ROOK AND RAVEN: The Celtic Kingdom Trilogy Book One (10 page)

Conal nodded his head to the other men before he lowered himself into the armed chair at the head of the long table and gestured for his men to seat themselves.  The Englishmen followed suit except for Tamworth who moved to the sideboard as a young footman knelt to light the logs in the large ornate fireplace. He had instinctively made to move for the chair at the head of the table, now taken by the king, and had tried to cover his move by heading for the sideboard instead. He didn’t know if it pained the man to defer to him or not, but it would bear watching.

“
Your M-, uhm, I am certain you would care for a glass of port or a brandy after your ride?” he addressed the king with a sidelong look at the footman.  Tamworth ushered the footman out with a gesture and made certain the door was solidly closed.  

“A glass of whiskey if you have it Duke and if you do I’m certain it would not come amiss to my men either,” and the sibilant sound of the word whiskey once again betrayed that faint accent.  A glass was handed to him and a tray with glasses and a decanter of rich amber whiskey was set upon the table for the others to help themselves.

“Allow me, your majesty, to introduce to you Jonathon Lydell Viscount

Coughlin,” the taller, dark haired and rather hawk nosed of the men bowed, “and Sir Bertram Rathborn,” and this one Conal noted was a bit younger than these other Englishmen with keen eyes in a pale face topped with a mop of carefully styled brown hair.  “His majesty, King George, has selected these gentlemen himself to assist us in our endeavors sire.  It is unlikely that with all that needs to be done that any of us will be able to stay here without break before we are ready for the trip to London, so we shall rotate our responsibilities of seeing to your requests and safety while at Menwith,” the duke explained.

A carved box was held open before him releasing the heavy aroma of expensive cigars.  He helped himself to one and took a moment to roll it between his strong fingers before cutting and lighting it.  Another memory of things long past as he had not enjoyed a cigar since the last time he sat after a meal with his father.  The thought brought a sharp pain in the center of a chest that had gone tight with longing.  As he took a deep draw of the smoke and exhaled his mind whispered a heartfelt pledge to his father, I will not fail, and that I promise.   

After only a few moments as the fire found its way to roaring and two more servants had brought in several platters loaded with cold beef, cheeses, breads and fruits, Conal called their attention to himself as he stood from the table.

“Now that we all have some drink and sustenance before us, and privacy, we must clarify our position and our plans for the coming days.  First I would like to thank each of you gentleman,” and he acknowledged with a small bow each of the Englishmen, “We have only a short time in which to stay here, I believe, with any degree of safety or anonymity.  It seems best if we are agreed on our course of action as quickly as possible.” 

“In my role as his Majesty King George’s representative I have been given the task of presenting to you our government’s plans for your reinstatement. 

The Prime Minister, Lord Liverpool, is most anxious to meet with you as well. 

You are correct that any extended time here is not to anyone’s benefit,” Tamworth spoke with some gravity.

“With your permission, shall we wait ‘til tomorrow when you have all recovered from the voyage, to further discuss planning?” Conal nodded his agreement to Tamworth’s proposal.  He was bone tired and wanted to be clear headed once plans and negotiations began in earnest.  The worst of it would be the lack of funds and his gut clenched at the idea of being a beggar at England’s table.

“I would like to propose a toast,” Tamworth stood before the leaping fire and he raised his glass.  The flames caught in the amber liquid and crystal facets throwing golden sparks like the stroke of a sword against stone.

“To Celtica!  And to the true king!” the Duke boldly proclaimed.  

‘To Celtica! To King Conal and the House of Llyr!” The men roared glasses raised high.

‘And to kicking that bastard Ulrich’s arse off the throne!”  Brendan added.

“I can definitely drink to that sentiment!” the King smiled grimly.  Nothing would give him greater pleasure than to personally kill the man who had murdered his father and taken his birthright.  As the whiskey burned clean and hot down his throat he could only think that his need for revenge had not cooled at all in over twenty years.  The moment was so close now.  The
wheels were set in motion and nothing,
nothing
could be allowed to stand in the way of victory.  He certainly had no room for pride, to beg if need be to get the ships, the money and the men he would need to bring the force required to give them a fighting chance.

Further east, on a small, shallow tributary of the Thames, not far from where it entered into the Channel, an old man leaned against a tree in the dark enjoying a pipe.  His daughter didn’t allow him to smoke it near their small cottage and so he often wandered to water’s edge to listen to the water.  The smell of the familiar water and wind he had known all his life was soothing.  Tonight however, he found himself hurriedly dowsing his pipe’s faint glow.  Maybe he was old, maybe his mind was imagining things that weren’t there, but a boat like in a picture book he had once seen was silently making its way up the small tributary.

With a high curved prow carved like the head of a fierce beaked bird a black ship, a Viking long boat, was stealthily rowing along.  Instead of the figures he had seen in the book of long haired men in skins and furs, instead of a hull hung with shields, he saw rows of black robed men.  They reminded of the Catholic priests one still saw occasionally.  The faint moonlight crossed faces that were white as death, eyes that reflected no light, lips that seemed too black even in the darkness of night.  He could see the sides of their heads were shaved, not the tops like Christian monks, and strange markings, tattoos sailors called them, arched and curved own the sides of their heads and ears.      

He thought maybe this was a vision of death, like the old stories of the Hunt.  He wasn’t sure of anything other than something sinister had come to England, he didn’t want to be seen, so he sat still as death himself, holding his breath in silence until they passed.

