Celtic Skies, Book 3 in the Celtic Steel Series

by Delaney Rhodes

  “Fanai,” said Darina, “Braeden. What is Fanai doin’ out here?”

  “I’ll have to confess, Darina,” started Jamie, “but, I let him outa’ his pen on accident. Braeden was showin’ me about the stables and such, and I hit the door and it swung open. That’s why Braeden and I were out here—chasin’ the hound. I lost me footin’ agin’ that rock right there,” he pointed, “and me walkin’ stick slid down the hill and so here we are, jest as ye found us,” he added, waving his hand.

  “I see,” said Darina, scrunching her eyes at Orla, seeking confirmation.

  “Well,” said Orla, “I saw Braeden trip down the hill, and I came runnin’ to see if mayhap I could help.”

  “Uh huh?” grunted Darina. “Well, come along now then everyone, ‘tis past time to eat, and I’m sure Master Burke is gettin’ hungry.”

  “That I am,” he retorted. “That I am.”

  Orla followed Darina back up the path towards the waiting guards. Braeden finally secured Fanai to his lead, and he and Jamie turned the other direction, towards the stables to return Fanai to his pen.

  “Ye owe me,” chuckled Jamie Burke under his breath.

  “Aye, I do,” laughed Braeden. “I’ve a sense ye’ll come collectin’ sooner than later though.”

  TWENTY

  O’Malley High Castle—the Council Chamber

  Patrick waved at the guards, indicating it was time for Kurt MacArtrey to be brought in. The former priest was being questioned further, now that the Vatican’s investigators had returned to Rome. There wasn’t much left to be done, the bishop had stripped him of the priesthood, and that was about all the small congress had accomplished. No determination had been made as to whether or not Odetta Burke was, in fact, possessed by the devil. Patrick knew better anyway, but his deference to his new clan refused to allow him to overexert his influence. The clan was a fine mesh of old world paganism and new world Catholicism, and he wasn’t inclined to force any particular view on anyone.

  Nay—they would live in harmony and respect. Of that he would be sure. Kurt may not hold the title of priest anymore, but the people cared about him, and there was a place for him in their clan.

  “Kurt, please come in, sit down,” he gestured. “Would ye like some ale?” Patrick asked, noticeably without stuttering.

  Kurt caught Lucian’s eyes, and they raised their brows in unison. Galen looked up quizzically, and Gemma touched Patrick on the shoulder, gently—a silent petition for clarification.

  “Patrick?” she asked, “has somethin’ ’happint?” she asked.

  Patrick gripped the mug securely with his right hand. It didn’t shake and he didn’t spill it.

  “What do ye mean?” he asked innocently.

  “I mean, Patrick,” she began, “that ye are not…uh…stammerin’ anamore. Is anathang the matter?”

  “Well, if I am no’ stammerin’, then what would be the matter?” he asked, smiling from ear to ear.

  “By the gods, ye’ve been healed!” exclaimed Lucian, reaching over to examine Patrick’s right hand. It was no longer crudely twisted, and it didna’ appear to clench back automatically when he straightened the fingers.

  “Aye, I have,” he agreed. “I have full use of me right hand and I…uh…dinna' stutter, unless I put too much thought into what I’m goin’ to say,” he laughed.

  “Tell us what ’happint, did it hurt?” asked Galen. “When yer hand was fixed, did ye feel anathang?”

  “Well,” he replied, “I didno’ feel anathang here,” he said raising his right hand off the table, “but I did feel somethin’ here,” he said, positioning his hand across his heart. “But that story is for another time.”

  “Kurt,” he began. “I believe we left off last week with only one more matter to discuss. Ye and I agreed that it could wait until another time, but somethin’ has ’happint now that makes yer information relevant, and I wish to continue our discussions.”

  Kurt’s head spun. A healing. In all his years with the church, he had never witnessed a miraculous physical healing. He wasn’t sure if he was happier that it had happened, or more disappointed that the church seemed to have nothing to do with it. How could this be? Was it possible the god of the druids was the same god of the church? The thought literally made him sick to his stomach. If Patrick was healed, which god would get the glory? Where was the church’s god in all this?

