Looking down at the bundle in her arms, Nedda tugged the swath from the child's face.
Kendahl squeezed Galynne's shoulders. They glanced at each other, their hope-filled eyes wide and questioning. When they turned to Nedda, her expression was a mix of disbelief and stunned fascination. “Praise be, m'lady,” Nedda croaked. She issued a brief, confirming nod and held the precious bundle out to Galynne.
Galynne stifled a sob and held her trembling arms out to accept her wailing son. “Praise God."
“And stubborn, female pride,” Kendahl whispered.
Galynne elbowed him in the ribs. “And foolish male trickery—knave."
“Enchantress.” He kissed her cheek “Soon, we'll reach Wales. Then, all will be well.” Kendahl brushed his thumb across the infant's chin, then he kissed Galynne on the lips.
Galynne sighed contentedly, snuggling against his chest as her eyes remained riveted on the tiny perfection of her son's red, wrinkled face. He rooted against her bared breast until his tiny lips found her nipple. As he suckled greedily, she felt blessed indeed. However, a nagging fear remained in the pit of her stomach; she had not perished during the birth. The threat of impending doom still lingered. Closing her eyes, she finally willed the foretelling vision to come to her.
Galynne trembled, tensing as the vivid premonition swiftly developed in her mind's eye. She saw the Norse ships descending upon the Celtic crafts. Then the raiders attacked, ravaging everything in their wake. The violent impressions of death and destruction filled her with an overwhelming sense of dread because she knew the images would soon come to pass. She also knew that nothing short of death would deter the evil beings who stood motionless in the dark, anxiously waiting for their prey. “Seerah,” she whimpered.
“Seerah be safe enough with your mother. You're still shivering.” Kendahl pulled his plaid closer about Galynne and kissed her cheek. “Tell me, honestly, how do you fair, love?"
Galynne snuggled closer, trying to find warmth in his comforting embrace. “I ... I'm a wee bit tired, don't you know?"
“Aye. ‘Tis surely understandable. But I know you well. Something else troubles you.” Kendahl tilted her chin up and looked her in the eye. “You know in your heart that I would never treat you so cruelly, unless ... I didn't mean—"
“Aye.” Galynne held her fingers to his lips, silencing him. “I know."
Kendahl caught her hand in his and kissed her fingertips. “What, then?"
Galynne glanced at the child. While he nursed contentedly, sorrow and despair seeped into her spirit. “'Twas a grueling ordeal. Though ‘tis over now, I'd feel better if I knew how Seerah and Izebeth were fairing. Seerah will be devastat—uh, disappointed."
Kendahl frowned. “We will all be together soon enough. And I'm certain Seerah will forgive us for missing her brother's arrival the moment she sets eyes on him. But ... you are keeping something from me, Galynne. I know you too well. Something else is troubling you"
Galynne smiled and batted her eyelashes with feigned ignorance. “Troubles? What troubles could I possibly have with me fine, handsome husband and strapping son by me side?” She sighed wistfully, trying to appear serene and content. “He'll be needin’ a name, now. But, not just any name will do."
Kendahl cocked his brow at her as if seriously considering her words. Then, glancing at his son, he smiled like the proud father he was. “You can na’ fool me so easily. Aye, he's a strapping lad, just like his da, but—"
“Mmhmm, just like his da,” Galynne said. “Handsome, stubborn, and greedy, too. Why, there's no denying he's yours. Just look at the way he cleaves to me bosom.” She kissed Kendahl's chin.
“I love you, too.” Laughter rumbled deep in Kendahl's chest as he held her close and nuzzled her neck.
Galynne felt guilty for deceiving Kendahl. She knew what the fates held in store for them. The dark energy was closing in. Soon her family, as well as her people, would suffer at the hands of the dreaded Fin-gael; the deadly images of the Norse raiders that she'd witnessed moments ago had been vivid, their goal clearly outlined. The true prophecy had been set in motion, and nothing, not even her full, unfailing powers could alter the future now.
“What say you to Kevin?” Kendahl asked.
“Hmm? Kevin?” Galynne said, “Kevin, who?"
“'Twould would be a fine name, I'm thinking."
Galynne frowned at Kendahl. “Name?"
“For our son? ‘Tis what you were just thinking so earnestly about, was it na'?"
