Cursed (2 page)

The king threw his head back, his
laughter echoing through every corner of the hall. Then he sneered at Father
Columba and waved a hand absently through the air. “You frighten me not. Be
gone, priest.”

Reluctantly, Father Columba left
the castle and made camp in the village near the walls of the castle. Just as
he finished his meager repast, one of King Brude’s men appeared at his camp
site. “The king wishes to see you at once.”

Father Columba returned to the
castle. The guard led him directly to the king’s royal bedchamber. Once inside,
Father Columba looked at the king lying on a fur coverlet upon a huge bed made
from a heavy wooden frame and springs of interlaced ropes overlaid with a
feather-filled mattress. Moaning in pain, the king writhed, his head tossing on
the pillow. Sweat soaked his shirt and breeches. Great festering sores had
broken out on his wretched skin. Yellow pus flowed freely, the stench almost
unbearable. Columina sat hunched in a chair by the bed with her head lolling
downward toward her chest.  

When Father Columba drew near the
bed, the king opened his blue, pain-filled eyes and gripped Father Columba’s
arm. For the first time since Father Columba had encountered the man, he saw
fear in the king’s eyes.

“Your powers are great.” He
rasped the words through dry, cracked lips.

“I have no power. It is God who
has smitten you with disease.”

The king’s fingers gripped
Father’s Columba’s arm tighter. “Then ask this god of yours to release me from
this plague and I will free her.”

Relief swept through Father
Columba. “Very well, but I will need to fetch some water and a white healing
stone from the river Ness.”

Father Columba walked down to the
river Ness with one of the king’s men, who held an earthen jug in his hand.
Overhead, the clear sky mingled with the gleam of the setting sun and painted
the horizon in bright, orange hues. Father Columba turned to the man. “Fill the
jug with water while I look for a stone.”

Father Columba removed his boots
and waded into the shallows. The frigid water sliced into his skin like tiny
knives, but he ignored the cold and pinned his eyes on the sandy bottom of the
clear river. After a long while, he spied a pure white stone about the size of
his thumb. He bent over and picked it up. Holding the stone in the palm of one
hand, he made the sign of the cross blessing it. The moment he finished the
blessing, a glow like the moon’s silver light emanated from the stone. Father
Columba turned to the guard who stood impatiently waiting for him on the
shoreline. “I have found the healing stone.”

Once they returned to the king’s bedchamber,
Father Columba took the pitcher of water and stood close to the king’s bed. The
king’s pain had grown worse and the sores had increased tenfold over his skin.
Father Columba blessed the water before dropping the stone into the pitcher.
Instead of sinking to the bottom, the stone floated on the water’s surface.

Father Columba motioned to one of
the king’s servants. “Help him sit up so that he may drink.”

A servant hastened to help the
king. Father Columba held the rim of the jug to the king’s mouth. “Sip this
water and you will be made well again.”

The king drank. Water dribbled
down his chin and over the sores. His moaning stopped as the pain lessened and
the sores began to heal and slowly disappear. Regaining some of his strength,
the king grabbed the pitcher and drank great gulps of the water. The water
overflowed the sides of the pitcher and swept the stone down, where it landed
on the bedclothes.

Columina, who had merely sat in a
dazed stupor before, rose from her chair and quickly reached out toward the
stone with her thin, dirty hand. Seeing the king cured must have revived her.
When she held the rock in her palm, a pure band of light surrounded the stone.

Father Columba’s heart rejoiced
at the sight. King Brude, now cured of his illness, climbed from the bed.
Columina held the stone out for all to see. “A river that can produce such a
healing stone is truly blessed.”

King Brude tried to take the
stone from Columina’s hand, but she pulled away from his grasp. He leaned
toward her again, grabbing Columina and wrenching the stone from where she
clasped it tight in her fingers. The king held the stone in his palm, and
Father Columba saw the stone glow a dull red against his skin. The halo of
white he’d seen when Columina touched it was a sign of her purity. King Brude’s
touch revealed his corrupt spirit.

The king grinned down at the
stone. “I must keep this stone, for it is truly made of magic.”

Father Columba stepped toward the
king. “It is not made of magic but is blessed with God’s mercy. You said
yourself you do not believe in God. This stone is imbued with God’s power. It
should be kept in a church.”

The king jerked his hand away.
“No, it is mine now. You came for the maid. Her, you may have. The stone I will
keep.”

Father Columba did not want to
leave the stone in the possession of a barbarian but what else could he do?
 He thought for a moment. Perhaps he could appeal to the king’s arrogance.
“If you build a chapel where the stone might be kept, you will be seen as a
just and mighty king not only to your people but to the world as well.”

The king eyed Father Columba with
skepticism. “Why should I build a chapel in praise of a god in which I do not
believe?”

Before Father Columba could answer, one of
the king’s men ran into the room. “King Brude, your land has been invaded by
tribes from the south.”

“Gather the army. We will drive
them out.” The newly cured king placed the stone in a pouch which hung from his
waist and swept from the room.

One of the king’s guards remained
behind. Burly and tall, he looked at Father Columba in awe and reverence as he
drew near to his side. “Father, I have witnessed with my own eyes the king’s
health taken and restored.”  He laid a hand on Father Columba’s shoulder.
“I believe in the power of your god.” Without another word, he ran through the
doorway.

With his cousin safe by his side,
Father Columba returned to his campsite and treated her wounds. He secured
clothing for her from one of the villagers before lying down to rest.

Early the next morning a light
snow lay over the desolate moor and fog hung low in the air. The man who had
confessed his belief in God arrived on horseback. He slid from his lathered
mount. Blood splattered his breastplate, breeches, and hands. An oozing cut
marred one arm. He walked slowly to Father Columba and knelt on one knee on the
cold ground.

