Morag's Tears (Celtic Storm Series Book 5)

by Ria Cantrell

  He spoke so softly at times, it lulled us into a false sense of gentleness. Some believed he was really on our side and that he only wanted to help us so that we would nay be punished for the things we believed in. I think so many of us wanted to hope that he told the truth, but I ne’er did. There was something very insidious behind his eyes, which by the way were colored differently. I had always thought that people with such an oddity would be chosen by the Goddess for her purpose, but with him, I knew no such thing could be so.

  He also spoke with a sense of intellect and I had later come to learn that he was the one the Church had picked to try and convict innocent people like my mother and the other poor lass, on that day so long ago. He may nay have been the one to put his hand to the instruments of pain, but he was the one to send the guiltless victims to their punishments and ultimately to their deaths. He was the inquisitor, I suppose, and he hid behind the veil of the Church to commit the worst crimes in the name of the law.

  It was that same man who, three years later, came back and brought my mother to trial. His honeyed words flowed and none could or rather none would argue against him. He touted the law and he called for the purification of our people. He was just a little man; such a puny, little man who was without honor, compassion and probably, without the very soul that makes us human. Why did none of us stop him? I have asked myself that question most of my life. How was he ordained as a man sent to bring the Word of the Christian God to people, but could cause such strife and heartache in his wake?

  He spoke of a God of Love, but he condemned my mother and others like us to an unmerciful death only after inflicting the most hideous torture on those tried and convicted. He was nay alone in the scourge that befell the land and many of my people took to following the New Religion just to save their own hides. Aye, we practiced in secret, but the New Religion was taking hold and our Ways were sliding further into the past.

  These men of God spoke of blessings and things to come that were ne’er meant for people like me. So I thought, then, and I still hold fast to the path I had chosen. Aye, I embraced the One God, eventually, but I ne’er gave up the part of me that my mother died for all those years ago, when I was but a girl. Nay, I could not. I would not; else her life and death would have been in vain.

  I need to say that not all men of the cloth were evil like that cruel little shyte that poured his derision out upon us. There were friars and priests that were kind and who truly strived to live according to their Christian Path. So too, have I seen the mercy of the One God; that is true. My story would nay be able to be told had I not, but these holy men who bore evil through my village, were false creatures sent by the Dark One himself, I am certain. For this reason, nay matter how I embrace the One God, it is hard for me to trust the words of those who called themselves priests. Aye, I married in the Church, when Ian and I decided to wed, but I called upon the Binding Rites that I spoke in private with Ian to be my truest vows.

  I dunna’ know what happened to that black haired, beardless little man, but I trusted the Guardians to take care of the matter for me. I had sworn to nay seek vengeance, as my teaching and vows to the Path prevented me from doing. I heard, years later, that he died sick and alone of some sort of wasting malady that afflicts those who seek abominable and despicable acts. I found that justified and I am sure he suffered greatly in his last days. I have carried this part of my story all these years and as I mentioned when first I began it, I will think no more upon him. He is not even worth one grain of sand’s amount of pity and so I now shake him from me like the dust of a long journey. In releasing his last unholy hold on me, I can now begin the telling of my greatest story yet.

  Chapter Twenty-Six – Meddlings and Memories

  In order to share with ye’ my greatest joys, I had to share my sorrows, in these many tales I have spun. I had to release the past, which at times holds onto me with a grasp so tight, it is hard to see the future; it is even hard to allow myself to be in the present. Aye, even one like me, who has visited those days ahead and know what some of that time holds. I tried to nay be too much part of those worlds where my own life held no roots, but now I think that nay matter what year or season a body lives in, we all share common threads in the grand scheme of our human existence.

  We all share loves and loss. We all hold onto the hopes for our families and loved ones. We all conjure dreams of better days, or flights of fancy. It does nay matter if one is from a simpler time such as mine or that time so far ahead where the silver birds screech across the sky. I have learned that as a human…and above all, as a woman of that breed, the things I hold in my heart are no different from the women who lived before me or who will yet follow behind me. My plight is no different and so I feel a certain kindred to them and for those things which make our hearts beat solidly in our chests.

