Thief (33 page)

Scripture References

Prologue

And he said, Unto you it is given to know the mysteries of the kingdom of God: but to others in parables; that seeing they might not see, and hearing they might not understand.—Luke 8:10

Beloved, believe not every spirit, but try the spirits whether they are of God: because many false prophets are gone out into the world. Hereby know ye the Spirit of God: Every spirit that confesseth that Jesus Christ is come in the flesh is of God: And every spirit that confesseth not that Jesus Christ is come in the flesh is not of God: and this is that spirit of antichrist, whereof ye have heard that it should come; and even now already is it in the world.—1 John 4:1–3

I am the vine, ye are the branches: He that abideth in me, and I in him, the same bringeth forth much fruit: for without me ye can do nothing.—John 15:5

And when he had called unto him his twelve disciples, he gave them power against unclean spirits, to cast them out, and to heal all manner of sickness and all manner of disease. Now the names of the twelve apostles are these; The first, Simon, who is called Peter, and Andrew his brother; James the son of Zebedee, and John his brother; Philip, and Bartholomew; Thomas, and Matthew the publican; James the son of Alphaeus, and Lebbaeus whose surname was Thaddaeus; Simon the Canaanite, and Judas Iscariot, who also betrayed him. These twelve Jesus sent forth, and commanded them, saying, Go not into the way of the Gentiles, and into any city of the Samaritans enter ye not.—Matthew 10:1–5

Chapter Three

Give not that which is holy unto the dogs, neither cast ye your pearls before swine, lest they trample them under their feet, and turn again and rend you.—Matthew 7:6

Chapter Seven

The heavens declare the glory of God; and the firmament sheweth his handywork.—Psalm 19:1

Love the Lord thy God with all thy heart, and with all thy soul, and with all thy strength, and with all thy mind; and thy neighbor as thyself.—Luke 10:27

Epilogue

Inasmuch as ye did it not to one of the least of these, ye did it not to me.—Matthew 25:45

About the Author

With an estimated million books in print,
Linda Windsor
is an award-winning author of sixteen secular historical and contemporary romances and thirteen romantic comedies and historical fiction for the inspirational market. Her switch to inspirational fiction in 1999 was more like Jonah going to Nineveh than a flash of enlightenment. Linda claims God pushed her, kicking and screaming all the way. In retrospect the author can see how God prepared her for His writing in her early publishing years and then claimed not just her music but also her writing when she was ready. At that point He brushed away all her reservations regarding inspirational fiction, and she took the leap of faith. Linda has never looked back.

While all of Linda’s inspirational novels have been recognized with awards and rave reviews in both the ABA and CBA markets, she is most blessed by the 2002 Christy finalist award for
Riona
and the numerous National Readers Choice Awards for Best Inspirational that her historicals and contemporaries have won.
Riona
actually astonished everyone when it won against the worldly competition in the RWA Laurel Wreath’s Best Foreign Historical Category.

To Linda’s delight,
Maire,
Book One of the Fires of Gleannmara Irish Celtic series, was rereleased by Waterbrook Multnomah Publishers with a gorgeous new warrior-queen cover in 2009. Christy finalist
Riona
and its sequel,
Deirdre,
are now available with print on demand through standard and Internet booksellers.

Another of her novels,
For Pete’s Sake,
Book Two in the Piper Cove Chronicles, is the winner of the Golden Quill; finalist in the Gayle Wilson Award of Excellence, Colorado RWA 2009 Award of Excellence, and Holt Medallion Avon Inspire in 2008; and winner of the Best Book of 2008 Award—Inspirational (Long & Short Reviews). It also won the 2009 National Reader’s Choice Award—Best Inspirational and Best Book of the Year—Inspirational (
Romance Reviews Today
).

Linda’s research for the early Celtic Gleannmara series resulted in a personal mission dear to her heart: to provide Christians with an effective witness to reach their New Age and unbelieving family and friends. Her goal continues with the Brides of Alba series, which reveals early church history, much of which has been lost or neglected due to intentional and/or inadvertent error by its chroniclers. This knowledge of early church history enabled Linda to reach her daughter, who became involved in Wicca after being stalked and assaulted in college and blaming the God of her childhood faith—a witness that continues to others at medieval fair signings or wherever these books take Linda.

Linda is convinced that, had her daughter known the struggle and witness of the early Christians beyond the apostles’ time and before Christianity earned a black name during the Crusades and Inquisition, she could not have been swayed. Nor would Linda herself have been lured away from her faith in Christ in college by a liberal agenda.

