Curse of the Celts

by Clara O'Connor

  Callum.

  He was the only person we had met on the way who knew who we were. Was that why he had been so convinced that Gideon hadn’t meant to kill Devyn? Because he was the real culprit?

  “Is it possible Cassandra or I might also have this poison in us?” Marcus asked. It was a fair question. If we had been dosed by Callum – or even earlier, before we left the city perhaps – could it even now be moving undetected in our veins?

  Marcus took my hand in the Briton style, wrist to wrist, using the technique Fidelma had taught him. His eyes closed as he checked my blood before releasing me, satisfied that he could not sense it.

  “Maybe we all had it. We could have burned it off,” he suggested.

  I supposed that was true, or maybe only Devyn had been targeted. But first things first: Devyn had to be cured.

  There was no sign of the druid for the rest of the evening, though he sent some of the mistletoe potion for Rhodri, as yet unaware that Marcus had rendered the medication unnecessary.

  Waking the next morning, I immediately made for the druid’s rooms and knocked lightly on the door.

  When there was no answer, I gently let myself in. Madoc lay sleeping on blankets on the floor while Devyn still slumbered on the cot behind. I surveyed him quietly; there was some colour in his cheeks and the dark hollows seemed to have lightened if not filled out overnight. My body sagged in relief.

  I reached for the bond and it felt firm and real once more, either because he was close or because he was better, I wasn’t sure, but it was tangible again.

  But he didn’t wake that day, or the next, and Madoc grew increasingly concerned. Over a week passed before I opened the door to an exhausted but happy Madoc.

  Stepping past him a breath of relief sighed from my smiling lips as I met the dark-brown eyes looking steadily back at me. The smile stretched across unfamiliar muscles in my face.

  “Hi.”

  He blinked in response, an answering smile playing faintly on his lips.

  I sagged to the ground beside him, catching the now warm hand that lay on the blankets, savouring the feel of the calloused palm, the steady pulse, the natural healthy colour of the skin.

  “You’re okay?”

  “No, he is not okay,” Madoc growled from behind me. “What are you doing in here, girl?”

  His brows drew together at the sight of our linked hands. I had haunted this room while he lay sick but had been careful to come with Marcus. As far as he knew, I was with the York prince; maintaining the appearance that I was with Marcus had been no great challenge in Devyn’s absence, more difficult while he lay unconscious. Without Devyn to counter the pull of the handfast, I had been drawn to Marcus, the wondrous power of the cuff reversing our almost non-existent chemistry. But with Devyn now awake and within touching distance, our natural polarity was restored.

  “He’s better?” I asked, ignoring the druid’s facial expression and tightening my hold on Devyn’s hand, deeming it more suspicious to pull away than not.

  “For now.”

  “What do you mean, for now?” I asked. This recovery wasn’t permanent?

  “I’ve done what I can. The potion I made has worked well enough and I threw a few more things at it overnight so you were strong enough to rouse. I’ve done as much as I can with the supplies I have but some of my more powerful herbs were running low. If you remember, I was on my way to Conwy to restock when his lordship called me back.” He pulled me firmly aside as he turned down the blankets to check on his patient. The black tendrils staining his bronze skin had receded, but the wound, though greatly improved from the putrid mess it had been yesterday, still looked raw.

  The druid nodded to himself.

  “You’ll do, boy,” he said. “Now up you get; we have a ride ahead of us.”

  “He can’t ride! He’s been at death’s door for days. He needs time to recover.”

  “He needs medicine I can’t give him. Either he’s strong enough to get off his arse and ride, or he can lie there and gamble on us making it back in time.”

  “I missed you, Madoc,” Devyn said, straight-faced. With a groan, he levered himself up on his elbows. I put my arms around him and helped him rise until he found himself unsteadily on his feet. But at least he was on his feet.

  “We need to get to Carlisle,” Devyn stated after a moment.

  “You won’t make another day without the right herbs,” Madoc said flatly.

  “I guess we’re going to pay a visit to my uncle then,” Devyn said wryly.

