by Headlee, Kim
GYAN WAS RELIEVED to discover that St. Padraic’s Monastery had been left undisturbed by the Scáthinaich. Physically, that is.
Of the monks she was not so certain.
Where once it had been customary at this hour of the afternoon to see several small groups of monks strolling about or seated on benches in the orchard to discuss Scriptures or other treatises, the monastery stood all but deserted. A few brethren were doing chores: tending the garden and livestock, cutting wood, hauling water, washing laundry. To a man, they performed their work with a solemn sense of purpose that was nothing at all like the way they had acted before the attack.
She was still pondering their behavior as she rounded one of the cruciform wings of the church. Stifling a gasp, she stopped. Her visit with the badly wounded Elian had been difficult, but this sight made her heart lurch. Spread out before her was a field of mounds, each topped with a wooden cross. It was the place where she and the monks had made their stand against the Scáthinaich.
The memory staggered back in all its agonizing detail: the fighting, the wounding, the dying, the surrender. The loss. And none of the monks had had to die. That realization struck her like a sword through the heart. She had led these decent men to their deaths, and for what? Her foolish pride. Had she not chosen to resist, this graveyard would not be here to accuse her.
Gaze averted to the ground at her feet, she leaned against the stone wall. She did not fight the tears coursing down her cheeks.
“My lady?” asked someone, in Breatanaiche.
She knew that voice. Swiping at her face with her tunic sleeve, she turned and frowned in puzzlement. The man standing before her wore the black, hooded robe of the monks’ order. This image did not match the voice.
“Dafydd?”
He pushed back the hood. Even if she had not recognized his face, the fading red mark of the slave collar would have confirmed his identity.
“You’re a monk now?”
“Yes, my lady. Renewed my vows, actually. Ten years ago, I was a monk. Before Arbroch.”
His statement didn’t sound like an accusation, but as a ruling member of the clan responsible for his enslavement, it was hard for her not to take it as such. Quietly, she asked, “Why take vows, when you can visit as often as you like?”
“It’s not the same, my lady. And…” The smile he showed her was suffused with peace. “I had to fulfill my promise to God.”
That type of peace for her seemed hopelessly far from reach.
“What of your family?”
“They will stay here until Tanroc is rebuilt, Katra and young Dafydd. After that, I will be able to see them whenever I wish. Many of the brethren have wives and children.”
“And your daughter? Is she at the priory?”
Sorrow clouded Dafydd’s face, and he lowered his head. “My little Mari is with God.”
“The Scots?” He answered with a nod. She reached for the yielding hand. “Dafydd, I am so sorry.” There was nothing she could have done to prevent his loss, but that knowledge was no help to her.
His other hand closed over hers.
She peered into his face. There was no bitterness, no blame, no remorse, no regret. Memories intruded of the soldiers and civilians—and horses, like her Brin—that had died to defend Tanroc. So much death that day…Gyan didn’t know how Dafydd could bear it. Her tears welled.
“Come, my lady.” He tugged on her hand. “There is something I think you need to do.”
He led her into the church. Though she was convinced of the futility of this visit, she didn’t bother to resist.
Yet she had to admit the statues were a familiar, comforting presence: Màiri with her Holy Infant and Padraic with the serpent, ever wreathed by flickering candlelight. Fragrant incense permeated the air. The Chalice sat enshrined on its golden platform in front of the crucified Christ. It was as though the invasion had never happened.
But the graveyard would not let Gyan forget the truth.
Dafydd strode to one of the side banks of candles, lit a twig, and used it to light the tapers flanking the Chalice. Their glow made the relic look ethereal, as though not of this world. Perhaps, in a sense, it wasn’t.
Gyan approached the altar. “Are you the Keeper now, too?”
He snuffed the twig between moistened fingertips, laid it down, and turned toward her. “No, my lady. But one day, by the grace of God, I might be.” Her eyebrows shot up, and he explained, “The brother Abbot Lir had been training as his successor died resisting the Scots. Father Lir hasn’t chosen anyone else yet, so those of us who remain have been taking turns with this office. It’s another reason I decided to stay.” His clear blue eyes misted, and his gaze seemed very far away. “I think Father Lir’s spirit has broken, my lady. Even though the Scots are gone, he has not moved from his bed.”