  I have learned many things in my days walkin’ amid the moments that make up a body; things that took me a lifetime to be taught, indeed. Important things; trivial things; but things that I have relished in the learnin’. For example, I fought, and I do mean fought, to let go of the things that prevent me for seein’ the good in any situation. Like that story I just told of the one I will nay mention again. In order to embrace all the blessings I have been given, I have to put aside the things that have held me back, in anger, fear, sorrow and sadly, sometimes hatred.

  So, even though I am verra’ old, and have held that pain of the wrong doing and injustice done to my mother and my family for more years than I want to recall, I know t’is time to leave it where it belongs; which is in the past. Ah well, we hold onto so many things that can ne’er be changed. If ye’ were to ask me what I regret more, the loss of my husband and son or the time I have wasted gripping the things that no longer mattered, I would say the latter. Setting these things free does nay lessen the pain or sorrow; nay indeed. But it does quell the poison that seeps within us and causes one to live in a world of regrets, doubt and failure.

  Now, ye’ may think old Morag is a brave one for all the adventures I have played a part in, but at times I admit myself to be quite a coward. Sometimes I think I have actually cheated the great reckoning because of my fears of just such a thing. I know not. I do know that be it from fear or need, I have tried my best to use the time and gifts I have been granted to help someone else, if I could. Some of my loved ones may have called it meddling and I suppose I did meddle. So what? I only ever had the best at heart for all of them. Why I remember I loved to prod and tease them and they indulged me, as one would their own grandmother, I suppose. Alas, even now I can recall one such time when Laird Caleb needed my gentle proddin’. He told me how he had come to regret sendin’ Bronwyn to do the work of warriors. He relayed to me the things he felt before and after I intervened and am I e’er glad that I did for ye’ see ….

  ~~~~~

  ~Bronwyn had been living in England more as a royal hostage than a welcomed guest of the English King. When the Clan MacCollum received word that she had been transported to the castle of her intended, Caleb had many of his hopes of rescuing her dashed to the four winds. She was his only daughter and the brightest light in his world since the passing of her mother so many years back.

  Caleb ran his hands through the graying hair that hung to his still strong shoulders; shoulders that felt the weight of his decision to yield to the English King’s wishes. The king plotted to forge a peace by granting Caleb’s little girl’s hand in marriage to a powerful English Knight.

  The idea of it hung like a noose around Caleb’s neck for he had always wanted his Highland Rose to choose her own mate. This was not how it was supposed to be, saints be damned! He had planned to take some of his men and arrive for the wedding, only to take his daughter back and save her from a fate he had never agreed to. The Peace be damned! And damn that blasted English king! But things had gone horribly wrong. It seemed that the knight sought to marry his daughter had already wed a woman some months ago. What sort of daft king would give the hand of the
daughter of one of the most powerful clans in Scotland to a man who was already wed? The idea was ludicrous.

  Caleb wished to wring the neck of the puny English monarch with his bare hands. Not only had the king breached the original contract, but he had humiliated Clan MacCollum and Caleb’s precious daughter as well.

  Now, it had gone from bad to worse. Caleb held the missive in his calloused hands and read it again for the third time. His heart leapt to his throat and he fought the gall that threatened to rise in its place. He had put some men from one of his allied clans within the Winter Palace’s walls to spy on this besotted king. They would also be his eyes and ears in order to keep his beautiful daughter safe.

  As Caleb’s eyes scanned the missive again, his fist crumpled the parchment and with a mighty roar of anguish, he threw the letter into the fire. Flames quickly swallowed it up. A man; another knight who was in league with Sir Erik Ragnorsen, the man who was chosen to marry his daughter, had apparently compromised his Highland Rose. Sir Erik was married to someone else and his captain of his elite guard had bloody compromised his bonny lass! Caleb had sworn that if he ever had a chance, he would gut the bastard himself and force his own entrails up his feckin’ English nose.

  He had to swallow his pride for his daughter’s sake and all he wanted to do was to bring her home. She had suffered enough because of his unwise decision. She was never meant to be a pawn in the intrigues of the English Court. He had sheltered her; he admitted that. She was naïve to the ways of men, but Caleb had just wanted to protect Bronwyn.

  One of Caleb’s clansmen; a man he had grown to trust, had agreed to marry Bronwyn and save her from a life of disgrace and humiliation. Caleb was going to bring his Bronwyn home, where she was loved and he would never speak of the wrong that had been done to her again. Caleb hoped that in time, Bronwyn would love the man who would save her from her humiliation and her disgrace.

  Caleb silently had prayed that this one, who had unwittingly agreed to wed the daughter with her sullied reputation, would not mistreat her for the wrongs done to her. Only now, the situation had progressed to the worst imaginable yet. Not only had Bronwyn MacCollum been whisked away to Ragnorsen Keep, where she was no longer under the guise of the King’s protection and she was now the reluctant guest of a man who had made no bones about how much he hated her, but riders had been spotted on MacCollum land. English riders! The usurper of his daughter’s innocence was among them. How the bloody hell was he not going to rip the rogue’s manhood from his dishonorable body?