  Madoc looked him up and down, assessing the man he had last seen as a boy, instead of the patient he had been so far.

  “Not without speaking to your father.”

  Devyn’s jaw clenched at the suggestion.

  I put a calming hand over his heart, but far enough away from the bandaged wound that I could put some pressure on it.

  “He’s not well, Devyn. I mean, he’s better; Marcus has treated him. The illness is gone but he has been chronically ill for so long…” I clarified. Madoc frowned at me, seeing no need to take the pressure off by informing Devyn of his father’s recovery. A fact which Madoc seemed to need constant reassurance of, checking up on his former patient one of the only reasons he had left this room since Devyn’s arrival. “He has waited such a long time to see you again.”

  He looked down at me and I could feel his body unclench… a little. His eyes were dark with emotion as he looked down at me and nodded.

  “Fine, I will speak with him before we go.” I could sense his dread at the prospect, but before I could even offer to accompany him, he made his preference clear. “Alone.”

  He was much stronger but still needed Madoc’s support to make it to the great hall. I went with them that far, so I saw Rhodri’s face when he clapped eyes on Devyn for the first time – the hope and regret, the love and shame, all mixed together and practically pouring out of him. For a man who had lived with being shunned for decades, he sure didn’t do too great a job at concealing his emotions. I guess, when you’ve stood at the edge of death for so long, and the person you love most in the world walks back into your life, it’s time to put aside the masks that pride makes us wear.

  At the other end of the spectrum, meanwhile, stood the son, also on far too familiar terms with impending death, but I didn’t need to see Devyn’s face to know it would be completely expressionless. Devyn did not want to do this. He believed what people said and thought about his father.

  Did he know about the magically bound vow? He had never mentioned it, and I wasn’t sure it would make a difference to him. I couldn’t imagine a single thing I could say to make Devyn vow to put something else before my life. Every fibre of his being was tuned into what was safest for me, including his own heart. There was no part of me that didn’t believe that also extended to his own life and limbs.

  Bronwyn was visibly relieved at the sight of her cousin more or less standing on his own two feet, and she stood hesitantly beside her uncle, unsure whether to stay or go. This was a matter I quickly cleared up for her and the others who loitered in the hall. I informed everyone that they needed to pack as we planned to be on the road within the hour to reach the medical supplies that awaited in Conwy.

  And so we were. When we passed through the hall there was no sign of Rhodri, and Devyn awaited us in the courtyard. Gideon sent half the Mercians home to Carlisle with a message for the king to explain our detour. The rest of us made a beeline for Conwy.

  Conwy Castle was imposing, to say the least. It loomed over the landscape, a formidable grey fortress commanding the coastline. It was a forbidding place built to repel enemies – hopefully also a place of sanctuary for those considered friends.

  Would we be received as friends? I certainly hoped so. After all, the prince of Gywnedd was Devyn’s uncle; he was family. But what did that prove? Those I had called family had discarded me like a trendy trinket gone out of fashion. Where once I had been the Shelton family’s prized jewel, when my star
had crash-landed onto the sands of the arena, they had been nowhere to be found.

  Rhodri loved Devyn, but he believed – as the rest of Briton society did – that his line was disgraced and there was no way back for them. What honour Devyn had won back by pledging fealty to the King of Mercia after the death of the lady had been irretrievably forsaken when he had broken his oath to go in search of the baby he believed still lived. That these sins had been committed when he was still a child was ignored. What was I thinking? Sins? They had been no sins of Devyn’s; bearing the blood of a traitor was no fault of the son. As for his crime of believing that the lost lady still lived, surely returning with me would wipe the slate clean?

  I needed to speak to him, to tell him that I knew who I was… and that the secret was out and on its way to York via Callum. But I knew better than to talk about these heavy secrets while we were surrounded by warriors. That some of our companions had figured it out couldn’t be helped; I wouldn’t spread it further.