First the monks, now Father Lir. More tears threatened. “This—all of this is my fault.”
“Oh, no, my lady. Please don’t blame yourself. You did what you thought was best.” He reached for her hands. When she tried to pull away, he held them with surprising strength. “Who could have known the Scots had other motives?”
Who, indeed? “They could have killed me in that skirmish just as easily as they killed the others. At some point, I knew they wanted me alive, and I knew it was a hopeless fight. I should have called off the attack.” She lowered her gaze. “Maybe some of the brethren would be alive today.”
Some cohort commander she was going to make. Perhaps she ought to confess her unfitness to Arthur so he could appoint someone else and save everyone a lot of trouble. And death.
“My lady, God uses everything—the bad as well as the good—to carry out His purposes.” He squeezed her hands. “You must believe that, or you will drive yourself mad.”
She pulled free and crossed her arms. “What purpose does the senseless death of twenty-eight innocent monks serve?”
“For them, eternal life.” He spread his hands; whether in ignorance or helplessness, she couldn’t decide. “But for you, my lady, I cannot say.” Facing the altar, his voice drifted into a reverent whisper. “I pray God will reveal it to you in His good time.”
Her eyes followed the line of his gaze. There was something soothing about the alabaster cup that had been used by the Christ, the cup that had caught His blood. Overwhelming awe forced Gyan to her knees. No longer able to look upon His anguished, wounded face or His cup, she bowed her head.
The rustling of fabric and slapping of sandals told her Dafydd had walked away. For what purpose, she didn’t know. She couldn’t lift her head. Her burden of guilt weighed too heavily upon her soul. She couldn’t even bear to ask forgiveness, for how could the One God forgive her for the needless deaths of His servants and for the grief she had caused Father Lir and the other survivors? How could she forgive herself?
The aroma of warm bread invaded her nostrils. “The Bread of Life and Body of Christ, my lady, broken for you.” Opening her eyes, she turned her head to find Dafydd on one knee beside her, offering a dish. Upon it lay a loaf that had been ripped in half. “Take, eat, and live.”
Spiritual hunger gnawed at her heart.
Recalling the ritual she had seen Merlin perform, she tore off a morsel and put it in her mouth. As the bread and Body became one with her body, a silent voice murmured to her of betrayal and sacrifice. Betrayal was exactly what she had done to those monks, and to their community. She bent chin to chest, tears leaving cold tracks on her cheeks.
Willing sacrifice, the voice softly insisted, essential sacrifice; not for one but for all…for love…for all time.
A hand rested gently upon her head, and Gyan could feel the power of holy love pulsing within her. As she glanced up, Dafydd’s hand withdrew to curl with its kin around the Chalice. It wasn’t empty.
“The fruit of the Vine, my lady, in the cup of the new covenant in His Blood.” Dafydd held the Chalice a handspan from her face. The cup of death…and rebirth. “The cup of new faith. Drink,�
�� Dafydd said, lifting it closer to her lips, “and be renewed.” And be forgiven.
As she gazed into the depths of the wine, her mind conjured an image of what this cup had held while its Owner endured bloody torture and death on a storm-swept hill called the Place of Skulls. Tears burned her eyes. Squeezing them shut, she jerked her head aside. “I—I can’t, Dafydd. I’m not—” Her voice caught, and she released a trembling sigh. Again, she saw the crimson-stained bodies and lifeless faces of the fallen monks, faces that had looked anything but peaceful. Guilt seared her soul. “I’m not worthy!”
“No one is, my lady,” he said quietly. “No one ever can be. Not of our own devices or desires. Only by God’s infinite, perfect grace can we enjoy His blessed fellowship.” Dafydd placed the Chalice in her hands. “He invites all to confess their failings, and taste of Him.”
From an ordinary cup perhaps, Gyan thought, but this? The very vessel whose rim had known the lips of the Lord of lords Himself? On the verge of another refusal, she remembered: His inner circle of followers had shared this same cup with Him that fateful night, doubtless not fully understanding the implications. And not realizing they all had been fated to betray Him to some degree, if not by word or deed, then by fearful silence. But days later, their eyes had been opened to His power over death and life, to His love, to His grace and mercy and compassion, and to His forgiveness.