“Oh, aye!” Galynne nodded. “A name for our son, indeed. Kevin, you say? Hmmm, one who is gentle. Though ‘tis sweet, I rather like Anwil. It means beloved."
“Aye, and beloved he is, but ... Anwil MacFarlane? It has no ring.” Kendahl shook his head. “I know. Dempsey."
“One who is proud, aye.” Galynne nodded, smiling half-heartedly. “'Tis fair, but Dempsey MacFarlane ‘tis na’ exactly what I was after."
Kendahl scowled. “Naming a wee bairn is harder than I thought.” Glancing down at his son, he sighed. “However, there is one name I was quite partial to ... before I gave up me childish beliefs in witches and fairies."
Galynne slanted him a dubious glare.
“Now that I know better.” Kendahl chuckled. “I think Boyce would be fitting, indeed. Boyce MacFarlane, now that be a good stout name befitting his ancestry."
Galynne glanced down at the child. “From one who dwells in the woods. Boyce. Aye. ‘Tis fitting and proper, indeed."
“He will accomplish great things,” Kendahl said.
“Aye.” Galynne closed her eyes and savored the tranquil moment, knowing it would be brief. She also knew that if the evil forces prevailed, her ancestors, the Tuatha De Danann, would suffer for all eternity beneath the wicked and oppressive underworld forces. She could only pray that her efforts to pass the true power of the Light to another would prove successful. Now, her own fate, and the survival of the entire population of immortal beings, depended solely on her five-year-old daughter.
Galynne breathed deeply. May Dagdha keep you safe, Seerah.
* * * *
A woman's shrill scream suddenly pierced the air.
The shriek permeated the atmosphere as the Norse raiders attacked with a vengeance.
Holding her fretting child close, Galynne sat unmoving as if detached from the scene. She watched the battle unfold for the second time, knowing that this time it was real, not merely images in her mind.
Their dark forms barely visible, the Norsemen swooped through the murky darkness like ghostly pirates. Even before the first battle cry had pierced the air, Galynne knew that the destiny of all those present had been sealed; evil forces were in control of the universe now. Everyone whom she cared for would suffer greatly before her true destiny could be fulfilled. Sitting huddled in the shadows, she glanced at Boyce. There still be hope for both me children. I must find a way. But how?
As Kendahl stood valiantly before her, fending off the enemy, Galynne glanced desperately about, hoping to find the answer. That's when she spied Nedda.
The mid-wife's body lay face up, as still and limp as death itself, barely a hands-breath away from Galynne. Although she knew there was nothing she could have done to prevent the tragedy, Galynne's heart filled with sorrow. Then, Nedda's hand moved ever so slightly. The movement was barely noticeable, but it was enough for Galynne. “Nedda,” she whispered, scooting closer. The mid-wife's eyes were locked open in a death stare, and blood pooled beneath her head from the slit in her throat. Her discarded bundle of herbs lay abandoned by her side.
Suddenly, Galynne knew what she must do. Gently drawing Nedda's eyelids shut, Galynne whispered a hasty prayer for the old woman's soul and snatched the bundle. Next, calling upon her waning powers, Galynne laid her left hand on her son's forehead. “May Dagdha keep you safe,” she whispered, willing him to sleep with her mind.
His distressed cries subsided and his eyelids drooped closed. When he opened his mouth wide, to yawn, his face
contorted and his tiny limbs quivered with release as the tension drained from his body. Then, he sighed as if thoroughly content.
Galynne kissed him good-bye and wrapped him inside Nedda's sack. Next, with a quick and furtive glance, Galynne scooted toward an island of wooden crates stacked on the deck where a lone, pixie of a woman sat crammed between two crates. “Guard this with your life!” She shoved the sack at a wide-eyed woman who sat looking as if death had just found her.
“'Tis me infant son,” Galynne said.
“Your babe? Nay!” The woman tried to force the bundle back toward Galynne. “We're all doomed, we are. ‘Tis the work of the Devil himself, I say—his evil demons have come to snatch all our souls, they have."
“Aye, they're evil indeed.” Galynne whispered, looking the woman straight in the eye. “But, ‘tis me they are here for. You see, I'm a Shee sorceress."
“God save me!” The other woman cowered, her eyes filling with a look of alarm.
