For my brothers,
Brian, Robson, and Russell
You will make out intricacies, so delicate and so subtle, so full of knots and links, with colours so fresh and vivid, that you might say that all this were the work of an angel, and not of a man.
Twelfth-century writer Gerald of Wales, upon seeing an unidentified book from Ireland’s Golden Era in Kildare, Ireland
Prologue
The Village of Athy, Ireland, 782 A.D.
Tonight would be the end of his universe. For three long years Father Francis had planned for this moment, and for the first time, doubts darkened his thoughts as to whether his audacious plan would actually succeed. Could he cheat the death and destruction that had voraciously consumed his beloved homeland? He was the last of an extinct breed, the only one remaining to fight an unstoppable darkness. Tonight, Father Francis was willing to risk everything for the children who were yet to be born.
As if on cue, through the swirling mist beyond, he could see the unmistakable flickering of a distant torch. The monks at Carlow were sending their one and only warning. The signal confirmed his worst fears; tonight would indeed be the end. He ran down the spiral steps of the tower. Each breath he huffed suddenly seemed precious, as if the air itself was a gift from God. When he reached the bottom of the staircase, he stopped hard in his tracks. The straw bed was empty. The sheets were in disarray on the floor. Where was the young lad who was to sound the alarm? The warning bell still lay next to his bed. At the window, the only way in or out of the round stone tower, a ladder extended down to the ground. The lad must have seen the warning signal and, in a panic, run off.
Picking up the bell, the priest climbed out the window as quickly as his aging joints would allow and clambered down the ladder to the wet ground below. What was he to do now? The warning must be given, yet he also had to complete his vital task or all would be lost. He ran toward the main gates, his footsteps echoing through the now empty chambers of his university. All of the books, artwork, and furniture had been removed, leaving only the lifeless, hollow shell of what once had been a cultural centre of higher education.
As he burst out of the main gates, Father Francis nearly bowled over a young girl with flaming red hair.
“Gracious, child, be careful!”
She looked up at him with large hazel eyes, brushing her hair out of her face.
“I’m sorry, Father. Have you seen my kitten? I’m afraid a fox might have stolen her away while I was sleeping.”
“Kiera Galway,” he cried, gripping her by the shoulders as he realized a way out of his dilemma, “the Lord Himself has sent you to me!”
“Excuse me, Father?”
“I am putting you in charge of a most important task. We will soon be under Viking attack. Ring this bell, first in the monastery and then throughout the village. You must alert everyone to run for safety before it is too late.”
“The warning bell,” Kiera whispered in alarm as she grasped it.
“After you have rung the bell, meet me at Fitzgerald’s stable behind the tannery. Do you understand?”
Kiera nodded, wide-eyed.
“Then go. And may God be with you!”
Kiera ran off to the monastery as fast as her young legs could carry her, ringing the bell loudly above her head. Father Francis hurried away in the opposite direction. After passing the blacksmith shop, he dodged through a dark alley behind the tannery, coming to a halt in front of a large stable. As he pulled the door open, he could hear the town awakening to the ringing of the bell as it continued to clang along the streets. Shouting echoed in the air. Lights flickered. Farm animals stirred restlessly.
Father Francis knew a fleet of huge dragon-headed sailing ships would soon appear on the river. Unlike other visitors, these raiders had no interest in trade with the local population or the higher learning offered by the abbey. They came to this land simply to pillage, kidnap, and destroy. All of the other vital monasteries and universities in Ireland had already been ransacked and looted of their cherished art and golden relics. He frowned as he recalled the many stories of tortured priests, teachers, and students, as they were plied for information as to the location of any hidden treasure among the buildings. Almost all of the books that had been painstakingly written out by hand by dedicated monks were unceremoniously thrown onto massive bonfires. Village men who resisted the assault were lined up and killed while their children were corralled and herded to the boats, destined for a life of slavery. At first, the Vikings were satisfied with raiding only the coastal cities, but soon their hunger for Irish treasure grew, and they pushed their ships further and further inland along the rivers and waterways.
Athy Abbey was one of the most isolated monasteries in Ireland. Father Francis knew that this remote location had bought his parish precious time to design a way to keep his abbey’s treasures out of the hands of the Viking raiders. He could only hope that his plan would be enough to keep the priceless treasure safe.
Father Francis lit a torch and entered the empty stable. He reached for a hidden handle in the floor. A large wooden hatch opened under the hay. Descending from the hatch was a shaft and a set of steep stairs that led deep underground. A large stone rested on the hay beside the hatch.
“Father?”
“Kiera, is that you? Come here quickly.”
She stepped into the stable, the bell still in her hand. “What’s going to happen, Father?”
“The Vikings are going to destroy our beautiful village, Kiera,” he answered bluntly.
“But why, Father?” she asked, her voice wavering. “Why do they do this to us? Why can’t they be our friends?”
The old priest sighed. “They are not interested in becoming our friends. They are pirates, killers, barbarians. Call them what you like. They have come to our land to pillage our wealth.”
“Can’t we stop them?”
