The Last Days of Magic (34 page)

Orsini traced along one of the runes with his finger. “If I can divine which demon is bound into this Bell, I will be able to redirect its power. Oh, well, time enough for that after the invasion.”

Colmcille was pulled to his feet by an exorcist. As Colmcille edged toward the door, a young novice monk boldly charged the demon Nadriel, thrusting his sword into the demon’s chest. It had no effect. Nadriel knocked the novice to the ground, pulled out the sword, flung it away, then grabbed the novice’s left arm just as Furfur grabbed the right. The demons began arguing, in their ancient tongue, about who was going to eat his organs, as he was too small to share.

Colmcille, tears running down his cheeks, croaked, “Are you going to kill them all? Have you no mercy?”

“Not me,” said Orsini, keeping his eyes on the carnage. Nadriel had dragged the novice off to a corner, leaving Furfur holding only a torn-off arm, which he angrily threw down, and then began
inspecting the remaining monks. “It is you who is killing them. You are the one who came to us looking for control of the Irish Church.”

Colmcille took another step toward the door. “And what of the Vikings who brought us here?” he asked. “They may tell the Celts about all this.”

“Nothing for you to worry about,” replied Orsini. “They have been paid.”

A
CROSS
THE
SEA
in England, Richard’s personal residence, Sheen Manor, sat on the south bank of the river Thames nine miles upstream from the Palace of Westminster. Outside on the riverbank, in the warmth of the early-afternoon sun, children danced in a circle singing:

A ring, a ring o’ rosy,

A pocket full o’ posies,

Ashes, ashes,

We all fall down.

Inside, Richard, with his fists clenched, stood over Anne’s bed, where she lay uncovered from the waist up. Her chamber was filled with smoke emanating from a brazier containing a mixture of powdered amber, balm-mint leaves, camphor, cloves, labdanum, myrrh, rose petals, and storax. Posies of herbs hung from the bed canopy.

As de Vere and Chaucer watched, a physician cut loose the silk scarves that had bound Anne’s arms above her head to keep her from rupturing any more of the apple-size, black, bulbous inflammations crowded in her rosy-ringed armpits. More buboes climbed up and blackened the left side of her neck. In the five days since symptoms first appeared, most of these had burst, leaving a spiderweb of red and black under the pale skin of her face. The physician gently placed Anne’s hands down by her sides, the ends of her fingers black, the few remaining fingernails curled up. One nail caught
on the sheet and fell off. Anne’s dead eyes stared blankly at the ceiling.

Tears fell from Richard’s eyes. De Vere tried to hold him, but Richard shook off the embrace.

“How can this be?” Richard screamed at the physician. “There has been no plague in London for more than four years. How could you let her die?”

Richard grabbed a dagger from de Vere’s belt and awkwardly lunged at the physician, who darted behind a table. “Your Royal Majesty, I assure you—”

Chaucer stepped in front of the physician. “Your Royal Majesty,” he said softly, “it must have been a curse that inflicted the plague on Queen Anne.”

“Then We shall burn Jews in retribution.” Richard threw down the dagger and turned to de Vere. “Burn a thousand Jews. Then round up a thousand more and burn them as well. Have their ashes blessed to keep them from their Jew heaven.”

Chaucer held up his hands. “I am sure it was not the Jews this time. It must have been the Sidhe. They are angry at your invasion plans.”

Richard swayed on his feet, gave one long scream, and fled the room. De Vere followed.

Richard ran out the front gate, scattering the dancing children. De Vere caught up to him just before he reached the river. Richard collapsed into his arms, and they slid down onto the grass.

“Come with me,” de Vere whispered, stroking Richard’s hair. “Come with me to Ireland, and together we will kill all the Sidhe.”

Richard wiped futilely at his eyes and nodded. “We shall never come here again,” he said, looking back at Sheen Manor. “No one shall. Tear it to the ground.”

O
N
THE
COAST
of Wales, the high king of the Fomorians, his sable cloak stained with blood and beginning to take on a green mildew
tinge, sat on a rock in the garden of Conwy Castle. His two ever-present female attendants squatted at his feet, gnawing on the remains of a stag leg, their English hosts having refused to provide them with a Welsh prisoner to dine on.

“All of the Fomorian clans have pledged their lives to me,” he growled. “What do you bring to the fight? War draws near, and I question if it is you who should lead.”

Kellach reclined in a low oak bough, gazing west toward the setting sun, toward Ireland.

