ROOK AND RAVEN: The Celtic Kingdom Trilogy Book One (2 page)

Stepping forward with agile grace, tall and lithe in her fitted men’s clothing, she briefly drew back her hood to show her face and hair more clearly in the pale moonlight.  She quickly shrouded herself in darkness once more.  He understood why she did it when he saw her, for there was no mistaking her ancestry.  The hair he had seen was dark, red as blood, and even in the low light her eyes had gleamed like the moon across the sea; a distinct silver gray. The thin nose, determined chin and high cheekbones combined with the hair and eyes and he felt his heart contract, once, painfully. This could be none other than a daughter of Ban of Govannon.   

“You are a Govannon,” Conal stated quietly and without doubt.

With one hand on her sword and a smile like a feral cat she answered, “Ciara Govannon your majesty and I have the honor to see you safely to England,” she turned, rapidly giving a series of hand signals to the men. They had the anchor drawn up and the sails set in a flash.  She was clearly a woman of command. If she was anything like her father, she would be one more valuable asset to this all or nothing venture.  Govannons had always been the fiercest and most loyal of Celtica’s warriors.  

The ship moved fast and smooth on the outgoing tide, picking up speed as it rounded the long headland that sheltered the fishing village.  The sails creaked and the lines strained as they cut out into the open ocean. He had come to love the sea in all these years, it had provided him with a sense of freedom when he had most often felt caged and helpless, hiding while he knew his people still harried and resisted the Black Axes.  Now with Ciara and Gavin on each side of him he lifted his face to the wind and breathed deeply of the salty night air.  For the first time in his life salt smelled like anticipation and
dochas
, hope.

The moments passed tensely as they closed in on the last vestiges of The Mist.  What had once been so thick it had hidden their kingdom from all but those the Priestesses chose to let pass, it had been nothing for a thousand years but a smoky bank of thin mist. It was mere wisps that marked the edge of Celtica’s waters.  If they made it past this thin barrier without the Gooar stopping them they had a good chance of reaching England.  Other than the crew working silently and determinedly to coax as much speed as possible from the ship, everyone else seemed turned to stone as they kept sharp eyes out for any other movement across the waters. 

While the long boats of the Vikings were swift they were no match for the many sails and advanced design of the English built sloop skimming across the water.  So much had not changed for the Vikings who lived in the kingdom for centuries.  Conal remembered his own father’s refusal to join the 19
th
Century.  He had clung to the old ways until the disastrously poor plan to try and unify the kingdom.  King Niall’s strategy had only led to war and failure. It was now to his advantage that the Gooar Odin was nearly maniacal in its adherence to tradition.  His alliance with the English could bring him many military advantages.  They would need them to combat the powerful magic and cunning minds that led the Black Axes.

Through the thin mist he suddenly saw a woman materialize upon the forward bow; a tall, dark haired, woman clad in a simple green cloak and gown.  She shimmered with a pale illumination and raised one slim hand in a clear sign of blessing.  Every member of the crew was immediately on their knees but he stood and faced her. As their eyes met and held she faded before his eyes. He almost rubbed his eyes the visitation happened so quickly, but he knew he had not imagine her presence.  Something grew warm in his pocket and reaching a hand in he found what looked like a piece of flat amber with the markings of a compass engraved upon its surface. As he held it he heard a woman’s voice whisper “A guide to find friends that are true, blessings of

Rhiannon upon you Conal child of Niall.” 

“Ah,” he heard Ciara nearly sigh as she leaned over to see what he held,

“I wondered how she planned for Rook and Bishop to contact you. The Lady of Rhiannon is a canny one.  Hard as we have fought I know without her and the priestesses we wouldn’t be here tonight with another chance at victory.”

Conal felt a bit foolish to ask but had to as he studied what he held, “It looks like a compass but is it? It hasn’t a needle. She said it was to find friends that are true.”

