It wasn’t Liam who answered her, but her father’s gruff voice. “Stephen MacKay.”
When she looked back over her shoulder, there was a look of anger etched on her father’s face—not for her, but it startled Aileen. His anger seemed to be directed at the image of Stephen.
“Enough of legends!” he snapped. With a gentler tone, he added, “Get some rest, Aileen. We can talk in the morning.” Pressing a kiss on her forehead, he turned and walked away.
Aileen watched as her father left the great hall, and then directed her gaze at Liam. He too watched Aidan’s exit intently. “Perhaps, you can tell me who my father is, Liam, since I truly don’t know who the man is anymore. Also, where is this book that he spoke of, which has a picture of my pendant?”
Liam slowly let his gaze travel back to Aileen, then to the tapestry behind her. He angled his head to the side as if studying the picture before him. Drawing in a long breath and releasing it, he shot her a glance. “The ancient text does depict your pendant and your name. The author of said document is none other than this man.” Liam pointed to the man in the tapestry. “Stephen MacKay.”
Chapter Seven
Arbroath, Scotland—April 1206
“When the Warrior went into battle, he had the Dragon prepare him a draught of goat’s thorn, basil, hops, and horseradish.”
Although the ship was not a huge one, its cargo and the men standing on board spoke of riches. Their long brightly colored robes announced to all that they were from Rome. The water slapped against the wooden hull, causing it to sway back and forth. The men did not seem to be frightened nor did they make any movement to grasp the iron rail. No, these men did not fear the sea, for their leader was one who had once walked on water. They cast their gaze out toward the villagers, who had come to see their new visitors.
Some were in awe, and others frightened by what they brought. Fear of their old ways...
pagan
ways held dear to them, or so Stephen thought.
He stood on the hill above the dock and surveyed the ship with its passengers. They had traveled across the channel from France. He knew the bishops had first visited the monks at Tiron Abbey and pondered what they would make of the progress of the one here. With the help of most of the monks, they had been able to set a pace of continual building of the abbey, which would make even his brothers proud. Why he thought of them now, he could not fathom. An ache formed every so often when his thoughts returned to them and that ill-fated night.
He rubbed absently with the heel of his palm to his chest. Try as he might to soothe the dull pain, it would always be there reminding him of what once was.
“Will ye not greet them, Sir Stephen?” asked Ian.
Stephen should have realized the young lad was with him. He seemed to follow him wherever he went. In truth, he did not care, for he was mindful of his duty to serve the young druid. Some days his conscience would pull at him when he was in prayers—prayers that would take him back to his own beliefs. So similar in many ways.
He looked down at the young lad whose gaze was cast toward the scene below. “Nae. I shall not be greeting them, and for the love of God, please just call me Stephen.”
Ian smirked. “Ye cannae expect a butterfly to fly without its wings. How can ye be who ye are without your name?”
“Argh,” groaned Stephen. The lad was always talking in nonsense...druid babble. He reminded him of another druid he’d known long ago. “Why do I fret,” he muttered.
“Humph!” Ian snorted.
He allowed his focus to drift back to the ship, where the men had now disembarked and were walking with Brothers Timmons, Charles, Thomas, Seamus, James, and Patrick. He smiled knowing Osgar would not be there to greet them. As much as he was a part of the Tironensian Order, he would always be a druid at heart, and like Stephen, Osgar felt there was more to their visit than just an inspection of the abbey.
Ian stepped away from the edge of the hill and picked up a leather bound journal. A set of quills in a wooden box lay next to it. He brushed his hand over the top. “Did ye draw today?”
“Nae.” Stephen walked away from the harbor view and to his horse. Drawing forth a water skin, he opened it and drank fully. Wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, he handed it to Ian who took it and sipped slowly.
“Thank ye, Sir Stephen.” The lad glanced back down at the journal and box, then crossed his arms across his chest in thought, his eyes taking a far off look. “I ken ye have not found your fire.” He moved over and gently touched Stephen’s arm.
“Ye shall, and verra soon,” Ian said with the eyes of a much wiser and older man.
He shook his head. The lad may be only ten winters, but in the few weeks Stephen had been in his company, he’d shone a spirit of one who inhabited an old soul. “I will pay heed to your good judgment.”
