ROOK AND RAVEN: The Celtic Kingdom Trilogy Book One

C
HAPTER ONE

            
 
Spring 1822, the Celtic Kingdom              

In a small village on the remote northern coast of Celtica, Conal used the cover of darkness to slip through the village.  It was time to collect the few things he had allowed himself to keep from his old life.  They were buried deep under the stones of the small shed where the fish were dried and salted for the winter.
He clutched to his chest the oiled cloth that kept him dry when he was out on the boats.  Something would be needed to safely wrap and carry what he was about to dig up.  

The long walk up to the top of the cliff head today, where the single monolith stood, had finally revealed what he had long awaited; the white banner.  It was the signal.  Tonight he would be taken from here, if they could reach him safely.
He was as careful, as silent as possible, darting from shadow to wall.  He avoided the track of moonlight that cut across the small village of stone cottages and, keeping low, slipped into the shed.  It had taken him months to adjust to the overpowering smells of fish that permeated the village.  All these years later he didn’t even notice the odor.

As quietly as he could, he moved the round salting barrels and bared the stones under which he had buried the box.  Not only priceless items sheltered under this humble floor, but proof of his identity.  He took the small shovel
used for filling the barrels with sea salt and began prying up the stones.  It had been so long since he had set these stones he feared he would snap the wooden handle of the shovel.  He had to excavate the long box underneath quickly, the tide was beginning to turn. If they were coming for him it would be soon.  He could not afford to use either rush light or candle and relied upon the moonlight that pierced the small high window above him.  He piled the stones to the side, as quietly as possible, and began to dig.

The tool thumped against wood at last and he felt for the edges of the box, clearing the soil from the top with his bare hands.  He couldn’t take the box itself
, but needed only to get the lid open and remove the contents.  His senses heightened to breaking point and his heart racing, he finally had the lid open.  His roughened hands barely felt the splinters of wood or the harshness of the rusted metal from the old lock and hinges.  He had the hands of a fisherman now, not a king.  

A rush of familiar smells greeted him when he lifted the lid.  The scents triggered sweet and painful memories; lemon verbena, oiled steel, the finest leather.  Laying across the contents, hiding what was within, was a majestically beautiful cloak.  It was thick and warm, bright with reds, blues, greens and gold thread.  The patterns of interlocking knot work revealed snarling cats, curved dragon heads, swirling patterns expressing energy and power.  She had been gifted to make such a thing.  He lifted it reverently and pressed his nose to the soft fabric for a moment.  It had to be just his own desire that him think
he could smell the lemon verbena with which she had washed her hair and scented the hands that had woven this cloak. She had poured the very essence of herself and her love for him into the weft and weave.

He laid it carefully aside on the unrolled cloth and moved on to what lay beneath.  A leather breast plate was lifted out, patterned with the image of his house, of his blood line.
The leather was scored with the long sword thrust that had taken his father’s life.  The white stage rising on a cresting wave was cut in half. The leather was stained dark with his father’s blood. His chest was as cold as if the sword had sliced through his own flesh. He felt the fury rise in him and struggled to tamp the fire of his anger down.  Revenge would come, but the time for patience had not yet ended.

A short inlaid scabbard for a knife of Cauldron steel rested under the breast plate.
The blade, when pulled from the sheath, he found to be as bright as the day he had placed it in this box.  Only three more items remained, one he lifted with shaking hands and quickly hid in the leather bag tied to his waist.  

The small leather pouch he found next held the King’s Ring.  Heavy, twisted gold set with a blue stone from the legendary land of their origin.
It was engraved with the horse heads that were the symbol of Rhiannon.  The goddess had created this land and it had once been an untarnished refuge. He slipped the ring onto his own finger feeling a great weight, of more than just the ring itself, settle upon him. 

The last item of all he used two, now dirt caked, hands to remove.  This was by far the most dangerous in a physical sense.  The scabbard was long, complexly inlaid with the ancient symbols of Llyr and Rhiannon twined together.  He stood and grasped the pommel topped by a Sign of the Light; the circle quartered by a cross and with a single clear stone set in the heart of the
circle.  

He didn’t resist the impulse that overcame him.  With a smooth movement he drew the blade.
It caught the moonlight in a flash of steel, highlighting the scrolling etch work along the steel.  This blade of Cauldron steel was nearly as ancient as anything on Celtica, a sword of history with all the power the Rhiannon blessed metal workers could infuse within its length.  It was the King’s Blade.  A copy had been made years ago for display.  The fake blade had saved his own life, in a strange twist of fate, but this was the true blade.  

When they had suffered defeat at that last battle twenty six years ago, his cousin Liam had fallen.
Prince Ban of Govannon had seen it as morbid opportunity and placed the fake blade with Liam to fool the priests of the usurpers.  Liam bore a marked resemblance to Conal and the opportunity was too much for Ban to resist.  With the wounds Liam had sustained, and possession of the sword, the priests had been convinced they had killed the king.  They had not entirely been wrong.  That last battle had sent him into hiding, unable to help his people, no army left to fight the Black Axes and their true leaders; the Gooar (Priests) of Odin.  The only hope left was to hide and wait for redemption.  Ban’s plan to conceal him had been swallowed like bitter medicine; a necessary suffering to one day have the chance to heal his kingdom.

He brought the pommel to his lips with reverence, this blade had been carried by the kings of Celtica for over twelve hundred years.  It was not a blade that would mean anything to Olav and his priests but, it meant something to him.  The sword those malevolent priests would kill to possess had disappeared in the mists of time.  Its existence or return to their world was cottage myth, told to children around warm fires in darkened rooms.  That sword they would move mountains to possess, this one was no more than a symbol of the once great power of his house.