Reaching out, Galynne gently touched the woman's shaking hand. “Fear me na’ ... Cordelia, is it now?"
The woman gasped. “A-aye, but how would you be knowin’ that?"
“'Tis one of me special gifts. And I swear to you, me magic be white. I mean you no harm. Please, trust me.” Closing her eyes, Galynne breathed deeply. “You will be safe from harm. I feel it. When the fighting ends, you must join the others. If anyone asks—tell them you are a healer, and that this be your sack of medicinal herbs. None will question you further. Me magic will protect you, but only for a short time.” Opening her eyes, Galynne glanced over her shoulder at Kendahl, then back to Cordelia. “Please, this child must survive."
Cordelia blinked with apparent wonder, then glanced down at the sack in her arms. “Aye. I'll guard his life as if he were me own, I will.” she whispered.
Galynne tenderly placed her open palm against Cordelia's cheek and looked deep into her eyes. “I know you will. For on the eighth day of the new moon all memories of me will vanish from your mind.” Galynne's hand fell away.
“Nay, I'll never forget you. On me mum's grave, I swear I won't, indeed.” Cordelia vowed, grasping Galynne's hand.
“But, you will.” Galynne squeezed Cordelia's hand and whispered, “Until we meet again."
Withdrawing her hand from Cordelia's grasp, Galynne hesitantly turned away.
“Until ... we meet ... again,” Cordelia repeated.
Galynne never looked back, but her steps faltered slightly before she crept back across the deck, toward the fighting, and Kendahl.
* * *
Chapter Two
“God-speed,” Cordelia whispered. She watched from her hiding place as the sorceress crept towards a tall Scot warrior. He was already fending off three raiders when a fourth man clubbed him on the head. At that moment another raider spotted the sorceress. Cordelia stifled her gasp, knowing that a cry of alarm would only serve to reveal her own presence. Tears blurred her vision as the raider captured the young woman. Her struggle proved futile when he knocked her to her knees, then effortlessly dragged her behind him. When the sorceress glanced in Cordelia's direction, however, a strange sense of calm wash over her. She felt certain that she would, indeed, see the mysterious young woman again, someday.
* * * *
When the final deathblow had been issued and the last mournful wail of grief silenced, Cordelia crept from her hiding place. Keeping low to the deck, she skulked along the ship's bulwark. She watched from the shadows as the surviving Celts were quickly taken captive; they were stripped of their meager valuables, then herded like cattle aboard three Norse war-vessels and a pirate slave-ship. Clutching her precious cargo to her bosom, Cordelia stepped from the shadows.
“Where did you come from?” a man yelled. He seized her by the shoulders and whirled her about to face him.
Cordelia gasped, and clutched her bundle. “I ... I was hiding, I was. O'er near them crates.” She motioned with her left hand.
The raider squinted his beady eyes and scrutinized her for a long, unnerving moment. His searching gaze seemed to violate her physically, lingering here and there like a lecherous caress. “What form of threat do you conceal in your sack?"
She winced as his fingers bit into her flesh. “I'm a healer. A mere woman, at that. I carry herbs to heal the sick and injured. I offer no threat."
He released her with a shove. “Off with you then.” He directed her towards a group of injured men and lads who were being loaded onto an adjoining ship. Cordelia crossed the gangplank last. She could only watch, wait, and pray as they were crammed into the dismal confines of their captors’ ships.
In a final show of power and domination, the Norsemen set fire to the corpse-laden Celtic crafts. Thick, swirling smoke camouflaged the night sky. The sweet-smelling sea air turned sour, almost suffocating, as the distinctive stench of death saturated the atmosphere. As Cordelia waited to be cast below with the injured prisoners, she continued to pray for the all those who had perished. Tears coursed down her face and she trembled, fatigue and misery intensifying the queasy feeling churning in her stomach. So far the sorceress had been right. None had questioned Cordelia's ruse. Yet, she could only wonder what would become of her now. And the poor, wee babe hadn't stirred once since she'd taken charge of him.
“Dear, God, please help me,” Cordelia whispered, fearing what she might find when she finally gained a moment to check on the infant.