“Is that what she said? If she isn’t speaking directly to someone, in her spirit form, no one else can hear her except as a faint breeze.  These compasses are rare and only the priestesses can imprint them.  The magic allows you to find or be found by those whose help you need. It will turn upon your palm and guide you. If it grows warm in someone’s presence you know you can trust them.  The Gooar has spies everywhere but only the higher ranked can sense magic being used.  Well, unless it’s very powerful magic.  We are fortunate to have such clever ladies on our side,” and she smiled again in that way that reminded him of a cat, and so strongly of her fierce and wily father.

He pocketed the amber safely with a stern reminder to himself not to lose it. “This Bishop and Rook are our agents in England?”

“Our best sent ahead to prepare for you.  Neither is kingdom born, they are Englishmen, but you can trust both absolutely I swear. Bishop you have already met.”

“I haven’t met anyone working for the cause in all the years I have lived in the village,” of that he was certain.  He had been completely cut off. 

Ciara laughed softly and shook her head. “You might know him as Mordent the Mad.” At the king’s look of shock she laughed again, “I did say our best agents.  Bishop is a master of disguise.  I’ve known him for years and he still fools even me. Bishop is one of the few allowed to have studied with the priestesses.  He is a very talented man. He makes an excellent mad vagabond.

Rook is his right hand, the hand with the dagger,” her voice held a note of grim satisfaction.

“An assassin?” he raised an eyebrow.

“We all do what is necessary for Celtica your majesty,” she stated simply.

Now it is my turn, he thought, to do what is necessary. What was necessary was to remove every last one of those bloody, pure blood obsessed priests who had made a shambles of his kingdom. He would do it if it meant killing every last one of them himself; magic or no magic. 

What Conal could not know was from a high tower in the palace at Lyradon his escape to England had been allowed by his greatest enemy. Olav laughed softly to himself.  Once he had recovered from the rage engendered by his discovery that the whelp of the house of Llyr had been hiding under his nose all these years, he had begun to adjust his own long held plans.  He had worked devotedly, tirelessly, blood line to blood line had been crossed and re
-crossed, his “children” of the blood trained and prepared.  With their information, their infiltration of the English and Celtic supporters of the House of Llyr, he had learned of Conal being alive and well.  Without their success he might never have known, nor been prepared with a plan.  He was proud of his ‘children.’

When he smiled, the blue tattooed lips stretched, the empty eye socket pulled and sunk even further into his head.  He pulled back the black hood of his robe to reveal a head shaved up the sides with a tightly woven braid of ink black hair cresting his head and dropping low down his back. He rubbed his long, spidery fingers along the ritual scars of his face.  The moment had come at last.  This time he was sure they would succeed in cleansing this island.  He
had every hope and belief that the prophecy given to him a thousand years ago on the death of Freya would finally come to pass.  He still regretted her death.  She had done as asked then, even though it killed her.  While the plot had not fully worked at the time, she
had
provided him with what he needed to fulfill his plan.  His patience would at last lead to total success.

His continued failure to produce the necessary blood sacrifice of the prophecy was all that plagued him.  It also angered him and his anger had many victims.  His own priests, while subservient to his wishes even unto death, feared his wrath.  But he had over a thousand years of knowledge and magic at his blackened fingertips, entrenched in his ruthless and clever mind.  He was so close now and his twins, waiting in England may have bred true with the experiments and be able to provide what he needed.  He had not been able to risk bringing the man to Celtica to see if he could produce on the Llyr girl, but it could happen in England too, it only mattered that it
worked
.

He could hear the screams of the girl, one of the last children of the blood of Llyr, from the next room.  Ulrich, his own puppet king, was trying yet again to plant his seed in the daughter of the long dead Prince Ban.  He would go and watch in a moment.  It gave him pleasure to see the agony as Ulrich toyed with her, hurt her and used her slender and bruised form.  It was a small enjoyment as he waited for what he had worked a thousand years for; the final defeat and destruction of the Lady of Rhiannon and absolute rule of this kingdom.

