It was Parkin that gave him the most grief. He would never make a reasonable marriage match with Parkin. He knew it, Parkin knew it and everyone else knew it as well. The time for Parkin to grow up had come and gone. The thought of sending Parkin to his mother’s family in Scotland crossed Breacan’s mind once too often, and today…it was back…and it was stuck there.
Breacan entered his chambers with his head held low and the look of defeat clearly written on his face. Airard followed him with a trencher of venison and two mugs of ale which he set upon the side table in Breacan’s solar.
“My Lord, Laird MacCahan, have ye any news of me mathair?” asked Macklin sheepishly, holding his sleeping baby sister in his arms and rocking her back and forth in front of the hearth.
“Come here son,” replied Breacan. “Lay yer seesta down there on the mat, we have much to discuss.”
***
Odetta gasped, and struggled against the weight which held her head down, and the hands which clenched tightly around her neck cutting off her airway. Terror stopped her heart and sucked the air from her lungs. She knew better than to look up into the cold gray eyes of her captor, but she couldn’t help herself.
Nearly three weeks since she last encountered the Visitor and she still couldn’t get the stench of sulfur and rotten wood out of her head. She wanted to sit up, to grab something—anything to distract the Visitor, but found nothing. Only when she came fully to the realization that she was at his mercy and she was able to let go with her mind, to submit, did he relent.
Sleep eluded her constantly. Perhaps it was eluding her, perhaps she was unwilling to succumb. That was more like it. Since that first time, as a small child, when the Visitor found her by the lake; she remained in fear for her life and in solitude—unwilling to draw anyone else into her horror.
She even spared her own brother, by taking his very life. Not willing to let the Visitor have him, she did the only thing she could think of. Cynbel would not be his host, not while she still drew breath. Even when she sent her sister away, she was being merciful. The Visitor had plans for her as well and Odetta wouldn’t let that happen, not if she had anything to do with it.
The bleak, echoing, melancholic brogue of the Visitor split her head in two. Had she the power, she would have taken her own life, years ago. Subservient. Controlled. Beneath. These were the words her unholy Visitor used.
Immortal. That’s the one that gave her the greatest sorrow. Immortal and helpless. Forever controlled by the Visitor and his dark forces. Cursed to do his bidding, whatever his evil mind could conceive. It was better they all thought her insane than know the truth.
“Rise,” he commanded, after letting go of his grasp of her neck and rising from the bed.
She gasped for air when his heavy arms left their place on her head. She only dozed off for a mere moment; and there he was as usual. Tears of rage filled her eyes, and she struggled to see.
Rising from the bed, she caught the stench and knew he was near. Fear overtook her and she began to shake. It was soon replaced with rage and an unholy anger took its place.
“Why are ye here?” she shouted into the blackness. “What do ye want?”
“Ye know what I want. Ye’ve yet to give it to me. Must I do everything?” he echoed back.
The Visitor blew out a short breath, and the room filled with light as two candle stands in the far corners of the cavernous room lit of their own accord. Odetta stood panic-stricken in the middle of the small chamber, face to face with her evil Lord.
The top of her head barely reached his chest. His long stone-like arms hung nearly to the ground and he waived his razor-sharp, black fingernails in front of her face; before scratching a line down the cavern wall…creating some sort of visual depiction of an ancient battle or ceremonial rite …she wasn’t sure.
“Me Lord,” she ventured hesitantly.
“Silence,” returned the Visitor. “I am here to collect what is mine. Have you located the nexus?” he asked, spewing rancid steam from his nostrils.
“Not yet, but I am close,” she replied.
“Have ye at least acquired or traversed the territory which surrounds the ruins?” he shouted angrily.
“Eaton. Me Lord,” she replied.
With one flick of his giant wrist, the Visitor slashed a line from Odetta’s right shoulder, across her chest, down over her ribcage and rested his razor-sharp nails in her left side—fully impaling his hand within her flesh. Her eyes met his and locked on in defiance. Blood trickled from her wounded side and pooled about her ankles. She grew faint and steadied herself so as not to pass out.