Without warning, the gloomy, tranquil sky began churning. Angry, swelling clouds erupted from the blackness, emulating the volatile, ocean whitecaps below. The biting winds picked up momentum, and turbulent, gray, storm clouds rolled swiftly in from the north as if in retaliation. “Thy will be done on earth as it is in ‘eaven. Amen.” Cordelia made the sign of the cross, then drew her cloak protectively about herself and the child.
Turning her back to the wind, she clung to the ship's rigging. As deck hands scurried anxiously about preparing to set sail, the remaining prisoners, herself included, were temporarily forgotten amidst the commotion. The first droplets of rain fell like large, sorrow-filled tears from heaven, but the squall rapidly intensified. Thunder rumbled through the air, exploding with a fierce, ear-splitting crack. Brilliant, jagged bolts of lightning split the horizon, charging the atmosphere with an unearthly current. The hot energy prickled Cordelia's skin, like scores of tiny thorns raking her flesh.
Sheets of torrential rain began cutting through the sky with the fervor of an angry, grieving mother avenging her children. Cordelia huddled close to the deck. Then, blinking against the rain, she watched the raiders fight against the raging elements. A sense of satisfaction filled her aching heart to see the Norse fleet at God's mercy, now.
Someone grabbed hold of Cordelia from behind, jarring her wits. Her struggled proved futile as her assailant dragged her the short distance across the deck and then shoved her down into the cargo hold. Clutching her bundle in the crook of her arm, she grasped at the ladder with her free hand and tentatively began her descent. When the portal hatch slammed shut overhead, her feet missed the next rungs, leaving her hanging precariously by one hand, her feet flailing to gain a hold. But her strength soon failed and she lost her grip. “Ayeee!” she cried, her right hand raking the few remaining rungs as she plummeted the short distance into the dank compartment. She landed abruptly, more on her back than her backside, some lumpy sacks of supplies breaking her fall.
It took her a moment to catch her breath, and another moment to realize that the sacks were not sacks at all, but battered bodies. She inched over the injured men, moving closer to the bulwark. Then she nudged the semi-conscious bodies with her foot, creating barely enough space on the wood planking for her to sit. Her eyes adjusted only slightly to the darkness and for this she was grateful; she had no desire to see the faces that belonged to the agonized moans of despair echoing in the darkness. She could only wonder what else the fates held in store for her.
Cradling the sack on her lap, Cordelia took a deep breath an
d untied it. Holding it close, she gazed in wonder at the helpless babe, sleeping peacefully among the dried herbs. “'Tis by the grace of God, and your mother's white magic, that we've been kept safe from harm, I'm certain,” she whispered. “May God keep her safe as well."
* * * *
Despite the fierce winds and pummeling rain, Desruc stood fixed on the deck of the ship Predator, oblivious to the storm raging about him. “The girl, Hedly! Where's the girl?” He shouted to be heard above the din of crashing waves.
Hedly, the British steward, clutched the ships rail with his left hand and fought to maintain his balance on the pitching deck. “She's in the cargo hold, Sir!” He squinted against the ferocious, wind-driven rain. “It was rough going, though. Why, that bastard Scot killed three of our best men before we got the breeding bitch. And she put up one Hell of a fight. But she's weak as a lamb now."
Desruc swiped his blonde hair from his face and clenched his hands by his side. Standing with his booted feet spread wide, he towered over the steward. “What of Kendahl MacFarlane?"
“Dead, Sir!"
“You're certain?” Desruc leaned in closer.
Hedly used his free hand to wipe the sticky mixture of blood and sea-spray from his craggy, pox-ridden face. “I put the club to his skull myself, S-sir. Cracked open like a ripe melon, it did. W-why, his brains nearly fell out."
Desruc scowled and glanced up at the raging sky. “I curse the heavens, for I rule the fates, now. What the Gods have decreed I alone will control. My will be done!” He inhaled deeply. Then, focusing his gaze on the sky and his thoughts on the atmosphere, he willed the violent storm to subside.
As the wind and rain diminished, Desruc turned his attention back to Hedly. “What of the old woman!"
“I p-personally inspected the womenfolk, Sir!"
Desruc stretched his thin lips into a taut, deceptive smile. “And?"
Hedly grinned, his cloudy eyes gleaming with a look of reminiscent pleasure. “We gained quite a bounty if you ask me. Young, innocent misses with firm, round teats and creamy white thighs, aye."
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