“I find God most in nature.” The priest inhaled the salty air until Caden thought his chest might burst … although Father Martin always looked as if he would burst. Indeed, the priest’s face glowed. Martin preempted Caden’s question. “You want to know why I am so filled with joy, no?”
“You are brighter than usual,” Caden admitted.
“I am,” Martin agreed, “and for good reason.” He turned Caden toward the north shoreline and pointed farther down the coast toward a rise of land and rock in the water. “I am a hermit by nature. So I walked to that island this morning to escape the press of this heathen place. To pray for their souls.”
“Have you been endowed with the gift to walk on water like your Christ?” Caden drawled, for as far as he knew, an island was surrounded by water.
Martin ignored his skepticism. “God parts the sea with the tide twice a day to reveal a causeway of sand to the Isle of Medcaut. ’Twas that I crossed. Sure, my feet sank in it, but not enough to dissuade me. It was as if I was being called there. Have you ever felt drawn to isolation with nature?”
That he and a priest had anything in common left Caden even more dumbfounded. “Aye. I’m here, aren’t I?” For the first time, Caden noticed that Martin was barefoot; his boots were tied to his waist. “You crazy priest, you’ll catch your death of cold.” Caden pointed to the seagulls running from the incoming tide and then after it. “Not even God’s creatures want to wade in that icy water.”
Martin chuckled. “My feet are not cold, son. My joy is such that it warms me head to toe.” As if to verify his words, the old man lifted his foot for Caden. “Go on, see for yourself.”
Caden seized the man’s foot and then his arm to keep him from falling backward into the sand. “Father, have you indulged in too much monks’ mead?” He’d never seen the man so giddy. Although his feet were as warm as Caden’s booted ones.
“I have partaken of the Living Water, my son.”
Caden groaned. Holy talk.
“While I prayed on the island for Princess Eavlyn and for God’s Saxon children, He showed me a vision.” Martin’s gaze took on a faraway look, as if this vision were still there in a realm invisible to Caden. “I saw a monastery, there on the very ground on which I knelt. It started as a circle of stones with hundreds of eider ducks nestled among them. And it grew and grew, an Iona for the Sassenach.”
Martin continued to stare through pools of emotion at the marvel with such fervor that Caden’s scorn died on his lips. Whether he hallucinated or nay, this holy man truly grieved for the lost souls of a people who had murdered his own in Christ and pillaged what he held sacred.
Something within Caden crumbled at the realization. Martin didn’t act holier than Caden. He was holier. To pray for an enemy—
“I may not live to see it, but God has shown me that these children will not be lost,” Father Martin said, coming back into the focus of This World. “Nor will you be lost, Caden of Glenarden.”
At the mention of his former home, Caden hastened to repair the defense that separated heart from spirit. “God may forgive me, but Glenarden will never.”
Ronan had said as much when Caden last saw his eldest brother.
“God is not finished with Ronan either, Caden. We are all unfinished works being sculpted by His hands.”
Caden wanted to rebel, to resist that infectious warmth he’d seen in Father Martin. God wouldn’t dirty His hands on the likes of me.
“Father, I saw Rhianon today.” Caden couldn’t believe the words that came out of his mouth of their own accord. Something more powerful than his cynicism was at work. “She’s alive.”
Astonishment claimed Martin’s face. “Are you certain?”
“No—” But Caden was. At least part of him was. He knew the woman he loved. Once loved. “Yes, I’m fairly sure.”
“Where did you see her?”
“At Sorcha’s home.”
Martin leaned against the overturned boat, more thoughtful than alarmed. “So you found Myrna’s daughter as well.”
“Aye. And she wants no part of her inheritance or her mother. But ’tis Rhianon that troubles me.” Caden helped Martin unfasten his boots from his belt.
“You still love her?” Martin asked, pulling stockings out of them.
“Nay, never again,” Caden averred. “She’s a witch … a demoness … a—”
“You’ve ample grounds for a marriage annulment.”
Marriage! Caden grew cold all over. He hadn’t thought about being still wed to the woman.