He quickly strapped the sword belt to his waist.  He might need it before the night was over.  Of course, if he did need it, the night would become far more interesting than he hoped it would be.  If blood was spilled tonight the kingdom’s chances would end before he had even the chance to begin the long road to redemption. He was excruciatingly aware he could afford nothing to go wrong.  He must escape tonight or possibly never have another chance.

Wrapping up the cloth, tying it tightly with rope and slinging it over his back, he cautiously slipped into the darkness outside and, on silent feet, made his way to the beach head just beyond the village.  The sand was damp from the receding tide and he sat blending into the scattering of rocks that peppered the shoreline.
Wrapped in his dark and shabby cloak, the hood pulled over his bright, shaggy hair, he was completely still, hardly daring to breath.  He knew it was an impossible task to detect if a raven, the
hrafn
of Olav the High Priest, lurked in the night around him, but his ears were attuned to listen for any subtle rustle of feathers.  He also listened for the splash of oars.  The priests of the Gooar used ravens as their messengers and spies.  Their boats could easily be on this beach in moments and he would have nowhere to run.

His eyes took in the dark water and the single long path of moonlight that made him uneasy and yet gave him comfort at the same time.  While for safety the dark of the moon would have been preferable, he could almost fancy that the thin shaft of light across the water was meant to light his way to sea and the path of his quest.  He was certain he could feel the eyes of Rhiannon upon him and prayed silently for her blessing.  He also prayed to her father, the sea god Llyr, to bring him safe passage across the ocean to England.

Before long he heard the sound he waited for, the quiet splash of oars approaching but he forced himself to stay perfectly still until he could be sure it was the boat he awaited; the men who had left the sign of the white flag on the standing stone. 

“
Dochas!
” he heard whispered across the beach as the small boat scraped up onto the sand and shale and he exhaled with relief.  He stood and threw back the hood to face the four men who crouched low on the beach, eyes searching.  He saw the faces of his youth grown so much older.  He wondered what they would see in him.

“
Tá mo chairde mew anseo,”
and he stepped forward to the four men who bowed deeply upon the sand not caring that salty water was soaking through their trousers and boots.

The closest friend of his childhood and the war years, Gavin, raised his face in the moonlight with a fierce smile full of joy.  

“Conal!” Gavin forced himself to whisper and stepped forward to grasp his friend’s shoulders. “By Blessed Rhiannon man it is good to see you,” Conal could feel his eyes unexpectedly sting with tears at the sight of Gavin.  Conal had not even known Gavin still lived until this moment.  To keep him alive and his enemies unknowing, there had been no contact in all these years of exile to the village.

“The time has come at last,” Gavin was quiet but urgent.
“England has committed to the alliance.  The ship awaits outside the harbor to take us there.  We must get off this beach and out to sea as quickly as possible,” Gavin clutched Conal to him one last time and then led them all hurriedly back to the small oared boat.

What remained of the war band of his youth had come once again to his aid.  He was no longer alone.  The village that had sheltered him had absorbed him as one of their own, but not only had he been called ‘Bryan’ and not by his real name, but with the villagers he had possessed no past to share.  To these men he had always been Conal, friend first and liege lord second.  His days of hiding and pretending to be a fisherman and not a king were now over.  He had
often privately, with a wry smile, referred to himself as the Fisherman King. He was at once terrified and elated to see the man who had been as his own brother.  To see Gavin made it intensely real that the time had come. He touched the heavy ring he had put on in the shed to emphasize to himself that this
was
real.  In only a moment they were rowing strongly along with the receding tide. His gaze went in turn to each face bent sternly to their work and knew himself truly blessed.

The hands that had learned to set lines and repair nets would once again wield the sword at his side.
He would once again stand side by side with these men and face the Black Axes, the warriors of the Gooar Odin, who after a thousand years of plotting had overthrown his house and people.  Only this time he and his people would win.  They
would
win and be freed from the long and bloody oppression at the hands of the Black Axes and their priestly masters.  The Ladies of Rhiannon, the spiritual guardians of this land since it was created, would have an army to assist them again.  While the priestesses had guarded the spiritual (and in their own way) the physical well-being of Celtica, it had been the promise and honor of his house to provide justice, security, order and preservation of the people.

The House of Llyr would rule once more.  He would sit upon the throne of his ancestors, or he would die in the attempt.  So, under cover of night he bade farewell and gave silent thanks to the village that had sheltered him for nearly as many years as he had lived as a prince in a castle.  He watched the small
cottage he had re thatched every year and so carefully whitewashed each spring grow smaller and smaller as the shore drew further away.  

Tomorrow, by dawn, the villagers would know he was gone.
Not a word would be spoken of his absence.  It would be as if he had never been among them. They had hidden him all these years, they would keep the lie as long as need be.  But, he had to wonder if he would ever see his cottage again and silently marveled that such a humble place had indeed become his home.

After steady, swift rowing across the dark water, without any light or a word spoken, the larger ship that waited outside the harbor was reached.  It loomed above them silent but for the creaking of rigging and the hiss of water against the hull, the bump of the smaller boat as it pulled alongside.  It was clearly an English made ship and he did not know what or who he would find aboard.
He resolutely grasped the rope ladder swaying in rhythm with the roll of the ship and, with the ease of strong arms and work hardened hands, he climbed to the deck. 

Swinging over the rail he found a small crew dressed in dark clothing waiting for them.
With weapons muffled, as sound carries far across open water, they were a fearsome group. Despite the looks of wonder and hope upon their faces they held themselves with the body language of hardened warriors.  Without any sign or sound they knelt for him, heads bowed, hands over their hearts in the tradition of ancient fealty.  He placed his hand over his heart and bowed his own head to these loyal men and, as he realized, one woman.