Guardian of the promise, p.1
Guardian of the Promise, page 1
part #4 of Merlin's Descendants Series
Guardian of the Promise
Merlin’s Descendants #4
Irene Radford
Book View Café Edition
April 17, 2012
ISBN: 978-1-61138-165-8
Copyright © 2003 by Phyllis Irene Radford Karr.
www.bookviewcafe.com
Prologue
7 June, 1572. The fourteenth year in the reign of Her Majesty, Gloriana Regina, Elizabeth Tudor. The Kirk in the Woods, near Kirkenwood Manor, the North of England.
The sun crept to the peek above the horizon, way to the north of due east. I sat on the lake verge watching the light grow and the shadows shrink. Faeries buzzed around my head, giggling as they tugged at my unruly hair. I laughed with them. The innocent laughter of the young.
’Twas the time betwixt and between, neither day nor night, here or there, real or unreal.
As I was betwixt a child and a woman.
Gently, I twined a wreath of magic around the flowers scattered at my feet. They wove into a living crown. I transported the garland to my head with a gesture of my finger.
The faeries tilted the bright halo so that it canted over my left eye.
We all giggled hilariously.
My aging wolfhound, Coffa, drowsed at my feet along with her unnamed pup. I could not remember a time before Coffa came to me as a familiar.
My three cousins and I were the only children of our generation of Kirkwoods to possess magic and familiars. We played with magic as toys with no idea of how to use it for any but our own pleasure.
The lake rippled. A disturbance at the center spread outward. I sensed a presence beneath the water. Who would inhabit the watery depths?
Could it be the legendary Lady of the Lake? I day-dreamed a few moments that she rose from her mysterious home to give me the great sword Excalibur. I would travel the world, wielding the sword for justice, righting wrongs, and defending the weak as my ancestor King Arthur had done.
Would you not rather be the Merlin? A tiny voice like the chiming of silver bells asked. The faery voice spoke with the resonance of an entire flight of creatures. The Merlin carries history and news to the common folk, listens to their woes, and befriends them.
I sighed. Of course I’d rather be the Merlin. As my father had been. In all things I wanted to be like my father, a man who was fast becoming more legend than memory.
Way off on the other side of the lake, the church bell tolled Matins. A raven launched himself from the rooftree with a noisy flap of wings. The dreams faded. I was just a little girl. The Lady would certainly never deem me worthy of the sword. I guessed she rose merely to play with the faeries on this warm summer dawn.
“Deirdre!” a voice called from the direction of the church. “Dee, where are you?”
The faeries popped out of this reality in surprise, then popped back in, giggling all the while at their own shyness.
“’Tis merely my cousin Hal,” I explained to them. “He’s very protective of me and doesn’t like it when I go off on my own.” As much as I loved my cousin, sometimes I needed to explore these woods by myself. The faeries only came when I was alone. Hal was too impatient to let me study plants and flowers and insects to learn their secrets.
“Dee!” Hal’s call echoed across the lake. He sounded urgent, worried.
I ignored him. My friends, the faeries and the Lady of the Lake, were much more important.
A cloud darkened the growing light. A chill breeze ruffled the lake water. The waves grew higher. The wind whispered with anxiety as it shifted in the tree tops.
Run, the faeries urged me. A bright green one nipped my ear.
Flee, the Lady added from beneath the lake waters.
“What?” I asked. I rose to my knees and got tangled in my skirts. Linen petticoats tore as I tugged them from beneath my feet.
A thrumming sound vibrated through the ground. I ripped the layers of fabric to free my feet. The moment I regained my balance the faeries left me for their own refuge. The Lady sank deeper into the protection of the water.
Coffa jumped up, snarling, teeth bared, ears flat. Her pup growled, too, but remained at my side.
A wolf as large as a man slunk out of the woods. Drool glistened on his yellow teeth.
His eyes glowed red with Otherworldly malice.
“Dee, we come!” Uncle Donovan, my guardian, yelled. He stood beside Hal on the church steps. His illegitimate sons, Gaspar and Peregrine, joined them, long swords still sheathed. Malcolm, the Steward of Kirkenwood, carried a crossbow and a quiver of arrows. They all ran around the lake. Hal leaped over rough ground. Gaspar slashed at low hanging branches that impeded him. Peregrine dove into the lake. He swam with long even strokes.
