The Last Days of Magic (50 page)

“The High Coven has become more powerful than you realize,” said Rhoswen. “Once they control England, they’ll bring the English army and capture the remaining Sidhe. There aren’t enough of us left to fight them, not with Richard’s archers at their side. Those they don’t enslave or kill will finally leave this world. Then no free Sidhe
will remain in Ireland, and what do you think will happen to the Ardor you hope to preserve?”

Jordan took a long drink of wine.

Liam asked, “Could we get to Richard and assassinate him?”

“Probably,” replied Jordan. “But Richard has recently designated a new successor, who’s already been enraptured by Isabella. As this successor is but five years old, Richard’s death would only serve to strengthen the High Coven’s grip on the throne. Killing Richard may even be part of the High Coven’s plan.”

Najia stroked the back of Jordan’s neck and leaned closer. “If you did decide to help stop these witches, what would your plan look like?”

“Well, any strategy would be risky, but it would have to involve getting the English nobility to do what they do best: fight among themselves and change the line of royal succession. The throne would have to be taken from Richard’s line, controlled as it is by the High Coven, and given to a family not under their control. Perhaps to a family that doesn’t even support the occupation of Ireland.” Jordan leaned back in his chair. “There’re those within the English nobility who believe their military resources would be better served subduing Scotland.” He stared up at the rock ceiling, lost in thought.

The others watched Jordan think in silence for a few moments, and then Najia and Rhoswen drifted back into conversation. Liam became occupied with thoughts of his own, not thoughts of protecting Ireland from the High Coven but thoughts of revenge. Revenge for Brigid. Revenge for Aisling. Revenge for all that had been taken from his land. A renewed feeling of purpose swelled in his chest.

. . . . .

Late that night Jordan walked through the cold and darkened ruins atop the Rock. Sitting on a fallen stone, he pulled off his boots and placed his bare feet on the ground, curling his toes into the thin layer of dirt. He felt thin tendrils of Ardor course up through his body. The moon was not yet out. The countryside spread out below
him was a sea of black under a dome of bright stars, connecting in a ragged horizon. He felt the earth of his new homeland and watched the sky. A radiance of deepest purple emerged in the east, a hint of color distinguishable only in contrast to the black around it. The purple brightened to a deep blue. Eventually a trace of silver emerged and grew to reveal a waxing moon rising. Najia, wrapped in a heavy cloak, approached silently and sat beside him. The moon cleared the horizon, sweeping away stars before it.

“I once lived to join fights like the one Liam has proposed,” said Jordan. “To sail off to another land to subvert, manipulate, and kill. Now I just want to stay here, immersed in what’s left of the Ardor of Ireland.” Najia took his hand. Jordan asked, “How dangerous do you think the High Coven has really become?”

“It sounds as if their magic is crude and often poorly controlled, but strong in a brute-force kind of way,” said Najia. “They wield it without mercy, seeking only to expand their power. I believe it’ll be very hard on the Sidhe, and on us, if they move on Ireland.”

“Are there any enchantments we can work from here to stop them?” asked Jordan, looking up at the moon.

“I doubt it,” said Najia. “The Ardor has faded too much, and the High Coven is too strong. They’ll deflect any spell that comes straight at them. Any attempt would also alert them that we’re trying to thwart their plans, and they’ll become more vigilant.”

“That’s how it seems to me as well,” said Jordan. He pushed dirt around with his toes. “Then I have no choice. If there’s any chance I can stop the High Coven from destroying what I love most about this land, I must go and try.”

“It’s dangerous for you in England and Europe. The Vatican will pay handsomely for your capture, then they’ll burn you as a traitor and a sorcerer.”

“That’s why you must remain here.”

“Do you remember when you ordered me to remain in Wales?
You seemed happy when I didn’t follow your instructions. Am I still your slave, or did you truly free me?”

“You know you’re free.”

“Then I’m coming with you.”