Without speaking, he untied from
his waist a small pouch similar to the one in which King Brude had placed the
stone. He opened the sack and emptied the contents into his hand. When he
spread his grimy, blood-coated fingers, the white stone lay in his palm. A halo
of pure light ringed the stone. The man lifted his head and looked at Father
Columba with dark gray eyes. “King Brude is dead. Upon his death, I took the
stone to bring it back to you. I am called Gamen. If you will allow me, I will
build the chapel to honor your god and pledge my life in protection of this
stone he blessed.”

* * * *

Inverness, Scotland

17 October 764

Brother Kenneth of the Order of
the Dove entered the church of St. Columba to prepare for mass. He held a
rushlight in one hand and a plate containing slices of fresh bread for the
Eucharist. Shadows danced about the small stone chapel in the early morning
darkness. A light rain fell and Brother Kenneth listened to the soft sounds of
the rain pattering on the leaves and grass outside.

As was his habit, he walked to a
table which sat under a narrow arched window on the altar. He set down the
candle along with the plate of bread on the table. The stone pillow, upon which
St. Columba once rested his head, lay in the center.

Two hundred years had passed
since the white healing stone had cured the Pictish King Brude. Gamen, the
first member of the Order of the Dove, had set the healing stone into a gold pendant
fashioned in the shape of a dove and placed as a holy relic in the church.
Through the centuries, each member of the order swore to protect and preserve
the stone at the cost of his own life.

Brother Kenneth heard a scraping
noise and turned but saw nothing but candlelight and shadows. He reached for a
jug of wine to mix with some water as a man’s arm clasped him tightly around
the neck. He staggered and fell against the man’s chest. Brother Kenneth
gripped the arm that held him and pulled, trying in vain to loosen the pressure
at his throat. The smell of wood smoke permeated the assailant’s clothing;
breath heavy with the scent of ale blew over his face. A dagger’s cold blade
pressed against the base of this throat. Jagged fear froze his blood; his breath
puffed from his lips in rapid pants. Reaching for inner strength, Brother
Kenneth focused his gaze upward at a loosened rock in the wall above the altar.
The brothers kept the pendant wrapped in cloth, hidden in a space behind the
rock, except during mass, when they placed it on St. Columba’s stone pillow.

Saint Columba, deliver me from
this man’s clutches so that I might continue to preserve the pendant
.

“Where is the pendant?” The man’s
voice rasped in a threatening tone next to his ear. Brother Kenneth opened his
mouth in an effort to breathe and tried to speak. “I cannot tell you.”  He
uttered the words in a suffocated wheeze. “I am sworn to protect it.”

The man sliced his skin with the
edge of the blade. “Where is it?”

Brother Kenneth felt his life
blood dribble in a warm stream down his neck. Black spots danced in front of
his eyes as he kept his gaze on the stone.
If only I could touch the
pendant, my life might be preserved
. He did not want to die at the hands of
this ruffian. When he took his vows, he had sworn that he was ready to die to
protect the pendant but in truth, he was afraid of death. “Let me go and I will
get the pendant.”

Thankfully, the man’s arm
loosened and he lowered his hand which held the dagger. “No tricks.”

Brother Kenneth sucked in a
breath of much needed air, turned, and looked at his captor. He saw an ordinary
man, dressed in gray britches and tunic with desperation in his dark eyes. “Are
you or a member of your family in need of healing? All you need to do is ask
and the abbot will--”

“I’m not sick.” He jabbed the
knife in Brother Kenneth’s direction, causing him to flinch. “Now get the
pendant!”

Brother Kenneth flicked his gaze
from the dagger to the door of the chapel only a few feet away. Perhaps he
could make it. It was his only chance. He ran but his attacker jumped him. The
both fell with a grunt to the hard stone floor. The man jerked him over onto
his back, brought the point of the dagger to his throat, and stared into
Brother Kenneth’s eyes. Brother Kenneth felt the blade cut deep into the flesh
of his throat. Fear, cold and terrible, shuddered through his body. Knowing he
was going to die, once again Brother Kenneth focused his gaze upward toward the
loose rock beneath the narrow arched window.
Dear God, the healing stone is
so close…might I not feel its power again?

The man followed Brother
Kenneth’s line of sight. “What are you looking at?”

He kept his gaze on the rock and
the salvation he could not grasp. “I’ll die before I tell you.”

* * * *

When the monks filed into the chapel later
for mass, the abbot of St. Columba’s gaze fell upon the sprawled form of
Brother Kenneth lying beneath the altar, his throat slashed and his eyes open
and empty. Blood pooled around him in a dark, clotted mass. The loose rock lay
on the floor by his body, and the cloth which they used to wrap the pendant had
been thrown like a useless rag onto his body.

The abbot’s eyes widened at the
sight. He raced toward the body. “Brother Kenneth!”

The other monks rushed to their
fallen brother as the abbot knelt next to his body. The monks gasped and
murmured and cried out. The abbot administered last rites before rising slowly
to his feet. He turned and faced the monks. “Our brother is dead and the
pendant has been stolen.”

A groan of disbelief undulated
among the monks. The abbot lifted his hands up in the air with the palms facing
outward. “From this day forward, we will search unto the ends of the earth if
necessary for the pendant. Until it is safely returned to this church, any man
who acquires the pendant is doomed to die a violent death.”

Chapter One

Denver, Colorado

Present Day

The last of the gentleman jewel
thieves was back.

Scalding fury burned through Abel O’Brien’s
throat. He slammed a fist onto the top of the desk in the study of his Cherry
Creek home. “Damn it. How could he have robbed
me?
I’m the D.A., for
Christ’s sake!”