For now he wanted to revel in the feeling of elation that came at action.  The feeling that again the pieces were in motion and the game was once more engaged. This Llyr was going to end exactly as his father. With that thought he stroked bone white fingers over the eagle shaped scar that covered his heart. What pleasure the thought of whose heart beat beneath his scarred breast brought him.  It also thrilled him to look at what he had made of the old queen’s chambers.  The man escaping would be sickened indeed to see the bones, the blood, the fire and Norse runes that had transformed what had been his mother’s elegant chamber into a room of dark and sacrificial magic.

CHAPTER TWO

London, One Week Later

The streets around Covent Garden were already crowded with the evening’s theater goers.  No self-respecting play would raise its curtain for another hour or more at least, but London’s elite, its riffraff, and its demimonde were all here to stake claim to their seats, their own stage on which to  preen and be seen.  

Sebastian St. Just, Earl of Redsayle, had no clear idea what devil had prompted him to agree to attend this of all theaters.  He was no longer just a gentleman of leisure, but an agent (and sometimes assassin), secretly known as Rook.  Doing anything without a clear, rational reason was no longer how he operated.  The foolishness of his youth was behind him, or so he thought. 

The play bill posted by the doors plainly stated that this evening’s entertainment showcased the talents of Mrs. Jessamy Powers.  The last woman he wanted to see.  The woman he had not stopped thinking about for the last seven years.  He supposed he would be anonymous enough in his box beyond the footlights.  She would never know he was there, he hoped.  But why was he here? Could he even afford, for the sake of his current mission, to be here? 

What did he think he was doing?  He silently groaned with frustration.

A soft throat clearing interrupted his thoughts.  “Care to step out of the carriage Sebastian?  It’s a bit odd to have the footman standing about like that.”  David, Lord Carvell drawled.

“Oh yes, now I remember why I’m here,” Sebastian told him rather nastily.

“Yes, indeed.  This is your introduction back into the
ton
.  A little entertainment and society can get a good look at you. You
have
been gone a long time.  We need to break the Upper Ten Thousand in gently to your shocking re-emergence. It’s just the ticket.  No one will have a chance to question you too closely about your absence just yet,” David smiled because they both knew it wasn’t about the
ton
or the play. 

The two men, both in the black and white dress attire prescribed years before by Beau Brummel, and now standard, sauntered toward the crowded entrance and up the impressive stairs. The satin, silk and jewel bedecked throngs around them wafted perfume and gossip in equal measure.  David’s ebony and silver tipped cane kept cadence with his graceful step.  Both were fine looking men, each dark haired and of an equal height.  The similarity of height and hair color was where the resemblance ended.

Lord Carvell was best known for owning a stud of growing renown and a fine hand with the reigns.  He could also drive to an inch.  His black hair was a bit longer than that of the usual sporting gentleman, but no woman had ever been heard to complain about the waves of silky Welsh darkness.  They contrasted very interestingly with his sleepy looking blue eyes; eyes that pretended to be disinterested but, rarely missed anything.  He was, in fact, a man of rather extraordinary intelligence and scholarly interests.  He enjoyed observing his fellow humans and studying their actions and possible motives.  

Therefore, he was far from missing the fact that his companion was knotted with tension.  He was equally aware of the amount of feminine interest that Sebastian was arousing.  He gave an inward sigh. Some men really were just born with it, this ability for every woman in a ten miles radius to sense his presence and powerless to resist his allure.  He was certain of what was going through Sebastian’s mind at the moment, and he had no sympathy at all for him.  Had he been wrong to bring him to the theater tonight?  

It had seemed a good idea at the time to get Sebastian’s first sighting of Jessamy out of the way but, David suddenly wished he was elsewhere.  The combination of Jessamy, Sebastian and a theater full of men and women, all aflutter at Sebastian’s return, may produce a little more excitement than he had calculated.  He had no way of knowing whether either of his friends would behave themselves.  If the past was any evidence, he wouldn’t bet on it.

“Shall we turn around then and go to Brooks?” David asked.

Sebastian turned his head in surprise, “You mean after all the cajoling you did to get me here you are changing your mind?” He smiled rather evilly. “No my friend, you are well and truly stuck.  We are going in there and sitting through Romeo and Juliet.  Like it or not.”  Sebastian didn’t like the idea at all. 

