ROOK AND RAVEN: The Celtic Kingdom Trilogy Book One

by Julie Harvey Delcourt

  The man had no marks to give away his identity and she knew now she was expected to lay with him. The strangeness, the darkness and the hard young body moving toward her elicited a growing excitement she didn’t try to hide. She had been raised to know she was not like other girls of her class and so her sexual initiation would not be like others either. She would prove to them she was worthy of the blood of Harald and please this man.

  He had walked up to her so closely her nipples had touched his warm chest, so warm in the cold room and his hands touched and ran over every curve of her body as the priests watched. She could feel the arousal in the room like a living breathing beast as the chanting became even faster. The man had been hard before they even touched, just looking at her standing naked among the ring of priests and black candles had caused lust to surge through him.

  ‘Is she wet?” she heard Olav asked and there was no mistaking the excitement in his voice.

  A finger slid between the legs she willingly parted and slid slowly back and forth and she found herself arching her back, her breasts thrusting forward with the pleasure of this stranger’s intimate touch.

  ‘Yes,” it was a deep and sibilant whisper.

  “Then take what is yours,” Olav ordered.

  She remembered the cold stone under her back and the first pain of the man penetrating her. She bit down on her lip and tasted blood and then he licked the drops from her lips and drove deeper. As she slickened, pleasure grew and the stone room range with gasps and cries of twinned pleasure until, with a roar of satisfaction, she felt him stiffen further and suddenly withdraw. His gush of hot fluid covered her belly and a priest rushed forward to gather the ejaculate as they lay there panting.

  It was only then the mask and hood were removed. She looked into a face she loved and knew well. At last they had passed the test and been chosen. The pledge had been sealed and their blood would indeed rule, the blood of Harald purified. Her mother had come forward and hugged them both close, naked and sweat slicked as they were. A black robed priest had stepped forward with a small bowl of dried mushrooms.

  The drug entered their bodies and the room became a place of dancing, living shadow and fire. They had smiled and began again to touch each other. They didn’t even notice everyone else leave the room. They were not done with each other yet. It was a night of endless pleasurable madness seasoned by drugs and the taste of triumph.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  On other street, not too distant, someone else woke to the bustle of noise outside with far less pleasure and a raging hangover. In fact, he woke with the nagging feeling he done something colossally stupid. Once he fully woke in David’s guest room he knew that he had indeed done something exceedingly bone headed, several things in fact. It had not been his best day yesterday. It certainly had not been the homecoming he had planned out in his head. He should have known better than to make plans, those had a way of always going exactly the opposite of what you envisioned. Life surely had taught him that by now.

  The question now was what to do to repair the damage he had done. She had walked out on him. She had walked out calmly. That scared him to the bone he realized. If she had yelled or thrown something at him he’d feel a lot better. The fact that she hadn’t worried him deeply. Did she not care enough to yell at him, throw something at his head or make ridiculous threats? She wanted him, that was clear enough but that in itself was not enough, not enough for either of them.

  As much as he wanted to focus all his attention on Jessy he couldn’t right now and it frustrated him. He climbed out of the warmth of the bed and grabbed his trousers. He shrugged into his rumpled white shirt not bothering to button it up over the broad expanse of muscled chest. At least he was covered if someone was kind enough to show up with some coffee. His head felt like wool after a night of drinking more than he had in years. He knew what he had imbibed didn’t come close to matching what most gentleman of his rank drank regularly, but years of pretending to be drunk had made a light weight of him.

  The return to London after all this time had a purpose beyond taking up his title and estates. While that needed to be done, it was just a cover story. His mother and Ulrich had been finally convinced that he was not after all suitable for inheriting the throne of what they insisted on calling the Redeemed Kingdom. Not a catchy name at all. In all these years since King Niall had been killed and his son Conal thought dead none of those bloody Vikings had been able to agree on a better one. He would never think of it as anything other than Celtica. The heart of the kingdom in all its peaceful, rugged beauty, magical spirit and the ways of the true people had captured him.

  If you believed the legends, and experience had taught him to, Celtica was formed to provide a home for the priestesses and loyal people of Atlantis who were saved from destruction by the goddess Rhiannon. When Rhiannon had begged her father Llyr, the sea god, to save those ancient people she had cried a tear. Llyr had taken pity upon those loyal few and, from his daughter’s tear, raised an island for them. The tear had crystalized and formed a sphere that pushed up through the center of the island and had provided both a source of mystical power and a symbol for the people. For centuries the people of Celtica lived in peace and total isolation from the rest of world. It had been impenetrable from the outside by anyone not invited to enter their waters.

  When the Celts and Britons to the east had been threatened by the invasion of first the Saxons and then the Vikings few could stand against them. The people of Celtica had gone to their aid. In the last days of King Arthur they had taken in many refugees. Some said that Avalon and Celtica were one and the same and that Arthur had been taken there when he was injured.

  Sebastian didn’t know.

  He had only known Celtica since the overthrow of the House of Llyr. He had seen only remnants of what remained and few Celts would speak openly to one of Viking blood. He didn’t blame them. It attested to the strength and spirit of the kingdom’s people that the Vikings had not yet managed to exterminate them all. Despite having taken the throne, Ulrich and the Gooar had not been able to suppress the entire kingdom.

