Pagan Fire, page 8
Dylan took a step forward. “You will leave, Maere cu Llwyr. And when you do, it will be as my wife.” The bird tested its wings for a moment, then flew to the window. It perched on the sill and turned jerkily to face the occupants of the room. The animal screeched loudly and disappeared through the window, its black form lost to the night. Dylan glanced in its direction as he addressed the abbess. “Please explain her duties to her. I’ll return in an hour with one of your priests.” He watched Maere for a moment. “Have your belongings gathered and be ready. I’ll not be kept waiting any longer.” He pivoted on the ball of his foot and left the abbess’ room.
Maere turned to Magrethe. “You cannot mean for me to go with this, this man.” She gestured toward the door Dylan had just passed through. “You saw him with that creature of his. He is not Christian!”
Magrethe rose and approached the younger woman, forcing a smile on her drawn face. “Yes. And as I said, what a wonderful opportunity for you, to be handed a pagan soul for conversion.” She put her palms together. “I will have a word with Father John. Given the change of events, it would be unseemly to go to your betrothed after such a penance as flagellation.”
She took Maere’s hands in her own and nodded toward the document where it rested on the floor. “The paper is binding and you must honor it. Your good uncle himself told me he would find you a husband by your eighteenth year.”
“I remember you telling me this.” Maere fell back into the chair. “So much time has passed. I had hoped he’d forgotten all about me.”
Magrethe lightly touched Maere’s cheek. “If it were up to me, you’d stay.” She shrugged. “But it is not my place. I’m sorry, but you really have no choice in this matter.” The abbess blinked and a thin tear traveled down her lightly lined cheek. “No choice whatsoever, child.”
Chapter Eleven
“You will explain yourself to me, Dylan mac Connall.” Morrigu paced back and forth in front of him. The sharp pine needles littering the ground caused her no obvious discomfort as her bare feet padded over them.
Dylan glanced up from where he sat on the damp ground, then stretched his long, muscular legs out in front of him. The fire he’d lit cast a warm glow on the goddess’ body. Normally, the sight of her in human form was enough to drive all reason from his mind. But now, he was surprised to find he actually had other thoughts. Thoughts of long copper hair and sea-green eyes. Eyes so innocent and beguiling – such a contrast to the woman before him – whose own eyes now shone with venom.
“There is nothing to explain,” he said, his voice tense.
“You are greatly mistaken.” She leaned over and aimed a sharp fingernail straight at his face. “There is much you must answer for.”
He pushed her hand aside. “Such as?”
“What are those words of marriage of which you spoke? That was not part of the agreement we made earlier. You were to only act on the betrothal, not actually wed the girl!” She straightened and presented her slim, muscled back to him. “You test my patience, mortal. Tell me now this marriage will not take place and I may let you live.”
Dylan pushed himself to his feet and stood directly behind Morrigu, a good head taller than she. But he knew this was part of her game, her temptation, to appear small and vulnerable. To appear as if she needed him. He shook his head. She didn’t need him. He realized that now. But a question remained: Did he need her? He shifted uneasily. “Are you jealous, Goddess?” he finally asked.
Morrigu turned on him in fury, her silver eyes glowing with the reflection of her sister Nimue, the moon. “I’m not certain I heard you correctly,” she said, her voice low and forbidding. “Have you accused me of possessing one of your human emotions?”
“You forget too easily how well I know you, Morrigu.” Dylan stared hard into those glinting eyes. “Dowse the fire that burns in your breast. It’s most unbecoming.”
She reached out and grabbed the back of his neck with her hand, scraping her nails along the tender flesh. Dylan flinched, but his gaze never wavered. Morrigu took a deep breath and, as the air filled her lungs, her body stretched and grew. Another breath and she was two feet taller than him. A third breath and she was so large, Dylan only reached her navel. She released him and crossed her arms in front of her. She looked down, a smug smile on her lips. “You were saying?”