Martin pulled on one stocking and hastily donned a boot over it, as though the mention of Rhianon had chilled him.
“Father, I—”
What exactly did Caden want to say? Just her image caused his chest to knot. And the nausea … it all came back to him. Feeling as if he were being turned inside out by some hideous force he had no power to fight. Watching from somewhere outside his body as he did horrid things and not being able to stop himself.
And if Rhianon had survived death, then she was even stronger. Panic knocked Caden to his knees, cold perspiration soaking him from the inside out. “Father …” His voice cracked. “Can she do it again?”
Caden couldn’t help himself. The warrior sobbed like a terrified babe and clung to the priest so hard he feared he might break the man. “I cannot f-fight what I cannot see! I would face an armed Pict or Sassenach with my bare hands, but this …” He caught his breath. “Father, how can I stop her demons from taking me again?”
Father Martin stroked Caden’s hair. “My son,” he said gently, bracketing Caden’s face and raising it to his. “A demon cannot occupy a place where Christ dwells.”
How Caden wanted to believe that. “What must I do?”
“’Tis already done. You have called to the Christ to save you in your darkest hour—”
Caden shuddered at the memory. It had been nightmarish, yet so real.
“—and thereby acknowledged Him as your Savior.”
And the nightmare had ended. At least the spiritual one. His dreams had haunted him since.
“But I am not worthy. Not fit to kiss your feet, much less call on Jesus.”
“Yet He saved your life when you should have died … twice.”
At Ronan’s sword point and again at the Saxon’s.
“Son, Jesus has been with you all along,” Martin told him.
“How?” Caden hadn’t realized he’d voiced his question until the priest replied.
“You are a changed man since that day you cried out for His mercy, Caden of Glenarden. Even though bent on your own destruction, you are still changed.”
No more drunkenness. No womanizing. But that was from fear.
“I have seen it,” Martin continued. “Your fear of weakness has been gradually leading you toward faith. To total acceptance of Christ’s saving grace. What you must learn is that in that very weakness you yourself admit, Christ becomes stronger in you. He enables you to do great things in His name.”
The path to Sorcha had certainly been smoothed—if Caden didn’t count the lump on his head or the fact she was betrothed to one of Hussa’s companions. And there was that voice, so faint, yet entrenched in his mind. Had Caden been conversing, even arguing with God instead of himself?
“I need proof,” he said. “I’m not a spiritual man. Give me something I can see or feel. A cross.”
Martin gave him a benevolent smile, the kind a father gives a thickheaded son. But at this point, Caden didn’t care. He wanted to understand what was happening to him. To get back in control.
“Fine clothes do not make a king,” Martin told him. “Likewise, wearing a cross has no power. It’s just a symbol that professes faith, that Christ lives within. The power comes from belief.”
“Is there nothing then?”
“Yes, and it will come from within you. Like love, you cannot see it, but you will feel it and know it is there. And you will see its results, its fruits,” Martin explained. “The
y may not be instant, but they will come, one change, one conflict at a time. Where you fell short of God’s grace yesterday, you will succeed tomorrow. Pottery is not formed at once, but requires constant shaping, reshaping, hardening, glazing, baking. Our spirits are clay in the Master Potter’s hands.”
Just as Caden was about to protest that he wasn’t a blasted piece of stoneware, something Caden’s mother said came to mind. Adam had been made from clay. And man did grow bigger and bigger, from infancy to adulthood.
“So the spirit grows and matures,” Caden concluded.
“So it is,” Martin replied. He placed his hand on Caden’s forehead. “Peace be with you, Caden of Glenarden.”
Peace. Yes, that is what Caden wanted more than anything. A peace that would not leave him, as that garnered from nature’s surroundings did, when he was in the presence of his fellow man.
“What is it you seek from God, Caden?”
Herthfire! And just as he began to grasp the priest’s words. Was there a right or wrong answer?
“Peace—what else?”
“Everlasting life with your Father in Heaven?” Martin prompted.
