Curse of the Celts

by Clara O'Connor

  “Lord Rhodri.” The healer had returned. “Out of my way, boy.”

  He pushed past Marcus as he bustled through, anxious to serve his lord. “Rhodri, what have you done?” he muttered to himself as he reached for his travel bag once more.

  “Was trying to save… Not much left,” Lord Rhodri managed to say.

  I frowned. What was he trying to save?

  “You damned fool,” Madoc grumbled as he put whatever he had taken from his bag into a cup of water on the table nearby and, supporting his lord’s head, helped him to drink.

  Marcus’s gasp was audible as Devyn’s father revived almost immediately. I could barely believe my eyes. Yesterday I hadn’t even noticed the symptoms of the illness that Marcus had managed to catch. But this morning, in the space of twenty minutes, he had gone from seeming fine if frail to fully symptomatic, displaying the signs I recognised all too well from my time in St Bart’s hospital, the symptoms of one with mere days to live… to almost fully recovered within minutes.

  “What—?” Marcus could barely get the words out. “What was that?”

  “Ha! We have something that all your fancy medicine doesn’t, eh?” the healer taunted Marcus.

  “Please, I’m a doctor. There is no known cure for the illness. How did you…?” If Marcus heard the man’s snarky tone then he didn’t respond; in his eagerness to learn more he was practically tumbling over his words. His hands reached for the now empty cup.

  He lifted it to his nose and sniffed. “Bitter. What is this?”

  The healer cast a suspicious look at the outsider but finally shrugged. Who was Marcus going to tell?

  “A tincture made mostly of mistletoe. The druids grow it. It’s no cure but it helps. Our stocks are low. The prince distributes it to the principality over Yuletide after the midwinter harvest but we’ve gone through it fast this year. More and more have fallen ill of the Mallacht and we couldn’t wait another month. But then news came that a Briton boy had escaped the city and his lordship hoped it was his boy, so he insisted we delay. When two weeks went by I figured he must have gone past already but Lord Rhodri would not leave, just in case.”

  He looked down at his lord who, though he looked much recovered, now slept in his large chair, clearly exhausted by the battle that had taken place in his body.

  “I hope we did not delay too long. He hid how low our supply was and I took some for my journey in case I met anyone in need. Excuse me while I see exactly how long our supply will last for those within the keep who rely on it to keep them this side of the grave.”

  I waited until Madoc left the room. Marcus was lost in thought as he watched him leave, no doubt wanting to learn more about the treatment. I had need of his attention though.

  “Are you strong enough yet?” I indicated the frail older man. “The medicine he’s been taking, it won’t cure him. But you can.”

  Marcus nodded thoughtfully. “I think I could help one or two now. I will speak to him tomorrow and see if he will accept my help.”

  “Why would he not accept?”

  “We’ll see.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  On the second morning after Gideon’s departure, a call went up that riders were coming. The position of the tower high on a hill afforded its residents a view over the surrounding countryside for miles and miles, so it felt like an age before the two riders finally emerged from the trees close enough to be identified: Bronwyn and one of her warriors. Where was Devyn?

  Bronwyn was hailed and entered through the open gates. I stumbled down the stone stairs that brought me from the top of the wall to the courtyard. I rushed over to Bronwyn as she dismounted.

  Her eyes caught and held mine, her face drawn. My breath caught in my throat. I couldn’t make the words exist in my mind, much less emerge from my mouth.

  She caught and squeezed my hand.

  “He lives,” she assured me. “Where is Madoc?”

  “He went to check on his supply of mistletoe, I think.” I wasn’t sure of his location though.

  I trailed after her as she immediately took off towards the side entrance to the tower where Madoc’s room was.

  “Where is Devyn?”

  She didn’t falter as she answered over her shoulder through the black wing of her hair.

  “He’s coming behind. But we need Madoc,” she said. “Now.”

  What did that mean? I reached for Devyn to find out for myself but could sense nothing. Surely he couldn’t be too far behind. Where was he and what had happened to slow them down this much?