Dylan walked in silence to the pine tree behind him. He touched his forehead to the rough bark and immediately saw in his mind’s eye an explosion of golden-yellow color, the amber lifeblood of the tree. “Bend, that I might stand tall,” he whispered. The tree began to shake as he stepped away from it. It continued to tremble and quake, sending dead needles to the ground as, ever so slowly, the thick trunk bowed before him. Dylan grabbed hold near the center of the tree, settled his feet on a stout branch, and said, “Rise.” Then, just as slowly, the pine righted itself until Dylan was face-to-face with Morrigu.
“I gave you this power and you would challenge me with it?” The goddess’ cheeks grew red with anger. “Without me, you are nothing,” she hissed.
“I am Dylan, son of Fox and Dara mac Connall, same as I have always been.” He lowered his voice. “With or without your assistance.”
Morrigu tossed her head back and laughed. The loud, cold sound shook the very air itself, its vibration causing all manner of forest creature to flee their nests this dark night. “Do you think you can cast me aside so easily? Do you believe there would be no repercussions for such an action?”
Dylan leaned into the tree branches and they wrapped themselves around him, cradling and protecting him. The trees were his true friends, his instincts told him that. The smell of pine tar filled his nostrils, an aroma he knew would always remind him now of Morrigu, of this moment. “It was arranged by our families all those years ago,” he said. “You know this. I must marry her. I’m bound by their pledge. ”
“No, Dylan, you aren’t. Take her away from the convent, if you insist on hiding her from Eugis, but deposit her with some unsuspecting farmer.” She smiled. “Then you and I can move on to other things.”
“For how long, Morrigu?” Dylan snorted. “How long will your fascination with me endure before you’re ready to take the next man?” Dylan touched the scar on his cheek, the scar she’d left behind the night she first made love to him.
“I would see the circle mended, Morrigu,” he said. “It was broken the night Eugis murdered our families and took Maere away from me. Do you think it’s been easy for me, spending all these years waiting, while I learned everything I could about the nature of power? Especially once I knew how to travel outside of my body and discovered where she was hidden away?” He ran a hand through his thick black hair and his eyes met the goddess’ again. “I won’t wait any longer. I am going to marry the girl, with or without your permission. Our destiny will be fulfilled.”
Morrigu nodded. “Ah, I understand,” she whispered. “You seek her power. You believe the first who beds her will share the gift she possesses, don’t you?”
Dylan reached back to rub away the tension in his neck but quickly pulled his hand away when he felt stickiness. It was covered with blood left from the goddess’ touch. Wiping his hand on his tunic, he said, “That has nothing to do with this.”
“Of course it does. You cannot fool me.” She took a step forward. “Simply take the girl’s virginity and be done with her.”
He considered the goddess’ words for a moment, the coldness of them. It was as if he was seeing her for the first time. And he wasn’t sure he liked what he saw. “No matter how much you may desire it, Maere is my betrothed and I won’t dishonor her. Manfred was my teacher and friend and I promised him I’d always take care of the girl.”
Morrigu laughed again, and her body slowly resumed its smaller, more mortal, form. Dylan bade the tree to let him down to the ground. In two long strides, he stood behind the goddess. He grabbed her shoulders and turned her to face him. “I would know what it is you find so amusing.”
“You. And your sense of honor. Do you really think that matters?” She jerked away from him. “This world exists for the strong and for those who would seize life and power, not for those who hide behind pretty words of promises to be fulfilled. I’ll tell you, Dylan, I’d assumed Aethelred and I had taught you to be more discerning.” Morrigu reached out and ran a fingertip across and down his chest. “Now, this is the last opportunity I will grant you to change your mind. Call off the marriage.”
“I cannot,” he insisted, standing his ground and refusing to waver before the goddess. “The circle must be redeemed. You know this. Balance cannot be restored until Maere and I are joined and Eugis is punished.”
Morrigu spun around, presenting him with her back again. “I could kill you, you know.” Her words hung in the air between them like icicles on a blustery winter night.
