The Dove, The Dragon & The Flame.
LizX
Copyright 2012
Dedication
To John,
A lighthouse on the rocks when I sailed through stormy seas.
Thank you.
Prologue
The flame must be extinguished and the dragon must be slain so the hand of the dove may bring Ireland into the fold.
Rome, Italy. 432AD
The city was cast in the dour garb of premature mourning. Day and night, on the hour, every hour, a bell tolled. The morbid clamour echoed through the streets like a heartbeat. When it ceased to ring, Rome would know its pope was dead.
Celestine had been ailing for weeks, months. His life expiring like the guttering flame of a dying candle. Time was short and to Patrick, pacing an antechamber of the papal residency, every new hour seemed longer than the one before, stretching into an interminable torture tearing at his soul. After every droll chime, he knelt at the small alter installed on one side of the room and give praise to God, Celestine still breathed.
The journey to Rome had been gruelling and fraught with the worry he'd arrive too late to accomplish his mission. Now he floundered in a hell of waiting for a moment when his leader would be strong enough to speak with him.
He tightened the rosary twisted around the knuckles of his right hand until the blood drained and his fingers turned white. God must answer my prayers.
He was preparing to give thanks once more when the door swung open.
“The pope will grant you audience.”
Patrick lowered his head in supplication to hide the exultant smile spreading across his face. His patience and his prayers were to be rewarded at last.
“Come, follow me,” the aide beckoned. Grey-faced and stooped at the shoulders, he spoke in a whisper barely audible over the rub of his gown against the marble floor. “Celestine is weak, but wishes to speak with you. It is not expected he will live to see the sun set tomorrow.”
The silence in the dimmed corridors they walked down was so thick it bore down on Patrick like a suffocating mantle and a bead of perspiration broke out on his forehead. Up ahead, the door to Celestine's bed chamber stood ajar. He suppressed a shudder. I must enter there? There where the scent of burning incense fails to belie the stench of imminent death?
The aide pushed the door until it swung open. Inside, thick drapes hung across the windows casting the room into a dismal semi-darkness. Patrick took a deep breath and without a word, brushed past him, crossing the stretch of floor in urgent strides to kneel at the side of the great bed. A pale, mottled hand slipped from under the covers to rest in a brief blessing on the crown of his head. Weak, it dropped once more on to the pristine calico, the papal ring hanging loose and heavy on one finger. Patrick took the limp hand, bent his head and kissed the seal on the circle of gold.
“Patricius?”
“It is I.”
“There are matters to be resolved.” Celestine faltered. His breath rattled in his chest. “Ireland is over-run with heathens and...” His skeletal hand clawed at the bedclothes. “Palladius has failed me. The Flame still burns strong in Celtic lands. You must extinguish her fire.” A racking cough interrupted the diatribe. The aide rushed to his side and with a cloth dampened in liquid from a golden chalice, wiped away the specks of blood from the papal chin. “Take the Dragon and the Flame will die.”
Patrick stilled the quiver coursing through his body before lowering his head and kissing the papal ring once more. “Upon the rock where God smote me with reason, I knew Ireland was for me.” He let the cold hand slip from his grasp and head bowed, but spirits soaring, rose and left the room. Vengeance is mine. Vengeance in the name of the Lord. He made the sign of the cross on his chest. Vengeance and the pagan witch are mine.
The Dove, Ireland.
Months passed and turned into years while Patrick worked relentlessly at his plan to convert the pagan population of Ireland to Christianity. The congregations of the new churches grew as he spread the word of the Lord.
On an Autumn morning, one which dawned frigid and white with the thick of a mist covering the low-lying ground, Patrick set out early intent on one purpose alone. As he rode across the hills on a stocky, grey pony, he reflected on all he had achieved.
