​​The Flamebearer

ISBN: Softcover 978-1-4931-4881-3

           eBook 978-1-4931-4882-0

 

Chapter One​
 


                                                                                                                                              BEYOND THE WALLS of Narberth, the sun lay bright over hill, valley, and river. The air tingled with new life, elusive, yet potent, throbbing with the rhythms of earth and sky. Over every  mountainside, white ewes grazed while frolicking lambs romped boisterously through the clover, and screeching crows soared overhead. Every tree, burrow, and copse teemed with creatures waking to the promise of  Spring.

          Free of the castle’s gloom and damp, the young prince urged his horse through the postern and raced on to the rock-strewn ridge, leaving his bodyguards flat-footed at the gate.  In movement he was joyous, riding fast over the hills, the sun in his face, the breeze whipping his hair.  A good gallop, that was worth living for, upon his own wind-swift mare.

           Distant hilltops blazed with May fires: beacons kindled by the hill-folk to drive away witches. Ciaran slowed to a canter, a curious thrill penetrated him.  He stroked Rhiannon’s damp hide and waited.

          His companions bounded up, longbows slapping their backs.  “My lord, you put us to shame,” panted Dafydd, drawing rein behind him. The great, florid Highlander, who referred to himself only as 'the Bruce', pulled up beside them, his red-bearded face glowing with exertion. “Aye,” he growled. “A race we’ll give ye if it’s what ye want, but we demand a fair start. That faery horse of yours could outstrip the wind.”

          Ciaran turned in his saddle as if to taunt or challenge, eyes bright with mischief.  “Save your fire, my friends.  Today we ride for Bri Leith, to fetch a dowry and a bride.” He’d worn no mail, only a deerskin jerkin and plain hose, a simple woolen cloak tossed over his shoulders.  His fine, pale hair, tied loosely at the nape of his neck, shone glossy-white in the morning sun.

          “Playing nursemaid to some mouse of a girl from the hills?” snorted the Bruce. “That’s nae duty for the heir of Narberth.” He cast a disgruntled look at Dafydd. Clearly there would be no profit in the day’s journey, no raiding over the border, no burning of rick or barn.

          “She’s fresh from the cloisters,” said Dafydd, “hidden away these years to guard her purity. Fair as a flower, they say. In truth, she’s but chattel, a necessary part of the movables. God pity her, she’s Norman property now.”

           Ahead of them, the rough slope plunged into thick, unfathomable forest. Haunted by mists, its ancient oaks housed the souls of long-dead ancestors, its shadows bore secrets as old as time. The forest touched the borders of  Annwn, the Summer Country, abode of the lordly

ones, whose help was still sought by those who knew them.The prince’s eyes grew distant. “Soft, lads; yonder lie the hollow hills.”
          Fear blanched Dafydd’s young face; he tried to hide it. The Bruce fingered the blade of his dagger and secretly wished he had a pinch of salt for protection. “Might there be danger, my lord?”

          “All’s well,” said Ciaran. “Stay by me.”

​          Stay by him they did though he tested their mettle with the swiftness of his pace. Rhiannon’s hooves sped over rock and root, skirting tangled tho   ,rn and clumps of bracken. In the gathering dusk the hills grew wild, shifting and blurring before them until they were sure he had set them on the wrong road.



          Lights flickered through the trees ahead. The fields of Bri Leith lay under a veil of mist. From a rise at the edge of the greenwood the riders caught a glimpse of the bailey. Its stone piers and wrought-iron railings looked stout enough, as did the heavily studded door of the gatehouse. Hoping for a hot meal and a fire to warm their feet, the three men guided their horses down the slope.

          The solitary farmhouse, snug and simple in the old tradition, nestled into a hollow surrounded by fields and guarded by cheerful, barking hounds. Not far from the house stood a water-mill and an old chapel, and beyond, a meadow swaying with tall grasses and delicate, blooming wildflowers. Inside the gate, a groom stabled their horses and led the men to a small courtyard ringed with budding rose bushes. Ciaran pulled his hood over his head and settled it around his shoulders. “Pray you this mist doesn't turn to rain,” he said with some annoyance. “The roads are bad enough.”

          “Won’t you join us in hall, sirs?” a maid’s voice called. “Our supper is just laid out. We’ll put up a trestle for you and rekindle the fire.”

          Shaking out their mantles, the three men handed their weapons to the guard and followed the maid past the buttery. The warmth, the smell of the hearth fire and the peat smoke struck them as they entered. The pungency of herbs and spices wafting from the kitchen put them sorely in mind of their empty stomachs.