“I know this.” Dylan took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “But, like you, I do what I must.”
She held her arms out to her sides and long black feathers began to sprout from the flesh, forming thick raven wings. Morrigu turned her head and looked at him sideways. “I won’t, though.” She shook her long hair and a cascade of feathers grew, starting at her forehead and running the length of her back. “I will make you beg for forgiveness for your betrayal of me. And you will suffer for your stubbornness.” She stood on tiptoes and took flight, half-woman, half-bird, and circled a few feet above his head. “So will Maere. It will be much more interesting than simply killing you.” With an ear-splitting screech, she bolted straight into the sky, a dark outline against the stars before she blended with the night.
* * * *
Maere and Seelie walked, arms linked, down the long, sparsely-lit corridor leading from their cells to the convent chapel. Scattered candles, placed in sconces high on the stone walls, offered uneven blotches of dim yellow light and cast odd shadows as the women moved along. It would be frightening, if it weren’t so familiar.
Seelie squeezed Maere’s hand. “Everything will be fine,” she whispered. “I feel it in my bones.”
“I only wish it were so,” Maere said, her voice equally hushed. “I don’t want to leave, Seelie.” She began to cry. The quiet sobbing bounced off the heavy walls and reverberated in her ears. “I don’t want to leave.”
“Hush, now.” Seelie placed her arm around Maere’s shoulders and hugged her as they continued to walk. “You’re a strong young woman. You just don’t realize it yet.”
Maere sighed. She lifted the corner of her dark green tunic – the only article of clothing she wore to indicate she was to be a bride – and wiped away her tears. It seemed so absurd to her that she should be wearing the wedding color, the color of fertility, considering she was about to be married to a demon. “If only I had your faith.”
“It’s your faith, girl. You were the one who shared it with me that night the monk Bertrand did his evil. You just need to find it again inside of yourself.”
The pair grew silent as they approached the chapel doors. Built of thick oak and carved with intricate details of Christ’s sufferings, they had been hand rubbed over the years to a fine golden patina. Maere had always found comfort behind their heavy embrace, but now she felt stifled as the sisters stationed outside the chapel pulled them open. Now the doors became the hands of a huge dragon, beckoning her into its lair.
Maere froze, her face pale, as she peered into the chapel. The eyes of all the nuns, sitting on the stone benches, were on her. Father John stood off to the side, his arms crossed tightly in front of him, giving the impression he didn’t quite approve of the proceedings. Panic squeezed her throat. “I can’t do this,” she whispered.
Frantic, Maere began to plot her escape. She couldn’t go back out the way she came. Not with everyone behind her, watching. She’d have to go forward, try to make it to the side door before it was closed for the ceremony. She kept her eyes on the portal, considering the number of steps it would require to get to there – fifteen, twenty perhaps – until Abbess Magrethe approached, a tall candlestick in one hand, a worn leather manuscript in the other.
“Sign your name here as a record of your marriage.” She handed the book of parchment to the younger woman, along with a quill. She pulled a flask of ink from her robe.
Maere’s hand shook visibly as she took the record book and quill. Magrethe uncorked the ink bottle and held it out in front of her. “I’ll hold this for you.” As she spoke, moisture formed in her pale blue eyes and glistened in the candlelight.
Maere glanced at Seelie, who nodded at the parchment. Maere looked around the chapel. It was dark except for a few large tallow candles, their odor of fat as thick as smoke in the air, glowing brightly around the hand-hewn altar of stone. The flames illuminated the tormented figure of Jesus nailed to the cross, hanging directly above the altar. The shadows danced over the statue and seemed to highlight his agony. At this moment, Maere believed she knew how he had felt that fateful day, betrayed by all those around him, all those who professed to care. She swallowed hard, forcing back the bile that had begun to roil in the back of her throat.