  The church had, after all, banished him from their community. He was no longer a priest, but he deserved it. He ken it. He had cooperated with the Burke witch, he kept her scrolls, he even assisted in her rites of black magic. It was only because he did so under duress, that he was spared imprisonment for his actions. He had really had no other choice. The bishops argued that he should have let her kill him instead, but how would he have saved the boys? How would he have watched over Braeden in that dungeon? He did have a plan to help them escape; he wasn’t going to let her hurt any more children. He just wasn’t.

  “Kurt,” said Patrick again. “Are ye alright?”

  The former priest scratched at his beard and pulled up his too large breeches. He had nearly given up the drink completely, and it was showing in his shrinking waistline. It could also be the physical labor of which he was unaccustomed. No longer employed by the church, Payton had seen to it that he found work with the crews building the new round cottages for the Burke refugees. Every muscle in his middle-aged body was on fire and aching—and he loved it. He had never felt so alive. So present. So brazenly—human. Payton cheered and jeered him on, taunting him about finding a wife now that he wasn’t married to the church. And—the thought had crossed his mind as well, but he knew the woman he had eyes for didn’t feel the same.

  “Kurt,” smirked Lucian, pounding the table with his fist. “Kurt, wake up!”

  “Aye, please forgive me,” replied Kurt. “I seemed to have left me head somewhere else. What is it ye wish to know, milord?”

  “We left off with Jamie Burke.”

  “Aye, ye wish to know more about Jamie Burke?” he asked, dumbfounded. “Why?”

  “Kurt,” said Galen, “the Burke Ten have named Jamie Burke their leader.”

  “I see, well there is somethin’ ye need to know about Master Jamie then. Ye see, it has to do with who his real parents are.”

  Lucian interjected this time, “Kurt, we ken that Jamie is the youngest Burke child. The elder Lord Burke spawned him with a maidservant, I believe. Had him sent off to foster in McTierney lands, and all…verra awful way to handle the matter if ye ask me, but I—”

  “Oh nay!” exclaimed Kurt. “That’s not it at all.”

  “What do ye mean?” asked Gemma.

  “That’s what we have always been told, and Lord McTierney—he confirmed,” said Galen.

  “Well, that is no’ the truth of it anaway,” Kurt began, “The truth is that—oh dear God, ye are all gonna hate me, but seeing as how I’ve already gotten meself into trouble on account of that…uh…woman, Odetta I mean, I may as well clear it all up at once. Ye see, Odetta Burke is really Jamie’s mathair.”

  “Nay,” said Patrick. “How can that be?”

  “Well, Odetta had a relationship with a mon from here, a’fore she was betrothed to Dallin O’Malley. She bore him a son, and her fathair made a deal with the bairn’s fathair, that he would return to his homeland and neva’ come back. Odetta’s fathair sent the babe to McTierney territory alright; he jest lied about who the babe’s actual parents were. They kept it all a big secret, so that Dallin would marry Odetta and neva’ know about the child. But, Dallin, he refused to marry her anaway

  Dallin married Anya, Darina’s mathair. Well, after that ’happint, Odetta begged her fathair to bring the child back to her, because it didna’ matter anaway, she wasna’ goin’ to be marryin’ into the O’Malley clan. But he refused to send for her child. Then, Odetta began writin’ Dallin, beggin’ for him to intervene and get the child back. She didna’ tell him that the child was hers, jest that ’twas her bra
thair and she wanted him back. But Dallin refused to intervene, and Anya became upset when she found out she was writin’ her new husband.

  So, Odetta warned’em—I have to admit that she warned ‘em good. When she didna’ get what she wanted, she became furious. That’s about the time that Cynbel discovered the bishop had been stealin’ the tax money from the magistrate, and Odetta went clean daft. She drove everyone outa’ the monastery and spared me life, a’cause she said I had helped her when her time came, and I could be useful at some other point in the future for her.”

  “Go on,” said Galen, a puzzled look on his face. “What has that to do with Jamie?”

