Pagan Fire Read online

  Pagan Fire

  by

  Teri Barnett

  www.sinfulmomentspress.com

  Published Internationally by Lachesis Publishing

  RR# 1, Dunrobin, Ontario,

  K0A 1T0 Canada

  Copyright © 2010 Teri Barnett

  Exclusive cover © 2010 Tracy Goodwin

  Inside artwork © 2010 Carole Spencer

  All rights reserved. The use of any part of this publication reproduced, transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior written consent of the publisher, Lachesis Publishing Inc., is an infringement of the copyright law.

  A catalogue record for the print format of this title is available from the National Library of Canada

  ISBN 13: 978-1-897562-66-6

  A catalogue record for the ebook format of this title is available from the National Library of Canada

  ebook is available from

  www.lachesispublishing.com

  ISBN 13: 978-1-897562-67-3

  Credit: Karen Adams, Editor

  Sara Davidson, Copyeditor

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any person or persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Dedication

  To my sons, Aron and Daniel Whitaker.

  You are the best and

  I’m grateful to be sharing this life’s journey with you.

  Also available from this author:

  Through the Mists of Time

  Shadow Dreams

  From the molten depths

  of the earth,

  through a portal of

  jewel green water,

  the goddess rises.

  She speaks

  and her thick, honeyed voice

  penetrates the heavy veil

  of cool clear liquid.

  She smiles

  and grants magic

  to those

  she would love.

  Prologue

  Tintagel, Cornwall, Isle of Great Britain

  November 865 A.D.

  “’Tis a fine night for a child to be born,” Manfred cu Llwyr whispered to himself as he walked. Passing the river rock hearth, he took note of the robust fire that burned so brightly there. He stopped in front of it for a moment, lost in thought as he watched the play of flames, then turned toward the thick oak and iron door that led outside.

  Opening it with a loud scrape, he made his way down the unheated corridor. As he moved, his body cast shadows tall and thin before him from the light of torches mounted high on the wall. The straw scattered about the stone floor for warmth and cleanliness offered a muffled crackle beneath his feet.

  Once out of doors, he rubbed his hands together and raised his eyes to the sky. On the horizon, the setting sun cast a red glow and turned the gray winter clouds to indigo. Manfred sighed and his breath hung in the air before him.

  He stopped near another fire – one of many lit that night in celebration of the feast of Samhain – and leaned against the timber and stone wall of the keep. He looked out past the fence, hand-hewn stakes of wood sunk deep in the ground that surrounded his burh. A fine mist lay in heavy circles around the treetops, its long fingers beginning to drift down to the earth. As far as the eye could see, from the lush green rolling hills to the thick forests shaded dark by the coming night, it all belonged to him. The sharp smell of the sea, not quite a mile away, rose on the wind and entertained his senses.

  Only the Samhain bonfires scattered along the hillsides broke the shroud of mist and night. His churls would soon be starting the dedication of animal sacrifices to the gods, goddesses, and denizens of the Otherworld. It was their sincere belief these offerings would cause the deities to look upon the people favorably and see them safely through the coming winter. He uttered a silent wish that their prayers would be heard, thankful the portents hadn’t indicated a harsh winter on the way. If this had been the case, a human sacrifice would have been in order. And though it would’ve been his duty to see it through, he was loath to take a life. Manfred’s “new way of thinking” was a constant point of contention between him and the High Council of Bards, Ovates, and Priests. It was even worse with his twin brother, Eugis, who saw Manfred’s beliefs as a threat to their very way of life.

  A woman’s scream pierced the growing darkness and Manfred quickly turned around. He let his breath out slowly, clenching his fists until his nails dug deep into the callused flesh. Nestled deep inside the hall in their bedchamber, his wife was laboring to bring forth their first child. He unclenched his hands and cast a log on the fire in front of him. Silently, he sent a prayer to Nuada for Rhea’s safety.

