Celtic Peril (Celtic Storm Book 6)

by Ria Cantrell

  “May the Guardians protect you my child. Remember in your heart that I have always loved you but I want you to live and thrive and to have the chance that all children do my beloved son.”

  The woman could feel the pull of the Ancients dragging her back to her own time. The tears continued to cloud her eyes as she fell back in to the past where she belonged; forced to leave what was left of her heart in a world far from her own.

  ~~~~~

  Tom Callum woke from that dream again. It must have been the third time this week that it had infiltrated his brain. He wasn’t sure if it was an actual memory or if it was just the conjurings of his sleeping mind. Either way, it left him feeling disturbed and edgy. It also made him feel a sense of deep loss. He could still hear the child crying and it was a sound that echoed of longing and sorrow. It burned a place in the pit of his stomach as the child had wept for his mother who had left him to be found by strangers.

  Tom knew he had been adopted. His parents had never hid it from him. He was that foundling but he had been so young, that he could not pull any memories of it; except when he dreamed about it. Gulping sweet fresh air, Tom settled back into his comfortable bed. It was of no matter now. He had great parents that he loved with all his heart. He wasn’t that little child any longer, but a grown man. For some reason, lately, he had been plagued by that dream more often than he wanted to admit. It was like he was being forced to remember something that had no place in his life now. Screw it, he thought. I really need sleep. So he pulled the blankets back around him and turned on his side. He had gotten in so late from his rehearsal with his band mates, he thought for sure he would sleep through till morning, but that dream always left him feeling sad and something else; like he was a lost soul. He punched his pillow and said out loud, “Effin’ dream.”

  As he closed his eyes, peace returned and his thoughts found a better reverie to focus upon. This was also a recurring dream, but it was one he did not wake from feeling sick and disturbed.

  ~She was there like a vision from some medieval masterpiece. Hair of auburn so dark, it was nearly black, but as the light played upon the long tresses, he could see the deep russet catch fire. She was beautiful in a long gown with flowing skirts which molded to her curvaceous body in all the right places. Her eyes were like honeyed amber with flecks of green amid the gold. She called him a name that seemed familiar, but it was not the name he was used to hearing. Still, the way she said it made him feel a sense of belonging. It was almost an endearment, like that of a lover. The lovely lilt of her voice spoke of a time and place far, far away.

  Who was she? He somehow knew the answer. It was as if she had come to him to pull him from the throes of that other dream where sadness threatened his very world. She spoke and said, “Yer’ soul and my heart beat as one.”

  And he knew she was right. He stretched his hand out to touch her but she was just out of his reach. She whispered, “There are no more battles left to fight now, my love.”

  Tom wished it was so, but the battles were only just beginning. What those battles were, he was not sure, but it was enough to know she had come for him again. Had she come to him before? Tom was sure she had. She spoke softly, saying, “Come back to me. Please dunna’ let me go.”

  That accent; it melted him. He said, “Never. You are in my heart, now. I have nowhere else to go anyway.”

  With a gentle kiss against his temple, she whispered, “Sleep now, my love. Ye’ have come home.” ~

  And like a spell cast from long ago, Tom slept. There were no more dreams of sad things that night.

  ~

  Chapter One - Scotland, 1387 ~

  The English king had been dead for quite some time and the boy king who had succeeded him was finally deemed a man old enough to take the throne. News of it had reached the Highlands that this boy monarch had already been sitting on his throne for nearly a decade, but there were sure to be repercussions. Some said this king, the son of the tyrant known as the Black Prince, wanted to settle old scores. Some said he was suing for peace. Peace indeed! War was more likely the promise.

  Morag had lived a long enough life to be wary of any ruler who purported to seek peace. She glanced over at her acolyte and friend, her beloved Bronwyn Brandham. Morag had practically raised Bronwyn after Bronwyn’s own dear mother had succumbed to that unholy fever that ravaged the land. She had taken all of the Laird’s children under her wing, but she loved Bronwyn almost as much as if she had been a daughter bred from her own loins. She had become Bronwyn’s mentor and confidante. In turn, Bronwyn had aspired to the call of the Ancients. The girl had turned into a beautiful woman and Morag’s greatest achievement to date.

