The bang of a door slamming closed caused Patrick’s monks to spin around. Seven exorcists had entered behind them. Gathering just inside, the exorcists removed their black cowls. The one in front, short, bald, and smiling, spoke first. “You must be Patrick,” said Orsini.
“Where’s the legate?” Patrick responded, his hand on the Blood Bell.
Orsini spread his arms, palms open. “He will not be joining us, which is unfortunate, as he will be missing quite a spectacle. I am Cardinal Orsini, and I will be directing the . . . events here.”
“Are we not talking truce?”
“Regrettably, no.”
Patrick pulled the Bell from its holster.
The exorcists flanking Orsini started to chant in Aramaic.
Patrick began ringing the Bell, his arm arching high, low.
Blood ran from the ears, eyes, and mouths of two exorcists, and they collapsed dead onto the stone floor. The others continued to chant.
Orsini beheld his fallen brothers and shook his head. He smiled at Patrick, who was sweating from the effort he was putting into ringing the Blood Bell. “Well, that is a good way to separate the wheat from the chaff,” he shouted over the clanging and chanting. “I will have to remember that. I am always looking for better methods to test new exorcists.”
Patrick stopped ringing the Bell, seeing that the remaining exorcists were able to protect themselves from it. “It does not matter if you kill me, for my brothers in Ireland will just elect a new Patrick, and the church will carry on as before.”
The exorcists ceased their chant. Orsini laughed. “I did not come here to kill you. I could not care less about you. I came for the Bell.”
“It will do you no good. Only a Patrick can wield its power,” insisted Patrick.
“I simply need for you not to have it. I cannot protect the whole English armada against it. But here, in this confined space, well . . . I believe I have the advantage. Of course, we will kill you, since you are here, just to save time later.”
Three of Patrick’s monks drew their swords and rushed at the remaining exorcists. One exorcist stepped forward, simultaneously making a complex gesture with his right hand and muttering indistinctly. The monks fell backward, as if they had run into an invisible wall.
“Now, you all just stay there while I invite some . . . well, just watch, you will be astounded,” said Orsini.
Two bronze vessels were placed in front of Orsini and their lids removed.
Patrick stretched his neck to look inside. They appeared to be filled with a black liquid.
One of Orsini’s men held a wax tablet for him. Orsini removed a stylus from a pocket in his robe and began to inscribe seals. “Just a second,” he said, holding up a finger to Patrick. “It has been a while since I have done this, and it is, after all, quite complex.” Orsini retrieved a small book from his pocket and leafed through the pages. “Ah, here it is.” He resumed inscribing the tablet.
The liquid in the pots erupted into black mist that thickened into creatures standing in the rough proportions of a man. The edges began to firm somewhat, revealing strong legs reminiscent of those of a horse but terminating in large cloven hooves. Muscular arms sported humanlike hands with sharp claws. Small black eyes peered out from intense faces, one like an ape’s, the other with the snout of a dog, both filled with long, jagged teeth.
Orsini laughed and clapped his hands. “I love doing this. Meet Furfur, the one with the longer snout, and Nadriel. Both demons of a high order, I assure you.”
Patrick stood his ground while the rest of his brothers began to back away, swords in hand.
“They have not been unbound from their vessels for . . . oh, two or three hundred years and must be very hungry.” The demons looked around, locking eyes with Orsini. Black saliva dripped from their open jaws, became mist, and merged with their bodies.
Orsini pointed at Patrick, gave him a big smile, and spoke in a language rarely heard since the days of the Tower of Babel.
The demons leaped for Patrick. He recoiled, desperately ringing the Blood Bell. Waves rippled across the demons’ skin. They knocked Patrick onto his back and pinned him to the floor, a hoof on each of his wrists, then ripped off his robe as if it were paper. Using their sharp claws in slow, practiced movements, they began to tear off long strips of Patrick’s skin, flinging them to the side, to reach the sweeter meat they preferred.
. . . . .