Linda’s testimony that Christ is her Druid (Master/Teacher) opens wary hearts wounded by harsh Christian condemnation. Admitted Wiccans and pagans have become intrigued by the tidbits of history and tradition pointing to how and why druids accepted Him. She not only sells these nonbelievers copies of her books, but she also outsells the occult titles surrounding her inspirational ones.

When Linda isn’t writing in the late eighteenth-century home that she and her late husband restored, she’s busy speaking and/or playing music for writing workshops, faith seminars, libraries, and civic and church groups. She and her husband were professional musicians and singers in their country and old rock-and-roll band, Homespun. She also plays organ for her little country church in the wildwood. Presently, she’s trying to work in some painting, wallpapering, and other house projects that are begging to be done. That is, when she’s not Red-Hatting or, better yet, playing mom-mom to her grandchildren—her favorite role in life.

Visit Linda Windsor at her
Web site:
www.LindaWindsor.com

Other Books by Linda Windsor

HISTORICAL FICTION

Fires of Gleannmara Trilogy

Maire

Riona

Deirdre

The Brides of Alba Trilogy

Healer

Thief

Rebel
(Summer 2012)

CONTEMPORARY ROMANCE

Piper Cove Chronicles

Wedding Bell Blues

For Pete’s Sake

Moonstruck Series

Paper Moon

Fiesta Moon

Blue Moon

Along Came Jones

It Had to Be You

Not Exactly Eden

Hi Honey, I’m Home

Don’t Miss the Final Installment in the Brides of Alba Series

Rebel

Book Three

The Brides of Alba

Linda Windsor

Prologue

Carmelide

Leaf Fall
Late sixth century AD

Merlin was dead. The nightmare had begun for the Cymri—every Briton, Welshman, Scot, and Pict—be they Christian or still clinging to the old ways. Kella O’Toole bent over her desk in the queen’s scriptorium, well aware that her countrymen’s freedom to worship a god of choice in his or her manner was at stake—not to mention the threat of civil war. This small room adjoining Gwenhyfar’s personal quarters was the only place where the official palace scribes would not know what Kella was about.

Her heart beat in her chest with each scratch of her quill as she hurried to finish the last page of the copy of one of the most precious books of all Albion, perhaps even the world. She’d hoped to work with the original Hebrew scripts, those recorded by the hand of Joseph of Arimathea or one of Christ’s apostolic family, to practice her translation of the language. But Merlin Emrys and Queen Gwenhyfar had seen them and their original translations already carefully packed and hidden away.

Kella’s pen glided smoothly over the artificially aged vellum:
Arthur, Prince of Dalraida.
Only untold hours of practice as the queen’s scribe and translator kept her hand from shaking. This copy had to be flawless. Kella had been working on it for the last year under Merlin Emrys’ orders. She knew he’d been ill, yet the news of his death that morning still came as a shock. Emrys was bigger than life. It didn’t seem real that the man of so many faces—abbot, advisor to the king, teacher, astrologer, and man of science—had gone to the Other Side.

Only a week ago, he’d retired to his cave with none but his devoted Lady Ninian, an abbess of the church in her own right, to take his last confessions and give him his last rites. Now that his last breath had expired, Ninian prepared his body to be sealed in the farthest reach of his cave for a year. Once the flesh fell away, leaving clean bones, the Grail priestess would return to transport them to Bardsley Island to rest in one of its holy caves with the bones of Alba’s greatest holy men and kings. Gwenhyfar would transport Arthur’s similarly one day.

A wave of nausea swept through Kella’s stomach. Her pen froze.
Please, Lord, no. Not now.
She put the quill down and relied more on a sip of now-cold tea laced with mint and elderberry than prayer for relief. God was so distant, she often wondered if He was real. Not that she’d ever mention her doubts aloud. She took another drink of the tea and flexed her stiff fingers.

In the hearth in the opposite wall, a peat fire offset the damp of Leaf Fall in the chamber. This was no time for illness nor anything else to distract her from her duties. The heritage of Alba rested on her being able to finish this task before Cassian took total control of the church and its documents. The Davidic lineage passed on through the Milesian Irish royal families was well documented and kept in Erin, but Kella’s project protected the foundation of the British church laid by Jesus’ family and followers. Tradition had it that they’d come to Britain in the first century after being set adrift by the Sadducees in a boat with no oar, sails, or supplies on an unforgiving sea. Yet God waived the death sentence so that Joseph of Arimathea, his niece Mary—the mother of Jesus—and their company made it to the safety of Iberia, Gaul, and the Northern Isles to spread the Gospel from there throughout the Western world.