  The old woman looked over at Bronwyn and observed the crease of worry marring her delicate brow. An envoy from England brought a missive for her and for her husband, Sir Andrew Brandham. Morag knew that Bronwyn had no stomach for the intrigues between the English and the Scots. So many years ago, the tyrant had nearly caused a terrible rift between her precious MacCollums and the English throne because of his twisted machinations concerning the wedding and bedding of Bronwyn to one of his loyal knights. A marriage had been arranged but the daft old lunatic had betrothed Bronwyn to a married man.

  Sir Erik Ragnorsen was the man chosen for Morag’s dear Bronwyn and a fine man was he; except for one little detail. He was already married to a woman who carried his child. Morag had come to thank the blessing of such foolery because in the end, a mate more suitable was granted to the Laird’s only daughter. That mate was Sir Andrew Brandham. Morag adored Andrew. He may have been English, aye, but the man was Bronwyn’s destined mate and he cherished Bronwyn with a love so deep, it even rivaled the love of her own beloved husband, Ian. Still, even after more than a score of years, Morag could see that those old fears and unpleasant memories were resurrected. It was all old Morag could do to wait until Bronwyn imparted the contents of the missive to her old confidante and mentor.

  The messenger waited for a response, moving nervously from foot to foot. He was young, Morag observed. He surely was uneasy being inside a Scottish keep so far from his English soil. Morag held her breath. Bronwyn’s son, named after her own husband, was in England serving under Sir Erik’s guard as his father had done before him.

  “Please, Almighty one, dunna’ let this be dire news about the lad,” Morag pleaded silently; knowing that more times than not her prayers were heard and heeded. Her mind started to drift as sometimes it did now that she was beyond elderly.

  Morag thought upon a man whose life she had pled to spare. His untimely death had tugged so at Morag’s heart that she begged the Ancients to grant him another chance at life. With her supplications and gifts came responsibilities. Something about the man reminded her of the death of her own beloved Ian and Morag could not bear to think that another young soul’s life was left unfulfilled with his destiny dashed. So she prayed and begged for the man; a man who had been an enemy to her clan but who had been the grandson of one of her dearest friends. She just had to see if the life of Derek Campbell could be bartered. With a heavy sigh at the memory, Morag knew that her request, if granted, would not come without a heavy price.

  The man was spared but only after he had atoned for the misdeeds of his past and the Ancients had seen fit to cast him between life and death to ponder his ill choices for longer than a body was granted to walk the earth. His offenses had been many and when the time was decided for Derek to reclaim his mortality, Morag knew that she would be called to aid in Derek’s transition. Derek had to choose life but that would mean he could no longer live in the time he had been born into. Nay, he would be called to dwell in a world many spans in the future; and Morag would be put there too, because she had begged for his life. Aye, prayers had oft been answered, but sometimes they were not.

  With her reverie broken, Morag raised her eyes to Bronwyn again. The deep line of worry still dented between her delicate brows but she spoke to the Royal messenger calmly, not giving away the turm
oil that coiled now inside of her.

  “Of course we would be honored to accommodate the wishes of yer’ king. I must speak to my husband so we can ready our humble estates for the royal visit. When did ye’ say he wished to arrive?”

  “Within the next moon, milady.”

  The next moon? That would be just in the midst of harvest. Bloody hell! That would put a muck in their resources. Bronwyn did not speak her thoughts. Instead she said, with a demure smile, “Naturally. My husband is due to return in a fortnight and I canna’ have ye’ wait until then. By all means report back to his Grace that we would be honored to receive him and his retinue upon the final harvest.”

  Morag tried not to give pause at what she had overheard. Not only was the harvest going to be interrupted, but the Samhain celebrations would have to be put on hold. Aye, most of the Clan were Christians but the old rituals were fostered and nurtured by those who still followed the Old Ways. There were many who would frown on the practice of the pagan holidays and rites that she and Bronwyn still kept. Clearly, they would not and could not endanger the members of their family and clan while entertaining the English monarch. While he was in residence, they had to appear as if all claims to the past and old religion were quelled.

