Enchantress Mine (15 page)

Being born on Samhein had been considered a wonderful omen among Maire Tir Connell’s people. The baby had been thought to be blessed by the old Gods. Perhaps she was, thought Dagda with a quiet smile as he watched Mairin preparing the wood for her fire. Aldwine Athelsbeorn might have been surprised, but Dagda was not when Mairin had announced that she had found a perfect spot in the Imperial Palace gardens facing west in which to light her Samhein fire.

Dagda had been even less surprised when Mairin drew a small leather bag from her tunic holding three wooden chips. She reverently placed them atop the carefully laid fire.

“Oak?” he asked her, knowing the answer she would give. Oak was sacred to the Druids.

“From the grove in
The Forest.
I did not know how long I would be gone from England, but I have brought thirty chips of oak with me. The fire just wouldn’t be right without oak, Dagda.”

He nodded. It was like Mairin to remember small details.

“I wonder,” she mused, “if Constantinople has ever seen a Samhein fire before.”

“It is said that our people came out of the darkness and across the steppes to the north of here to migrate across the face of Europe. I have never, however, heard of Celts in Byzantium.”

“There are Celts in Byzantium now,” she said softly. Her eyes fixed themselves upon the horizon where the sun, now tired from its journey across the sky, prepared to sink away into its molten bed of scarlet and gold.

Dagda knelt by the small lamp that they had brought with them. He had the harder task. He must keep his own eyes upon the sun while putting fire to the girl’s brand at the proper instant. She never doubted for a moment his ability to do it, and as always Dagda’s timing was flawless. The lamp touched the torch. Without even gazing downward Mairin knew it was lit. As the sun collapsed below the horizon she touched her fire to the wood, and the flames leapt upward.

There was not a sound to be heard at that moment in the imperial gardens. Not a leaf stirred upon any of the trees. It was as if the whole world had suddenly gone silent. Even the waters of the Marmara were still. Dagda and Mairin stood respectfully, eyes closed as they prayed. Then suddenly the fire crackled with a loud snap and several noisy pops.

Dagda opened his eyes, and looked at the girl. “In all my years,” he said, “I have never known such silence as when you light your fires. Especially this night. Your birth-time remembrance.”

She smiled up at him. “I have never really understood it, Dagda, but there is something about the fires . . .” she said, then paused and shrugged. “I cannot explain it,” she finished.

“It is in your blood,” he told her. “It was not so long ago that we Celts worshiped the Mother and the Father, and all of their children. We still know despite the Christian teachings that there are spirits belonging to the trees, the waters, the animals, and all living things. The Christ did not forbid us those spirits, but those who rule this church are a jealous lot who demand a single dedication of their followers. It is best to nod our heads in agreement, then go our own way, my lady.”

Above them the sky had quickly grown velvety dark. A royal-blue evening punctuated by one bright cold star directly overhead. Mairin watched the orange blaze of her Samhein fire, and her mind drifted easily away in the almost hypnotic swirl of the flames. She drew a long deep breath, and with the expelling of air from her slender frame she felt herself beginning to drift slowly upward and away from her body. In just a moment she would be free to soar above the fire as she did each year.

For an instant she remembered the first time she had done it. She was barely a toddler, and her father had been so proud that she possessed the power of the old ones, a power that had grown with the aid of Dagda, and old Catell; a power that allowed her to see truth or falsehood within others. It gave her the gift of healing, and sometimes offered her sight beyond that of most mortals. That part of the gift she feared, for since leaving Brittany she had had no one to teach her and Dagda’s knowledge was limited. Mairin wisely kept her fears to herself for though she worked her powers only for good there were those who knowing her secrets would fear her. They would call her enchantress, or witch. Then as her sweetly soaring spirit was about to attain freedom from her mortal body she was drawn sharply back by a harsh voice saying, “In the emperor’s name!”

Mairin’s eyes flew open and her demeanor was that of a young doe startled. Into what she had imagined her own private and secret domain had come a troop of Varangian Guards. Angrily she said, “How dare you intrude upon me!”