With a look of satisfaction, Orsini watched the demons work. Patrick’s screams rose and fell in time with the stripping off of his flesh. Three of Patrick’s monks threw themselves against the sealed rear door, two tried to scale the wall toward the windows, and the rest tried to rush past the feeding demons. Each was knocked back into the center of the room by enchantments hurled by the exorcists.
“Bring in the other one, the Colmcille,” said Orsini.
Colmcille was pulled into the hall. “Oh, my God! Oh, God. Oh, God, protect me,” he kept saying, covering his ears to Patrick’s screams and averting his eyes. He dropped to his knees.
Orsini knocked Colmcille’s hands away from his ears and, grabbing his head, forced him to face Patrick’s agony. “You made this bargain,” Orsini hissed. “Now watch its results.”
“I never thought you’d do something like this, never thought you’d unleash demons on them.”
“I am only doing this for your benefit,” said Orsini. “Now you know what will happen if you do not honor your agreement. I have plenty more demons bound up in my storeroom, anxious to get out—and hungry. They like their food fresh and have an instinct for keeping it alive while they feed. Livers, kidneys, and testicles seem to be their favorite bits, though they will eat any organ.”
Patrick’s screams dissolved into gurgles as the demons reached his lungs. Seeking fresh meat, they straightened up, blood dripping from their faces, looked around, and pounced on a monk trying to scale the wall, dragging him down to the floor. The lump of muscle, tissue, and bone that was Patrick twitched and then was still. Colmcille put his hand over his mouth and swallowed hard. The demons’ next meal began to shriek.
Orsini extracted the Blood Bell from the grisly pile and returned to where Colmcille cowered. “Following the invasion you will become bishop of Ireland,” said Orsini. He pulled a cloth from his pocket, wiped the muck off the Bell, and held it up to admire the inscribed runes. “In return you will swear allegiance to the Roman Church, and you will surrender all monasteries in Britain and Europe to our bishops. It’s that simple. I am sure you will have no trouble. Oh, and make sure you forbid all Irish Christians from fighting the English when they arrive. Now, on your way.”
Orsini traced along one of the runes with his finger. “If I can divine which demon is bound into this Bell, I will be able to redirect its power. Oh, well, time enough for that after the invasion.”
Colmcille was pulled to his feet by an exorcist. As Colmcille edged toward the door, a young novice monk boldly charged the demon Nadriel, thrusting his sword into the demon’s chest. It had no effect. Nadriel knocked the novice to the ground, pulled out the sword, flung it away, then grabbed the novice’s left arm just as Furfur grabbed the right. The demons began arguing, in their ancient tongue, about who was going to eat his organs, as he was too small to share.
Colmcille, tears running down his cheeks, croaked, “Are you going to kill them all? Have you no mercy?”
“Not me,” said Orsini, keeping his eyes on the carnage. Nadriel had dragged the novice off to a corner, leaving Furfur holding only a torn-off arm, which he angrily threw down, and then began inspecting the remaining monks. “It is you who is killing them. You are the one who came to us looking for control of the Irish Church.”
Colmcille took another step toward the door. “And what of the Vikings who brought us here?” he asked. “They may tell the Celts about all this.”
“Nothing for you to worry about,” replied Orsini. “They have been paid.”
ACROSS THE SEA in England, R
ichard’s personal residence, Sheen Manor, sat on the south bank of the river Thames nine miles upstream from the Palace of Westminster. Outside on the riverbank, in the warmth of the early-afternoon sun, children danced in a circle singing:
A ring, a ring o’ rosy,
A pocket full o’ posies,
Ashes, ashes,
We all fall down.
Inside, Richard, with his fists clenched, stood over Anne’s bed, where she lay uncovered from the waist up. Her chamber was filled with smoke emanating from a brazier containing a mixture of powdered amber, balm-mint leaves, camphor, cloves, labdanum, myrrh, rose petals, and storax. Posies of herbs hung from the bed canopy.