And here she was, a humble warrior’s daughter with no such holy connection, at least within the last nine generations of her family, taking part in such a vital task. Kella would write for the queen till her fingers fell off.

Father, help me,
Kella prayed, taking another swallow.
Even if I am unworthy, fallen in Your eyes, I’m trying to help Your cause.

Nothing. Kella felt no relief from the threat of her stomach—only more frightened and alone than ever. Maybe she was the only one God didn’t listen to.

Father, help us all.

Kella started from her introspection as Queen Gwenhyfar, garbed in hunter green robes with embroidered trim, entered the room. A band of beautifully worked gold crowned her long, braided raven hair, coming together at the center of her smooth brow in a interlocking curl of knots. Her sleek, dark beauty was a contrast to Kella’s wild fair hair, porcelain complexion, and fuller build.

“I’m nearly done, milady. Only Arthur’s late sons to add.” She paused. “And King Modred.”

Wryness twisted the skillfully painted heart-line of Gwenhyfar’s lips. “Leave room for Urien of Rheged.” At the surprised arch of Kella’s brow, the queen added, “Cassian may yet have his way.”

“Aye.” The Roman bishop just might, but Kella didn’t have to like it. The stern, richly robed priest had joined Arthur in Rome on the High King’s return from a pilgrimage to the Holy Land, and nothing had been the same since. His presence dampened the gaiety of the court, as if it were a sin to enjoy life.

“Rome has found a new way to conquer, Kella,” Gwenhyfar told her. “Christ didn’t come to dictate, but Cassian has.”

He’d even convinced the High King to renounce Modred as his successor in favor of Urien of Rheged. Considering Arthur’s own queen and that the territory he fought most to protect was Pictish, choosing a Briton was not a wise move.

“Be sure Modred’s name is written in first,” Gwenhyfar warned her. “We want Cassian, should he get his hands on this, to believe he has the original. ’Twould be as good, as he would want to destroy any record of the British church having been established with authority equal to Rome’s.”

“Why is the king so blind to this man’s purpose?” Kella exclaimed. Nausea rolled over her again. She fought the urge to put her hand on her stomach, instead embracing the tea with both hands.

Gwenhyfar watched her. “Are you not well?” She leaned over and wiped a smudge of ink from Kella’s forehead. A hazard of a scribe’s work.

Kella winced a smile. “Something I ate this morning does not agree with me. A piece of cold meat and bread on my way here.”

“You must take better care of yourself. Take your meal at the board, not on your way to anywhere. No wonder your stomach protests.”

The queen mustn’t suspect. Kella didn’t
want
to suspect the reason for her missed courses. Two, unless she commenced this week.

“I will tomorrow,” Kella said. “Porridge, honey, and fresh cream.” The very thought of her favorite breakfast made her shudder inwardly. “I promise to dine at the table as well.”

Kella’s shoulders dropped in relief as the queen walked over to the pages Kella had finished. They were all neatly rolled and stored in a wooden rack designed for that purpose, exactly where the originals had been. Gwenhyfar pulled one out, examining the worn and yellowed vellum. “Emrys’ genius will be sorely missed. I can’t tell these from the originals.”

“All that mixing, smudging, smoking, and burning—it bewilders this feeble mind how he made them look so old without destroying them,” Kella marveled. She’d once been to the Merlin’s cave, although it was hardly the average hole in the side of a hill. It was many-chambered, and each one was a wonder.

Vials, pouches, jars, and strange burning contraptions filled one room, which was lined with books and scrolls. Another’s roof was a funnel that opened to the sky, and mounted above the height of a man’s head was a great glass disc said to bring the stars and planets down to earth for his examination. Since Kella’s visit had been during the day, there was little to see but a fluff of cloud close enough that she thought she could touch it. The far, innermost chamber where the Merlin slept was little more than a tomb, sparsely furnished for comfort. It was there that his body now lay, his spirit already departed to be with his Savior.

Kella crossed herself, remembering Emrys’ spontaneous bursts of laughter and, while his angry outbursts were just as unpredictable and thunderous, how he’d always been kind, even gallant, to her. But then he’d always been fond of the ladies, so ’twas said.