  By the gods, he was fearful of losing her. She had come into his life like a bright shining light, at a time when he thought love was perhaps beyond his grasp, and she enchanted him. She was truly a child of the hills, with her thick black hair and freckled cheeks. She wove wondrous stories of meetings with the Tuatha de Danaan themselves, the very fays who lived in those emerald hills! And who was he to dispute her? He’d seen enough of magic in his own life to know it existed.

  Lost in his reverie, he barely noticed the little boy as he approached from the direction of the Samhain festival. The child stopped before him and tugged at Manfred’s long white tunic. The copper and stone adornments chimed together. The movement startled him and he glanced down. He’d forgotten he was still wearing the heavily embroidered and jeweled priest’s robes. As the Chief Dyrrwed Bard for his clan, he should be at the celebration now, reciting the stories of the Ulster Men, Cu Chulainn, and the other heroes and deities.

  Ah, but he couldn’t leave Rhea’s side as she struggled with the birth. If only for his own sense of well being, he needed to be here. Too many women died while laboring. He would stay and make certain the midwife and priestess in attendance drew upon all of their powers to keep his wife safe from harm while the baby fought its way into the world. And a fight it truly was. Already a full day had passed and still the babe was unborn.

  “Dylan mac Connall. What is it?” Manfred squatted down and asked the boy. “What can I do for you this evening?”

  The boy didn’t answer, but only watched the older man.

  “I would’ve thought you’d be at the feast with the others.” Manfred smiled as he looked at the child. Hair as black as the night sky and eyes to match, the boy was so serious for one who’d seen only six winters. But he’d always been that way. Even as a wee babe he didn’t cry out or raise his voice. He only seemed to look out on creation with sober curiosity.

  Dylan pursed his lips together, then spoke. “I told Da I needed to be here with you and the Lady. He said it would be all right, as long as I didn’t get in anyone’s way.” His father, Fox mac Connall, was the noble of the neighboring lands and Manfred’s oldest and most trusted friend.

  Manfred smiled again and ruffled the boy’s hair. “But the festivities have only just begun. Have you had your fill of our good cook Hazel’s honeycakes so soon?” It was just like the child to do something out of the ordinary, the opposite of what everyone else was doing. Single-minded though he was, he was a good boy and a more-than-able student, well on the path to becoming a powerful Dyrrwed priest. Already, Manfred had been able to teach him a hundred verses and tales of their people, the Dumnonii. Of course, there were literally thousands more, but so far the boy had memorized each and every one he’d been taught. No small feat for a child his age.

  Dylan shrugged. “I was at the festival, warming my hands near the fire, when I heard someone calling my name.” He pulled his hands up inside of the thick brown woolen cloak he wore as
if, with the telling of the tale, the small fingers remembered how cold they had been. “I walked into the woods, down the path where the two tall stones stand watching the stream. I heard my name again.” His eyes met Manfred’s. “Then I saw a lady there.”

  Manfred grinned. “And what sort of lady did you find?”

  “A wet one, Sir. She was just lying there under the water, smiling up at me. Then she started to talk and her voice sounded like music. She told me I should be here with you.” He pulled his hands out of his cloak and tossed a green pebble up into the air with one hand and caught it with the other. When he showed his palms, the stone had vanished. He pushed his black hair out of his eyes and looked at Manfred again.

  Manfred’s grin faded. He took the boy by the shoulders and looked at him carefully, judging the truth of what was said. Dylan’s gaze never wavered. Manfred knew the child wasn’t one to lie or create fanciful tales, so he greatly doubted he would do so now. Manfred ran a hand through his bright red beard, now streaked with silver. Had he heard correctly? Had the raven goddess of water, Morrigu herself, spoken to the boy? Manfred sucked in his breath. It truly is a special night.

  At that moment, one of his churls came lumbering out of the barn to his left, wiping his hands on a bit of ragged cloth. To his right, the midwife appeared at the door to the keep, a soft bundle in her arms.