As de Vere and Chaucer watched, a physician cut loose the silk scarves that had bound Anne’s arms above her head to keep her from rupturing any more of the apple-size, black, bulbous inflammations crowded in her rosy-ringed armpits. More buboes climbed up and blackened the left side of her neck. In the five days since symptoms first appeared, most of these had burst, leaving a spiderweb of red and black under the pale skin of her face. The physician gently placed Anne’s hands down by her sides, the ends of her fingers black, the few remaining fingernails curled up. One nail caught on the sheet and fell off. Anne’s dead eyes stared blankly at the ceiling.
Tears fell from Richard’s eyes. De Vere tried to hold him, but Richard shook off the embrace.
“How can this be?” Richard screamed at the physician. “There has been no plague in London for more than four years. How could you let her die?”
Richard grabbed a dagger from de Vere’s belt and awkwardly lunged at the physician, who darted behind a table. “Your Royal Majesty, I assure you—”
Chaucer stepped in front of the physician. “Your Royal Majesty,” he said softly, “it must have been a curse that inflicted the plague on Queen Anne.”
“Then We shall burn Jews in retribution.” Richard threw down the dagger and turned to de Vere. “Burn a thousand Jews. Then round up a thousand more and burn them as well. Have their ashes blessed to keep them from their Jew heaven.”
Chaucer held up his hands. “I am sure it was not the Jews this time. It must have been the Sidhe. They are angry at your invasion plans.”
Richard swayed on his feet, gave one long scream, and fled the room. De Vere followed.
Richard ran out the front gate, scattering the dancing children. De Vere caught up to him just before he reached the river. Richard collapsed into his arms, and they slid down onto the grass.
“Come with me,” de Vere whispered, stroking Richard’s hair. “Come with me to Ireland, and together we will kill all the Sidhe.”
Richard wiped futilely at his eyes and nodded. “We shall never come here again,” he said, looking back at Sheen Manor. “No one shall. Tear it to the ground.”
ON THE COAST of Wales, the high king of the Fomorians, his sable cloak stained with blood and beginning to take on a green mildew tinge, sat on a rock in the garden of Conwy Castle. His two ever-present female attendants squatted at his feet, gnawing on the remains of a stag leg, their English hosts having refused to provide them with a Welsh prisoner to dine on.
“All of the Fomorian clans have pledged their lives to me,” he growled. “What do you bring to the fight? War draws near, and I question if it is you who should lead.”
Kellach reclined in a low oak bough, gazing west toward the setting sun, toward Ireland.
“Come here,” he snapped. Three barefoot Dryads, wearing baggy rough wool tunics over tattered trousers, scurried up and bowed. Peaking at two feet tall, Dryads were the smallest of the Sidhe clans and easily able to hide their slight frames in the bellies of the Irish Viking trade ships still running between Dublin and Welsh ports. Another variety of tree Sidhe, Dryads lived only in oaks and were treated by the Skeaghshee as something between slaves and pets.
“All the Skeaghshee are preparing for my return. My Dryads here tell me that the Grogoch and Wichtlein have pledged to fight for me. Do not worry—my forces will be strong when we arrive,” Kellach assured.
“They better be. You promised to keep the Morrígna at bay.”
“The Celts continue to put their faith in Aisling, but she is not the Morrígna. Soon you and your people will be able to return to the land that once was yours. That is, the tracts we agreed to.”
“I do not trust the English, and I hate the Celts and the Christians,” grumbled the Fomorian king, grabbing the meaty leg bone from his attendants and biting off the end.
“Once I return to Ireland and the Celts and the Irish Christians have been killed, the rest of the Sidhe will rise and follow me. We will turn on the English and drive them back out.”
“What of Oren, the English’s faerie traitor? What if he sniffs out the plan?”
Kellach turned toward the garden doorway to the castle. “What of Oren?” he echoed in a loud voice.
Oren dragged himself out of the doorway and along the grass, propping himself up against a tree. “I vouched for your credibility to the English, though I could tell that you were plotting something. That I have finally betrayed my tormentors brings a lightness to my heart that I have not felt since I was a boy.” Oren turned his blind face toward the warmth of the setting sun. “With it has come a renewed hope that if there is an After Lands to journey to, I have earned my place there. There I will be whole again. Once I am rid of this miserable life.”