Jordan looked into Najia’s eyes, barely visible in the moonlight, and knew it was useless to argue. “You do have certain unique powers that could prove useful.” He put his arm around her and kissed her neck. “Tell me the truth—did you cast a spell on me that day you were loaded onto my ship?”

“Perhaps I’ve a spell on you still,” said Najia, and she returned his kiss. “No. I sensed immediately that you’d be able to tell if I attempted any enchantment, and I didn’t want to provoke Ty to crush me into jam. I came to you as myself. Everything between us is true.” She pulled back from him a few inches. “Unless you cast some sort of spell on me
.
”

Before he could reply, Liam and Rhoswen emerged from the darkness and joined them. “Any ideas?” asked Liam. “Or do I just round up warriors and attack whatever witches the High Coven sends?”

“That won’t work,” replied Jordan. “If we wait for them to arrive, it’ll be too late. Do you think you two could cause so much trouble that Richard himself will be forced to return with an army?”

Liam looked at Rhoswen, who nodded. “It’ll certainly be fun to try,” he said. “What then?”

“The Lancasters have been sniffing around the throne for two generations. Lately their patriarch, Henry of Bolingbroke, has been stirring up discontent, asserting that Richard has grossly mismanaged the realm. If you can draw Richard out of England, I may be able to convince Henry that the king’s absence is an opportunity to seize the Crown.”

“Surely it’ll be difficult to get to him, with both the Vatican and the English after your head?”

“There’s one Lancaster who owes me a favor,” said Jordan. “Thomas
of Arundel. He was archbishop of Canterbury until being exiled to Florence and is no ally of Richard or the pope.”

“A friend you can trust with your life?” asked Rhoswen.

“I trust his fear. I caught him practicing witchcraft, and he knows I can prove it. I have kept his secret, preferring to have him in my debt than watch him burn. You see, Thomas had a habit of falling in love—that’s how he put it—with newly married women who came to him for confession. But the poor man was and remains strikingly unattractive—repulsive, really. He learned two spells: one to make him irresistible and the other, for afterward, to make the women forget their transgressions. He’ll get me a meeting with Henry.”

“So we thwart the High Coven’s plans by igniting a rebellion in England? Long odds at best,” said Liam. “But even if it’s successful, won’t the new king turn his greedy eyes back on Ireland?”

“It’ll at least buy us some more time,” replied Jordan.

“And perhaps we can help some of the Lancasters’ enemies while we’re at it, and distract the new king further,” added Najia.

“All right,” said Liam. “I’ll do my part. It’s certainly a noble enough cause to die for.”

Rhoswen placed her hand on Liam’s cheek. “A noble enough cause to live for.”

“Yes. To live for if we’re successful. Or to die for if we’re not.”

. . . . .

Three days later, through a rainy dawn, four riders left the Rock. Jordan and Najia rode southeast toward the small harbor village of Ardmore to secure passage to Europe.

Liam and Rhoswen rode northeast to the barony of Norragh. When they approached the former high king’s manor house south of Kildare, Liam said, “Last time I saw Art, he was in no state to help anyone. This may be a waste of time.”

“If we raise an army to fight the English,” said Rhoswen, “we’ll just be bandits and criminals. If the high king does it, we’ll be rebels and patriots.”

“Art is a baron, no longer a high king.”

“If he were still king, we would not need to be rebels.”

Liam smiled at Rhoswen. “You are learning human ways.”

Rhoswen urged her horse into a gallop toward the manor house. They found their own way into the great hall without fanfare. There were few servants about, and those ignored them. The hall was filthy. Cheap tallow candles smoked in their holders, adding to the reek of spoiled food and urine, some of it from the dogs that chewed bones under the table and some of it, Liam suspected, from Art himself.

Art, even fatter than the last time Liam had seen him, was fumbling about on the table, apparently scrounging to find something still edible among the scraps. When he noticed them, he seemed to shrink into his chair. “Liam, what are you doing here?”