“Come here,” he snapped. Three barefoot Dryads, wearing baggy rough wool tunics over tattered trousers, scurried up and bowed. Peaking at two feet tall, Dryads were the smallest of the Sidhe clans and easily able to hide their slight frames in the bellies of the Irish Viking trade ships still running between Dublin and Welsh ports. Another variety of tree Sidhe, Dryads lived only in oaks and were treated by the Skeaghshee as something between slaves and pets.

“All the Skeaghshee are preparing for my return. My Dryads here tell me that the Grogoch and Wichtlein have pledged to fight for me. Do not worry—my forces will be strong when we arrive,” Kellach assured.

“They better be. You promised to keep the Morrígna at bay.”

“The Celts continue to put their faith in Aisling, but she is not the Morrígna. Soon you and your people will be able to return to the land that once was yours. That is, the tracts we agreed to.”

“I do not trust the English, and I hate the Celts and the Christians,” grumbled the Fomorian king, grabbing the meaty leg bone from his attendants and biting off the end.

“Once I return to Ireland and the Celts and the Irish Christians have been killed, the rest of the Sidhe will rise and follow me. We will turn on the English and drive them back out.”

“What of Oren, the English’s faerie traitor? What if he sniffs out the plan?”

Kellach turned toward the garden doorway to the castle. “What of Oren?” he echoed in a loud voice.

Oren dragged himself out of the doorway and along the grass, propping himself up against a tree. “I vouched for your credibility to the English, though I could tell that you were plotting something. That I have finally betrayed my tormentors brings a lightness to my heart that I have not felt since I was a boy.” Oren turned his blind face toward the warmth of the setting sun. “With it has come a renewed hope that if there is an After Lands to journey to, I have earned my place there. There I will be whole again. Once I am rid of this miserable life.”

“Happy to assist you,” snarled the Fomorian king, rising from his rock.

“Not yet,” said Kellach. “Not until the English land their invasion. Oren knows that to betray us is to betray himself and lose this . . . opportunity.”

“I still do not trust him.” The Fomorian king did not sit back down.

Kellach sent the Dryads to wait on the other side of the wall. “We can succeed only together, so we will bind our agreements, the three of us, by exchanging our true names.”

“You are willing to do such a thing?” The Fomorian’s growl carried a note of surprise. “In that case so will I, and abide by your leadership in this war—as long as you are winning.”

Once they had exchanged true names, each in turn, the Fomorian took his seat again and resumed chewing on the leg bone. Kellach called the Dryads back and instructed them, “Send word to my forces. It is time for them to prepare themselves to fight. They are to gather in Waterford at the beginning of the fourth Roman month hence to secure my arrival.”

Each Dryad scurried up a separate tree so thick with rooks that it appeared to have black leaves. Darting from branch to branch, the Dryads whispered to the birds. With a rush of hundreds of wings, the rooks took flight, heading west.

I
N
P
ARIS
the witch Joanna held a candelabrum to light her way down a dark corridor of the French royal residence. Her other hand clutched a sheet of folded parchment, its wax seal broken. She entered a large red door without knocking and approached the ornate canopy bed. “Grande Sorcière,” she said, shaking the queen’s shoulder.

Queen Isabeau awoke with a start. “What? What do you want?” The king’s brother stirred next to her. She touched his temple with one finger and hissed a short spell. He stilled.

“The queen of England is dead, Your Highness. The messenger just arrived. It happened eight days ago.” Joanna handed her the letter.

“Was it blamed on the plague?” The Grande Sorcière did not bother to read the parchment.

“Richard believes it was a Sidhe curse.”

“Even better,” said the Grande Sorcière.

“Your Highness already knew?”

“Of course, it was Us. A potion of Our own design. By ensuring that the English queen’s throne became vacant, We created the opportunity We were waiting for, and We have such an abundance of daughters.”

“But Richard’s preference is for men.”

“That is fortunate. We do not need to worry about him falling in love with some woman before We can exert Our influence. Love can be such a challenge to overcome.”

“Shall I gather your coven?”

“No, not yet. We have plans to make.” The Grande Sorcière looked at the man sleeping next to her. “This news excites Us. Leave Us. We desire to wake him up.”

19

Dunsany Castle, Ireland

October 1, 1394

A
isling awoke to Conor’s soft kisses on her forehead. Her eyes flickered open as his lips moved down to her neck. His hand ran over her pregnant belly and, slipping between her legs, stroked her.

“No,” she said, rolling over and struggling to sit up. “It was no yesterday, and it’s still no today.”