  “The new foal has arrived, my Lord. She’s as white as a fair summer cloud, she is.” The churl grinned broadly, displaying two rows of uneven teeth, then turned and walked back to the barn.

  “An’ I ‘ave more news fer ye, Sir. Yer child has finally come.” The midwife placed the babe in his arms and pulled the blanket away from the small face. As she did so, a hawk flew overhead, crying to the night. The midwife jumped, then made a quick sign for protection.

  Manfred stared up at the bird and a shiver ran along his spine. All the signs were present: The appearance of a goddess. The birth of a white foal at the same moment as the babe. The hawk. By the gods, it could only mean one thing. The child would be triply blessed by the gods and goddesses, with the powers of healing at its command.

  “How is Lady Rhea? Did she fare well?” he asked, his voice a ragged whisper.

  “Oh, Sir, she done jest fine.” The midwife smiled kindly. “She’s a-sleepin’ already.”

  He looked at the sky again as the hawk continued to circle overhead, now joined by what appeared to be a large raven. “Morrigu,” he whispered.

  Sparks from the fire lifted with the wind and mixed with the stars. Still the birds flew steady. When Manfred realized the midwife was still speaking to him, he shook his head to clear it. “What was it you said?”

  “I says I’m very sorry it’s a girl-child. I know how disappointed ye must be.” She pulled her homespun shawl tighter around her shoulders as light snowflakes began to fall.

  Manfred waved her away impatiently. “Nonsense, woman. Girls have their value, and my daughter will aspire to greatness.” He puffed his chest out. “She will be a leader of the Dumnonii. Nay, of all the Keltoi tribes.” He gestured to the sky. “Tell me you don’t see the signs!” Manfred lowered his hand. He ran a rough finger down the babe’s cheek and stroked the downy thatch of dark red hair that covered her head. “Leave the babe with me and go watch over my wife in case she wakes.”

  “But, Sir. It’s gettin’ much too cold fer the child to be out here.” She glanced around, as if hoping for someone to support her position. “Sir?”

  Manfred’s expression grew dark. “You heard me. Off with you.” When she hesitated, he barked, “Now!” The midwife took a step back, then turned and ran into the hall, her shawl trailing behind her.

  He chuckled, then gazed down at his new daughter. “Dylan,” he whispered as he crouched down. “This is an important lesson and I want you to remember it. Look at this babe. Life is sacred. It should never be taken from another in vain or for the purpose of calling up healthy crops.” He sighed. “There are those who disagree with me on this matter, but, as your teacher, it’s important to me that you understand.”

  “I’ll remember, Sir.” Dylan leaned forward, his eyes wide as he looked at the baby. “She’s beautiful. Prettier even than the lady in the stream.”

  Manfred laughed. “Of course she is. And, because of your vision, I have decided to name her Maere, after the water spirit.”

  Dylan smiled, proud. But as he continued to watch the babe, his smile faded. He touched the child’s tiny hand and whispered, “I swear by all the gods and goddesses that I will protect her for you and the Lady Rhea.” He raised his eyes to his teacher’s. “Always.”

  Chapter One

  Eighteen years later

  April 883 A.D.

  St. Columba’s Abbey

  Glastonbury, Isle of Great Britain

  The form of a man emerged from the darkness of the fog, his body a lean dark silhouette against the swirling gray mass. The moonlight touched his hair and it glowed blue-black in the night. Stars danced about him and the very trees themselves tipped and bowed as he passed.

  Walking – nay, gliding – he moved with purpose and determination along the road leading toward the abbey. The evening offered him a cloak and he wore this mantle proudly, becoming one with the nighttime.

  Stealthily and in silence, he approached the old, ivy-covered stone walls of Saint Columba’s as if it were a cornered animal. He paused for a moment, glanced about him, and then pushed forward, moving in for the kill.