  It hadn’t taken Sebastian long to realize that the stories he had been raised on by his Black Axe mother were largely a pack of lies. After seeing what his own people had done to the kingdom, and any who were not of the ‘right’ blood, it hadn’t been a hard choice to work against them. The Gooar Odin was an abomination that did not truly represent the Old Norse god. He had done his own studying at university and knew they had twisted the worship into something ugly, evil and not representative of the old beliefs. If Odin did indeed exist he wished he’d send Thor to bring his hammer down on them for the despicable acts they committed.

  He had never felt a bond to his mother’s Viking bloodline. He had always done his best to hide his lack of interest in order to keep peace with her. Every question he had ever had concerning her abusive parenting, her obsession with the “royal” Viking bloodline, her treatment of his father had been answered once he went to live on Celtica. Those answers had truly assured that he would do all in his power to restore the rightful king. Most of the Viking inhabitants on the isle didn’t support Olav and Ulrich. In fact, most hated them as much as the Celts and Britons did, but they were very careful to keep those thoughts and feelings hidden. The Black Axe families and the Gooar ruled with an iron fist.

  It wasn’t until his mother went so far as to have him abducted and taken to the Kingdom against his will that he understood how crazed and warped the true believers were. He had been ripe pickings for recruitment by those equally intent on resisting the complete take over by the Vikings. He had been the perfect weapon placed at the heart of the Viking leadership. He was of “of the Blood” he could go wherever he chose, he had fostered an image of dissolute uselessness. He had done a superb job of casting himself as nothing more than a wastrel. For a while it had been a close run thing that wasn’t all he had become in truth.

  It had taken three years of dangerous and loy
al, clandestine service before he had been let in on the secret at the center of the resistance; King Conal was not dead. Sebastian had spent years pretending to drink more than he did, whore more than he did (which was already a lot). He fostered the belief he had a nearly insatiable appetite for hunting all manner of creatures around the kingdom as an excuse for frequent absences and remote wanderings. Olav hadn’t even bothered to have his ravens watch Sebastian. Everyone was convinced he was just a useless rake with no conscience and certainly no interest in politics or warfare.

  He had admittedly been drinking and whoring more than any man with a regard for his health should, until a fateful day five years ago. Having only an occasional missive from his mother for news from England, he had fallen into an even worse pit of personal despair when she had sent him the news that Jessy had shown up in London. Jessy had been painted as not only an actress on the stage but, a highly sought after high flyer. No pertinent details of course. It was all lies, but for the acting, he now knew. She had twisted everything to try to ensure that whatever thread might remain tying his heart to Jessy would be broken.

  The letters had ended his ongoing plans to try and escape the abysmal Viking filled fortress he was forced to call home. He had tried to escape early on and return to England until he was given two reasons to stop; Jessy as no more than a whore and time spent in a Gooar dungeon as punishment for attempting to leave. Jessy as a courtesan/actress had ended all hope of marriage and given birth to a great bitterness. What had led to her “career” choice he feared was his fault for having removed any hope of her making a good marriage. What man of their class would marry damaged goods? Much to his mother’s anger it wrought no change in him marrying a good Viking girl like she had hoped. He had become increasingly certain she had even nourished hopes he might be made Ulrich’s heir. That hope had faded despite Ulrich’s inability to produce any children no matter how many women with which he tried.

  Five years ago had changed everything about his life on Celtica. He had gone out with a group of young nobles from the palace to a small village that they heard hosted a plethora of comely and willing girls. The Vikings enjoyed despoiling the local Celts and some even occasionally took a mistress from among the Celtic population. Not all the lads were bad Sebastian had learned. Many of the men were decent fellows able to think beyond the steady diet of violence and hate fed Viking children against the Celts and Britons.

  A group of these fellows had invited him to go and visit the tavern in a village a short three mile walk from the city and he had agreed. On the way there they found their path crossed by Rurik, as bad a man as there was in the palace guard. He exhibited all the worst traits of the Black Axes and he was impossible to shake. Why he chose to tag along with a group so much younger than himself had been a mystery and they had all been less easy with him in their company. The easy laughter and camaraderie had given way to a wary quiet. Compared to Rurik they were all just callow youths, not the people one would think a battle hardened soldier would seek out.

  The tavern and village did indeed have a bevy of beauties and they were spending an agreeable evening drinking and sporting when he had seen Rurik get up and furtively leave the bar. Sebastian wouldn’t have thought it any more than the man needed to take a piss, and probably wouldn’t have followed, if the man hadn’t been acting like he feared being seen. His eyes and body language were sly, his movements quick. Sebastian was not yet drunk and his curiosity was piqued.

  What Rurik had seen, Sebastian discovered, was a small and pretty fair haired child of no more than eight or nine. By the time Sebastian understood what he was seeing, Rurik had his hand over the girl’s mouth and was carrying her off behind the blacksmith’s shed just down the packed earth street. Sebastian felt something inside him tear wide open. The rage that consumed him was terrifying in its violence. He had heard of berserkers and if he could have thought more clearly might have realized he had inherited that trait from his marauding forefathers.