It seemed too soon after arriving from the vastly different world of Celtica and the sights, sounds and scents (not to mention his stiff clothing) made him feel disoriented.  He also felt strange shorn of the long hair no Viking man would be without on Celtica.  David had insisted on dragging him to a barber the moment he had shown up on his doorstep.  The appalled look on his face still (almost) enough to make Sebastian laugh.

The theater was filling fast as they took their seats in the gilded box that was uncomfortably close to the stage in Sebastian’s opinion.  The chances of Jessamy
not
seeing him at this range was remote. He was also aware of the interest he was attracting and the, not so subtle, whispers that rustled around him.  From the men he expected the usual interest in that a male member of their society had returned to the fold. There would be speculation and assessment of gambling, sporting and drinking proclivities.  From the women, and here he smiled to himself, the interest took a very different note.  This was an interest he intended to reciprocate at the earliest moment and show
Mrs.
Powers he had little care or lasting memory of her.  The fact that was untrue she need never know.

He was not naïve about his looks.  They had carried him through many a door, both front doors and the doors to bedchambers.  He used them as he used any tool at his command.  They got him what he wanted.  Taller than the average, leanly muscled and broad shouldered he was blessed with eyes one besotted woman had likened to aged whiskey.  She vowed she could become
drunk just looking into them.  It was a silly sentiment, but one Sebastian had been more than willing to work with to his advantage. Ridiculously long black lashes outlined those unusual eyes and matched the raven black of his hair. 

Strangers had often in their youth thought he and David were related.  The villagers back home, knowing their respective natures quite well, had often thought of Sebastian as Satan to David’s Michael.   David had been one of only two people able to keep his wild youth in check.  It was to David people went to settle the dust kicked up by Sebastian’s antics.  It was to Jessamy they went to poor out heartbroken woes of stolen kisses at picnics and moon lit dances, only to be forgotten by him next day. He had kept his friends busy cleaning up after him, he thought wryly.

Whereas David possessed a calm and rather humorously self-deprecating nature, Sebastian’s personality was more complex.  The lines of a mouth both sensuous, and hinting of cruelty, gave the impression of being more likely to bite than offer a kiss.  He had been a young man not known to be kind for kindness sake, nor given to either modesty or self-restraint.  His reputation, even as young as he was when he went to live in Celtica, was of a privileged young man who got what he wanted.  He was remembered as self-serving, and not particularly nice.  That was a word that gave him shudders anyway.  

He turned his head to look at David and wondered, not for the first time, why they were such good friends.  If ever a man personified honor and integrity it was David.  While he, Sebastian, may have improved somewhat (and secretly)
in recent years, he would never match his friend for a good reputation.  Most of the time he had no desire to do so.  A good reputation would stand him in no good stead with the duties he had come to England to dispatch. He had returned to serve both his own king and that of the deposed, thought to be dead (but very much alive) King of Celtica.  He was performing on his own stage, the role of wastrel and womanizer was to be continued.  He was, rather laughably, under orders to appear as no different than when he disappeared seven years ago.  Some missions were easier than others.

The rustle of the curtain and the sudden hush brought his thoughts to a halt; he was resigned to being bored by Shakespeare’s most inane play and being ogled by the
ton
.  It could have been anything but Romeo and Juliet, he thought, he didn’t find young love anything but damnably silly.  If he was honest, sitting here in the dark, it also struck too close to home.  

David tensed beside his friend.  In just a moment now he may feel Sebastian’s long strong fingers choking the life out of him.  The curtain rose and the rest of the world fell away.  Who would have thought that years ago when they played at pirates and knights Jessy would one day play her games of pretend to thousands?  The critics and the crowds loved her.  To say she was mesmerizing or incomparable would sound trite, but it was true.  

Tonight she played Shakespeare’s Juliet and while he knew it was not a role she relished (given certain past events) she was brilliant as always.  Her beauty, the naïve innocence and eager enthusiasm of first love flowed from the stage to immediately capture even this jaded audience.  The mixture of devil may-care and sweet innocence of their childhood had matured into a fascinating complexity. She did not lack for admirers. 