  We had emerged from the endless forests to the miracle of the sea this morning, and Bronwyn had laughed at my delight. She had dismissed the grey-blue rolling waves that lapped the shore as so much less than the open ocean that she had grown up with in the southwest. She described sweeping cliffs and vast stretches of golden sands with waters that changed from the exquisite turquoise of the ring that adorned her finger to violent, dark swells that rose amidst the anger of storms. Apparently, the stretch we rode along was no more than a contained piece of sea trapped by the northernmost section of Cymru, by Eireann to the west, and by Mercia stretching north until it hit the land of Alba. I had a vague appreciation of the island’s geography and knew that the sea here was sheltered compared to the waters that crashed against the toe of Britannia where Bronwyn was from. But to me, the reality of it was beyond anything I had imagined from photos. The vastness of the water as it stretched out to the horizon was incredible; it went on for ever. No crowded vessels bobbing on it, hustling for space at the dock, just an infinite emptiness that went on and on, shimmering and undulating in the wind. I could taste a tang on my tongue that blew away the last vestiges of the ties that bound me to Londinium. These waters were constant, as was the land at my back. Life was sleeping in the wintry forest but it endured, and so would I. Come spring, the cycle would turn.

  Devyn sat tall in his saddle, his dark curls tossed by the wild winds coming off the sea, his face lifted to the castle ahead of us. The horses’ heads lowered as they huffed their way in the frigid air, clip-clopping over the bridge that spanned the river and then up to the castle entrance. The winds buffeted us mercilessly as we made our way across.

  Bronwyn gained us entrance after speaking softly with the guards who stood sentry at the open gates. Unlike at Dinas Brân, a party of our size was considered little threat here at Conwy Castle. The single tower in the hills was nothing to this magnificent fortress; there were towers and buildings behind massive fortified battlements behind which the entire town could take refuge. We clattered through to the courtyard, and grooms came forward to meet us and take our horses before we had even dismounted.

  A small figure emerged, cloakless, from the building at the far side of the courtyard. He hurried over with a quick step as he greeted Bronwyn with a warm “Niece” and embraced her in welcome.

  The Prince of Gywnedd was a smaller, wiry version of his brother. Though his curly hair was also grey, he was lighter of spirit, which made him seem younger than Devyn’s father, though I was aware that Llewelyn was the senior by some years. His lively eyes surveyed us and then grew dark as they lit upon the scarred face of Gideon.

  “York,” he snarled. “You are not welcome here.”

  Gideon’s chin went up as a broad grin spread across his face at the dislike directed at him.

  Bronwyn laid a softening hand on her uncle’s arm as he bristled at Gideon’s impudence.

  “Uncle, he’s with us,” she explained in an attempt to get him to back down from his unwelcoming stance.

  “I don’t care who he’s with. No one from House Mortimer will spend a night under my roof,” the small man gritted out, his hand lifting in a signal that brought armed guards to escort Gideon from the castle.

  “Uncle, he’s with me,” Devyn said, stepping forwards and lowering his hood.

  The Prince of Gywnedd kept one eye on the Anglian who was the target of his ire but he turned, giving his attention to the young man before him. The hard lines softened as he registered Devyn. He lifted a shaking hand to touch the gaunt face under the tumult of black curls.

  He looked to Bronwyn who smiled in confirmation.

  “Boy…” he whispered, dragging his nephew into a fierce embrace. Although he barely came to Devyn’s shoulder I worried that he would do some damage to his nephew, so strong was his embrace; he held on to him as if by doing so he could prevent him from ever disappearing again. “So it’s true. You’ve come back.”

  Devyn pulled back with a wince. “Uncle Llewelyn.”

  Both men stood there taking stock of the changes visible in each other. I wondered what his uncle made of the changes in the young man he had known. Were his memories of the sad, withdrawn boy I had glimpsed in my vision or of better times? He and his father must have spent time here, in this great castle. I imagined Devyn’s chubby legs running across this courtyard, perhaps thwarting a nanny as he escaped to the stables. Was there any sign left of the child he would have known in the lean, sombre man before him?

  A crooked smile tugged at Devyn’s lips, lighting his face.

  “Gideon left his father’s house long ago; he’s Deverell’s man now,” Devyn said, defending the Anglian.