“I wish we could. They are magnificent fighters, if nothing else. They are strong, fearless, and relentless. We have never seen anything like them before. No defence has stopped them, and if we do try to defend ourselves, they will kill everyone in the village, including the children. There’s no point in resisting, Kiera. All we can hope to do is somehow survive their assault.”
Kiera looked out the door nervously. “So what should I do?”
He gazed solemnly at her. “You run away. You try and stay alive so that you can grow up and tell your own children what our beautiful land was like before darkness fell upon us.”
“Are you running away too, Father?”
“No, I’m not. Would you like to see why?”
She nodded.
He mustered a smile. “Seems right a child will be the last witness to our country’s soul.”
Taking his torch in one hand and Kiera’s hand in the other, he descended through the trap door and into the gloom below. Once he reached the bottom of the stairway, he put the torch to a V-shaped trough hanging from the ceiling. Low orange flames leapt and snaked quickly down the long corridor, illuminating the spectacular catacomb. Endless aisles of leather-bound books lined the walls. Gold and silver statues along with religious relics covered the dry floors. Beautiful bronze statues crowded the corners. Intricate tapestries that had been carefully sealed in waxy coatings were stacked to the ceiling. Father Francis paused at the marvelous sight.
“Please don’t let our efforts be for naught,” he whispered to the heavens.
“Father?”
He took her bell and placed it on a shelf full of books. “This is the heart, mind, and soul of our land, Kiera. The three hundred years of civilization that once adorned my university’s libraries and walls are now buried in this magnificent chamber.”
“But why is it buried dow
n here?”
“The Vikings are here in search of this very treasure. They want to take our beautiful works of art, melt them down, and make creations to honour their own pagan gods. They want to take all of our books and burn them, for their ignorance of the written Latin language infuriates them. They want to destroy our culture so that they can settle and impose their own culture upon us. They want to tear the heart out of Ireland.”
“So we must hide our treasure from them so that they can’t get it?”
He ruffled her hair and managed a smile. “Good for you. But we’re not going to let them have our treasure, are we? They can’t destroy our soul if they don’t know where it is.”
She looked up at him imploringly. “I promise never to tell them, Father!”
“I believe you. You have done well to warn the village. Now everyone will be safe. Before we hide our treasure for a very long time, there is one thing I want to give you.”
Kiera watched Father Francis as he stepped forward and removed a small pendant from a peg on the wall. He turned and placed it around the little girl’s neck. She took the pendant between her fingers and held it up. It was a small Celtic stone cross, carved with beautiful swirls and geometric shapes.
“It is said that St. Patrick himself carved this cross. When he returned to Ireland, he realized that in order to convert the local pagans to Christianity, he would have to somehow blend the Irish culture and his faith into one. The key, he discovered, was in art. Your necklace is the combination of those two cultures; the Christian cross and the Celtic weave. And you, my little Kiera, are Ireland’s future. It is through children like you that our culture will live on.”
“Thank you, Father Francis,” she said, admiring the pendant.
“And now we must go. The Vikings will soon be upon us.”
Pouring a liquid into the trough, he snuffed out the fire and the treasure vault went dark. By the light of his single torch, the priest and child climbed back up into the stable. Father Francis bent over and pushed the large flat stone over the opening to the catacomb. It rumbled into position and thudded securely into place, hiding any trace of the chamber below. He then closed the wooden hatch on top of it.
“Will you help me with the final task?” he asked.
Kiera nodded.
Together they took the torch and set the straw in each corner of the stable on fire, then hurried out the doorway. When they’d left the confines of the stable, Kiera stopped and gasped. The entire village was already engulfed in flames.
“The Vikings are here?” she screamed.
“No, Kiera, the villagers themselves lit the buildings on fire. We agreed to burn the town to the ground ourselves to stop the Vikings from finding our treasure. This way, it will remain hidden for a long time.”
Kiera tore her eyes away from the flames and what was once the only home she knew. “What else can I do?” she asked, bravely.
“You can now get yourself to safety. Promise me you will run straight to your family. Do not stop for any reason.”
She nodded fearfully. The stable was licking the morning twilight with long orange tongues of flame.
“Go, Kiera. Run!”
Kiera glanced back at the old priest one last time before she turned and disappeared behind the tannery. Father Francis hurried toward the river. With luck, he would make it back to the monastery in time to mount his horse and join the brothers of the abbey in nearby Kildare. As he made a dash for the abbey gates, a giant hand reached out from the darkness, grasped him hard by the throat, and lifted his feet straight off the ground.
A thunderous shout echoed throughout the village.
“They’ve destroyed their own village! My treasure is lost!”
Olaf Erikson, the mountainous leader of the Vikings, was furious. He stomped along the river’s edge and pounded the bow of his ship with his fist.
“Olaf,” shouted a returning warrior, “I found this brown-robe running for the monastery.”
Olaf turned and set his icy-blue stare on Bjorn, the only warrior in his raiding party who came close to his own legendary strength. He was carrying the monk by the scruff of his robe. The priest’s feet were dangling at least a foot off the ground. Olaf was impressed by Bjorn’s shrewdness. The brown-robe would likely know the location of the treasure, but quite often these men of a single god were reluctant to talk, even under the threat of death.
