“Did you join my daughter?”
Marcellus gave the queen a confused look.
“Did you seduce my daughter?” Rhiannon asked bluntly.
“No matter what I say, you will not believe me. I swear on the honor of my ancestors that I never tricked her.”
“Yes or no! Did you take Catrin by force?” the queen said with a deep growl to her voice.
Marcellus lifted his shoulders and said resoundingly, “She gave her consent. We pledged our love for one another before Mother Goddess.”
For several seconds, Rhiannon gripped the throne’s armrest and stared at Marcellus with deadly silence. Then she slowly rose from her throne and barked something in Celtic.
Cynwrig and Trystan immediately restrained Marcellus by the arms and escorted him back to his sleeping quarters. There, they unbound his wrists and clicked the door’s bolt to lock him in.
Perplexed, Marcellus did not know whether to take this as a good sign that the queen was reconsidering her judgment. Rubbing his swollen wrists, he wondered what more he could do to find out what happened to Catrin. With the Red Executioner ready with battle-ax outside his room, he plopped on the bed, frustrated that he could do nothing.
The word “rape” ripped in his mind. He ruminated over what the queen would do to him if she reached this conclusion. Would she make sport of him and make him run through a gauntlet of savages, eager to bludgeon him to death? Most likely, they would chop off his head, spike it, and hang it as a decoration on the Great Hall’s wall. Hands shaking, he fumbled to remove his shirt, so he could inspect the swollen bruises left by the villagers.
Suddenly a woman’s wail from the next room made his heart tremble. Catrin must be in the room next to his. When he heard her scream again, he jumped up and wildly paced back and forth, rage building that he could not help her.
When he again heard her agonized wails, he slammed his fists on the door and shouted, “What is happening to you, Catrin?”
The door clicked open and Marcellus backed away from the battle-ax in Cynwrig’s hand. Realizing that one blow would smash his skull in, he held out his hands in a conciliatory manner. “All right, Cynwrig, I see your point. I will stop shouting, but for the love of the gods, can’t you tell me what is happening to Catrin?”
Cynwrig muttered something in Celtic and pointed to the bed. As directed, Marcellus sat on the bed and uttered, “Why can’t I talk with someone who can speak my tongue?”
Cynwrig rotated the axe handle a couple times, then left and slammed the door shut. Marcellus felt as if his guts were ripping out of him when he again heard Catrin’s anguished cries. Then her screams stopped and footsteps could be heard leaving the other room.
He pressed an ear against the wall and held his breath, trying to capture any sound from the other room.
Nothing.
He tapped on the wall and said in a hushed voice, “Catrin, are you there?”
She answered in his mind. Don’t let Agrona take control of me.
Marcellus pressed his palms against the wall to feel her essence. How can I do that?
Catrin’s voice whispered into his ears. Keep me in your thoughts.
The wall suddenly warmed, and Marcellus envisioned Catrin as a goddess with golden orbs circling her head. Her hair swept back as if she were flying. Then the wooden wall suddenly chilled when he heard shuffling feet and Catrin’s moans fading in the corridor outside his chamber.
33
Dagger’s Twisting Fate
Taking a closer look, she knew her eyes were not lying. The inscription on the blade had been obliterated. It took a moment for her to comprehend what that could possibly mean.
The events from the last two days and nights weighed heavily in Rhiannon’s mind. Droopy-eyed, she glanced around the king’s gloomy bedchamber where Catrin had been placed. She placed a hand on her daughter’s forehead. The skin felt clammy and cold—a sign her daughter’s fever had broken. Catrin now seemed at peace, her breathing even.
But how long would it last?
The agony of seeing her daughter wail and thrash as if an evil spirit was controlling her movements still racked Rhiannon’s heart. Fatigued from the sleepless nights, she could no longer think clearly or remember hour to hour. When her stomach grumbled from hunger, she could not recall the last time she had eaten.
She snagged a finger in her tangled hair and muttered, “When did I last brush my hair?”