“Ye grow pale, me puppet,” he bellowed. “It’s a good thing I’ve made ye immortal. Otherwise all this time I’ve wasted on ye would be in vain.” Slowly and painfully, he removed his claws from her body, one at a time.
When the last of his razor-sharp nails were removed, Odetta doubled over in agony and fell to her knees. “Me Lord, tell me what ye desire of me—I am yer most willing servant,” she begged through clenched teeth.
“Ye know I need the nexus. Ye’ve had years to locate the nexus among the ruins. I am growing impatient with ye. Perhaps it is time I take a new tribute,” he said, as he drew circular shapes down the length of her arm with one of his nails, drawing blood all along the way.
“No!” she screamed. “Please, I can do this, just give me more time. Please don’t take anyone. I am so very close to having access to the ruins; I’m sure I can find yer nexus.”
“Ye’ve had plenty of time, witch,” said the Visitor. “Why can ye not simply go to the ruins now and return with the nexus?” he asked, as he grabbed her around the neck and lifted her off the floor in front of him; leaving her legs dangling just feet from the stony ground.
Cold, gray, evil eyes burned behind copper-colored lids. He muttered something under his breath; something otherworldly, something so sinister she didn’t need to understand the words to catch his meaning.
“I will have the nexus, and I will leave this place!” he roared, as the stones shook and the earth quaked at the force of his command. He dropped her to the ground, leaving her a quivering mess of blood and pure exhaustion.
“Ye need more blood,” he said matter-of-factly. “Tend to yerself, and find my nexus. I will be back.”
A shearing pain gripped her heart and electric-like currents surged through her body. She began to vomit, and a seizure overtook her to the point she was forced to lay flat out on the cold, stone floor writhing in agony. She felt her flesh heating up like it was on fire, and the droplets of blood on her skin began to boil. Her flesh seared back together where it was torn, leaving tattoo-like scars in its wake.
A reminder of his power over me, she thought to herself. But -not for long.
CHAPTEN TEN
O’Malley Territory — Sick-House
“Please Vynae, I need to keep this just between us for now,” Kyra said to the healer. “I need time to prepare meself before I inform my parents, and Murchadh.”
“What manner of secret are ye hiding from us now, dear cousin?” interjected Darina’s sister, Dervilla, from the doorway to the sick-house. Smiling as usual, she interrupted her cousin’s train of thought and caught Vynae off guard.
“Dervilla, dear, how are ye?” asked the aged healer, wringing her hands and wiping Kyra’s forehead with a cool linen.
“I am fine, Vynae. What is this secret Kyra wishes to hide from her parents?” she added as she walked across the table area towards the bench where Kyra reclined. “’Tis no’ a big one I hope?”
“Never mind now, Dervilla. What do ye need?” Vynae shot back. aggravation in her voice.
“I’m here for the potion,” she responded in a whisper.
Vynae shook her head indicating she wasn’t clear what Dervilla was after; and continued wiping Kyra’s forehead. “Here lass, drink the last of this, it should help.”
“The elixir, ye ken? The potion, for Darina to drink?” Dervilla pressed. “She n
eeds the drink, Vynae. So…ye know…she will no’ end up with…”
“Aye, I know what ye are after!” said Vynae. “Give me just one second, I’ll be back in a jif,” she added as she gathered a basket and walked down the corridor and in to one of the chambers.
“Kyra, are ye feeling poorly?” asked Dervilla, now concerned after seeing the pallor of Kyra’s face. She kicked at the chamberpot at her feet and knew she most likely had been throwing up all afternoon. Dervilla sat down on the bench beside Kyra and took her hand in her own, wiping Kyra’s sweat-drenched brow with the sleeve of her tunic.
“I ken I have a stomach ache, that is all,” Kyra said and lowered herself back down to the pillow on the bench. When she crawled into the fetal position, Dervilla grew wary.
“Kyra, what troubles ye? What can I do?” Dervilla asked.
“Ye can start with keeping yer mouth shut,” growled Kyra between dry heaves towards the pot on the floor in front of her. Now on all fours, Kyra looked up at Dervilla with a stern warning glance.