“Well done, Bjorn. Throw him down here.”
Father Francis was dropped unceremoniously onto the mud of the riverbank.
“Father,” the Viking said in rough Celtic, “I have heard from a respected source that your abbey is home to a valuable treasure. I would very much like to see it. Could you tell me of its location?”
“I’m sorry,” the priest gasped as he rubbed his burning throat. “I don’t know what you are talking about. I am just a humble servant of God.”
Olaf grunted and placed the cold sharpened point of his sword under the chin of the priest.
“I am not a very patient man, Father. I can see that you set your village on fire. I would like to know which of the burning buildings is the tannery stable.”
“The tannery stable?”
The Viking chuckled. “After a little persuasion from my leather whip, a sapper in a nearby village told me there might be something of interest under the floor of the tannery stable.”
Father Francis looked up blank-faced. Olaf could tell this man was not going to be of any help. In a rage, Olaf brought the sword high in the air and was about to bring it down on the priest’s neck when Bjorn grabbed his wrist.
“The brown-robe might be more cooperative with the proper motivation.”
Bjorn pointed to a young red-headed girl running up the side of the hill on the edge of town. Olaf smiled.
“Get me that girl as well as any other village children you can find. If the old man does not talk, we will sell them as slaves.”
“The children have done nothing to deserve such a fate!” the priest pleaded.
“That is up to you then, isn’t it? If you do not tell me the location of the treasure, their little feet will never touch the soil of Ireland again!”
Father Francis’s heart sank as he heard a scream. He turned to see a Viking warrior grab Kiera roughly as she neared the top of the hill. He prayed for forgiveness, for he knew that no matter what the Viking said or did to her, the safety of the treasure was more important than either of their lives. The soul of an entire country could not be sacrificed for the well-being of a few. He thought of St. Patrick’s cross hanging around her young neck as she was dragged down the hill. He prayed it would keep her safe.
“God be with you, little Kiera.”
Chapter 1
Near Cork, Ireland, 1847
Jamie Galway had already stared into the face of death too many times in his young life, yet a shiver still ran down his spine as he passed a family lying together in the ditch. The dead mother’s arms were wrapped stiffly around her children’s bony shoulders. The deceased father’s head was turned away, his face lined in heartbreak and pain. The mother and father, the son and daughter had all died with their mouths open, still stuffed with the tough inedible grass that lined the side of the dirt road; their last desperate attempt at staving off starvation.
Ryan, Jamie’s older brother, stopped and threw back his hood. He knelt down in the grass beside the family. Taller and ganglier than his younger brother, Ryan gently reached out and closed the family’s tormented eyes with his fingertips, crossed himself, and said a prayer for the dead. Jamie removed his hood as well, his short brown hair framing emerald green eyes, and joined his brother in prayer. The moment of sombre meditation ended as Ryan shook him by the shoulder.
“I need to leave, right now.” Ryan’s hazel eyes and freckled face were burning red with anger.
“Having hate in your heart won’t do anyone any good.”
Ryan wheeled around on his brother, his eyes wild with fury. He thrust a finger back
at the dead family.
“Hate? No, not hate, little brother. Rage, disgust, and a sense of treachery, perhaps … but not hate. How can you, of all people, not feel the same? Look back upon that family! How can you not be angry as well? That’s two dozen dead we’ve passed since we left the abbey! Just lyin’ there! On the side of the road, like the dried up cores of tossed apples! But these aren’t eaten apples we’re talking about. These are God’s children! Dead! Just like our parents, all dead for no good reason!”
Jamie didn’t back down. “Of course, I feel upset for all those who have suffered. And you very well know that I miss mother and father as much as you, but the Brotherhood has warned us not to lose control of our emotions. These are trying times. We must rise above the pain that surrounds us and stay true to our sacred vows.”
Jamie held up his left hand in order to allow the golden ring to glimmer against the grey sky. A simple yet beautiful Celtic weave was etched into the outer surface of the gold.
Ryan thrust his own golden ring towards Jamie. “Don’t start quoting Cardinal Shulls to me. We are human, and the Brotherhood sometimes asks the impossible!”
“The Brotherhood needs us right now,” Jamie reminded him. “They’re trusting us to complete this journey without incident. We have to concentrate our thoughts on bringing that safely to Cork.”
Jamie pointed to the satchel hanging off his brother’s shoulder. Ryan glared at him, then turned on his heels and strode off angrily down the road. Jamie sighed and jogged to catch up. To his left, abandoned stone huts lined the grassy ridge of the road, and the emptiness of the once bustling countryside, a countryside that used to bring Jamie and his brother so much joy, was unnaturally silent. The still dampness of death hung heavily in the air, as nature soaked the spilled souls of the dead into its thick cloth of fog.
Around the next bend, the brothers passed a tiny farmhouse. Wrapped together in only a thin blanket, a family sat in the doorway, shivering in the afternoon mist. Their starvation was so great, they did not have the energy to look up, but instead stared trance-like at their feet through sunken, lifeless eyes. The brothers looked knowingly at each other and, without a word, reached into their pockets. Each holding a small loaf of bread, they approached the family.
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