The candle on the table cast a shadow of her up the wall. She sighed, her eyes filling with tears. She gazed at Catrin again and was filled with terror that her daughter might lose her soul. Regret bubbled to the surface that she may have made her gravest mistake by not abandoning Catrin as a baby in the forest and allowing her to die.
Rhiannon recalled Agrona’s proclamation that Catrin was the daughter foretold in Rhan’s curse. The weaker of identical twins, Catrin was ghostly-white as a baby and on the verge of death, unlike her sister Seren, a ruddy newborn wailing vigorously for the breast. Rhiannon had considered sacrificing her sickly child, so Mother Goddess could suckle her in the Otherworld and Rhan’s curse could not be fulfilled. However, she reconsidered when the inscription of the curse began blurring on the dagger blade which gave Amren hope that the spell could be reversed. When Agrona said Catrin had been born with the raven spirit and was destined for the same greatness as ancestral warrior queens, Rhiannon agreed with Amren that the gods should decide Catrin’s fate. As a mother, she could not deny her baby girl the milk she needed for sustenance.
Paradoxically, Catrin survived whereas Seren died tragically at the age of twelve of a fever after Agrona ceremonially branded her with Amren’s family totem animal—the horse.
Wrestling with her grim recollections, Rhiannon mulled over what she should do next with her daughter. Agrona warned that Catrin’s short periods of tranquility would be shattered with further outbursts.
Rhiannon could only trust her one loyal and true champion to advise her. She stepped to the doorway and motioned her servant. “Summon Trystan. Tell him to meet me in the king’s council chamber. After that, tell Agrona to watch over my daughter.”
The servant bowed and scurried away.
Rhiannon kissed Catrin on the forehead with deep remorse of what she might have to do. She stepped out of the room and wearily shuffled down the corridor to Amren’s private council chamber. In the room, she sat at a round table and gazed at the burning candle while she waited for Trystan. She flinched when the image of a fire-breathing eagle appeared on the orange flame. During one of her crazed states, Catrin had cried out that these creatures would raze the village to the ground. This is an omen, Rhiannon concluded, leaving no doubt in her mind that her daughter was cursed. But who cast the spell? Was it Apollo, as Agrona insisted, or was this the next step in Rhan’s prophecy that Catrin would rise out of the fire as a raven?
Or gods forbid, is this Marrock’s sorcery pulling the threads of Catrin’s fate?
In desperation, Rhiannon silently prayed, Divine Mother Goddess, shine your light on the pathway I must take.
When brilliant light illuminated the chamber, the hairs on Rhiannon’s neck prickled. She glanced over her shoulder and saw light glowing through the woolen shawl that covered the dagger case. She slowly pushed herself up from the table, stepped to the back shelf, and pulled the blue-and-green fabric off the wooden box. The chamber dimmed as she touched the front panel of the case. The wooden surface felt strangely cold, even though the last two mid-summer days had been unusually warm. With both hands, she carefully picked up the box and set it near a three-wick candle on the table. The dark oak surface suddenly radiated to an amber color.
Rhiannon trembled. “Blessed gods!”
For several seconds, she stared at the glowing case, thoughts churning in her head about what supernatural forces she was dealing with. Was this a sign from the D
ea Matres? Or was this an omen from Rhan’s curse? Were evil spirits playing tricks on her?
Despite the foreboding jitteriness in her stomach, she needed to see if the inscription on the dagger had altered again. She sat at the table and inserted the pin into the brass lock. When she tried to open the lid, her fingers singed from the hot surface, and she jerked back against the chair’s splat.
“Cursed scaxsion!”
Looking at the wooden box again, she swore that it was breathing like a living thing. She questioned if her mind was frazzled from the lack of sleep. Struggling to regain mental clarity, she took several calming breaths, then wrapped her fingers with a piece of her cape and gripped the upper edge of the case. The top snapped from her grasp like a crunching jaw.
She squealed and recoiled like a snake ready to strike at whatever might crawl out.
For several seconds, she gaped at the box glowing red. Apprehensive that Rhan’s curse was transforming, she kept telling herself: Open the box … open the box … open the box. Curiosity finally overtaking her, she clasped the top edge of the case with her cloth-covered fingers and slowly lifted the cover. She could feel the heat rise out of the box as she pulled the hinged top back.