Come, daughter. Surrender your burden. Drink and be forgiven, commanded the voice, and forgive yourself.
She drank.
With the wine coursing down her throat, the Blood slaking her spiritual thirst as nothing on earth could, the voice comforted her with words of assurance, promise, and hope.
For His own mysterious reasons, the One God had placed a sword in her hand and had gifted her with the strength and skill to use it well. And now she would have the opportunity to lead not just tens but hundreds of others to do the same. As the fruit of the Vine lingered on her lips, she vowed to become the best leader she could: for the Lord of lords, for Arthur, and for the warriors under her command, past as well as future. To do anything less would mean those monks truly had died in vain. She knew she would never forget the mistakes that had led to their deaths, but as she accepted His forgiveness, profound peace settled over her soul.
She didn’t want to destroy the moment. But the sunlight slipping from the sanctuary told her it was time to leave. The fleet was ready to sail back to Caer Lugubalion, and she couldn’t keep Arthur waiting any longer. Smiling her thanks, she returned the Chalice to Dafydd and rose. He continued to kneel, head bowed, the cup cradled against his chest. She gazed at the Chalice, inscribing its features forever in her mind and upon her heart.
LAIRD CUCHULLAIN reclined in the shade of the great willow, watching his wife collect roses in the small garden beyond the leafy curtain. She glided from bush to bush, waving away the bees to add yet another bloom to her collection. Pert pinks, rowdy reds, splendid salmons, and winsome whites, all paled beside Dierda’s vibrant beauty.
“Dee!” She daintily cocked her head toward him. “Come and rest yourself, dearest one.”
Sheathing her knife, Dierda favored him with a knowing smile. “’Tis not rest ye’ll be thinking of, now, is it?” The roses held in one gloved hand, she swept aside the willow boughs with the other and stepped into the green bower.
She laid the roses aside and settled beside him. He took her into his arms, and she nestled against his chest. “A man needs something to take his mind off his troubles, even if only for a wee time.” He stroked her flaming silken hair.
“Still worrying about our brave ones on Maun, my heart?”
“When have I stopped?” The knuckles of his free hand pounded dirt. “Not knowing, ’tis murder! Having to wait—”
His complaint was cut off by the warm touch of her lips. Having to wait for tidings from Maun might not be so bad if more of his time could be spent with his wife like this. But such moments were all too rare these days.
At the grassy rustle of approaching footsteps, they reluctantly parted.
“Cuchullain?”
He scrambled to his feet, burst through the hanging boughs and emerged, blinking, into the sunlight. Dierda followed, her roses lying beside the willow’s massive trunk, forgotten.
“Fergi, well come!” He folded his foster brother into a heartfelt embrace. As they parted, he asked, “What word? Where be Niall?”
Cuchullain felt his smile vanish as Fergus’s face turned bleak.
“Niall is dead, Cucu. So are most of the men.” And Fergus proceeded to explain why.
Cuchullain accepted the news in stony silence, barely aware of the rose-scented hand that had come to rest softly upon his shoulder. Up came his hand to cover hers, a familiar gesture. He gleaned little comfort from it.
“By Scáthach, I knew I should have gone with them!” Cuchullain shook his head in frustration.
Fergus blew out a slow breath. “Your presence would not have helped, Cucu. The Pendragon struck too quick. Even one more day, and Dhoo-Glass would have been ours.”
“Might have been, Fergi.” Cuchullain sighed and clapped Fergus lightly on the shoulders to apologize for doubting his foster brother’s assessment. “Might have been.”
Fergus’s brief nod conveyed his agreement that this was one of those rare times when Scáthaichean pride had to bow to reality.
Dierda asked, “How many returned with ye, Fergi?”
“Two score and eight, Dee. Brave men who escaped the siege camp before it fell to the Pendragon.”