She glanced at the side door again, wrestling with opposing notions: The idea of escape or of seeing her duty through. How could she stand in the way of what she had been taught was most certainly God’s will? Everyone knew your fate was determined the day you were born and was recorded by God’s own hand in a great book in heaven. If this is your desire, Lord, that I should marry this strange man, then I will abide by it, Maere prayed silently. If it is not, then please send me a sign before we are committed to each other for life. And quickly too.
Maere’s gaze dropped back to the anxious faces of the sisters, their eyes fixed on her. With a still shaky hand, she dipped the quill into the black ink and rendered her name on the wedding record, under the fancy curved handwriting of the person who claimed to be her betrothed, Dylan mac Connall.
Chapter Twelve
After signing her name, Maere silently walked up the aisle, toward the limestone altar. Carved on either side of the front legs were the letters A and U. The initials for Alpha and Omega, in Latin. The Beginning and the End. Is this how it would end for her? Married to a man she knew nothing about? Her heart skipped a beat as the subject of her thoughts entered the chapel from the same side door she had considered escaping through.
He had changed from his traveling clothes into a linen tunic and hose. A mantel of blue lined with emerald green was tossed over his shoulders, held in place with an intricately-wrought gold-and-garnet pin. His black hair was neatly combed and hung loosely to his shoulders. His expression was calm but expectant, not at all like the emotion Maere was certain showed on her face.
As Dylan took another step, he entered the candlelight fully and Maere’s stomachclenched. Oh, but she had to admit the man was handsome, with those luminous black eyes that seemed to see everything. Sweet Jesus, what was she thinking? The man was evil. He had to be! A warm blush crept over her face and just as quickly receded as another man walked into the candle’s glow.
Maere sucked in her breath. It couldn’t be! Oh, but it was, she realized with dread. The monk Bertrand, the same who had molested Seelie! Why was he here?
Maere spun around. Seelie was moving quickly toward her. The sisters began to chatter in hushed tones and a few leaned forward, eager to hear what the problem was. As her friend reached her side, Maere had the sinking feeling they should have revealed Bertrand’s deed to the abbess. Surely the two of them had imagination enough to come up with a plausible story so that the healing wouldn’t have had to be mentioned.
“Seelie,” Maere hissed, her voice a harsh whisper. They hadn’t seen the man since his deed, so they thought he had moved on to another monastery. Maere glanced back at him. His face was so serene, almost beatific, not at all the face of a murderer. Never mind the fact that Seelie was still alive, that had not been his intent. And now he had the audacity to stand before them, looking saintly in his monk’s garb. Who knew how many other women he had lured to their death?
“It doesn’t matter.” Seelie said into Maere’s ear. “Ignore him and go on with your ceremony.”
“You can’t be serious.”
“I am. I’ve forgiven him.”
“Forgiven him? How in the name of God could you forgive him for what he did?” Maere gestured toward the monk and struggled to keep her voice low. “He killed you, girl.”
Gently, Seelie turned Maere around and began escorting her toward the altar. “Being faced with death makes a person realize what’s important in this life. Carrying grudges and past hurts isn’t what matters. What matters is we do the best we can with the time God has given us.”
Maere heard the words, even felt them, but they didn’t make any sense. Her breathing grew shallow as she remembered holding Seelie as she lay dying. Maere leaned on Seelie and moved now as if in a dream, everything around her taking on a distorted, unnatural appearance. Why couldn’t she catch her breath? The sisters’ smiles were exaggerated, the chapel windows grew long and thin, even Father John looked angrier than he had earlier. As they reached the altar, she and Seelie stepped into the embrace of the candlelight. Maere took a deep breath and forced herself to focus as her eyes found the monk.
But Bertrand’s stare was fixed on Seelie. He took a step back. “You!” he hissed. “What are you doing here?”
Seelie raised her chin and stared back at him.
“Is there something amiss, Brother?” Father John asked from his place on the altar.
Bertrand didn’t respond but instead raised his arms heavenward, then dropped them in the direction of the gathered guests. “I would tell all of you. This woman,” he said, pointing at Seelie, “is a sinner in the first degree against our Lord God. Against the holy men of the cloth.”