“Kyra, eat ye some of that bread on the table there,” yelled Vynae from down the hall. “It should soak up the worst of the vapors.”
“What’s going on?” whispered Dervilla. “Have ye been poisoned?” she gasped and clasped her hand over her mouth.
“Dervilla, ye can no’ tell anyone about this, ye ken?” demanded Kyra. Dervilla nodded and placed a hand on Kyra’s back.
“Dervilla, I am with child.”
***
“Parkin, come in here son,” called Breacan MacCahan from his solar. “We have much to discuss and Macklin here has some things he wishes to say.”
Airard pulled a stool from the corner and motioned for Parkin to sit beside Macklin and himself. they being positioned on the bench in front of the MacCahan clan leader’s large, table desk. Light snoring rose from the small straw mat where Winnie slept under the window, a purring kitten curled up near her right shoulder.
“Parkin, I have informed Macklin that his mathair has expired,” said the elder MacCahan. Macklin let loose with another flow of sorrowful tears and continued to pull at the hole in the top of his truis. Parkin feigned sympathy, and laid a hand on the boy’s shoulder and squeezed as if to comfort him. Macklin rebuffed his gesture and edged further down the bench to avoid him.
“Parkin, Winnie is yer daughter, and ye’ve admitted as much. She is nearly two summers old, and has no other family, save for Macklin,” continued Breacan. “When Macklin’s da passed, ye wasted no time making the acquaintance of Isadore…”
“And filling her belly with yer seed,” snorted Macklin. “And ye hadn’t the decency to make an honest woman of me mam,” he added, glaring at Parkin with disdain. “She was good to ye, she was…and ye scorned her …and put her out…and refused her hand, and…”
Airard interrupted this time, “Hold on now, me boy, let’s no’ dishonor yer mam thus. She has just passed. We have to plan a future for ye sister, ye ken? We can no’ do that if we are bickering about the past.”
“Macklin, ye are but a lad still and yer not ready to, nor are ye able, to care for a babe like Winnie,” said Breacan. “No’ by yerself anyway. And ye haven’t any family local, now do ye?”
Macklin shook his head back and forth indicating he was, in fact, alone in the world after the death of his mother.
“Parkin, pray tell what ye plan to do about this…situation?” Breacan asked his middle son.
Parkin shot up off of the stool and folded his arms across his chest in defiance. “What am I going to do about this? What does that mean?”
“It means ye have a child with no one to raise her now Parkin, that’s what that means. And it means, I mean to hear what ye intend to do about caring for her.”
“Well, I’ve no good idea what is to become of her, she has no mammy,” replied Parkin, matter-of-factly, with a dumbfounded look on his face that dared his father to push him further.
“Parkin, ye’ve left me no other choice here son.”
“What is that supposed to mean?” Parkin responded.
“I’ll take care of me seesta,” spat Macklin. “Parkin is no kind of mon and has no honor about him. He is no’ capable of caring for himself, let alone another person. Will ye no’ honor me mam’s rents on her cottage and land?” asked Macklin to the Laird earnestly.
“Of course I will honor the rents; ye needn’t worry about that Macklin. But Macklin, ye can no’ care for a babe and work for the rents too, ye need someone to help ye raise Winnie. Ye need to continue yer schooling as well, son.”
“I can raise Winnie just fine. Tara watched Winnie while me mam worked; she will do it for me too, I’m sure. And Parkin can pay her wages for keeping Winnie.”
“I will no’!” shouted Parkin. “I will no’ pay to have some servant girl set with Winnie while ye pretend to work, Macklin. Ye are just a boy!”
“Well then, Parkin. What is yer plan?” asked his father.
“I’ve an idea. I think we should send Winnie to Skye. She can be there with mam’s family, and they will raise her up right,” said Parkin. “I can send coin for her keep and make sure she is educated.”
“Ye will not send me seesta to Skye! She is my seesta and I will have yer useless head before ye send her off like some unwanted piece of livestock. She stays with me,” commanded Macklin, now standing face to face with Parkin, challenging him to make a move.