  As Caleb’s anger simmered to a dangerous level, a strong knock was heard on his chamber door. He did not wish to entertain anyone at the moment but as Laird of the clan, he rarely denied an audience to whoever had need of him.

  “Enter,” he said, gruffly.

  The old chatelaine, Morag, his trusted friend, walked slowly into his private quarters. She leaned on her staff and he saw her as suddenly looking older and more tired than he remembered. Caleb schooled his features to hide the ire that hid behind his scowl and he said, “Morag, what can I do fer’ ye’?”

  She had been part of his family for as long as he could remember and so with a sigh, he released some of the anger twisting his innards.

  “Nay, t’is not fer’ me, that ye’ need to do anything. I came to speak to ye’ about our Rose.”

  Morag watched as the ire that had been temporarily tamped down rose dangerously to the surface. She had known Caleb since he was but a bairn so his dark moods did not frighten her. Instead she said, “I know ye’ are worried about her…but she is fine. It is so. I have seen it in a dream.”

  Caleb wanted to believe Morag. Her dreams always bespoke the truth but his gut twisted again when he thought of the disgrace that had befallen his beautiful and innocent daughter. Through a clenched jaw, Caleb ground out, “She has been compromised. And now she is in the hands of the knight who had rejected her in the first place.”

  “Caleb, Bronwyn was ne’er supposed to marry that man. She knows it and so do I. Though she will nay admit it, she has seen the man who is destined to be her mate.”

  Caleb turned a cold stare at the old woman was beginning to get on his nerves.

  “As soon as she is returned to me, I have arranged for a kinsman to wed her. He knows what has befallen her and he is still willing to wed her anyway. He is not who I would have chosen at first for her, but I think she needs to come home where she can heal her wounds; where the people who have loved and failed her can nurture her.”

  Caleb knew that he was the one who had failed her. He suspected Morag knew it, too, though she did not say so.

  Morag laughed and though Caleb could not see any humor in the situation, she continued, “Failed? Caleb, ye’ have nay failed her, but Bronwyn is destined to wed a man who has ere been in her heart. Aye, she has seen him, many times, too. She will nay admit it to me or to anyone, I suppose, but see him she has. He was in her dreams that night so long ago on the ridge.”

  “Woman, ye’ know I trust the path of the Ancient Ones, but Bronwyn has nay been one to….”

  Morag cut him off with a wave of her hand. “She has not, t’is so, but mark me! The day is coming for her to face what has long been her lot. She will be my most devoted acolyte and she will come to see that the Path is hers. As for the Englishman, he comes--and ye’ will see he is the one. Bronwyn loves him, Caleb. Is that nay what ye’ have always wanted? A man who she loves with her whole heart?”

  “But he is English and he--he--Och, a father should nay know such things for his little girl.”

  “My Laird,” Morag began, with a smile blooming on her lips. Caleb knew that when she addressed him thusly, it was not out of respect, but rather meant as a chastisement. He set his arms across his chest and he eyed the woman who was about to set him straight, he reckoned.

  “Aye, he is English, but so was the man who ye’ sent our Bronwyn to wed in the first place.”

  “I planned to rescue her,” Caleb mumbled, feeling every bit like the little boy who had been called to task in his youth, not the powerful laird of a clan. Morag had a way of doing that to him.

  “Bah! Rescue her, indeed! The stupid folly of men! T’is always the women who pay the price, Caleb and ye’ know it. She’d be in nay need of rescuin’ had ye’ not sent her to the wolves to begin with.”

  Caleb felt hot color creeping up his neck. This old one dared much with him, but the truth of the matter was that she was right, damn her. He had sent his daughter to the wolves. As his eyes met the gray of Morag’s piercing gaze, she continued.

  “Well, what’s done is done, Caleb. As for the other thing that troubles ye’; rest yer’ conscience. Bronwyn is nay unlike ye’, Caleb and I suspect as passionate a woman as she is, t’would only be natural to want that in her life. But she is nay a whore.”

  “Of course not, woman! Ye’ dare much,” Caleb thundered at such a statement.

  “Hold yer’ tongue, lad. I meant that she is a woman in love. She loves this Englishman. I’d wager he does nay wish to dishonor her. T’is why his party approaches. Let him speak his peace, Caleb. Let him convince ye’ that Bronwyn is his. I tell ye’, he is the one.”

  Caleb rubbed his hand across the stubble on his jaw and he said, “Ye’ best be right, woman.”

  With a wistful smile; too wistful for a woman as old as Morag was, in fact, she said, “Aren’t I usually about these things?”

  Though Caleb respected the counsel of this wise old friend, he was in no mood for her tauntings. He grumbled, “Out with ye’, woman. Give me some peace and I dunna’ mean the piece of yer’ mind. Leave me to my thoughts now so I may prepare myself to meet the thief of my daughter’s innocence.”

  Morag harrumphed and said, “He would nay have stolen what was nay freely given to him. I’d stake my life on it.”

  And with that, with the movement of a woman much younger than the one who had stood before him, Morag left Caleb to ponder her words. While he knew she was most certainly right, as
she pointed out that she usually was, Caleb did not have to like it one bit. Nay, he did not like it at all. ~