Things bode well, but there are some more resistant than others to my religious persuasion and it is those on who I must concentrate. Dagda, is proving to be a problem. I must persist with my visits now the old man's health is failing. Converting Dagda will have the church's hierarchy eating out of my hand. Once he openly takes the faith, like sheep, the rest of the tribe will follow.
Patting its neck, he reined the horse to a standstill a short distance from Dagda's stronghold. He smiled as he eyed the grand structure, built from wood and stone in a circular form, crowning the crest of a hill and ringed by the river.
It will be a worthy offering. And then there's Brigid. He whispered the words out loud and his warm breath steamed in the morning air. She is the key to my quest. The people of the tribe depend on her. His lips curled. Ovate. Witch. When she succumbs to me, so will the people. Kneeing the horse, he rode on.
The path, nothing more than mud, wound around a small coppice, down through a scrappy patch of dwellings and into the outer circle of the fortress. Thanks be to God, I don't need to traverse this quagmire on foot. Peat smoke drifting from a tumble of hovels burned at his eyes. A rabble of children stopped their playing to stare at him. Dressed in nothing more than rags, exposed limbs blue, they were knock-kneed and stunted of growth - their hair tousled from constant scratching at the ever-present lice on their heads. What a poor sight. They remind me of the indignity of my days in captivity. The days when I too lived so poorly, in this God-forsaken place, enslaved at the hands of the pagan Irish. Many of them will die during the long winter months. He turned his gaze from them. The wealthy are my concern. The wealthy and the riches they are capable of adding to the coffers of the Church.
Patrick paused by the river's edge to survey the surroundings. A fleeting movement on the far side of the water caught his eye and his heart jumped.
Brigid?
A flash of white.
No such fortune. It is but a bird startled from its nest.
He moved on, crossing the wooden bridge and entering under the curve of the stone archway. Head held high, Patrick rode into the inner circle of the ring-fort and dismounted, leaving the pony to graze on the grass of the cashel’s inner circle. With long, impatient strides he made his way into the main building and barged through the door of the great hall where Dagda kept council.
Inside it was gloomy. A low, flickering light from the hearth sent dancing shadows across the stones of the walls. The air was thick with the stale smell of sickness. Patrick grimaced. With a keen eye, he searched the room for the figure of the old man but failed to find him until a bout of coughing broke the silence.
“Ah Dagda, there you are!” He was slumped in a heavy wooden settle, covered in sheepskins, before the fire.
Dagda coughed again, heaved himself forward closer to the fire, hawked noisily and spat onto the burning logs. A soft hissing filled the air as the liquid mass sizzled and disappeared in the heat. “What is it you want of me today missionary? Can you not leave an old man to die in peace?”
Standing with his back to the fire so the glow from the hearth cast his face in shadow, Patrick clasped his hands together behind him and bent to whisper in the chieftain’s ear. “My only concern, Dagda, is for your eternal soul and that you don’t burn in the fires of hell.”
“If I burn, Breton, then at least I will be warm. This earth has left me cold for many a long week. My bo
nes will appreciate the heat of a good blaze. Have you nothing of more interest to bother me with?
Patrick's hawk-like features hardened to a sneer. “I see today that good humour has left you, better I speak with your daughter a while. Maybe Brigid will convince you that I mean well, where will I find her?”
“She walks alone, I know not where. Perhaps she has gone to collect plants for cures to ease my ailing bones or for the sores on Maud’s legs. I know not when she returns.”
“You know not when she returns? Is it so little control you have of her? I will find her and if I can't convince you then she will bend to my will.”
“Leave the child be.” Dagda struggled to rise from the chair, but the pressure of Patrick's hand on his shoulder maintained him seated.
“Grant me that which I bid, land to build God's churches, so I may fulfil his good works.”
“Land? It's land you want now to build your churches? Is that to be the price of peace? Return in three days and it is land you shall have. A place all of your own and there you shall stay.”
The Flame.Ireland.