The wolf growled.
None of them could reach me in time.
Coffa lunged at it. The pup tugged on my skirts, urging me away.
Snap. Snarl. Yelp. Coffa and the wolf tangled, jaws clamped upon each other’s throats. Clumps of fur flew.
Magic, Dee. Try some magic, Hal called to my mind.
Magic? What kind of magic could keep the wolf at bay. My heart cringed. My magic had attracted these beasts touched by the Otherworld.
Coffa’s hind legs collapsed. She rolled, bringing the huge wolf with her. She should have outweighed the wolf by three stone or more. She should have stood head and shoulders above a normal wolf. This beast was as big as she.
A second wolf crept out of the woods. And a third. And then a fourth. Noses worked. Tongues flicked. Drool slid down in ugly poisonous ropes. Throats growled. Red eyes glowed.
The men fanned out, each aiming for a different wolf.
The pup pulled me behind a curtain of willow branches.
Not good enough. The wolves would find me by scent.
Coffa’s legs scrambled for purchase. Weakly. The wolf kept her down.
I looked for the armed men. Peregrine might get to me first. Not before four wolves ripped out my throat. Coffa was already dying.
I sobbed as I reached for whatever magic existed in the air, in me, in the earth. Power tingled in my feet. Without bothering to breathe deeply and prepare myself, I drew the energy upward through my knees to my belly and outward to my hands. Rapidly I braided the willow fronds together. I wove and twisted them into a semblance of a wall. With gaping holes. There were not enough of them to make my shield impenetrable. Magic glinted in the dawn’s light and the dew, weaving a web of power between the dangling braids.
Coffa whimpered once more and died.
The pup threw herself at my magical barrier and bounced back.
I gathered her into my arms, sobbing. “No. She can’t die. She can’t. She’s all I have of my da!” I wailed.
The weight of my wolfhound pup drew me to my knees. I gathered more strength from the earth. I tried to replace my grief with anger. I wanted to tear the wolves apart with my bare hands.
Malcolm Steward aimed his arrow at the closest wolf and shot. Arrow sped. Wolf yelped and paused. It licked at the arrow protruding from its flank. Then with its teeth it ripped the arrow from its flesh. It came away bloody, dripping with gore.
The wolf barely paused to lick it clean. It sped to Malcolm and took him down. One bite ripped out Malcolm’s throat.
I gagged in horror. “Malcolm!” I choked. As close as family, I’d known him all my life, trusted him as a beloved uncle. “Malcolm,” I sobbed.
At last Peregrine climbed out of the lake, drawing his sword even as his feet touched solid ground. He met the four wolves with cold steel. They bit at his blade and danced away, stung by its edge. The wolf that had killed Malcolm joined them.
A raven swooped down and pecked at the lead wolf’s nose. The beast turned and bit at the bird. It flew away with a sarcastic croak.
Peregrine lunged with his blade. I watched each slash in wolf fur close and knit within a few heartbeats. Malcolm’s murderer had already healed.
“What creatures of evil are these?” I gasped.
The pup struggled to be free of my grasp.
Gaspar and Uncle Donovan joined Peregrine. Two of the wolves broke away from the attack on him. They crept up to my hiding place. They tested the barrier with paw and nose, jerking back from the flash of stinging light of my magic.
And then Hal was there. Barely a year older than I. Fire came to his hands with ease. He flung ball after ball into the fray.
The lead wolf’s fur caught the fire. It screamed in pain, dropped, and rolled. The fire kept burning. Stubby paws transformed into human hands that beat at the flames. They kept burning.
Fire engulfed the wolf. From one eye blink to the next a man appeared beneath the fur. Skin blackened. An inhuman scream erupted from tortured limbs. He writhed.
Then stilled.
The fire ate at his skin until only bones remained.
A horrible stench flooded my senses. I gagged.
A second wolf caught fire and ran howling into the woods. The remaining two backed off, slinking, snarling, reluctant to continue, reluctant to leave their prey.