Instead of nothingness? Or worse, the demons of his dreams? Caden supposed that would lead to peace.
“Yes, that will do.” To Caden’s astonishment, something deep within kindled. Something he had not known for a long time. Hope? Nay, more than that. More than even peace.
“I’ve longed for a father,” he managed past a blade of emotion thick as a plowshare.
“I know, son.”
Though the words came from Martin’s lips, Caden heard them from the voice within. More of the hard wall about his heart fell away.
“And our Heavenly Father is love, unconditional love. No matter how much we fail Him, all He asks of us is that we try again. He even picks us up to help with a second chance.”
As his maithar had when he’d fallen as a child, Caden recalled. Not Tarlach, though. The only way to get his father’s attention was to invoke his wrath. The hurt was unbearable, even now twenty-odd years later. And there was no holding it back. It bled from his soul, racking his body, wringing his eyes until Caden wondered where the water came from.
“If, then, you wish to inherit everlasting life with the loving Father on High, keep the commandments: ‘Love the Lord thy God with all thy heart, and with all thy soul, and with all thy strength, and with all thy mind; and thy neighbor as thyself.’”
“I will.” At least Caden intended to try.
“With God’s help,” Martin added.
“Aye, I will, with God’s help.” Caden frowned. “Though calling Him God makes Him sound so far away.”
“Jesus called Him Abba … which is much like our da,” Martin clarified. “Something tells me God won’t mind if you do as well.”
Abba. It felt right.
Father Martin spit on his thumb and made the sign of the cross on Caden’s forehead. “Receive then, this sign of the cross on your brow and on your heart. Trust with your whole being in the Word, and lead a life that will make you fit to be a dwelling place for the Holy Spirit.”
Abba. The earlier quickening in Caden began to warm, igniting an otherworldly flame that crept slowly to the furthest reaches of his body.
“Pray with me, child of the Living God,” Martin said. “Lord, if it pleases You, hear our prayer …”
“Lord, if it pleases You, hear our prayer …”
“By Your supreme power, protect Your chosen son Caden, now marked with the sign of our Savior’s holy cross …”
“By Your supreme power, protect me, now marked by the Savior’s holy cross, Father …” Caden’s clasped hands seemed welded by the heat that flowed through them.
“Let me treasure this first sharing of Your sovereign glory …” Martin coached.
Was that what it was? Caden wondered, echoing Martin’s words. For no longer did he feel the cold, damp sand beneath his knees or the sea breeze lifting away his cloak to penetrate his clothing. This … this glory would not allow it.
“Help me to keep Your commandments that I might attain the glory of Heaven to which those born anew are destined, through Christ our Lord. Amen.”
As Caden repeated the plea, he began to understand the glow he’d seen earlier on Father Martin’s face. Like that of a man standing too close to a blazing hearth fire, yet this fire came from within. Caden started to rise with it, but Martin was not finished.
Holding up a finger to stay him, the priest walked to where the water lapped upon the beach. On gathering a palmful, he returned to Caden.
“Almighty and everlasting God, Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, look with favor on Your son Caden, whom it pleases You to call to this first step in the faith. With this water, wash him of all inward blindness.”
The tiny bit of seawater Martin poured on Caden’s head penetrated his thick hair. It was a small amount, yet it washed over his spirit like a soaking rain.
“Sever all snares of Satan that have heretofore trapped him. Open wide for him, Lord, the door to Your Fatherly love.”
Fatherly love. The words knocked Caden from his knees, prostrating him on the damp sand. The control he’d sought was gone. In his mind’s eye a small boy escaped from his earthly body to take off across the beach, dancing joyfully out of control with upstretched arms toward Heaven where his Abba watched.
“May the seal of Your wisdom so penetrate him as to cast out all tainted and wicked inclinations, and let in the fragrance of Your lofty teaching, that he shall serve You gladly in Your church and grow daily more perfect, through Christ our Lord. Amen.”
