinks. The thick sweet liquid stuck to the sides of the vessels, and chunks of apple had to be scooped out with bits of bread. It was good and filling, exactly what was needed for a cool day.
One of the novitiates shifted in her seat and the sunlight broke through the window and across the table. Maere turned her head, squinting horribly, as the rays hit her directly in the eyes.
The girl who had moved elbowed the one sitting to the right of her. They both giggled. “What are those terrible faces you’re making?” Seelie whispered.
Maere glanced quickly at her friend, then pulled her veil down to shade her face. “It’s the sun. You know it hurts my eyes.”
“I know you like to complain!” Seelie said, louder than she intended.
“That’s not true,” Maere said, even louder.
“Seelie. Maere.” The young women clamped their mouths shut and stood when Abbess Magrethe called out their names.
“You both know better than to speak during the morning meal. You are supposed to be reflecting on the scriptures you heard earlier today.” Magrethe stared at her charges. “For your punishment, the two of you will clean these dishes away by yourselves.” She looked around the room. “Any of you who were assigned to this duty can help in the yard. We’ll be clearing a new garden plot near the well.” With that, the abbess stood, dusted the crumbs from her apron, then turned and left the room.
As soon as everyone finished eating, they filed out of the dining area, one by one, and headed through the heavy timber doorway that led outside. There, they would see to their separate duties of planting the garden, feeding the livestock, or boiling the laundry over a large open fire. Maere hated that job the most. There was something about the size of the flames and incredible heat that stirred an uneasy emotion within her. Whenever it came her turn to wash clothes, she begged and pleaded with anyone who’d listen to be let out of the duty. After a while, the sister in charge of scheduling the weekly chores must’ve grown weary of the ruckus, because she quit making Maere take part in that job.
Maere glared at the girl. “Why’d you do that, Seelie?” She scooped up a willow basket half-full of bread and cradled it in her arms. “Why do you mock people all the time? It’s not Christian, you know.”
Seelie laughed. “I’m sorry, my friend.” She affectionately squeezed Maere’s arm. “Forgive me?”
“I suppose I’ll have to, since you asked.” She spun around and headed for the kitchen, calling behind her, “Of course, if you hadn’t asked, I wouldn’t’ve had to now, would I?” Maere dropped the basket on the well-worn wooden counter then paused for a moment. Her smile faded as she looked out the small window over the soapstone sink. Beyond the outer walls was a thick stand of trees. She felt the eyes again, watching, boring into her. She made a quick sign of the cross over the center of her chest.
“Maere, I was speaking to you.”
Startled, Maere spun around and almost dropped the heavy clay cup she had absently picked up. She juggled it back and forth before finally steadying it enough to put it down. “I’m sorry, Seelie. What was it you were saying?”
“I asked if you’ve seen the new monk who came to visit the convent yesterday.” Seelie held her arms out to her sides and twirled around. Her long blonde hair, unbound, fanned out around her from beneath her small veil. “He’s so young and handsome,” she sighed.
“Of course I haven’t noticed him. I have more important things to do with my time.” Maere placed the cups into the round washtub. She dragged an iron bucket of water over to the hearth and hoisted it onto the hook to boil. She wiped her brow then returned to the dining room for more dishes. Seelie was always on the prowl for good-looking men. Of course, she never admitted it to her confessor, so she’d yet to be beaten as penance for it. “Why do you ask?”
“Why do I ask? Is there something wrong with you, girl? Have you no eyes in that head of yours?” Seelie followed Maere back into the kitchen with several trenchers in her hands. “Can you honestly tell me you’ve never noticed a man or thought what it might be like to be with one?” She shook her finger as she put the plates down. “Don’t lie to me now, Maere cu Llwyr. I’ve known you for too long.”
Maere’s back stiffened. She fumbled and dropped one of the cups on the floor. With a loud clatter, it broke into a several large pieces. Her friend crouched down and picked up the shards. She put them in the garbage barrel and turned back to Maere. “I’d say that answers my question,” she said, dusting her hands on her apron.
“You have to swear not to tell,” Maere cried. “Promise me!” she all but shrieked. Seelie might be a friend but even she didn’t know the details of her dreams. If anyone other than Abbess Magrethe even remotely suspected she kept seeing a man in her sleep, why, who knew what might happen to her?
“Is there something wrong in there?” one of the sisters called through the kitchen window as she walked past. “Did I hear something break?”
“Everything is fine, Sister Emmanuel. Nothing to worry about,” Seelie answered. She looked at her companion and smiled. “I’ll strike a bargain with you, Maere. If you pretend that I’m in your cell tonight, praying, I won’t tell any of them your secret thoughts.”