“Nay, wench, ’tis you who intrude. These are the imperial gardens, and you trespass,” came the quick reply. “Identify yourself! You do not, I suspect, have the right to be here.”

Before she might reply a man stepped from the shadows and said quietly, “This is the lady Mairin, captain. Daughter of the English trade envoy. I am surprised that you did not recognize her by her fiery hair which is the talk of the city. She is permitted to be here. You may go.”

“Your pardon, lady,” said the captain of the Varangian Guards. “I but did my duty.” He saluted her smartly. Then turning, he led his men from the area.

Mairin turned to look at the man who had championed her. Dagda, she noted, had disappeared, but she knew he was not far. “Thank you, my lord,” she acknowledged her knight. “Have we met?” She wondered who this man might be that the captain of the Varangian Guards had obeyed him so swiftly, and without question. The flames from the fire lit his image, and looking closely at him for the first time Mairin felt her breath catch sharply in her chest. The man before her was the most incredibly beautiful man she had ever seen. Handsome, she thought, was a word one usually applied to a man, but this man was more than that. The only word that might indeed apply was “beautiful.”

“I am Prince Basil Ducas, the emperor’s cousin,” said her protector, “and no, we have not met formally, but having seen you yesterday I knew that we must meet.”

“Y-you saw me yesterday?” The stumbling words sounded stupid to her own ears, and she was furious with herself.

“I was standing just to the right behind my cousin’s throne,” he answered. “I am not surprised you did not see me. The Throne of Solomon is a fascinating contraption particularly when one is seeing it for the very first time.” He was endeavoring to put her at ease. “Tell me,” he asked her, “why are you burning this fire?”

“It is a Samhein fire, my lord. When my people worshiped the Mother and the Father it was their custom to celebrate four great feasts each year.
Imbolc
which notes the lengthening of the days, the drawing to a close of winter, and the coming of spring.
Beltaine
which celebrates the planting and a return of life;
Lugnasagh
on August 1st to give thanks for a successful growing season and the harvest; and tonight,
Samhein,
our year’s-end festival.”

“These are not Christian customs,” he said. “I thought that the Anglo-Saxons were of the Christian faith.”

“The Anglo-Saxons are, my lord, as are my people, the Celts. There is no harm in what I do. It honors the customs of my Celtic ancestors.”

“I was given to understand that your father, Aldwine Athelsbeorn, is an Anglo-Saxon lord.”

“Aldwine Athelsbeorn is my adoptive father, my lord. My father was Ciaran St. Ronan, a nobleman of Brittany. My mother, Maire Tir Connell, was a princess of Ireland. Both are Celtic peoples, and I revere their ancient customs. Besides, Samhein is my birthday. Dagda says that I burst into the world with a head like the Samhein fire.” Her eyes were twinkling as she spoke.

“And who is Dagda?” he asked.

“Dagda is a mighty warrior that my kingly grandfather entrusted with the care of my mother. When she died shortly after my birth she put me into his keeping. Where I go, my lord, he goes.”

“Your hair is like the flame,” the prince murmured, his voice low. “You are the most beautiful girl I have ever seen.”

Her cheeks grew warm, but whether from the heat of the fire or the heat of his words she knew not. “I thank you for your compliment, my lord,” she said slowly. “Byzantines use the word ‘beautiful’ with ease it seems. It is a word I have heard often since arriving in Constantinople.” Dagda stepped back into the circle of the fire, and Mairin finished, “I must go now, my lord. Thank you for your kindness.”

The prince was not so easily dismissed. “Let your dragon tend to the fire,” he said. “I will personally escort you back to your parents in the Garden Palace.”

Her mirth bubbled forth. “Dagda, a dragon?” she giggled.

“Does he not guard the fair maiden, and keep her safe from the evils of the world?”

“I do, my lord,” said Dagda quietly in his deep voice. “I would give my life for my lady.”