As he felt Sebastian’s sudden start of surprise and watched those fingers turn white around the rail of the box he had sudden and horrible doubts about how he had gone about this.  Turning his head and seeing that Sebastian was looking at him like he would like nothing better than to pound his head in, he sincerely wished himself elsewhere, like the Outer Hebrides.  No, that possibly was not far enough away.  Somewhere in the Turkish Empire maybe? 

Friendship was occasionally a damnable thing.  Mercutio always had his greatest sympathy.   But what was he to do really?  Had they come upon each other face to face, with no distance to adjust, they may have given the cats of society gossip to dine out on for months.  He wouldn’t trust either of them not to make some ridiculous scene.  Passionate people were so unpredictable after all.  Neither had ever excelled at self-control.  Growing up with them had probably played a role in his own development into someone quite opposite.  

He could only hope that the peace that Jessy had come by in the last years was not about to be shattered.  Shortly on the heels of that thought he saw her toss her head and laugh that signature smoky laugh that had enthralled London’s men.  Only he would have noticed the split second flick of her eyes and the breath of hesitation before her next line.  She had seen

Sebastian.    

He saw the change overcome her in flash so quick anyone else would have missed it. Possibly only he, and maybe Sean, would notice the tension in her movements and the slightly brittle delivery in her lines.  Sometimes he could hate Sebastian, he reflected.  He loved him as a brother, which meant that at times he was willing to thrash him. The thin line he had walked for the past years was going to get trickier with Sebastian’s return to London.  

It was difficult to be close friends with two people who had so much bitterness between them.  Thankfully, neither had yet put him in a position to have to choose between them.  He was deeply afraid that the time was coming.  David hated not having a plan and he had been utterly unable to formulate a plan beyond letting them see each other.  Everything would be up to what these two chose to do next.  The secrets they both now held would only complicate the situation.  Dear Lord, he silently prayed, let them not murder each other or drive me to murder one of them.

Jessamy loved London.  It had been good to her in a time that could have turned out very differently.  She owed them a good performance, they expected it of her.  She’d be damned if that
man
would throw her off stride.  While her skin itched and hummed with the awareness of one amber pair of eyes, she threw herself into her role and tried to ignore the wash of humiliation that reared it old and ugly head.  Instead she called upon fury and pride.  She had survived him once and she would do so again. Damn him.  Why was he back?  Couldn’t he just have stayed in Celtica?  The whispers that leaked from the isolated land painted a picture of a man fully enjoying his life there.  He could have stayed there forever and she would have been fine with that arrangement.

The performance ended with a standing ovation, flowers thrown and a frozen smile upon her face.  She felt as if the stage makeup would crack at any moment.  For the first time in her career she felt drained, rather than energized by her performance.  When the velvet curtains finally shut she quickly made her way to the sanctuary of her dressing room.

Sean opened the door for her before her hand had even touched the knob.  As she collapsed into her vanity chair he leaned his tall willowy frame against the door.  Their eyes met in the mirror.

“Well darling I take it your
bête noir
has returned.  Shall we throw a few things or have a good weep together?”

She smiled in spite of herself.  Trust Sean to make it all seem very manageable.  He was her dearest friend as well as theater manager and renowned playwright.

“How did you know Sean?  Did the ladies all faint when he entered the theater?  Or maybe the gates of hell opened on our doorstep and spewed him forth in a cloud of brimstone?”

“Oh nothing so dramatic I’m sad to say.  After all I heard of him I fully expected Satan himself to escort him to his box if he ever dared show his face here.  Simply put, it is a great occasion for gossip when Sebastian St. Just, the
gorgeous Earl of Redsayle returns to our shores.  After all, his departure was so sudden. What English nobleman chooses to leave our glorious shores for a kingdom overrun with axe wielding Vikings? I hear they haven’t even any
theater!
”  Sean said with exaggerated horror and a shudder as he stepped up behind Jessy and began to remove the pins from her hair.  It always soothed her to have her hair brushed and he knew that with her heavy mane of hair a headache was always looming when it was dressed tightly.