  “Madoc,” she called, and without waiting for an answer was inside.

  The druid – I had been corrected when I had referred to him as a healer – was pulling some herbs down from where they hung drying on the wall. There were small pots and bottles covering every available surface. Bottles and jars of blue and green, brown and transparent, of both pottery and glass. The clear ones that I could see held liquids and pastes of various colours; some contained seeds and a large one beside me seemed to contain dirt. The benches were crowded with pestles and pots and even a series of tubes that dripped a greenish liquid into a smaller dark pot.

  Madoc didn’t look up as we burst unceremoniously into the room, just bustled about plucking one bottle off a shelf before returning it and reaching into a drawer and taking out two others.

  “Madoc,” Bronwyn repeated impatiently.

  “Tsh, tsh, I hear you, girl. I’m not deaf,” he said, continuing to lift and discard various bottles, peering into them and opening the stoppers to sniff at others.

  Bronwyn was not a woman used to being hushed like a child, but neither was she able to bring herself to shout at a druid she presumably had known since childhood.

  “Gods, Madoc, please,” she finally pleaded with him to acknowledge her.

  He sniffed at one last green bottle and, apparently satisfied, put it into a bag which he then lifted over his head, settling it securely across his body.

  Crossing to Bronwyn, he laid a gentle hand on her shoulder.

  “How bad?” he asked.

  “Bad.”

  My stomach jumped a little at the confirmation of what I already knew to be true.

  “Is he conscious?”

  “A little,” she said. “That is, he wakes some, and he knows me, but then he is gone again.”

  “How far has the darkness extended?” he asked, referring to the dark veiny colour that we had described to him, the one that crept from Devyn’s wound when we had last seen him.

  “His whole chest, his arms, up to his neck.”

  My stomach swooped. Were we too late. Had whatever it was invaded too much of his body to be repelled by whatever concoction Madoc had prepared to fight it with? Focus. I needed to focus on what they were saying; I could process it later.

  “His face?” he asked.

  “No.”

  “Good, that’s good.” The druid nodded as he pulled his great grey cloak on. “When he’s not awake, how deep is he gone?”

  “Deep.” She glanced at me. “He seems almost dead at times.”

  I bit my knuckle so hard that blood welled where my teeth cut flesh. Don’t scream, don’t scream. He’s not dead yet.

  “How far?” Madoc surveyed his workbench before nodding in satisfaction to himself as he patted the satchel under his cloak.

  “Not far, I think. We were not far from Chirk when Gideon met us. He gave us fresh horses to come to fetch you. The rest are coming behind with Devyn. We have him in a cart but it’s too slow. Gideon doesn’t think he will make it if you don’t treat him first.”

  I trailed them back out to the courtyard where the two horses waited. Bronwyn’s warrior mounted one, leaving one for Madoc. Gideon and the other soldiers who had gone in search of Devyn had emptied out the stables.

  I had never felt so helpless in my life. Not in Richmond watching Devyn ride away, nor on the sands about to face a justice that I knew was rigged against me. As if on a string, I followed the hor
ses through the gate, stopping outside the castle wall as they picked up the pace along the road, watching unblinkingly until they disappeared into the forest. He was dying, and all I could do was stand here in this cold crumbling castle doing nothing. What good was all this power I supposedly had if I couldn’t do anything to save him?

  A fine-boned hand intertwined with mine and gripped tightly.

  “He will make it, Cassandra,” Bronwyn said firmly.

  “Will he?” Or would he die out there in the green forests of his homeland? At least he would have that; at least he wouldn’t be closed in by the urban prison of Londinium. He found me and returned me to the land of my birth; that was all he had wanted. Would he now slip away, leaving me here alone?

  My knees gone, I folded to the ground.

  What would I do if he never made it here? I pushed the thought away. Devyn would make it. Whatever had been on that blade would not be enough to steal him from this world.

  Bronwyn spoke to me but the words were just a faint buzz, my entire body focused on the riders galloping along the road through the great trees of the forest, their horses’ hooves a steady patter over the rustle of the wind in the leaves that carried me along.

