Margo Maguire - Celtic Bride

Loss of the spear would mean devastation for the O’Sheas. And Ruairc Mageean, the sworn enemy of Clann Ui Sheaghda, intended to have it.

Every time Keelin touched Ga Buidhe an Lamhaigh, she felt the magic of the spear. Its ancient power surrounded her and swept her into a cloud of sensations, each one stronger than the last, making her intuitive abilities wildly acute, but draining her of her strength.

’Twas her burden, as well as her honor, to be gifted with the ability to use the spear.

Drawing forth all her powers of concentration, Keelin sat down on a bed of pine needles and drew Ga Buidhe an Lamhaigh from its sheath.

South of Chester, England

Early winter, 1428

The thick branches of the forest formed a pleasant canopy, high overhead. Dusty beams of sunlight slanted through the barren branches, lighting the dark recesses of the wood. It was late afternoon, and the riders pressed on, anxious to make Wrexton Castle before dark. Marcus de Grant rode alongside his father, tensing as Eldred once again brought up the only subject that could make Marcus tremble.

Marriage.

“There was a bounty of charming, young, marriageable ladies at Haverston Castle, Marcus,” Eldred de Grant said.

“Father—”

“I am growing no younger, my son, nor are you,” Eldred continued steadily. “One day you will be Earl of Wrexton in my stead, and I would wish for you to have a helpmate, a companion…a wife. A worthy woman such as your own mother, my Rhianwen.”

That was Marcus’s own wish, as well, but he had yet to meet a woman with whom he was at his ease. Except for the wives of a few friends, Marcus found himself tongue-tied and clumsy around women. It was especially true with the young ladies of noble birth, those lovely, preening birds in their velvets and silks, with their maids and servants, their pouting lips, their softly curving bodies and their illogical demands.

They were all so fragile, so delicate. So mysterious. Marcus was a soldier, not a courtier, and hadn’t the slightest idea how to court a woman. And with his burly build and superior strength, he worried that a mere touch of his clumsy hands could hurt them.

“A wife, Uncle Eldred?” Marcus’s young cousin asked indignantly, riding up alongside his elders. The brash eleven-year-old, Adam Fayrchild, had been orphaned several years before, and Eldred, a man generous and kind to a fault, had taken him in, though their kinship was distant at best. “What need have we of a wife at Wrexton? All is in order, is it not? We have Cousin Isolda, as well as cooks and footmen and maids and—”

“A man has need of heirs, young Adam,” Eldred said with a chuckle. “One day you’ll understand when you find your Eve.”

“Find my what?” he asked, as his freckled nose crinkled, clearly not understanding the earl’s jest. “There was not one girl at Haverston, Uncle, whom I could endure for a single day, much less a whole month, or a year!”

Marcus smiled, though Adam’s words made him aware of the deep loneliness he felt within his heart. Certainly he shared a warm closeness with his father, and he’d learned to treasure his precocious young cousin as well. But there was an emptiness inside that he’d felt acutely during the marriage festivities at Haverston Castle. More and more of his friends were wed now, and many of the young couples shared a bond that Marcus could only begin to fathom.

And until he somehow managed to get over his terrible shyness with women, he could only look forward to a lifetime spent alone. Marcus knew he was not unpleasant to look upon, but women wanted to be charmed. They wanted to be—

A wild cry from above, followed by a cacophony of barbarous calls, startled Marcus. Bearded barbarians dropped from the trees all around them, with swords and spears drawn. Marcus’s warhorse, long unaccustomed to the scent of blood and the fierce clang of iron, reared under him as the Wrexton travelers came under attack by these Celtic warriors. The entire Wrexton party was thrown into confusion, and several men were wounded before they were able to regain control of their mounts and draw their weapons.

The Wrexton men were vastly outnumbered, and struggled desperately to wage battle against their strangely clad, barbaric foes. Swords and spears clashed all around, and Marcus watched with horror as his father was thrown from his horse, and set upon by the savage, foreign warriors who attacked them.

No! Marcus’s heart cried out. Eldred de Grant was too strong, too vital to be cut down so heinously. It was impossible for Marcus to imagine a life without his father, a good and just man. He could not be dead!

“Marcus! Your father!” Adam shouted. The young boy had used good sense so far, keeping himself behind Marcus and out of the fray, but the attackers came from all sides. The Wrexton knights were surrounded.

Blindly, Marcus dismounted, grabbed Adam and stashed him in the safest place he could find, in the hollow of an old, felled tree. Then he hacked and slashed his way toward his father’s unmoving body.

“My lord! Behind you!” one of the men called out before Marcus was able to reach Eldred. Marcus whirled and dealt with the fierce, red-haired attacker, dispatching him quickly. Another bearded warrior replaced the first, and Marcus gritted his teeth and continued the battle as the fight went on all around him.

Wrexton men continued to fall as Marcus battled, and he could see no end to it, no way to get to his father. Even so, the young lord had no intention of giving up. He would fight to the death wielding his own lethal broadsword until he cut down as many of these fierce warriors as was humanly possible.

“My lord! There are riders coming!” one of the men shouted.

“They’re Englishmen!”

“It’s Marquis Kirkham and his men!”

The barbarians became aware of the English reinforcements, and mounted a hasty retreat as the newly arrived knights gave chase.

When Marcus was free of his last opponent, he hurried to his father’s side, where one of the men had dragged him away from the battle. A glimmer of hope surfaced in Marcus’s heart as he saw movement in his father’s eyes. Marcus knelt beside the older man and took his hand.

“My son,” Eldred whispered.

Marcus could not speak. His throat was thick, his tongue paralyzed, and his vision oddly blurred as he noted the severity of Eldred’s wounds.

“Temper your grief…in my demise…Marcus,” Eldred gasped. “I go now…to join your mother. Know now….that I could not have had…more pride in a son…than I have in you….”

Eldred took his final breath, then commended his soul to heaven.

All was silent. Not one bird chirped, nor a leaf rustled in the still air.

The knights standing ’round knelt and crossed themselves, and gave words of sorrow and condolence to Marcus. The new lord of Wrexton barely heard their words. Only a few short moments before, he and his father had been engaged in their familiar discussion of Marcus’s unmarried state. How could all have changed so suddenly? How was it possible that Eldred was gone?

“My lord!” a voice in the distance called. “Quickly!” Marcus turned to see one of his men standing beside the thick, fallen oak where he’d hidden Adam. Dread crept up his spine as he stood and crossed the span.

Either the boy had crawled out of his hiding place, or he’d been dragged out. ’Twas no matter now, though, for the boy lay still upon the deep green moss, with an arrow protruding grotesquely from his back.

Marcus crouched next to him. Never had Adam seemed quite so small, never so vulnerable. “He’s breathing,” Marcus said.

“Aye, my lord,” Sir Robert Barry said, “but if we pull the arrow out, he’ll likely bleed to death.”