  ~~~~~

  Aye, it makes me smile to think of the times when I could best a powerful man like Caleb MacCollum. While I dunna’ take joy in the harmin’ of anyone, I do laugh at the times the most hardened warriors can be felled by the words of a meddling old woman. Sometimes his sons had little choice but to heed my words, as well. Perhaps my words carried wisdom, or mayhap I am just needed at times, to make people see the wood for the trees. Either way, I do rejoice in the helpin’ of those who hold my heart. Call it meddlin’ if ye’ will, but I have ne’er done aught but to aid those people that I love. That is the truth to be told and ah, so many have a place in this old heart of mine.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven – The Weaving of the Threads

  I talk a good deal about my Bronwyn and there is a grand reason for it. I mentioned that she became my greatest acolyte and it is true. While t’is fair to say that Bronwyn was more Christian than not, I knew that deep down, she possessed the gifts that came before the New Religion took hold. I now think that there does nay need to be division between the two beliefs because the One God is the bestower of any gifts that those like me bear.

  Still, Bronwyn was hard won to embrace all that I could teach her for she found it old fashioned and silly. The thing is that when ye’ are called to the Path, there is nay much anyone can do to avoid it. Once Bronwyn accepted her heritage and the call to the Ways, she became one of my most astute protégés. Her gifts were vast and her talents were numerous. She was granted the blessings of an angelic voice, which I can say soothed this old woman on many a time. Her sense of healing was not so much given with the use of herbs as mine was, but with a natural way of touch. Why, she could rub the stiffness out of my gnarled fingers with the magic of a few gentle strokes. I suppose her talent with the harp aided her for as her healing touch took away pain, so too, did her fingers gently pluck the strings of her instrument and she made it sing as beautifully as the chords of her voice.