  Morag did not like it one bit, but as she continued to observe Bronwyn in her quiet dignity, she knew it would be best to keep her concerns to herself for the moment. Morag could see the strain on Bronwyn’s lovely face. Sir Drew was with some of the MacCollum men meeting with the MacKay to discuss the trade of wool and some of the coming harvested crops. He was due to return within the week. It would seem like an eternity until he came home with this news coming to roost at the castle. Morag knew that Bronwyn did not like to make decisions that would affect her family and clan without seeking her husband’s counsel. It was not that he solely formulated all plans concerning their household; nay indeed. It was just that Bronwyn enjoyed the communication with the logical mind of her husband. Drew had learned long ago that his wife was not one to be kept in a gilded cage. She was strong and smart and he enjoyed her thoughts on important matters. Still, Bronwyn wished that Drew was present now to share in this not so welcomed news.

  The Royal messenger bowed before Bronwyn and said, “By your leave, milady. I must hasten to join the other men of my unit and give the king your answer.”

  “Very well, impart our good wishes to his Grace.”

  With another curt bow, the young emissary turned on his heel and left the outer bailey within the fortified walls of the keep.

  After the man was well on the road, Morag approached Bronwyn.

  “What’s this all about, my girl?”

  “By writ of King Robert, all homes must be open to welcome his English Royal cousin, King Richard. Richard wishes to tour some of the northern territories and he will seek fealty by those knights that have failed to travel to the English court. Drew has long been absent from court, but he is still a Knight of the Realm.”

  “But with the late harvest, we barely shall have enough time to ready for the royal guests.” Morag spoke the fears that Bronwyn had left unsaid.

  Bronwyn masked her concern and she replied, “I know. We shall be quite rushed to prepare and our resources will be duly strained but we are given little choice in the matter. We shall have to double our efforts to finish the harvest and ready the keep for the king’s arrival.”

  Taking a deep breath, Bronwyn continued, “This is a well-run keep with ample accommodations. The harvest yields have already been quite bountiful thus far. I am sure if things are to the king’s liking, our efforts shall be well rewarded. Worry not, dear Morag.”

  “But the festival of Samhain…”

  Morag stilled her concerns when she saw the pained look across Bronwyn’s eyes.

  “We shall just have to celebrate quietly this year. I’m sorry Morag. Ye’ know I would never forsake honoring the Ancients, but many of the English dunna’ understand our ways. It is too risky and I’ll not put any of our people in peril.”

  Morag knew Bronwyn was right, but she had never forgotten the old customs; not even when she had been newly widowed. As if reading her thoughts, Bronwyn offered gently, “I know what ye’ are thinking, but ye’ of all people honor the Ancients every day of your life. We keep their ways sacred where ‘tis most important; in our hearts.”

  “Aye, I suppose ye’ are right, my rose. It canna’ be avoided this time. I am old. I have seen many a Sabbat and many a festival. It is hard for me to change my ways. Forgive me. The burden lies upon ye’ and upon Drew. I dunna’ wish to burden yer’ heart further with an old woman’s laments. I know it can nay be helped this time. T’is only that I dunna’ know how many more festivals I shall enjoy. Ah well, ‘tis no matter for I have seen more than most folk have been blessed to do.”

  “Aye, it canna’ be helped this year. There now, worry not for we will have much to do to welcome our guests. Help me find my daughter, shall we. I am sure she will be most excited when she learns of this news.”

  Bronwyn thought that perhaps her daughter would find the prospect of a royal visit exciting. She had been restless, lately and Bronwyn thought that it was the result of remaining unwed. Though it was past the time for Jenna to be wed, Bronwyn and Drew had not forced the issue; that was so far, at least. Mayhap with the keep filled with visitors, their daughter would find one suitable to entertain the possibility of a courtship. Bronwyn could only hope that this news would be something her daughter Jenna would get excited about. May the Ancients bless it and make it so!