  “Oh, aye,” returned Kurt, “Well, that’s about the time she started usin’ magic, and she and some other lasses began meetin’, and a’fore ye know it, there was a full-blown witch’s coven in Burke lands. Well, she started playin’ around with her “powers” as she called ’em and she told Dallin, she says, ‘I’ll put a curse on the O’Malleys and there willna’ be any more males in the territory until ye return Jamie to me’.”

  “So that’s what the curse was about?” asked Patrick, “she wanted Jamie back? That’s all?”

  “Well—that is not exactly—all,” Kurt replied. “Ye see,” he said, “Jamie Burke is really an O’Malley.”

  “What?” gasped Lucian.

  “’Tis true,” Kurt replied, “Jamie Burke’s fathair was Duncan O’Malley, Dallin’s second cousin. Jamie is Darina’s cousin—her third cousin, I believe—to be exact.”

  TWENTY-ONE

  O’Malley Territory—the Orchards

  Daenal stretched her arms above her head, and peeked her eyes up through the trees to glimpse the midday sun. She hadn’t meant to fall asleep, especially so deep in the southernmost part of the orchard, near the forest line. She must have tired herself out while praying with Patrick. It so happened that whenever she was involved in her healings, with people that is, she felt immediately drained of all her energy and useful for naught until she was able to have a lie down for a bit.

  Her lunch of poached salmon and dried fruit was already tidied up and bundled securely in her basket; all she had to do now was fold the coverlet she brought from her chamber, and be on her way. Something was amiss, she could feel it. It was almost as if she were being watched. Nonsense, she told herself, rising to finish her tasks. There were only a few hours left before the ceremony tonight, and she intended to look her best. She would be presented to the clansmen vying for her hand in the great hall, and she needed a bath and quite a good making-over, before she would feel comfortable enough to stand upon the dais, next to her sister and brother-in-law.

  Confident she had folded her blanket as tightly as she could, she closed the top of the basket and leaned back once more against the old oak tree, scratching her back unconsciously against its bark. Her hands tingled, and the hair on the back of her neck pricked her skin. Something was up. She was either in the presence of a strong spirit, or she was in danger. She just wasn’t sure. Fingering the dagger secured in her belt, she traded the basket to her left hand and stood on alert.

  This time she knew she felt it. Something was watching her and it was getting closer. She heard the rush of leaves as it moved in the underbrush to her right. She turned, but saw nothing. She trembled now, but fought hard against her mind to stay in control, to remain calm. She took three deep breaths, just as Lucian had taught her, imagined herself peaceful and stood resolute, looking forward.

  “Who’s there?” she said in a monotone. When no response was heard, she pulled out the dagger and gripped it tightly in her right hand. Almost too tightly, she started to lose feeling.

  “I said, who is there?!” she shouted this time.

  Before she could scream, she came nearly face to face with the noisemaker, and it was obviously upset. Daenal had never seen a catamount up close before, in fact, there weren’t supposed to be any in their part of the region. Mayhap someone has brought one over from Africa on a boat, she mused, a little too nonchalantly at that moment.

  This particular catamount was followed closely by two wrestling cubs, and Daenal couldn’t be sure if the momma cougar was mad at her or at her cubs, although it appeared that she was its intended target. It wouldn’t have been right to classify the sound the protective mother made as a “meow”—but it was a start. It was more like a primal scream, intended to terrify and paralyze its prey—and it had worked.

  Daenal dropped the basket and her dagger at the same time. She searched her mind for information on what to do. She knew with some bears, you look them in the eye and growl back, and with others you drop and cover your head. With bears, sometimes you can climb a tree, but you never—ever—run. But this was not a bear and she had already locked eyes with the ferocious female, and she wasn’t about to look away now.

  The oblivious little balls of fur following the cat grew curious, and got closer to Daenal than she would have liked, sending the mother into a furious fit of screeching. She waved her heavy paw about and slashed at the air until the little buggers finally minded, and got back behind their ma. They’ll pay for that later, she thought smugly.

  Unclear what else to do, she surmised it would be better to appear submissive and docile—learning through experience watching the cubs—and so she bent down to kneel on her knees and raised her hands in the air very slowly—a sign of surrender. She hoped the she-cat would recognize a sincere gesture when given one. The cat remained still in her place and raised her ears, continuing to cry out, more loudly this time. Oh, I do hope there is no papa cat nearby, she thought, failing to remember whether or not catamounts acted like families or not.