Brigid slipped from the fortress, a wicker basket held in the crook of her elbow. Bare-footed she wandered through the meadow and down to the river. The grass, still damp from the last floods, wet the hem of her skirt until it dragged around her ankles. She stopped, dropped the basket to the floor and tucked the sodden hems into the waist.
Father is weakening even after all the cures plied upon him. He seems to have lost the will to live. The river weed will make a good remedy, strengthen him and help ease the ague which afflicts him.
She waded into the water, sadness etched across the youthful beauty of her face. With the chill of the shallows stinging against the bareness of her legs, she set to work, pulling the watercress from its silty bed and dropping the culled clumps into her basket. Across the surface, small black bugs flitted in dancing circles. Their shiny bodies gliding with swift ease over the thick of green clogging the river’s edge. Her task was almost complete, the creel three parts full, when the muffled thud of hooves on the sodden ground of the far bank broke the quiet. Startled, a coot scuttled from its nest hidden amongst some tall reeds and paddled downstream calling its alarm.
It is Patrick again.
Brigid clambered up the grassy bank and hid under the low hanging branches of a willow before he drew closer. Her stomach churned as she peered at him through the branches.
Today he rides astride a grey pony. A gift, no doubt, from a soul saved from his burning fires of hell. Look at him. It is plain to see, he covets the wealth father has accumulated. Will he never leave us in peace? He is always here, mythering father with his false pretences. In his presence he plays well the part of a pious, holy man. He is clever or thinks himself so. He fools no-one. Father is a wise sage who, even in sickness, will not be easily inveigled by the falseness of his missionary's ways. He turns to stare across the water. My heart races. He has seen me?
She pressed her body hard against the velvety greenness of the tree-trunk until it rubbed fresh stains into her clothing and clung to her hair.
I am safe. The willow is a good shield.
“Brigid!”
Maud calls me to return to the fort. Nothing will entice me to go back while he is there. Even the grime of the riverbank is preferable to his presence.
A shudder ran through her body at the thought of being close to him.
When he looks at me, with those lash-less, raven-sharp, eyes, my insides twist with the loathing of him.
Keeping the creel full of weed clutched tight to her chest for fear of spilling them, she scrambled up the bank and fled across the clearing towards the cluster of trees.
Inside the coppice, the ground was thick with the accumulated fall of leaves and moss. Trails of ivy hung in dark drapes and brushed against Brigid's face, tangling in her hair, as she pushed her way through. Hidden there, in the middle of a small clearing and shrouded by the trees, was her well. The source of sacred water where she sought to communicate with the spirits of the Elders. She circled the pool, walking round and round, calling them to her, before kneeling at the water’s edge and peering into it. White clouds swirled and bubbles rose from below the green, murky depths, breaking through to the surface in slow, ever-expanding circles.
The ancestors want to talk, but the whispers are so quiet, I can barely hear them. I wait until the voices gather strength and the murmuring becomes a sigh. A sigh which speaks of troubled times and great sorrow to come for the tribes. Too many voices join as one and the whispering sigh turns to a wailing lament.
Worried, Brigid rose to her feet. It had been but a few weeks earlier when her father had called the other chieftains to council. Three more Fíli had disappeared without trace. While the Christian missionaries walked Irish soil, no-one was safe.
She'd sat at her father's feet while the men debated. Their discussions lasting through the long hours of the night and well into the morning of the following day. Plied him with beef broth when his strength waned and begged him to rest, but Dagda had stood firm and kept his seat at the head of the council until the decision was made. The Tara must take place. But this year, the tribes would unite far from prying eyes and be joined by the Bardoi of the Cymry who would take the tribal histories as his own for safe keeping before it was too late.
She bent down to pick up the creel. A glint of burnished red, glistening amongst the brume, caught her eye. As swift as a thieving magpie, she swooped to harvest the rare treasure. Dropping to her knees, she brushed away the debris from its delicate stem, then lifted the fragile fungus from its earthy bed, cradling it in her hands to admire its perfection, before laying it on top of the other plants in her basket. It sat, in a contrasting splendour of red and white against the fresh greenness of the cress.