“Retirada!” a command came from deep within the line of trees. “Retirada!” An accent tinged the deep guttural voice. I had not the time to decipher it.
I did not even realize the man had spoken in Spanish rather than English.
The wolves turned and ran as one.
Through the mist of my barrier I glimpsed a short, wiry man clad all in black and silver. He loped away at the head of the pack. Something was wrong with his left arm. He cradled it close agai nst his chest.
“Dee!” Hal tore at my barrier. “Open the wall, Dee, you are safe now.”
I took a deep breath and then another. My mind unwove the willow fronds. One by one they parted. The magic collapsed. It slithered around me, becoming a tight envelope of mist, and then it disappeared inside me. The earth greeted the magic through my feet and gratefully accepted it back. The spell grounded successfully.
I collapsed into Hal’s arms. Uncle Donovan rushed to enfold us both in a deep hug. “Werewolves. How could werewolves attack you this close to dawn!”
“Magic. They sought my magic,” I stammered. I trembled all over. My knees wanted to collapse. I could not take my eyes away from the still form of Malcolm. Only Hal’s embrace and the pup pressed to my side kept me upright.
“Powerful men know of the Pendragon. They search this region for signs of magic in hopes of finding, perhaps killing, the Pendragon,” Peregrine reminded us all. He had no magic himself, but he’d lived around magicians all his life.
“What kind of spell did you weave to attract werewolves? ” Uncle Donovan leaned away from me and looked me sternly in the eye. “I have forbidden you to work any magic without my supervision.” His attention strayed to the blackened form that had once been a man.
“I know,” I replied meekly. Suddenly I could look nowhere but the grass at my feet. “’Twas just a silly spell to entertain the faeries.” And because of it, Malcolm, a good and honorable man, had died.
And another had paid the price for that death, most horribly.
“A very silly spell indeed. ’Twas stupid. Dangerous!” At last, Uncle Donovan looked at the horror that had once been Malcolm’s face and neck. He gulped and bowed his head a moment. “I shall have to think on your punishment for disobedience, young lady.” Uncle Donovan dropped his arms from my shoulders.
I suddenly felt cold and alone.
Hal tightened his grip on me in reassurance.
“They killed Coffa.” I let a tear trickle down my cheek. I could not think on the man who was also dead.
“She was old for a wolfhound.” Uncle Donovan sounded sad. “She was beyond breeding again. She left you another familiar. The pup will also be Coffa, Remembrance, so that you remember why a trusted retainer and your familiar died.” He turned on his heel and marched back toward the church and Malcolm. He shed his doublet and placed it reverently over the face of the corpse. “Gaspar, Peregrine, fetch Father Peter. We need to burn the body to sanctify his unclean death.”
We all gulped back sobs. Then my guardian returned his attention to me.
“Remember, Deirdre, you are not the only one with a familiar. You are not guaranteed the heritage of the Pendragon, and therefore your use of magic must be circumspect and carefully controlled.”
“Yes, Uncle,” I replied meekly. My face flushed with guilt. I’d never live up to my father’s legacy.
Chapter 1
24 August, Eve of St. Bartholomew’s Day, 1572. Fourth year in the reign of James VI of Scotland. Fourth year of imprisonment of Mary Queen of Scots by Gloriana of England, Elizabeth Regina in her fourteenth year of reign. Edinburgh, Scotland.
“Are you sure we should be doing this?” I asked. I reached for Coffa. She butted her head beneath my hand, eager for attention.
“Don’t be a ’fraidy cat,” Cousin Betsy scoffed. She looked down her nose at me in disdain. At the great age of thirteen, her body had matured into womanhood. This, of course, gave her elevated stature in the hierarchy among the children of the household. She assumed that this status also gave her increased wisdom.
Her dog, Brenin, or King, lounged at the foot of the staircase below the narrow landing where we stood. He was calmly chewing the decorative molding at the base of the stair rail.
Hal charged forward, ever ready to meet any challenge put forth by his older sister. He bent to peer through the keyhole into Uncle Donovan’s private solar. His dog Helwriaeth, “Mighty Hunter,” stood halfway up the staircase sniffing at the baseboard for traces of a mouse we had seen earlier.