Breacan let out a long-held breath and took a drink from his ale. “I was afraid it might come to this,” he said out loud to no one in particular.
Airard stood and went to the now waking Winnie. He pulled her into his arms, picked up her kitten and excused himself from the chamber, knowing his presence would only distract Laird MacCahan.
“Ye’ve done it now,” Parkin quipped to Macklin under his breath.
Macklin turned and addressed the Laird. “Me Lord, Winnie is the only living relative I have. Please do not think to separate us. I will work day and night to see her raised and to pay yer rents and to take care of whatever debts me mam may have left, I swear I will.”
Breacan shook his head in despair and trepidation. “Macklin, ye are a noble lad. I would be proud if I were yer da. I hate to do this to ye, I truly do. But Parkin has left me no other choice.”
“Ye see, Macklin, I was right all…” began Parkin. Until his Father placed a heavy hand on his shoulder and bade him to sit down.
“Parkin, I have coddled ye all yer life. Mayhap it is time ye act like an honorable mon. I want no discussion from ye after I make my decision. There will be no questions, there will be no negotiating, and there will be nothing but doing what ye are told. Ye ken?” he asked. “If ye don’t like me dictate, ye are welcome to join yer mam’s people on the Island of Skye, ye ken?”
Parkin nodded.
“Parkin, ye are to leave for yer brathair’s territory on the morrow. Ye are taking the first small vessel ye completed. Ye will be taking goods back with ye, two ship hands and ye will be taking Winnie and Macklin with ye.”
Parkin gasped and stood up, ready to rebut his father’s dictate before he thought better of it. Breacan raised a warning hand to his son and motioned for him to sit back down.
“Parkin, Winnie is yer daughter, yer own flesh and blood. It’s time ye became a worthy father to her. Macklin is yer son as well; mayhap not by blood, but yers anyway, on account of Winnie. Ye owe it to him to provide a home for them. Macklin will make a good stevedore and he will learn a trade on account of yer new enterprise. Train him well.”
“I canna raise a child on me own, da. I’m no’ married.”
“Parkin, ye should have thought of that before. Mayhap ye can fix that, if ye think any lass will have ye now.”
“Da, I can’t take care of them if I am away and sailing between ports all the time,” Parkin said, waiving his hand towards Macklin.
“Parkin, ‘tis time ye figured out a plan and made it work. Ye can hire a nurse in O’Malley lands just like ye can here. Find ye a
good nanny for Winnie for when ye are away. Macklin will travel with ye… always…between ports. And, if I were ye, I’d be nice to me brathair. He can help ye find a cottage of yer own, and make yer acquaintance with some nice lasses, I hope.”
Parkin cried real tears this time, for the first time in a long time.
“And Parkin, don’t ye be thinking ye can treat my new grandson like chattel. Ye will be paying him a fair wage for his labors. And, I will be hearing from him every time he comes to port.” Breacan smiled and wrapped his arm around Macklin’s shoulder and hugged him. “A fine mon ye will make Macklin, a fine mon indeed.”
ELEVEN
O’Malley High Castle — Wedding Ceremony
Darina entered the master’s banqueting hall on the arm of her betrothed, keenly aware that all eyes were on them. They breathed deeply in unison, as if they had planned it that way from the beginning. The harpist played a somber melody and the wedding guests bowed and nodded as they passed between them on their way to the dais.
“Galen?” asked Darina to Patrick, realizing Lucian stood with Galen at the platform, and not alone as she presumed he would.
Aye, he whispered back to her with his mind. I knew ye would prefer a wedding in the chapel, but since the priest is missing, I asked Lucian to have Galen assist him. They will both preside over the ceremony, if that is to yer liking, me lady?
“I like that verra much,” she said, as she followed his lead to stand beside him on the platform before Lucian and Galen. The harpist tamped down her playing until only a soft strumming was heard; and Lucian and Galen lit a candelabra spaced between them on the dais.
Lucian raised his robed arms high above his head and bade the wedding guests gather near to hear. “What a fine evening it is to join these two together in the sacred rite of marriage.” He continued,
Celtic Shores, Book 2 in the Celtic Steel Series Page 7