Ian gave Stephen a broad smile. “Good.”
The bells started to chime in the distance, and Ian closed his eyes. His look was one of joy, and Stephen knew the lad enjoyed hearing them, as if he understood their secret melodic tune. He also knew Ian would sneak into the abbey to be closer to their musical sound. With the arrival of the bishops, he would have to keep him out of harm’s way.
Still keeping his eyes closed, Ian spoke. “Brother Cesan is at the ropes.”
“How can ye tell?”
“The chimes are slower,” he replied opening his eyes with an authority of one who knew what he was talking about.
Rubbing a hand over his face, Stephen picked up Ian and placed him atop his horse. “It would be best if ye stayed away from the abbey until the bishops from Rome depart.”
The youngster tilted his head to the side. “Dinnae worry, Sir Stephen. No harm will come to me, for I have ye.”
“Just obey me this once.” Stephen’s look was firm as he mounted Grian.
“Aye,” sighed Ian reluctantly.
Taking care not to journey through the village, Stephen made his way up through the hills away from the abbey. This path took longer to reach Ian’s home, but he did not want to chance a meeting with the village’s new visitors. He would have to rely on Osgar to keep him informed as to their happenings. He was not privileged to sit with them, as he was not one of the brothers. Nevertheless, he was curious. His warrior instincts had gone on alert the moment he heard of their impending arrival.
Thank the God he had no more visions. The last one left him uneasy, and unable to grasp its meaning.
“Och, there ye are, Ian!” Betha, Ian’s mother, shouted. She placed her hands on her hips and glared at her son.
“Good day to ye, Betha.” Stephen nodded, as he swung down from Grian. Taking a hold of Ian, he placed him on the ground in front of his mother and laid a firm hand on the lad’s shoulder. “I’m sorry, but we should have told ye we went to see the advent of the bishops.”
Ian stiffened, and Stephen said a silent prayer the lad remained silent, unless he wanted his mother to conclude it was a lie.
Betha’s face softened, and she drew Ian into her embrace. “The next time I will not be so forgiving,” then placed a kiss on his head. “Go see your father. He needs help at the anvil.”
“Aye,” said a blushing Ian. He turned toward Stephen, angling his head to gaze up at him. “Thank ye for our morning, and I will keep my word about the abbey.”
Stephen arched a brow. “I will hold ye to your word.” Ian nodded and ran off toward the back of the cottage where his father had his forge.
“I ken Ian followed ye out on your journey this morning,” remarked Betha, turning her focus to him.
“Aye, I thought as much,” Stephen acknowledged. “I have ordered him to stay away from the abbey, while the bishops from Rome are here.” He had no intention of frightening Betha, but he deemed it was warranted she should know about the bishops.
She drew in a sharp breath. “So it has begun?”
His brows drew together in a frown, not comprehending her meaning. “What has begun?”
“Oh, Sir Stephen, we ken who our son is, and his path,” she spoke softly. “His father and I thought ye understood this, too.”
“I ken he will be the next Master Druid. In truth, that is where my insight ends,” he interjected, folding his arms across his chest.
Betha moved closer, the wind whipping at her wrap. She gently placed her hand on his. “Have ye not heard of the great cleansing here at Arbroath? The one foretold by the druids?”
Stephen shifted uncomfortably under her touch. “Nae,” he muttered.
She frowned. “Hmmmm.”
A bird cawed in the distance and Stephen followed its direction. “I have been...
away
from druids for some time.” His feeling of guilt left him unsettled. He had sworn off their kind and should not have to give an explanation to anyone.
Betha pulled her wrap more tightly around her and followed his sight to where the bird had now flown out toward the sea. Inhaling deeply, she said, “The cleansing at Arbroath will begin with the arrival of visitors from a distant shore, and end in the burning of several druids.”
Stephen reeled from her words. Would he be the instrument of destruction against the brothers of the abbey? There was only one way to stop this cleansing.
Taking a hold of her arm, he looked deep into her eyes when he spoke, “Then you must take Ian from Arbroath, as well as any druid who dwells here.”
She shook her head slowly. “We cannot escape our destiny, and ye are our destiny.”
“I will not kill for ye!” A flash of anger stirred his blood, and he spoke more harshly than he intended.