  Daenal’s eyes filled with tears and she shook with fear first, and then with rage. I simply refuse to be dinner for a cat. I’ve done nothing at all wrong and these creatures aren’t even supposed to be on this continent! Wouldn’t this be just like me, to be eaten by a supposedly non-existent creature in the far back part of the woods, the day before I’m to be betrothed?

  At a loss for a solution, she ventured a guess and began singing a low, melancholy tune, in hopes it would soothe the obviously distressed mother. That did it. The catamount tilted her head to the right, and stared at Daenal as if she had gone daft. The cubs followed suit, and soon all three creatures were sitting there, in a line, staring at her as she knelt on the ground—hands raised—singing about Ole’ Man Whistlethorpe’s Dead Gray Mare.

  It appeared to have some kind of an effect on the aggravated animal. She managed to get through the third verse of the prose when the cat rose abruptly, and began walking back and forth in front of her, as if she was pacing before a hearth. It growled at her, and communicated something none too pleasant to the little beasts with it, and they scampered off into the brush.

  “Well, I s’pose ‘tis jest the two of us now, momma,” she breathed.

  “No’ exactly,” she heard a voice say from somewhere behind her. “Nay, dinna’ turn around. Keep lookin’ straight ahead and dinna’ get up—or move—or lower yer hands. Keep hummin’ won’t ye?” he asked.

  “Where are ye?” she sang lowly at the voice behind her.

  “I’m above ye in the tree.”

  “What are ye doin’ up there?” she sang back.

  “Well, I was out for a walk until I heard the catamount. I came to see what was all the fuss about, and while she wasna’ lookin’, I climbed up here—for a better vantage point—mind ye. I’ve got me dagger here, and I’ll use it if I need to, but methinks she will jest scamper off in a bit. But—dinna’ ye move, now.”

  “Now dinna’ ye worry about that,” she said with a hitch in her voice. “I’m goin’ nowhere fast.”

  The she-cat screamed back at her wayward cubs and turned back to look Daenal over, as if she couldn’t decide if she was worth the trouble or not.

  “Ye dinna’ s’pose she’s a hungry, do ye?” she sang to the tree dweller.

  “Nay, she wouldna’ be wantin’ to eat on ye, anaway. She’s
jest protectin’ those naughty cubs of hers. Have ye got any food in that basket?” he asked.

  “Aye, I have several more salmon filets. Ye think she’d be a’wantin’ those? she hummed.

  “There’s an idea,” he said. “Now, move slowly but toss those o’er to her, do ye think ye can throw ’em verra far?”

  “I’m gonna try,” she returned. She stood up slowly, hands still raised, and began singing a different tune, one explaining what she was doing, how she bet her little cubs were awful hungry and how they would probably like the salmon filets. When she reached down to open the basket, the catamount hissed and lurched forward. Daenal froze.

  “Go ahead,” he said, “go ahead and throw ’em them over there.

  She did what he said and stepped back, watching mesmerized as the cubs charged the filets as if they hadn’t eaten in weeks. The mama cat growled, hissed, and altogether threw a tizzy, until the cubs had returned safely behind her back. Sniffing the filets herself, she snatched one from the slower cub, and nearly swallowed it whole.

  “Good,” he said, “she’s only hungry. Now, back up slowly until yer back is as far agin’ this tree as ye can get it.”

  “Alright,” she sang back, and slowly stepped one foot after the other backwards, until she felt the hard trunk of the tree digging into her spine.

  “Whatever happens, dinna’ move from the tree, ye hear?” he asked.

  “Aye, I do.” Too frightened to move anymore, she relinquished her tense shoulders to the foundation of the sturdy tree, and lowered her hands to her sides. “Wh-what are ye…?” she began to ask.

  “Shhhh….” he said.

  The catamount stood rigid on all fours and flared her shoulder blades in a display of strength, baring her teeth. The cubs continued to eat until the last of the filets was long gone, and then they grew interested in Daenal once again, creeping forward a small step at a time towards the fortress of her tree trunk.