To her amazement, the dagger blade was aglow. The brilliant red surface appeared as if it had just been pulled out of a smelting furnace. Perhaps, she thought, the candle flames were causing the illusion. Taking a closer look, she knew her eyes were not lying. The inscription on the blade had been obliterated. It took a moment for her to comprehend what that could possibly mean. Her first reaction was joy that Catrin had lifted the spell during one of her fits. Maybe Amren was right after all. Catrin had been divined by the gods to reverse Rhan’s curse.
Then Catrin’s wails that sounded like a wounded animal burst through the cracks in the wall. A chill iced down Rhiannon’s back. She slammed the lid shut and sprang to her feet. The inlaid ravens on the wooden panels began flapping their wings against the golden background. Frozen with terror, she gaped at the case as it slowly dimmed to its original dark color.
A panicked thought cut through her mind that she had inadvertently reset Rhan’s curse when she opened the box.
The sound of a man’s cough caught Rhiannon’s attention. She turned toward the doorway and found her gallant champion standing there. Trystan was attired in military uniform—a chain mail shirt, a belted longsword at his side, and trousers with the tartan blue-and-green tribal colors of the Regni. A gold torc adorned his neck, each of its ends crafted in the shape of a stag’s antlers to ward off predators. He bowed slightly.
“Did you summon me?”
At that moment, Rhiannon wanted to rush into the comfort of his arms, but she couldn’t move, the anguished words caught in her throat.
Trystan must have sensed her distress, as he rushed in and enveloped her in his arms. “What is wrong, Rhiannon?”
Chest heaving from sobs, she stuttered, “I need … a friend, someone I can trust.”
Trystan hugged her. “You know I am always here for you. What is this about?”
Rhiannon nuzzled her head into the comfort of his shoulder. “I’ve seen a horrible omen and don’t know what to do.”
Her head began spinning and the floor seemed to collapse beneath her feet. She went limp, but Trystan held on tight and helped her into the chair. He sat across the table and told her, “You look worn out. You need to get off your feet.”
She noticed his eyes shift toward the raven-inlaid dagger case on the table.
“Is this new?” he asked.
She shook her head. “This case is old, but it holds a dark secret that is yet to be revealed.”
Trystan leaned over. “What is in it?”
“A jewel-crusted dagger,” she answered. “I swore to Amren that I would safeguard it while he was gone. If I tell you the dagger’s dark secret, you must swear not to tell anyone.”
Trystan reached across the table to clasp Rhiannon’s hand. “I swear on the graves of my ancestors that I will keep your secret. Now tell me what it is.”
Rhiannon hesitated. Amren had told her not to reveal the dagger to anyone while he was gone. Yet the situation had become dire and she finally said, “On the blade is the inscription of Rhan’s curse that Amren had engraved after her execution. The words on the dagger’s blade began blurring at the time of Catrin’s birth. It was as if the curse was rewriting itself and yet to be revealed. Amren took this as a sign that Catrin might be able to alter the spell, but when I inspected it today, the inscription had disappeared. I thought perchance the curse had been lifted, but then the inlaid ravens on the panel began flapping. Then I heard Catrin wail.” Rhiannon placed her trembling, folded hands on the table. “Now I fear the curse has transformed again. Open the case and tell me what you see.”
Trystan rubbed the upper edge of the case with a forefinger. “That is odd. It feels like ice.”
Rhiannon quavered. “Open it.”
Trystan nodded and slowly lifted the lid. A foreboding shiver prickled across Rhiannon’s shoulders and she turned her head away, afraid to look. “What do you see?”
“A jewel-studded dagger as you said,” Trystan replied.
“Is the inscription gone?”
“I don’t see anything. It looks like some scratches on the blade.” Trystan paused. “Wait, I can’t believe this. Letters are forming on the blade!”