“That is not what is prophesied, Sir Stephen,” Betha responded in a shocked voice.
He arched a brow. “Then pray tell me.”
She glanced away, tugging at her wrap and Stephen understood she knew more than she was willing to reveal.
Nodding her head slightly, she responded, “It has been foretold.”
“Enough!” Stephen interrupted with a wave of his hand. “In
your
words.”
Betha placed her hands on her hips and glared at him. “Ye will lead the druids and Ian from Arbroath and take them to the Great Glen near Urquhart. There, now ye have all of it.”
“Me?” Stephen recoiled. “Who has prophesied this?”
The wind thrashed wildly around them now, and Stephen had an uncanny feeling it was being stirred by something not all the way human. It was similar to what his brother, Duncan could do. Betha was poised a few feet away, but she stood still within the swirling mass, as if she controlled the wind. A slight smile formed on her face, as if reading his thoughts.
“I, Betha MacDuff, niece to the great druid Cathal, have seen the vision.” She bowed her head slightly, then turned and walked away.
Stephen could not move, nor breathe. The wind stopped as suddenly as it started. He stared at the woman strolling back to her cottage, a woman who was niece to one of the most powerful druids. Cathal was not only powerful, but he was once the druid elder for his clan. Did he realize his niece was living so close to the abbey? Why would she choose to do so?
“I’ve made a fresh pot of stew, and ye are welcome to join us. Unless you care to stand there and wrestle with your list of questions for me,” Betha called out over her shoulder.
He responded with a grunt and stepped forward. “I would be honored to sit at your table.”
“Whist!” Betha waved at him. “It is I, who am honored to have ye in my home and for the care ye have shown our son. We understood his path, but never fathomed a Dragon Knight would be his protector.” She walked into the cottage leaving Stephen once again speechless.
Upon entering Ian’s home, he removed his cloak. Betha gestured for him to sit, and ladled some stew into a bowl. “Shall we not wait for Donal and Ian?” he asked.
“Nae. I want this time alone to answer any questions ye may have. It is best Ian not hear this.” She paused in thought, then continued, “I believe he is unaware of his destiny, and for the moment I would like to keep it as such.” Pouring some ale into a mug, she passed it to him.
Stephen nodded in understanding. Then taking the mug, he drank deeply. “Why are ye here, Betha? The forest would provide a haven for ye.”
“This is our home, Sir Stephen. Donal was born in Arbroath, and I would not ask him to leave. Still, he does worry we are too close to the abbey and the new religion.” She tore off a piece of bread and ate in silence.
“Have ye not considered the new religion?” he asked between bites of the stew.
Betha gave him an incredulous look. “Truly? Do ye even have to ask?” Sighing she remarked, “I am of the old ways. It flows in my blood and spirit with each breath I take.” Reaching out, she placed her hand on his arm saying, “It is
who
I am.”
A wave of uneasiness crept over him. It was who he was, too, and he wanted nothing to do with it anymore. Yet, each time he tried to rid himself of the old ways they slithered back in. He wanted to curse his fae blood, but it would require him to cast out his brothers, too. Stephen feared that if he looked deeply into his soul, it would reveal that he still longed for the old ways. He placed his hands down on the table and considered his next question.
“I have only seen the death of the druids and not of any of the order at the abbey.”
He flashed her a look of surprise. “Is it part of your gift to read thoughts?”
“Nae,” she chuckled. “I just thought ye should know.”
Moving from the table, she took his bowl. “Would ye care for more stew?”
Shaking his head, he asked, “Do ye ken when this will happen? If it has begun, as ye have stated, then what is next?”
She frowned and sat back down on the bench. “Ye understand it does not work that way. What have ye seen, Sir Stephen?”
“Humph!” he growled.
She folded her arms across her chest and scrutinized him. “Ye are a
Dragon Knight
, and the one who holds the gift of visions. Plying me with your questions will not answer your own. I have passed along my wisdom, and now it is up to ye to follow your fate.” Betha stood and came over to him, placing both hands on his face. “If ye continue to fight the path ye are on, it will
destroy
ye.”
Stephen shrugged out of her grasp. He rose and went over to the window, noticing Donal and Ian were approaching.