          Ciaran moved at once to the hearth. A hound fawned about him; he lightly fondled its ears and glanced about the narrow, dimly lit room. But for the hunting bow and weapons hanging near the entry, he might have been in a lady’s bower. Scattered everywhere were scraps of home-spun cloth and embroidery linens. Bits of thread lay tangled in the rushes; skeins of yarn filled a basket on the hearth. Next to it stood a small loom, dressed and ready, and an old harp gathered dust in the corner. Ciaran shifted uneasily, a stranger to so many ladies’ things. He felt the secret glances of the maidservants. Did his uncommon height alarm them? Or was it the unnatural, pale sheen of his skin, the strange light in his eyes? Perhaps they had heard tales: that he was descended from Faeries, that in infancy his own mother had thrown him into fire and that the spirit of the Dragon had entered him, making him immortal… He knew the rumors, most of them greatly exaggerated, if not entirely untrue. Yet even a lie repeated by many tongues in time seemed further proof of his Otherness.

          A maid hovered nearby, wary of approaching him. She managed a curtsy, murmured a greeting, and offered to take his wet mantle. Ciaran slipped off his hood. The girl’s bedazed look gave him no pleasure; unclasping his mantle he handed it to her, gave her a small elusive smile and said nothing. The maid blushed scarlet. Curtsying again, she hurried from the room.

          “Who comes calling tonight?” came a voice, light and lyrical, with the slightest hint of an Anglo-Norman accent. The lady stepped down from her chamber, dark curls spilling loosely from her coif, cheeks rosy in the flickering firelight.  How charming, Ciaran noted with frank surprise. Swiftly he turned toward her. A lamp flared, sending a fountain of sparks to the herb-strewn floor. Ciaran snuffed them out with the toe of his boot and fixed his eyes upon the sputtering flames as if to subdue them by the sheer force of his will.

          Turning to smile at her guests, the lady’s eyes met Ciaran’s fleetingly. She seemed to catch her breath and for a moment stood looking at him as if trying to recall a previous meeting. “You come unexpectedly,” he heard her say. “But your supper will get cold; do eat something,” She raised her face then to meet his gaze and the rarest of smiles came to her lips.

          Ciaran not only saw but felt that smile; it flamed in him, sudden and sweet, and for the space of several breaths he just stood there, mute and staring, like the simplest of fools.

          Her head barely reached his chin. The servants tittered; even she had to laugh. At last Ciaran remembered to breathe. Feeling immensely awkward, he inclined his head and managed a courteous smile. “I am Ciaran ap Morgan,” he said, “of Castle Narberth.”

          Her eyes flicked over him as if seeing him for the first time. “The Prince of Narberth. Why, of course, my lord, you must think me terribly rude.” She curtsied low.

          Ciaran took her hands at once and raised her. “My lady of Bri Leith. It is Ifanwy, is it not?”​

          “My family prefers the French,” she said softly. “Please call me Evaine.”

          “Very well, then, Evaine. You must excuse me if I have come at an ill time. My lord uncle has sent me to escort you and your retinue to the castle.”

          “So soon?” She let out a small, unthinking sigh. “Forgive me, it is not long since my father died and I’ve only just arrived from the convent -” She blushed again. “My lord, I could not have known the prince of Narberth himself would come.”

          “No,” he said. “A small mishap forced a change of plans.” She did not answer. She kept her eyes averted; her hands, slender and sylphlike, still rested in his. “We received news of your father’s death,” he said softly. “My sorrow for it.”

          “You’re very kind, sir. I thank you.” Gently she drew her hands away.

          Ciaran moved to take a seat at the trestle with the other men.
          “Oh no, please,” said Evaine, offering him a seat at her own table. “Allow me to serve you.” A maid had brought bread, a jar of honey, a jug of wine. Evaine filled his cup and waited for him to help himself to some bread before speaking further. “We’re quite informal at Bri Leith,” she said. “You must forgive our humble fare. It’s an old house, and we’ve few servants. We’ve no great variety of dishes to serve you.”

          “An open hearth, strong drink and a round of bread are all a man needs for comfort.”  Christ, what ails me? Ciaran thought. He did not know why her beauty should so distract him; her brother, for all his conceit, was not an ill-looking man. “Lady, you are - ” He paused, setting himself back a pace. “We are strangers,” he said calmly. Then, swallowing his tumult, “but my hope is we shall not remain so.”

          The fire flickered behind them, casting sparks up the chimney. Evaine’s cheeks flamed. “I am privileged to share your company,” she said. “But, pray tell me - if I am not discourteous - why is it you have come, and not my brother, Gwylim?”