Shaken, Rhiannon looked at the blade. Her heart leapt into her throat when she saw the words etching on the steel blade: The gods demand the scales be balanced for the life you take. If you deny my soul’s journey to the Otherworld by beheading me, I curse you to the same fate as mine. At … the time … daughter rises … out … Apollo’s flames ... the … curse—”
She screamed at Trystan. “Shut the lid! Shut the lid!”
Trystan slammed the cover down.
“Rhan’s curse is resetting itself,” Rhiannon exclaimed, hurriedly locking the case with the key. She continued rambling from one thought to another like ripples in a stream. “The dagger is shedding its skin, a snake revealing something more venomous. I thought Mother Goddess had answered my prayers. Adminius wants to marry Catrin, not Mor. It made sense. Mor is with child. I told Catrin she was betrothed. She took it badly. And now—”
Rhiannon pressed her hands on her face and wept. Trystan stepped around the table and wiped the tears from her face with his fingertips. The heartfelt gesture only made it harder for her to contain her anguish.
“Please don’t do that.”
He held her face between his hands. “I’m worried about you. You are not your usual self.”
Rhiannon could not stop sobbing. “I know. It’s just … I don’t know … what to do … what to believe … who to trust.”
“That is why I am here,” Trystan reassured and smiled. “Now take hold of yourself and dry your tears. Tell me what is really troubling you.”
She clenched her trembling hand to steady herself and said, “There is something else that I’ve tried to hide. Maybe it is because I cannot accept it.”
Trystan raised his brow. “What is that?”
“When Cynwrig brought Catrin to the village two days ago, he confided that he found her in the arms of Marcellus.” Rhiannon noticed the red streaks spreading across Trystan’s face.
“I already got wind of this from Cynwrig,” Trystan said, voice grating with anger. “He suspects our Roman guest may have raped her.”
“No, no … I don’t think so,” Rhiannon quickly replied. “Marcellus denies this. I’ve tried to quell these rumors. The last thing I need is an uprising from my people demanding his head.”
Trystan slapped the table, making the candle flames flicker. “If that Roman raped her, I’ll do the pleasure of taking his head.”
Rhiannon stared at Trystan. “Don’t do anything brash. Catrin admitted she loves him, and Marc
ellus confessed that he had pledged his love for her at the Ancient Oak. That can only mean one thing.” She paused, her throat clutching. “They consummated their vows. I blame myself for this happening. I knew how strong Catrin’s feelings were for Marcellus. Yet, I foolishly allowed her to ride with him that day.”
“Rhiannon, you are too hard on yourself. It does not make sense that she would recklessly lie with a foreigner. The Roman lecher must have taken advantage of her.”
“Whatever the truth, I fear the ramifications of what they have done. Until such time when Amren returns, I must treat Marcellus as a guest, but locked under heavy guard,” Rhiannon said sardonically. “With the unraveling situation here, I need your help.”
Trystan placed a firm hand on Rhiannon’s shoulder. “How can I help?”
“I need you to deliver a message to Amren about what has happened before he finalizes the marital agreement with Cunobelin. I can’t risk having such a sensitive message intercepted.”
“For you, I will do anything,” Trystan said, smiling “The Catuvellauni capital is a hard two-day ride from here. While I am there, I’ll also assess the Roman fortifications. Give me a week to return. I will take Cynwrig with me. That way, if anything goes wrong, he can ride back and warn you.”
“I am so grateful, Trystan, for your loyalty and devotion. You are truly my best friend.” Rhiannon clasped Trystan’s hand. “Before you go, I ask one more thing.”
“What is that?”
“I need your advice about Agrona.”
“Agrona?”
Rhiannon frowned. “Agrona says the Roman god Apollo cursed Catrin. That is why she was afflicted with the falling sickness and has gone stark mad. Agrona insists that she must cast out Apollo’s evil spirits for her to recover. To do so, she must isolate Catrin in her lair where her strongest potions are stored. I’ve never trusted Agrona, but I fear my daughter might not recover unless I agree. Last night, Catrin ranted the raven was trying to steal her soul. Agrona warned me her raven could unleash its dark forces on her if she did not learn how to control its powers. I am at wit’s end on what I should do.”
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