  Morag did not want to say that when it came to Jenna Brandham, there was nothing sure or probable. The girl was positively unpredictable and willful. Morag held back a smile, thinking how very much like Bronwyn the girl was.

  ~

  Chapter Two ~

  ~While she had been sleeping, she had heard the boy crying again and knew somehow she had to find him. She wondered if he was a ghost that called out to her, but somehow she wasn’t afraid. She was brave like her da’ and granda’. When she opened her eyes, she saw the child. He was near to her own age, and he sat sobbing quietly in a darkened room. The place seemed strange. It was not like her home amid stone walls of an ancient castle, but a boxed room, painted in muted hues, with large paned windows facing out upon a moonlit lawn. She went to the child and knelt before him. She spoke to him softly and asked, “Why are ye’ cryin’?”

  “I think my mother left me in the dark.”

  “T’is only to sleep for it is very late. See the moon shining brightly.”

  She looked around the dimly lit room and saw playthings and a small bed for the child. It did not look like some place scary. She said, “Do ye’ want to play with me? Ye’ have lots of lovely toys about.”

  The child sniffled and nodded, suddenly not feeling very afraid any longer. In fact, he wanted to appear brave to the little girl who had come to see why he was crying.

  “What’s your name,” he asked, wiping his nose on his pajama sleeve.

  “I’m Jenna,” she answered, smiling.

  The boy looked at the little girl and thought how beautiful she was. She had long hair that hung in thick waves down her back and a sprinkling of freckles over the bridge of her nose. Something about her reminded him of his ma’. Not the mommy who took care of him now, but of the other one; the one that had left him. Sometimes, late at night, he could still remember her. Most times she was long forgotten, but there were times when he slept, that he remembered.

  The little girl was dressed like her; even the plaid arisaid that hung about her slim little shoulders reminded him of something he had seen before.

  He could barely remember the other one, but when he did, it would wake him from his sleep, and make him feel lost and alone. As the little girl sat down on the floor before him, she took a ball in her hands. She rolled it toward him and he caught it, suddenly forgetting what had frightened him. He did have the best toys and now he had a playmate, too; someone who was just like him.<
br />
  After only a few minutes, the boy was laughing and giggling with the pretty little girl and he asked, “How did you get here? Are you a ghost?”

  She giggled again and the boy thought it was the most wonderful sound he had ever heard.

  “Nay. I’m no’ a ghost, but I thought ye’ mayhap were one. I heard ye’ crying and it woke me up.”

  “I wasn’t crying,” he said, trying to appear heroic and valiant.

  “Aye, ye’ were. But I’m glad ye’ aren’t now.”

  They continued their little game, just happy to have found a playmate this late in the night. The boy liked her, alright. Even if she was a girl. He tried to make a funny face at her and that sent them both into a fit of giggles. Jenna stuck her tongue out at him, too and they then took turns making the ugliest faces at one another.

  Jenna heard someone calling for her and it sounded like it was very far away. She turned toward the sound and listened for her name again. When she heard it more clearly, she dropped the ball and stood. “I have to go now.”

  She hugged the little boy and he said, “Will you come back soon?”

  “I think so.”

  And with another tight squeeze around him, just like that, she was gone. The boy picked up the ball and put it beside him as he scrambled up on to his bed. He forgot what had caused him to wake in the first place and he fell back to sleep, dreaming of his new magical friend from far away. ~

  ~~~~~

  When the riders had gone quite a distance she scrambled upon the rise above the old Roman road. Jenna had ridden on her spirited black mare through the forest toward the sparkling loch; determined to spend the afternoon fishing, much to her mother’s dismay. She had nearly caught enough fish for supper when the sound of approaching hoof beats had foiled and ruined her latest catch. She had turned so swiftly at the sound as it echoed across the silent waters, that she had nearly dunked herself into the frigid depths of the loch. Royal emissaries could only mean one thing. An arranged marriage proposal!