  He had no clear memory of having stepped into the blacksmith’s, grabbing a large hammer he found and rounding the building with absolute determination. Rurik had the child’s skirts up and was undoing his breeches, preparing to rape her, his large hand over her mouth so that only terrified, staring eyes were visible. Rurik’s head hadn’t stood a chance against a hammer swung by a large enraged man. Sebastian figured he was dead before he hit the ground but he couldn’t stop and was hitting Rurik for what might have been the fifth or twentieth time when he felt the hammer torn from his grip. He had rounded on the person with blood in his eyes, murderous rage pounding through him ready for a fight.

  “I can’t let you hit him anymore or we will never manage to hide the blood. It makes a terrible mess in the mud. He can’t hurt her anymore Redsayle. You have clearly killed him. Take a good deep breath now. That’s it,” the stranger said soothingly. “I completely approve of killing this bastard but let’s get rid of the body before someone comes looking for him and you end up in some very deep trouble.”

  This was all said in the tones of an Oxford don yet coming from a tall figure dressed in the clothing, dirt and wild hair of a vagabond. The educated, cool and measured tones (so full of England) had the effect of cold water being dashed over him. He felt the crazy blood lust vacate him in a rush of breath and he stood shaking like an ague victim taking in what he had done. His hand still felt the vibration of the hammer head meeting bone. There was little left of Rurik’s face or head and the blood spattered and pooled in the dirt making a foul mud.

  The small girl cried silently at his feet clutching her skirts about her feet as she shook and rocked. He had never killed a man before. No one expected a profligate like himself to head out on a raiding party. He had no fighting experience outside of training. He was glad he had done this but realized some part of him would never be the same. It had been shockingly easy and he felt absolutely no remorse. He had thought killing someone would be a more troubling act to commit. It did change something in him but it was only to learn that the killing got easier, much easier.

  “Can you manage getting him into the woods?” the well-spoken vagabond asked gesturing at the nearby wood line. “I’ll take her to her parents. They won’t speak of this. I’ll meet you in the woods when I am done to help you.

  Wait for me,” the last said with such a tone of command it never entered Sebastian’s head to disobey.

  “Come along dear one and we will get you to mama and all will be well,” the vagabond said softly and after a moment of studying him with searching eyes she reached out thin arms to be picked up and carried away to the comfort and safety of home. Sebastian had to wonder at a man who spoke so casually of killing, treat a child with such warmth and support. It was pointless to even question how such a strange, contradictory man had known his name or why he willing to help him hide a murder. He could only be grateful he had someone to help him hide the evidence. He didn’t want to end up in one Olav’s dungeons, again, but surely with much worse results than from merely trying to escape back to England. Killing the captain of the King’s Guard would have severe, probably deadly, consequences.

  It had been the start of Sebastian’s new double life. Over the work of carrying Rurik’s heavy body deeper into the woods he learned that the “vagabond” went by the name of Alastair Haley. They made it look like Rurik had taken a fall into a steep ravine, landing head first (disguising that he didn’t have much of a head left before the fall) on the sharp rocks below. Alastair was far from a vagabond Sebastian learned. He was a master spy working with the Celtic resistance against the Black Axes on behalf of England.

  That England would have secretly been working with the resistance against the Black Axes and Gooar would have never occurred to Sebastian. He had designed his life here to avoid, at all possible costs, any contact with anything of a serious nature. He had cultivated hope that being utterly useless would be his eventual ticket home.

  Alastair had been in the village collecting inte
lligence from the network of young women using their wiles to part the Viking men with more than their money. No wonder, he remembered thinking, the girls were so “willing.” He was sure, now that he considered the idea, that an environment filled with alcohol, exposed bosoms and drunken camaraderie let flow any amount of unguarded talk. It was his second hint he was dealing with a highly accomplished intelligencer.

  Two, not by chance, meetings later Alastair had recruited him to the cause of the rebellion and began to train him in the arts of both spy and assassin. He proved himself an adept student quickly mastering far better methods of killing than a hammer. At first he had thought it strange that Alastair had trusted him so quickly as to reveal his true purpose and identity, but Sebastian had learned Alastair rarely was wrong about people. He was not given to taking uncalculated risks.

  Alastair had kept watch on him since he had arrived on Celtica and had made an accurate judgment about him. He gave Sebastian a new lease, a new purpose for life and a new name; Rook. Each of the spies working under Alastair was named for a chess piece. Alastair was Bishop and they all answered to him. Who was the king or queen in this great chess match? Sebastian knew better than to ask. If he was meant to know, Bishop would tell him.

  Rook and Bishop had returned to England shortly before King Conal was to be brought from hiding and the others had stayed in Celtica to prepare the resistance for the battle they all knew would come. If Rook and Bishop could keep the King alive long enough and the king could negotiate the arms, funds and men that would be needed. War was a surety. The ease with which he was suddenly allowed to leave surprised Sebastian until a letter from his mother explained everyone had given up on him being of any value to the Vikings in Celtica. It was time he took up his responsibilities in England and manage the estate.