  “I don’t care what kennel the pup crawls into at night, I’m still not letting a rabid cur enter my home.”

  Gideon’s eyes darkened at the damning declaration, a tic appearing at his jaw. The warrior might present an indifferent mask to the world around him, but he wasn’t immune to the slurs that came his way. Richard Mortimer, the Steward of York, was one of the most powerful men in the land. Why did Llewelyn despise him, and would that hatred extend to Marcus and the House of York once he discovered who he was? Marcus and I exchanged glances.

  Devyn’s smile broadened as he glanced at the glowering warrior, all too aware that Gideon would love nothing more than to oblige the prince and take off back along the coast. But he had promised to deliver us to Carlisle so he couldn’t leave without us, and we weren’t going until Devyn was fit to continue north.

  A tall, fair-haired man now stood at Llewelyn’s shoulder and Bronwyn looked to him to intercede for us. The new arrival smiled broadly at her and Devyn but said nothing.

  “Rhys.” Devyn’s eyes warmed briefly in greeting before returning to their deadlock with his uncle. “He saved my life and he has got us this far. If he goes, I go.”

  Devyn laid down his ultimatum, putting a hand on his uncle’s shoulder in a familial manner. Though apparently it landed with rather more weight than Llewelyn had expected as his gaze flicked up in alarm at his newly returned nephew.

  “Dev,” he said with some urgency, his other arm coming up to help brace Devyn, who wobbled before his strength gave out.

  Marcus’s hand restrained me as the fair-haired man, Rhys, bobbed forwards underneath Devyn’s arm and took his weight as he sagged down; they moved quickly to get him inside. A quick flick of Llewelyn’s hands told his guards to stand down as the trio made their way across the courtyard.

  Gideon watched the guards drop back before giving Marcus and me – as usual, at a loss how to proceed in this strange world – an indication to follow. I took Marcus’s hand to reinforce our status as a couple, admitting to myself that it also gave me comfort. A comfort which, with Devyn back in close proximity, was no longer tangled with other more confusing feelings.

  We were led through the huge oak doors and along a hallway into a larger room where massive tables stretched the length of the hall. Unlike at Dinas Brân, here there was life: long-haire
d warriors looked up from their food as we entered the great room and several women bustled over in attendance as we made our way along the tapestried wall at the side of the hall. The prince called for aid for his nephew. One young boy ran off the way we had come as if his life depended on it, while others milled about in our wake, exclaiming at the return of the long-dead scion of the House of Gwynedd.

  We arrived in a room with one entire wall given over to a cabinet made up of tiny drawers and bunches of herbs hanging from the ceiling like I had seen in Madoc’s room. Like, and also not like. Where there chaos had reigned, here stood cosy order. A beautifully woven rug lay on the floor and a warm fire crackled in the hearth. Llewelyn gently manoeuvred his nephew down into an armchair, tenderly running a hand through the dark curls before turning to his niece for answers.

  Bronwyn’s blue eyes showed her worry as she pushed her long dark hair back over her shoulder.

  “He has been ill.” Her eyes flicked over to us where we hovered inside the door. How much would she reveal to her concerned uncle? He had barely allowed Gideon in the door; the whole truth at this point probably wasn’t the wisest course. “We came here for help.”

  At this, the shrewd eyes flicked to Madoc who had just reappeared with another robed figure.

  “There’s something in his blood that weakens his life force,” Madoc explained as the druid followed us in and crossed to the patient in long-legged strides that ate up the room. “I was able to hold it off temporarily, but it was beyond my skills to cure it.”

  The new druid bent down to examine Devyn, who had started to recover in the relative comfort of the warm room and bristled at the presumptuous hands that prodded at him. The newcomer turned Devyn’s head first one way and then another, then tipped it back and used long fingers to stretch open his eyelids to look into the deepest corners of his eyes, while Madoc was briskly stripping Devyn of his cloak and undoing his tunic. He eased it off his shoulders to reveal the bandage on his right shoulder, before removing that too to reveal the dark stain that spread out beyond the wound. Black and purple tendrils spread like an ink stain under his golden skin.