“Never say your mind is feeble, Kella,” the queen chided, drawing Kella back to the window alcove where her desk was situated to make the most of the sunlight. “Few men can boast the mastery of five languages and a fair hand to match. My cousin Aeda would be so proud of you.”

At the mention of the foster mother who’d raised Kella after her own mother died in childbirth, Kella smiled. “Aye, I hope she would.”

Her foster brothers, Ronan, Caden, and Alyn, used to tease Kella mercilessly at Glenarden, where her father, Egan O’Toole, was champion. They’d called her Babel-lips because she talked endlessly and could pick up on any language or accent she overheard. While Kella had been schooled in Ireland, where her maternal aunt was an abbess, both her aunt and the queen agreed that the ease with which she learned new languages was as much the result of a gift as it was of study.

“You carry a Pentecostal fire in that brain of yours,” Aunt Beda would tell her when no one else was about to witness the abbess’s pride and affection for Kella.

But if that were so, why couldn’t Kella feel God’s presence, especially now when she needed it so much? And what would Aunt Beda think of her now? How many times had her aunt warned that a moment’s folly could ruin a maiden’s life forever? God would forgive the maid, but she and the child conceived would have to face the consequences.

“And I would have been lost without you,” the queen continued, caught up in the church’s concern, “especially since Cassian returned from Rome with Arthur.”

The bishop had eyes everywhere—on the queen and Merlin Emrys in particular. Gwenhyfar had ceased to use the royal scribes for her communication, which led Cassian to scowl at Kella whenever they met by chance in the palace. Women had no place in the palace or the church, except as lowly servants or brood sows, as far as the Roman priest was concerned.

“What sway has the man over the king that you or Merlin Emrys do not?” Kella pressed. Emrys had long been Arthur’s advisor, although the last year or so he’d kept to his cave.

“Better to ask what the Roman Church offers Arthur that the Celtic Church does not.” Gwenhyfar’s slanted eyes narrowed. At least they appeared slanted. Everything about the Pictish queen was exotic—from her accent to the perfumes she wore. According to those who had been in Arthur’s service longer than Kella, Gwenhyfar was very different from Arthur’s fair bride from an earlier marriage, the Guinevere who bore him two sons. Sadly, the constant conflict in Albion saw that neither survived the king or their deceased mother.

“I’ve never really understood the workings of the church,” Kella admitted truthfully. Although she knew enough to be certain she would be condemned for her mistake—for allowing love to lead her down temptation’s sweet path.

“Abbot Columba predicted when Arthur was a wet-eared youth that he would not survive to inherit his father Aedan of Dalraida’s kingdom,” Gwenhyfar explained. “And we all know the sway of Iona with God and kings.”

Yes, Kella had heard of the curse. But now in his early forties, Arthur had changed, repented since his youthful indifference to the church.

“So now the king hopes to counter the curse of the British church in his early years with the blessing of Rome in his later ones,” Kella thought aloud. She frowned. “You were …
are
a priestess of the Grail Church, even if it has been removed from Albion.” With the increasing advance of the Saxons, the Angus of Strighlagh’s son, a saintly warrior if ever there was one, had returned the Grail treasures to the Holy Land two years prior. “Is that how God works? Allowing one arm of His church to vex the other?”

Or maybe God had left with the relics. He didn’t seem to be answering Albion’s prayers for victory over the Saxons. They spread like a plague.

Gwenhyfar shook her head. “Nay, child. That is how
man
works.” Her green gaze glazed over. The queen crossed herself and turned to peer out the slit of the window in the alcove. “How we must grieve the Heavenly Father.”

Kella followed the queen’s gaze, guilt cloying at her chest as she stared at the misty spray of the gray-green sea hurling itself against the rocks below the tower. When she dared not look at the tumult any longer, she spun away to take another sip of the tea.

Surely she had grieved God as well. And if she
was
with child, the consequences remained to be seen. Hers and those of her beloved, who served now with Arthur and Kella’s father, Egan, in the hotbed of Gododdin against an uprising of Mithai Picts.

My father!
Kella groaned in silence. Egan O’Toole would take off her lover’s head if he suspected. No matter that her handsome Lorne had pledged his troth to her that night as she lay in his arms. He’d sworn his life was meaningless without her.

Oh, Lorne, hurry home to me! For
all
our sakes.