“Happy to assist you,” snarled the Fomorian king, rising from his rock.
“Not yet,” said Kellach. “Not until the English land their invasion. Oren knows that to betray us is to betray himself and lose this . . . opportunity.”
“I still do not trust him.” The Fomorian king did not sit back down.
Kellach sent the Dryads to wait on the other side of the wall. “We can succeed only together, so we will bind our agreements, the three of us, by exchanging our true names.”
“You are willing to do such a thing?” The Fomorian’s growl carried a note of surprise. “In that case so will I, and abide by your leadership in this war—as long as you are winning.”
Once they had exchanged true names, each in turn, the Fomorian took his seat again and resumed chewing on the leg bone. Kellach called the Dryads back and instructed them, “Send word to my forces. It is time for them to prepare themselves to fight. They are to gather in Waterford at the beginning of the fourth Roman month hence to secure my arrival.”
Each Dryad scurried up a separate tree so thick with rooks that it appeared to have black leaves. Darting from branch to branch, the Dryads whispered to the birds. With a rush of hundreds of wings, the rooks took flight, heading west.
IN PARIS the witch Joanna held a candelabrum to light her way down a dark corridor of the French royal residence. Her other hand clutched a sheet of folded parchment, its wax seal broken. She entered a large red door without knocking and approached the ornate canopy bed. “Grande Sorcière,” she said, shaking the queen’s shoulder.
Queen Isabeau awoke with a start. “What? What do you want?” The king’s brother stirred next to her. She touched his temple with one finger and hissed a short spell. He stilled.
“The queen of England is dead, Your Highness. The messenger just arrived. It happened eight days ago.” Joanna handed her the letter.
“Was it blamed on the plague?” The Grande Sorcière did not bother to read the parchment.
“Richard believes it was a Sidhe curse.”
“Even better,” said the Grande Sorcière.
“Your Highness already knew?”
“Of course, it was Us. A potion of Our own design. By ensuring that the English queen’s throne became vacant, We created the opportunity We were waiting for, and We have such an abundance of daughters.”
“But Richard’s preference is for men.”
“That is fortunate. We do not need to worry about him falling in love with some woman before We can exert Our influence. Love can be such a challenge to overcome.”
“Shall I
gather your coven?”
“No, not yet. We have plans to make.” The Grande Sorcière looked at the man sleeping next to her. “This news excites Us. Leave Us. We desire to wake him up.”
19
Dunsany Castle, Ireland
October 1, 1394
Aisling awoke to Conor’s soft kisses on her forehead. Her eyes flickered open as his lips moved down to her neck. His hand ran over her pregnant belly and, slipping between her legs, stroked her.
“No,” she said, rolling over and struggling to sit up. “It was no yesterday, and it’s still no today.”
“What’s wrong?” asked Conor gently.
“I don’t know,” snapped Aisling, throwing off the covers. “You’re welcome to my handmaid if you must quench your desires.”
She climbed out of their bed and lumbered over to the fireplace, feeling Conor’s eyes follow her. Placing wood on the grate, she spoke a short fire incantation. A single spark fell from the wood and died on the fireplace floor. Aisling gave a deep sigh. “They’re sucking all the power from me.”
“They?”
“Yes.” Aisling turned to face Conor, her eyes suddenly welling with tears. “I’m carrying twin girls. I know I am.”
Conor rose, walked over, and embraced her. “That’s wonderful.”
“Is it? I keep thinking about what happened to me, what happened to Anya!” cried Aisling, relieved to finally unburden herself. “It’s making me crazy. I don’t want my daughters to go through what I went through. I don’t want to lose them to the Sidhe. Or to Tara, where their whole lives will be dictated to them. I have to keep them safe and free somehow.”
“Hush,” said Conor. “I’ll never let anything bad happen to you or our daughters.”
“I keep dreading Brigid’s knock on our door.”
The Last Days of Magic: A Novel Page 24