  They followed the road through the forest, their way littered with the debris of the summer long gone, bare saplings standing solitary under great gnarled trunks. Open fields and craggy cliffs. A babbling brook that rippled along beside the road.

  Until finally they met a group of horses carrying men. One of the horses pulled a small cart, alongside which a large man rode. The horse was tired, relieved of its burden as the two groups met, and the man was lifted from the cart.

  A wind curled across the bare grass, whistling through the manes of the tired horses. The robed man was tending to the one prone on the ground, whose head rested in the lap of the large, dark-haired man.

  His heart was beating but slowly, so slowly. The golden liquid poured into his mouth ran over the cracked lips and slid down his pale cheek. A sliver of gold slid through the body, carrying energy in it, carrying life, pushing back the dimness that closed in on the heart, which now began to beat a little stronger, to beat a little stronger for me.

  His eyes opened. For me, for me.

  I smiled, and through the bond I felt the slightest stir. It was enough; he would come back to me. Gladness warmed me.

  The ground underneath me felt cold, seeping up into my bones, but I felt warm, safe, wrapped in a heavy wool cloak. It scratched at my neck while my head rested against the stone wall at my back.

  I drew in a breath of the cold winter air.

  “Cassandra.” It was Marcus’s voice. “Come inside. Help me persuade this stubborn old man to let me help him.”

  I nodded reluctantly; here was something I could do while we waited.

  Night came and went with no sign of them. I breathed out and watched the white vapour extend across the cold air in front of me from the warmth of my bed. I searched for Devyn; I still couldn’t feel him, but he was more present somehow. Had they travelled through the night or had they rested to give him time to regain his strength before attempting the last stretch?

  I had no way of telling. I wasn’t sure how I had followed the druid and Bronwyn’s man out to Devyn yesterday, but nothing I was doing to push my consciousness out was having any more effect beyond the wool blankets than the vapour of my breath on the cold air.

  I untangled myself from Marcus and, bracing myself, left the warmth and exposed my bare feet to the floor, relieved to find I was still wearing the Celtic tunic and pants I had donned the morning before. At least Marcus’s behaviour as my soon-to-be husband had some boundaries. My last memory of the evening had been watching over Rhodri after Marcus treated him. Without having multiple patients to treat, Marcus was able to concentrate his efforts. He assured me Rhodri would make a full recovery once he shook off the impact of his intervention. He then spoke at length about the differences he had felt in Rhodri, fascinated to explore the effects of the medicine that made the illness chronic rather than terminal. Marcus’s presence ensured that Bronwyn spent the day elsewhere. Their initial encounter not withstanding, she and Marcus weren’t on the friendliest of terms.

  My stomach growled. Loudly. It was protesting at the two meals I had missed while tending to Rhodri. I pulled on my soft leather boots and crossed the leather strings around them, winding the thongs up my calf and knotting them closed at the top. I pulled on my outdoor cloak to make my way downstairs.

  The great hall was not unoccupied when I got there, despite the early hour. Lord Rhodri was in his usual fireside seat with Bronwyn in the deep chair opposite him, her slight figure curled up under her cloak as if she had been there all night.

  “Good morning,” Rhodri greeted me, as I helped myself to the little round cakes, which Meg had told me were called griddle cakes, that sat piled on a platter on the long table. I frowned at him; he didn’t look well enough to be out of bed already. I took the smaller chair to his side as I wolfed down my breakfast, gratefully accepting the warm herbal tea he poured for me from a cast-iron kettle that sat on the wide hearth.

  I blew on it gently before taking a testing sip; the flavoured water wound its way down my body, warming as it went. There was a tang of apples in my nose as I sniffed the cup with my next sip. The crisp, clean smell was as enjoyable as the heat of the cup itself as my fingers wrapped around it.

  “Thank you,” I murmured. Devyn’s father looked exhausted, his face at once pale and flushed. There were deep hollows under his eyes. Marcus had assured me his treatment was working, despite appearances to the contrary, the lingering symptoms a result of how much longer he had suffered with the illness than those Marcus had treated in the city.