He took in a gasp of air watching the darkness around him and peering up the river.  His skin had gone cold as ice.  He hadn’t been that frightened since he had served in the army in the colonies.  The figures had reminded him of the Iroquois Indians he had come across, savage, tattooed with strange shaved heads.  He still occasionally had nightmares haunted by their war cries.  Something about these still figures tonight had been even more frightening.  He had seen death.  These men, unmistakably, carried death with them.  He only hoped they kept going and stayed away from him and his family. 

Conal woke the next morning as he often did, slowly and carefully lest the last vestiges of his dream flee too quickly with the morning light.  His breath slow, his eyes still closed he would carefully linger in that twilight land of waking and sleeping as she slipped away with the receding night.  The dreams would be so real that he could swear he truly did smell the heather of that field and lemon verbena from her hair. The breath of her laughter was still warm on his cheek.  He could feel the silk of her hair twined in his fingers and the sense of total contentment that had not been his anywhere but in his dreams since the day they had parted.  

Light of day always came too soon.  The day he dreamed of was gone and never to return.  All he had now, and that he would fight to regain, would be touched by a shadow, an empty space where she should have stood.  It was only in dreams that he would ever lay in that meadow again with wildflowers tangled in her hair and her eyes lit like sunlight on a mountain stream.  She had been beautiful, but it wasn’t her beauty that sliced the heart out of him in loss, it was the spirit of her.  She had filled his veins, beat like his own heart and brought him such joy that it had flowed between them like a river bursting its banks.  Love had been a flood that had swept them away until Ulrich and the Gooar had in turn swept all he loved into oblivion.  

He had sent her away to safety in those last terrible days, thinking to win through and be reunited.  He had failed and never seen nor heard from her again.  It had been for her own safety as much as his, and he had nurtured a seed of hope through all the dark years that he would see her again, somehow be reunited.  It was a hope that more than the return of his kingdom that kept him alive, feeding upon faith.  

Brendan had, with tears in his eyes, last night admitted he had gone in search so Conal would know what had become of her.  The search had ended in a headstone.  He waved Brendan away and turned his back amazed how wrenching it would be to know she was truly gone. He had failed her twenty six years ago and if he was honest with himself he feared now to see the results of that failure.  Deep down his greatest fear had come true to find her light had gone out and all chance of seeing her anywhere but in his dreams had indeed perished.   He wanted to know nothing more or the task ahead would be even harder than it already was.

Eight years ago he had been caught in a terrible storm at sea.  The small village in which he had remained hidden all these years subsisted largely on the hard labor of its fisherman.  Celtica’s king in hiding had become an adept seaman laborer.  After three days of being torn apart and close to sinking in the vicious waters they had limped into the small home harbor shaking with ague and hunger.  He had developed a ravaging illness and all feared his death.

He had quite resigned himself that he was going to die.  The fever had engulfed him, his body was racked with pain and be could barely draw breath through the liquid he could feel bubbling in his lungs.  Late on what he truly believed was his last night on earth he had heard his name spoken.  At first it had seemed merely a whisper and he had turned his head away.  Then much louder and with a firm tone of authority he had heard it again.

“Conal,” the voiced insisted.

He opened his eyes to what should have been darkness to find his room blazing with light.  Standing beside his bed fierce and beautiful as an ancient Celtic goddess was the love of his life.  In his fevered state he was certain he was having a very powerful but welcome hallucination.  

“You will live Conal.  It is not time my love.  Live and fight.  Your people need you.  You shall heal. You will
not
give up!  Do you hear me?  The time will come and you must be strong. Do not lose faith.  By Rhiannon, you shall live. 

Know this and that I shall be with you always.” 

He saw his hand raise up of its own volition toward the vision, her name on his lips, but with a sigh like the ocean wind she was gone and the room once more in darkness.   He woke again hours later to find himself hungry.  That in itself was a shock as he couldn’t remember when he had last wanted or been able to keep down any food.  Even more shocking was his ability to take a deep breath and the realization that he was free of the killing fever.  He would live after all.

Had it been a dream he wondered or her last act upon this earth?  If she had been a ghost he could only regret he had not had one last chance to say farewell or pass into the afterlife at her side.  He would see her again one day on the other side or there was no mercy in existence.

CHAPTER TEN

With the sun more fully above the horizon Jessamy woke to strong sunlight.  Monday oh Monday!   It was the dark day of the theater and a day of freedom.  With the current play nearing its successful conclusion there would be no rehearsals.  She could take her time getting up and a moment to consider her dreams of the night.

It wasn’t the first time she had this particular dream.  It was never well defined, nothing much actually happened, but it was always the same.  She stood upon the high wall of a castle at dusk wrapped in furs.   Snowcapped peaks towered in the distance while below green foothills and jagged cliffs fell away to the sea.  She had a sense of intense longing, she knew not why or for what.  She only knew she was waiting for some signal or possibly someone.  

The air was clean and cold and she knew she loved wherever she happened to be but felt trapped in a cloud of fear as if she stood upon those walls searching for some sign of impending doom.  Something was coming, she wished would stay away.  It always ended by her turning her head to see a raven, radiating malignance, peering at her from its perch along the stone wall. Its eyes gleamed with a knowing intelligence and it was at this moment she always woke on a choked gasp of fear as a women’s voice screamed what sounded like a dire warning in a language she could not understand.

She was certain she had never been to this place she dreamed of and she wondered why her mind conjured the image, this moment, night after night for years.  It reminded her of her mother’s descriptions of Celtica but the voice was not speaking Caelig. The dream was disturbing and the feelings it stirred left her unsettled.  Asleep it seemed so imperative she heed the voice and understood what was coming.  She would have to remind herself as she lay shaking and awake that it was just a dream and nothing more.

What she could not know was that it wasn’t so much a dream as one woman’s attempt to reach out across the ages to save another...