But Caden the man could not move. A floating sensation precluded the need, as if Abba was gathering him up in His arms. And from deep inside Caden’s very soul—aye, at last he’d found it beneath the refuse of pain and rejection that had buried it for so long—he shouted, “Amen!” It was no more than a whisper to his ears, but in his mind his Abba heard it. And He smiled at His adopted son.
Chapter Eight
Sorcha agreed to take Ebyn down to the beach after midday. The laying breeze and bright afternoon sun made even the cool October day seem warmer. Gemma decided to join them, bringing along her hornpipe.
“What more can we ask for?” her friend had demanded when Sorcha initially balked at the idea of leaving the haven of her home so soon. “A beautiful day and a fine man to practice your dancing with.”
Her dancing. One thing more for Sorcha to worry about. Aye, she’d been taught basic manners, but she was a singer and musician. She played for the dancers. Yet, as a thane’s betrothed, she would be expected to be one.
“You simply play the tune with your feet as fingers upon the ground, which is your instrument,” Gemma instructed from her perch on a log washed ashore long ago, judging by its salt-dried finish.
“Milady, will you dance?” Ebyn, solemn and gallant in his role, bowed as Gemma had taught him. Despite her apprehension, a smile tugged at Sorcha’s lips as she responded in kind.
“Now you, Sorcha, tap the sand with your feet. No, no,” Gemma cried out as Ebyn started one way and Sorcha the other. “I should imagine Thane Cynric would have you dance near him. Together. Hold hands, perhaps … not too close. And not as if you fear catching the pox,” she added when they pulled back at arm’s length. “We are frolicking together to my music. And make eye contact with your partner. Smile.”
And so it went. Walking, skipping, turning, weaving, sometimes hand-holding, but always near. At least until Ebyn’s attention was thwarted by some youngsters his own age batting oyster shells with sticks along the water’s edge.
For a lad his age, he’d been uncommonly well behaved, given the morning they’d had. But Sorcha had seen the energy he and the other children ran off when she and Gemma had taken them to the beach to get them out of the house during their short stay. Poor fellow must be about to burst with it, she thought.
“I’ve an idea,” she said. “Ebyn, why don’t you run off with yon lads fo
r a bit, while I practice? When I’m ready for a partner, I’ll call you.”
The grin he gave made her small consideration well worthwhile. “Aye, thank you, milady.”
He was off before Gemma could put in her thoughts. But from the way she followed Ebyn with affection in her gaze, she approved. “’Tis no wonder Tilda offered to keep him again tonight without pay. He’s a dear and,” she added, “Tilda swears he has potential at the loom.”
“I know what you’re thinking.” Sorcha lifted her unbound hair off her neck to cool herself from the exertion. “But Tilda is old enough to be his grandmother. What would become of the lad, were she to die before he’s grown?”
“Aye,” Gemma sighed in agreement. “Let’s try something slower.” Putting the pipe to her lips, she began to play a dignified tune.
Step, two, three. Sway to the music. Step, two, three.
“Skip,” Gemma said to the side as Sorcha beat out the time on the sand with the ball of her foot.
Curtsy, two, three. Sorcha stooped low. Up, two, three—
And there stood the Cymri stranger, as if conjured by elf magic, offering his hand. “Well done, milady.”
Sorcha and the music stopped. Finally, shock freed her tongue. “How did you find me?”
“Well, now, you”—he fingered a lock of her hair—“and your companion don’t exactly blend into the crowd. Not that there’s much of one.”
He only touched her hair, but that and his dazzling smile caused her pulse to trip. Indeed his humor was uncommonly bright, given what had happened to him. Sorcha cut her gaze to Gemma, who seemed as taken aback as she.
“Gemma,” he prompted, “if you’ll continue, I’ll—”
“Now what would a man like you know of dancing in a king’s court?” Sorcha challenged.
The sun played on his golden hair, as wavy as the sea and tamed with a band of leather at his neck today. When he slipped his cloak over his head and tossed it near Gemma on the sand, there was a fringe of the same gold showing at his throat in the vee of his tunic.
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