  “No sign?” I asked softly, not wanting to wake Bronwyn.

  He shook his head wearily.

  “They’ll be here soon,” I assured him, and he nodded as if comforted, though he had no way of knowing that I had some reason for my confidence that his son was indeed on his way and not already passed on from this world.

  We sat in silence for a time, watching the flames flicker and glow on the logs that burned in the open fire. The fire was three times the size of any I had ever seen in Londinium. Burning wood was a luxury in the city; there were enough logs in this fire that the cost would feed a poorer family in the stews for a month or more.

  I wondered where Marina and Oban were now. Devyn had risked a lot to help them. I wondered how many more he had helped during his time in Londinium while he was watching me, trying to ascertain if I was indeed the infant this man had abandoned. An abandonment so profound and far-reaching that it had ruined his family’s name for ever.

  I had only known Lord Rhodri a couple of days, but what little I had seen of him reminded me in many ways of Devyn; he cared deeply for his son and he treated those around him with respect and care. Gideon had said that as Griffin he had been the greatest warrior in the land. Why had he deserted the revered Lady of the Lake? A woman whose life was his to protect. Devyn had given up everything, had risked his life for years in the hope of finding a child he barely knew. He had not been afraid for himself for a single moment in the arena. His only thoughts had been about me. I couldn’t understand how this man, two decades ago, had been such a lesser version.

  “Tell me about the Griffins,” I said, before I realised I had intended to speak.

  Tired eyes met mine, a sadness so profound in them that I had to blink against the tears that welled in mine in response.

  He closed his eyes and was silent for so long I began to think he had fallen asleep.

  “The Griffin,” he corrected softly. “There is only one. I am the last. Where did you hear that term?”

  “Bronwyn used it to refer to you.” I frowned. “And Gideon uses it when he talks about Devyn.”

  His lips thinned.

  “York,” he spat.

  Rhodri was less than happy at Gideon using the term, seeming to concentrate his dislike
of the family in general on Gideon in particular. He had said that he was the last…

  “Devyn does not inherit the name from you?”

  “The Griffin is the title given to the lady’s protector. He would have inherited it –” he paused “– but there is no longer anything to protect.” He sighed. “Do they teach you much of our legends behind the walls?”

  I shook my head. I knew a little about the Griffin but the weight of the term out here implied that there was more to it than Devyn’s brief explanation in Londinium had suggested.

  “Then let me tell you of the legend. Many centuries ago, the land was ravaged by war. A young man called Arthur Pendragon sought to unite the land in peace.” He looked up for confirmation that I at least recognised the name. Satisfied, he continued. “Nimue, the Lady of Avalon – a mystical isle – gifted him two great prizes: a sword and her sister, Guinevere of the Lake, as his bride. The lady married Arthur, and together with his druid Merlin they made him High King of the land and peace was known, for a time. Amongst his knights was one who was more skilled, stronger than all the rest, and Arthur made him the protector of his lady wife. Unfortunately for us all, this knight and Guinevere fell in love, and Arthur, in a rage, had them both killed. Nimue cursed Arthur’s poor treatment of her sister and dark days fell upon the land.

  “The various Briton tribes – the Mercians, Umbermen, and Anglians – fought invaders on all sides for centuries – the Romans, the Saxons, the Northmen, the Normans – as well as each other. Many of these peoples settled, integrated, but the Romans wanted complete dominance and so generation after generation spent their lives fighting the might of the Empire. And the Empire was winning. By the time that concerns us, many centuries after Arthur, Kernow was overrun, Anglia too, the people of Cymru hid in the mountains, Mercia was almost entirely crushed. John Plantagenet of York was a king in name only, seeking refuge in Carlisle after he lost three brothers to the Romans. Henry, Richard and Geoffrey were all killed in the battle of Reeth. Mercia held on for another decade but it too was on the verge of annihilation after losing the siege of Alnwick.”