“And what of our ships?” Cuchullain was almost afraid to ask, but he had to know. Gaze lowered, Fergus shook his head. “Niall gone…most of the warriors and all the warships lost…”
“My husband, think upon those who have come back to us, like our brave brother Fergi, here.” She asked, “If the warships were lost, by what miracle did ye escape?”
“’Twas indeed a miracle. I took a spear in the side and was left for dead.” Fergus pressed a hand against his loose tunic, and the bandages bulged beneath the gray linen. “I woke in the night and crawled to hide in the trees. To die, I was sure. But some of our own found me and carried me to a Bhratan fishing boat they had found in a nearby cove. This they told me later, for I was three days with a fever. We would have come to Tarabrogh sooner but for that.”
“Three days—on Maun?” Hand to throat, Dierda gasped.
“Nay,” Fergus replied. “We left Maun that selfsame night and made straight for Doann Dealghan.”
“Well, we must be thanking divine Scáthach for that,” Dierda murmured.
“Aye. And then begin rebuilding our fleet and forces.” Cuchullain squared his shoulders, feeling yet again the fire of that long-ago lashing. Hatred gushed anew as he struck fist to palm. “Arthur the Pendragon of Breatein shall one day feel my wrath for this, or I am not fit to be Laird of the Scáthaichean!”
“I’M TELLING you, Merlin, she is not going to like it.”
The Bishop of Caer Lugubalion didn’t like it, either. The eve of the most important wedding ceremony in Brydein since Vortigern had married his Saxon princess, half a century before, wasn’t the time to argue an issue that pitted politics against religion, an issue that might carry dire diplomatic repercussions.
Merlin pushed himself up from behind his work table, with deliberate slowness to control the anger that was trying to surface, and crossed the tiled floor to join the Dux Britanniarum at the window. Arthur stood, motionless, glaring at the cloud-laced azure sky, hands clenched behind his rod-straight back. He laid a hand on Arthur’s shoulder.
“What would you have me say, Arthur?” he asked. “‘Fine. Go ahead and have doves painted on your arm. Never mind that the dove is symbolic of the Holy Spirit; you have my blessing anyway’?”
The broad shoulders drew back further. He withdrew his hand.
“You think people won’t notice?” Merlin continued. “I might be able to overlook this issue for your sake. For both of you.
But do you think my peers will? Or my superiors? Do you think you’re too well respected—or too feared—to escape being branded a heretic? If you can honestly answer yes to these questions, even just one…well.” Head wagging, he stroked his chin. “I’ve gone through too much with you to stand idly by while you throw everything away over something as absurd as painting an image on your skin.”
A falcon traced slow circles among the clouds. Arthur remained silent, whether watching the bird or not, Merlin had no idea. With a triumphant screech, it folded its wings and plunged toward its prey. Arthur’s head shifted in a barely perceptible nod.
Merlin tried to imagine what thoughts must be coursing through that gilt head. Chief among them had to be the realization that another man with any amount of strategic and tactical sense and leadership ability could take over. Another man…like Urien of Dalriada. If Arthur didn’t recognize this, he would be in serious trouble.
Arthur’s fist thumped the stone window ledge. “Any other symbol—bear, horse, falcon—”
“Would be perfectly acceptable, true.” He did not mention that Hebrew Levitical law forbade all tattoos. Under the Covenant of Christ, compliance was a moot point. “But we’re not talking about bears or horses or falcons. I’m sorry, lad. As your bishop, I cannot condone it.”
“And as my political adviser? Or my kinsman?”
A rueful half smile tugged the corners of Merlin’s mouth. He retrieved his pewter cup and refilled it with uisge from the pitcher. Raising the cup to his lips, he confessed, “Sometimes I think I’m trying to do too much. I ought to disappear from the eyes of the world. Retire to a quiet cave in the hills somewhere—Gwynedd, perhaps—and be a hermit.” He paused to picture what such solitude might be like with nothing more around him than the serenity of nature, to be responsible to no one but himself and his Creator. “This is one of those times.” He took a swift, hot swallow.
“What?” Fists on hips, Arthur regarded Merlin. “And give up your baths? Your heated floors?” He laughed, although there was no mirth in it. “Abbot Kentigern’s uisge?”