It will make a noble drink for he who comes.
The Dragon.
It is the pre-dawn hour of a late summer morning, I wait here with Erin on this shingle beach. We stand listening for a change in the incessant rhythm of the waves lapping against the stones. The tide turns, we lift the currach above our heads, carry it down to the water's edge and wade out, knee-deep into the shallows.
“Leave go, Myrddin.” Erin shouts to me. We drop the small boat into the foaming surf. Buffeted by the waves, it rocks precariously as we take our seats on the thin planks spanning its width. Erin, fisherman by trade and red-faced from his many hours spent at sea, takes the heavy oars in his calloused hands and begins to row.With his back to the open water, he falls into a slow, well-practised motion pulling us away from the protection of the cliffs. Within minutes, we've entered into a low blanket of fog and lost sight of the Pictland shores.
Erin works the oars. The rhythmic creak of wood on wood stupefies me. Damp from the heavy mist clings in my hair and gathers in droplets on the fibres of my cloak. It is cold. I pull the heavy, woollen folds tighter across my shoulders and bury my hands in their spare warmth.
“It’ll get colder yet.” Erin says.
I can but grunt a reply. The swell sickens me. I cover my face to escape the salty stink of stale fish rising from the nets piled at my feet. The smell seeps through the cloth turning me green. Erin laughs when I have need to hang my head over the side. I am a man of the land and will never abide the sea. Truth, I dare'st not move for fear of ending my days in this grey deep.
We breach the rocky coast of Ireland in the late afternoon. I step from the boat with shaking legs, glad to have my feet once more upon solid ground.
“Fair journey, Myrddin,” Erin bids me. “And may the luck be with you on the way.”
“Tis’ my chances I take, Erin, for providence alone rules my fate and it is willingly I will walk towards her.”
“Then may the divinities rest upon your shoulders and keep you safe.”
It is with a rough embrace we bid farewell. Erin pushes his boat back into the waves and sets sail once more into the channel. There he will spend the
long hours of the night in a floating solitude until the catch is made. I envy him not. Nor he me, for I turn my back upon the sea, to face the land and the walk before me.
There is a small cave in the cliff-side and there on this first night, I will rest, eat the bread Erin has bestowed upon me and gather my strength for it will be many days before I reach the Tara.
This is a torture I must endure for Dagda, chieftain of the Western tribe, bids my presence in these troubled times. The Picts have forewarned me of the attacks on their Fíli. Rumour has it to be the work of Patrick. I want not that this be my destiny, but I too shall take the same fate and be found with a stake driven through my head.
Chapter 1
Thorney, England. 2010
“Bye and thank you.” Brigitte called out. The door of the boutique swung open. An antique brass bell, hanging from the top of the frame tinkled. She smiled at the back of the departing customer.
Come back on Sunday... when I'm closed.
A blast of cold air entered and swirled around her ankles. She shivered. The temperature in the shop seemed to have dropped ten degrees. Goosebumps rose on her arms.
Put the wood in the hole. Daft old bat spent almost an hour inspecting six shirts and in the end, bought nothing and can't even manage to shut the door behind her.
Brigitte refolded the shirts spread out across the counter, slapped the lid down on the last box and one by one stacked them back in the glass display cabinet. All the time trying not to think about nipping outside for a quick cigarette. She slid open a drawer under the counter and pulled out her secret supply. Chocolate digestives. Taking one, she nibbled around the edge in mouse-like bites.
There's not so many calories in them if you eat them slowly. Right? Who am I kidding?
Bit by bit, in less than half an hour, she demolished the lot. They did nothing to ease her craving for nicotine.
So much for giving up smoking. Paul and his hypnosis sessions are driving me nuts. If he starts going on about past life regression again the next time I see him, I just might have to slap him.