          Her formality distressed him more than her question. He paused before answering. “An unfortunate mishap,” he repeated, eyeing her over the rim of his cup. “He fell off his horse.”

          Evaine could not help laughing. “Gwylim? Fall off his horse? Come sir. There must be some mistake.”

          “If you must know,” said Ciaran, growing bolder, “I helped him.”

          “You what?”

          “It was his own fault. He thought he could best me. I proved him wrong.”

          Evaine frowned skeptically.

          “The leg will mend - it’s his pride’s bruised most sorely.” Ciaran sat back, meeting her look with a brief, triumphant smile. “There’s naught to this Norman way of fighting any Cymro can’t master if he sets his mind to it.”

          “Gwylim is a disciplined warrior,” Evaine said, barely concealing her pride.“They knighted him on the field at Deganwy.”

          This rankled Ciaran more than he cared to admit. “If I am not mistaken,” he said stiffly, “a band of my uncle’s henchmen destroyed Deganwy not long after: a short-lived victory for the Normans.”

          Evaine moved a strand of hair from her face and studied him for a moment. The beauty of her eyes looking full at him absorbed him totally; in that moment he forgot everything.Time ceased to flow as usual; the moment hung suspended, almost as if moving in reverse. But then, peering beyond her eyes he felt the timbre of her thoughts, her cool appraisal. Swift and strong perhaps, but surely no match for her Norman-bred brother. She saw right through his princely arrogance, sensed the wildness in him, as if he had come not from the court of a great chieftain, but from the spirit-haunted hills. And despite her composure, her heart beat measure for measure with his own.

          “I’ve offended you,” said Ciaran, suddenly contrite. He set down his cup. “My lady, forgive me. Humility is not one of my virtues.”
          Evaine regarded him evenly. “It’s not for me to judge you. I only hope you haven’t aroused my brother’s wrath. For all his gentleness, he can be ruthless in matters ofhonor.”

          “Aye, now there's the truth. That brother of yours is more deadly than he looks. It seems we have a thing or two in common.”

          “Indeed.” Evaine turned away, scalded by his look. She glanced at her father’s harp. “Do you play?”​

          “I’d like nothing better.” Ciaran moved to take the instrument; for an instant his fingertips brushed hers. A swift current passed through them; they moved quickly apart. Fumbling with the harp key, Ciaran pretended to tune the strings. Evaine busied herself with bowls and trenchers. On the hearth a log cracked, throwing a hail of sparks into the room.

          “By the Saints, I think we’ve a demon in the house tonight!” said Evaine, clutching at her composure.

          Relieved at the disturbance, Ciaran set aside the harp and knelt before the fire, stirring the embers with the iron poker. Gently he fanned the flames, coaxing the smoke back up through the chimney. For a moment he sat, watching the fire, feeling its warmth. A bewildering joy and panic entered him as he crouched there; the leaping flames seemed to merge with the beating of his heart.

          “Is something amiss?”

          He stared into the fire, lost in his private reverie.

          Evaine drew nearer the hearth. “My lord. Won’t you play for us?” She stood beside him, her hand resting on the smooth wooden frame of the harp. 

          Ciaran smiled, trying to still his jumping nerves. He reached for the harp and ran his fingers lightly over the strings. “It’s hopelessly out of tune. Do you still wish me to play?”

          “Please.” Evaine settled herself beside him as he made ready. Distracted by her nearness, he began to pluck the strings, unraveling a tangled skein of notes and rhythms. His companions moved closer, drawn to the music as if to a spell; the servants followed, forming a small circle around the hearth. Ciaran leaned into the melody, eyes closed. He sang a strange, sad tale of a boy stolen away from his mother and imprisoned at the beginning of the world.

For Modron’s son they call me
And Mabon is my name.
Who finds me shall have blessing,
Who frees me shall have fame

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          He finished on a quivering, plaintive note that pulsed in the silence. All sat motionless, scarcely remembering to breathe. Evaine tried to speak; she swallowed. “Well done, my lord,” she said at last. “You have a rare gift.”

          “Sleight of hand,” said Ciaran, flushing a little. “A trick our harper taught me.”

          Evaine smiled. “He must be quite the wizard, then. Still, you do play cleverly.” She glanced down at her own small hands. “I’ve tried to teach myself, but I fear I’ve no talent for it.”
          “Perhaps I might teach you,” said Ciaran suddenly. Surprised and a little embarrassed at his own fervor, he added, “If it be your wish, of course.“ He gave her a quiet smile.