“We come with a proposal, if the spirit of a king still lives in you. Though that appears unlikely.”

Art slapped his hands on the table and tried to rise but fell back into his chair. He grabbed a pitcher of wine and, forgoing any of the dirty goblets scattered around, gulped down some while spilling most. Fortified, he tried again and this time successfully got to his feet and walked unsteadily around the table to greet them.

“You are welcome, but I don’t need your insults.” Art looked about as if registering the state of his hall for the first time. “My apologies for the mess. I had to let most of the servants go.”

“What of all the English money?” asked Liam.

“Damn English. Taxes and administration fees, they say. Money for protection. Little ends up in my purse.” Art wobbled a bit. “Doesn’t matter, as long as I’ve enough left for wine, cheap wine.” Art gagged, retched, then fell to his hands and knees as the contents of his ample stomach spewed onto the stone floor, a foul-smelling lake.

Stepping into the vomit, Rhoswen placed her hand on the nape of Art’s neck. His retching became more violent, his spine arching from the effort. A thin stream of clear liquid, smelling of alcohol, flowed from his mouth, making a pool within the pool on the floor. When
no more could come out, Art crawled backward away from the mess and sat on the floor panting with exhaustion. “What was that you did to me?” he gasped.

“Granted you a moment of clarity,” Rhoswen said, retreating as well. “Don’t worry, you can undo it and drown yourself in wine again.”

“This is no way to live,” said Liam.

Art wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “You’re right about that,” his voice stronger, his eyes clear, “but there’s little to live for.”

Rhoswen retrieved a dirty goblet from the table, cleaned it with the hem of her tunic, and filled it with wine. Looping back, staying to dry stones, she held it out to him.

“Do you want to die in here?” asked Liam. “Or out there, fighting for your country? If protection money is to be paid, it needs to be paid to you.”

Art did not reach for the goblet. “You know, they said my little brother died of dysentery on the journey back to London. Liars. Richard probably buggered him to death. Do you have a plan?”

Liam could hear the desire in his voice. “Much of Richard’s army returned to England with him and his lords. Let’s strike where the remaining English forces are thinnest, then disappear before they can send reinforcements. We’ll wear them down. You will reassert your right as high king.”

“And what’s to stop Richard from returning with his army and killing us all?” Art rose to his feet, almost steady this time.

“That’s our goal: Richard’s return,” said Liam. “It’s essential to our plans.”

Art gazed at the squalor around him. “Just promise me there will be no surrender this time. We fight to the end.”

“You have my word.”

29

Kellistown, Ireland

July 1398

D
ressed in his finest armor, helmet hanging in his hand, de Vere looked out the second-story window and across the scattered houses of Kellistown. All the houses were new, as was this one, the house of a wealthy English wool merchant and the only two-story structure in town. Kellistown, halfway between Waterford and Dublin, had been razed during the invasion and was being rebuilt by the freshly appointed baron of Forth—a land grant to a minor English lord’s son. The new timber-and-plaster buildings showed what English rule could bring to this backward country, de Vere thought, if only Richard would send reinforcements. Mortimer and he had been making the same fruitless demands for the last seven months: for Richard to send more fighting men or money to hire mercenaries. In his last letter, de Vere had pleaded with Richard to return himself with an army.

Art’s annoying hit-and-run raids had grown into a full-blown rebellion. De Vere pressed his lips together and shook his head. Art, who should have drunk himself to death by now, was forcing English-occupied towns and villages to pay black rent, protection money to guarantee against attack.

Well, I prohibited young Baron Forth from paying Kellistown’s black rent,
de Vere thought,
and today Art will be in for a fatal surprise when he arrives to forcibly collect it.
De Vere made a mental inventory of the pikemen on the floor below, the longbowmen hiding in two adjacent houses, and Mortimer waiting with a company of mounted archers in the stables and wool sheds. He felt confident of victory.