The tall, narrow house in the heart of Scotland’s capital offered little privacy. But it gave my uncle convenient access to Holyrood Palace where he attended court as a diplomat for Queen Elizabeth of England.
“What do you see, Hal?” Betsy hissed in a sharp whisper.
“Da, at his scrying bowl. He’s using an ugly crockery bowl and an unpolished agate. He must be truly serious to revert to common tools of the Earth,” he replied.
“Let me see.” Betsy pushed him aside.
Hal stumbled against the banister. When he righted, he rubbed his back. Betsy’s blow had bruised him.
I sensed a cloud of magic rising like a mist around her and nearly panicked. Betsy flung her talent about as if magic had no limits and no dangers. Since the attack of the werewolves last June, I hesitated to use any magic outside the lessons set for me by my uncle.
Hal walked a wary path between us. He had witnessed the attack. Indeed, his fireballs had killed one of the hideous creatures and driven another away.
As much as we wanted to forget that werewolves existed, we could not.
I spun around so my back was to them and made the sign of the cross. Uncle Donovan’s household was not known for great piety. But my father, Uncle Donovan’s deceased twin, had been a Catholic priest. Part of me clung to the idea that his intense faith offered me a morsel of protection.
Hal jostled Betsy away from the keyhole. She slammed against the wall, knocking her head. Surely Uncle Donovan must hear us!
I wanted to know what occurred on the other side of the locked door. But I chose a less violent method of finding out than Betsy and Hal had. Hesitantly, I touched Hal’s shoulder. I fell into instant rapport with him. Our hearts beat to the same rhythm, we breathed in unison, and our thoughts aligned. I saw what he saw.
I could not perform this trick with anyone else. Betsy could not do it all.
Silently we watched as Lord Donovan Kirkwood, twenty-seventh Baron of Kirkenwood, took three deep, even breaths to clear his mind and his heart. As he opened his eyes, he dropped an agate into his scrying bowl.
“What does the bowl reveal?” Betsy asked. She clenched her fists as if preparing to knock Hal aside once more.
Hal hushed her with a wave of his hand.
“Mary. Show me how my cherished Mary fares,” Uncle Donovan invoked.
“Not again.” I sighed, releasing all of the pent-up tension in my shoulders.
“Why can’t he ever scry for my mother?” Hal pouted.
“Because Martha died. Father can’t scry for the dead,” Betsy said haughtily, as if she could part the veils between death and life.
Uncle Donovan pressed the base of his palm hard against his forehead. I almost felt the sharp pain that stabbed him between the eyes.
He leaned his head back and removed himself from the spell.
The images would vanish. They had shown him nothing of the fate of Mary, Queen of Scots. They never did. As much as he loved the exiled queen, his talent, not discovered until after the advanced age of twenty-five, could not overcome the distance. Or perhaps he could not overcome the coldness of her heart.
Catholic Mary had fled Scotland on the heels of rebellion by her Protestant lords. She presented a unique problem to Queen Elizabeth. She kept her cousin in ever closer confinement. English Catholics tried to assassinate Elizabeth and put Mary on the throne. Parliament screamed for Mary’s execution. The English queen could not bring herself to fall into her father’s habit of beheading queens. Henry VIII had rid himself of two of his six wives that way, including Elizabeth’s mother. Elizabeth had settled for executing Thomas Howard, Duke of Norfolk, the chief conspirator in Mary’s last major plot.
Confused and betrayed at the collapse of the plot for papal troops and European backers to invade England, Mary had wept copious tears and finally written to Uncle Donovan asking for counsel and solace.
If he had gone to her, he had managed to keep it secret from everyone, including us. He did not have permission from Elizabeth or from King James of Scotland’s regent, the Earl of Mar, to depart Edinburgh. Did he think his correspondence with Mary a secret? Not much remained secret from Betsy for long. And what she knew, Hal and I soon learned.
A terrible sense of wrongness possessed me. We’d eavesdropped on Uncle Donovan’s scant privacy. I think Hal felt it, too. He reared back from the keyhole, rubbing his neck.