          “Perhaps you might,” she said. She sighed as if willing herself to think. “It’s been long since I’ve enjoyed a night of music - one grows weary of hymns after a time. I do wish it could go on. But it’s grown late and we’ve much to do tomorrow. Lowri, set out pallets for our guests and put another log on the fire.” Tentatively, she touched Ciaran’s sleeve. " I hope, sir, you and your fellows will be comfortable here in the hall.” She stood, settling her skirts. Her smile was brief, but it flamed him to his center. Then she left him, mounting the stair to her bower.



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          Ciaran covered his sleeve where the warmth of her touch lingered. It was a damned good thing ap Gryffin wasn’t here to see this; he’d be laughing in his imagined beard. The pallet he'd been given was ample enough. There was even a bolster for his head and a warm woolen blanket, and he'd been granted a rare luxury: he could stretch out beside the fire. But in spite of these comforts, sleep would not come. He listened to the logs crackling on the hearth, the drumming rain outside the wall. And lay there stiff as a post for all he could do.

          Wrapped in their mantles, neither of his companions stirred. The Bruce sprawled in an alcove, snoring like a buzzing hornet. Beneath a tangle of hair and a crumple of cloak, Dafydd curled, quiet as a child. Ciaran tossed on to his back, flinging the blanket away with a sweep of his arm. A mounting apprehension filled him, a familiar restlessness. It was always the same: the throbbing in his head, the ringing in his ears, the urge to leap into motion. His heart quickened even as he fought to count breaths. He forced himself to focus on the timbered ceiling. Always the same: the power waking, his will weakening.

          He sat up, huddled closer to the embers. They glowed blood-red. The base of his spine burned with bright fire, the radiant light within him pulsed in its ancient rhythm. Outside, the dark night beckoned. He longed for the cliffs and the moors and the howl of wolves. Had he been at Narberth, he could have fled the steep battlements, could have run, run into the wild sanctuary of the hills. But here, he could make no escape. The light filled him, burned white hot. No longer could he contain it. In a blind instant it bore a vision: the girl, trapped, trembling like a frightened rabbit as spears of flame shot under her door. She screamed.

          Ciaran surged upward. This was no dream. “Sweet God! Fire!” he roared. “Everyone! Get up! Get out!” He vaulted up the scorched staircase and plunged headlong into the flames, lashing at them, driving them back. The lady lay in a silken heap a mere arm’s length from him; he reached for her through a sheet of flame. Heat and smoke assailed him, forced him choking and cursing from the room. Ciaran drove into it again, hurled himself into the heart of the blaze. It enfolded him. Like an ancient dance, its rhythm sang in his blood. He stood erect, arms outstretched to embrace the flames, the strands of his hair whipping and crackling about his face. The world filled with the roar of fire, or was it the clamor of his own pounding heart? He could not count how many moments passed. He saw only fire, heard only fire. For one moment he was afraid. And yet he must not allow fear to defeat him. His body gathered an immeasurable strength, and commanding himself to resolute stillness, he drew the flames about him like a cloak. With every ounce of his will he summoned the blaze back to its source.​

          Already the room had begun to cool. Freezing air moved through an open window. His fear returning, Ciaran uttered a frantic prayer, and fell at Evaine’s feet. Slowly, he lifted her limp shoulders, smoothing the white linen of her robe. Her small face shone pale and still, half hidden in the dark masses of her hair. He swept her up, pressing her close to his chest. She stirred in his arms, gasped, choked, stared out of wild, frightened eyes. Gripping her cold hand, Ciaran's lips brushed her forehead. “I’ll not harm you,” he whispered. Gently he carried her through the blackened doorway, embers still glowing on the timbered floor.



 

​          They sat shivering on the rain-drenched flagstones of the courtyard, listening in dull shock to the shouts of the servants. Evaine stared mutely into his soot-blackened face. His eyes, red-rimmed and watering, shone like fire opals. Yet for all his strangeness, she did not shrink from him.

          Remnants of his charred tunic clung to his shoulders; it crumbled away at her touch. “You’re shaking.” She took his hands, the long fingers closed around hers. His eyes widened, he drew a breath. “I know who you are,” he said, as if suddenly waking from a long, spell-induced sleep.

          She stared at him in wonder and terror. A flame-red aura surrounded his head, bathing his face in light. Yet she could not take her eyes from him. “Who?” she whispered. “Who am I?”

          Ciaran released her hands; his trembling fingertips touched her lips. “My dark lady,” he said. And then, so softly she could scarcely hear, he murmured, “my soul.”
 

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