The prince nodded, saying, “I will see her safe, Dagda.” Then taking Mairin’s hand he led her away from the fire into the evening darkness of the garden which was now half-lit by the rising moon. Her slender hand was warm. He could feel her trembling slightly as they walked. She was very young, he thought, and very innocent. He believed she had never been approached seriously by a man before. Something about her reached out and touched him and he remembered his careless words to the emperor only yesterday that if she were as beautiful as he was then he should wed with her, and they would create beautiful children.

Perhaps it was not such an idle remark after all. He must eventually marry, and there were none among the women he had known all his life who attracted him enough that he would marry one of them. In his thirty years he had many lovers both male and female. He was fonder of his current inamorato than most of those who had come to his bed, but the actor was extremely jealous of anyone who took the prince’s attention. Basil smiled to himself in the darkness. He did not think Bellisarius would like Mairin.

“Have you seen much of the city?” he inquired as they walked along.

“Not a great deal, my lord. The people follow me seeking to touch my hair. I have promised my mother I will braid it up and hide it beneath a veil so we may visit in the city. My mother is lonely for England and I feel I must divert her from her sadness. She is a gentle lady who has never before traveled so far from her home. I think she is overwhelmed by the greatness of Constantinople.”

“But you are not overwhelmed?” He found that as interesting as he found her. One moment she was a giggling child, the next she spoke with wisdom beyond her years.

“I find it exciting,” she told him. “London frightens me for it is smoky and gloomy, but Constantinople is bright and wonderful.”

“Yes,” he agreed. “It is a colorful place. I was born here. I shall show you and your mother my city,” he promised. “Shall we begin tomorrow? There is much to see and it will take many months for me to complete the task. Perhaps when I am finished you will not want to return to England.”

They had reached the Garden Palace. He quickly raised her hand to his lips, and kissing it bid her good night before disappearing swiftly back into the darkness.

For a long moment Mairin stood in the flickering torchlight of the villa’s entry. His quick departure left her with the feeling that perhaps she had imagined the whole thing. She stared at the hand he had held so securely and kissed before leaving her. Her heart was hammering. The dancing flames of her Samhein fire had shown her the perfect and flawless features of the man. His sculptured cheekbones that had caught at the shadows, a long straight nose, and narrow lips. She had not been able to tell the color of his eyes which were spaced perfectly alongside his nose, but his fringe of beard and his curly hair were definitely dark. His voice, deep and creamy, had reached out to her and touched something deep within her soul. She had entered this world on Samhein. Was her meeting with Basil Ducas the beginning of another life of sorts? Though it was not cold, she shivered.

T
rue to his word the prince arrived the next day. Eada quickly realized that the attraction for Basil Ducas was Mairin, not a burning desire to show them Constantinople. He did so nonetheless with enthusiasm, and Eada’s head was quickly filled with more history than she had any wish to know.

“He exhausts me,” she said to her husband one evening when they had been in Constantinople for over six months. “He is an enormously learned man, and Mairin enjoys his company greatly.”

Aldwine chuckled. “One good thing has come of it for you, my love. You do not have time to miss England.”

“That is true,” agreed his wife, “but I would wish for a week of peace from this prince and his marvelous but tiring city!”

“You cannot allow Mairin to be unchaperoned with Basil Ducas,” her husband said.

Eada glowered at him. “I know my duty as a mother, my lord,” she snipped. “As long as Mairin enjoys his company I shall accompany them.” She looked at Aldwine and her blue eyes twinkled. “Did you know, my lord, that Constantinople, like Rome, has fourteen districts; and because one of Rome’s districts lies across the Tiber River, one of Constantinople’s fourteen districts lies across the Golden Horn in Pera? Are you aware, my lord, that Constantinople has fifty fortified gates and thirteen miles of walls; and because of its enormous grain reserves and cisterns, can indefinitely sustain siege? Did you know, my lord, that the great chain across the Golden Horn protects Constantinople from attacks by sea?”