  The young woman, deep asleep, struggled against the bed linens that had become entangled around her limbs. Her slender legs pushed and shoved at them, her hands pulling and tugging, until she was finally free of their unrelenting grasp.

  The man’s breath billowed out in front of him and surrounded his head, obscuring first his face, then his entire body. Still moving ever forward, he passed in silence through the walls of the abbey itself, and entered her small cell. He reached for her, extending his arms from the fallen cloud, his fingers grasping. The feral glow of his eyes penetrated the thick fog and touched her with their intensity. “Come to me,” he whispered, his fingers but inches from her face. “Come to me.”

  The woman bolted upright. Her chest heaved as she tossed the offending linens to the floor. Sweat covered her fair, lightly freckled face, and ran down her back, soaking the thin sleeping gown she wore. Her heart beat so fiercely against her breast that she feared for her life. She clutched at her throat. She couldn’t breathe. She glanced frantically around the small room. The walls seemed to move in toward her, threatening to crush her. She felt faint. Panic set in. Where was he? Where had he gone? Was he still here?!?

  “Sisters!” she screamed. “Help me!”

  Within moments, Abbess Magrethe shoved open the cell door and rushed to the younger woman’s side. “What is it, Maere?” She searched her face. “What troubles you so?”

  Maere huddled against the wall where the head of her small cot was shoved against it, her knees drawn tightly to her chest. Her dark copper hair fell down over her face, clinging to her damp skin. Slowly, she raised her green eyes to the Abbess’s and peered at her through the long, wild strands. She tried to speak, but the words caught in her throat.

  “It was another nightmare, wasn’t it?” Magrethe asked, as she sat her candle gently down on the nightstand. She drew Maere to her.

  Maere nodded and began to sob. “Who is this man that haunts my sleep? Why won’t he let me rest?”

  “If only I knew,” she murmured. Magrethe held Maere out at arm’s length and searched her face once more. “Was it the same dream? Was he coming for you?”

  “Aye, Mother. He’s close, too. I saw him outside the abbey walls. He walked right through them.” Maere’s voice shot up a notch. “He was here!”

  “Poor child,” Magrethe sighed. “If you had not been having these dreams for many years now, I would believe the pleasures of the flesh were calling to you.” She released Maere and picked up her candle, lighting Maere’s with it. The
light cast tall shadows on the wall, mimicking the woman’s motions.

  “You believe that’s what these dreams mean? That I am thinking of being w-with a man?” Maere rolled the edge of her gown between her fingers as tears fell onto the fabric and stained it. “If that were true, why does he appear as if he is hunting me down, like a deer or fox?” The small flame flicked and sputtered. She turned her eyes away from the light. “Why does he want me dead?”

  “I cannot explain the devil’s lure, but it’s widely known he seeks young women such as you, those nearly ready to take their vows.”

  Maere rubbed her eyes furiously. “I appreciate your counsel, Mother.” Maere let her head fall gently back against the wattle-and-daub wall. “If you think this is Lucifer’s work, then I must do penance. I must seek forgiveness for bringing him to me.”

  “Maere, you’ve been disturbed by these images for more years than you’ve been a young woman, so this may not be the case with you.” She sighed. “I’m sorry that I know not the answer, child.” The abbess drew the young woman to her breast again. She stroked Maere’s hair until Maere was calm and her breathing even. “I think it would help if you prayed about this. Perhaps enter into a fast and meditation. It’s possible the answer will then come to you.”

  Maere remembered the glowing red eyes. They were animal-like, fierce in their determination to seek her out, more frightening than anything she could ever remember seeing before. “Do you really think that would help, Mother?”

  “With God anything is possible. You know that, girl.” Magrethe patted Maere’s cheek, then gently directed her with her hand back down to the flat, straw-filled mattress. “For now, try and sleep. It’s almost time for Matins and Sister Aubrey will be most put out if you doze off during prayers.”