Kierney
- November 823
Incense hung heavy in the
still, damp air. Candles sent waves of light and heat into the dark
chapel. Outside, rain battered the shutters that protected the glazed
windows.
Isolde's shoulders shook.
The rain would wash the world clean, or so her father said. Rain
cleansed sadness and left fresh hope in its' wake.
She raised her eyes.
Below the draped altar, surrounded by fine white, lay her dear father.
The gleaming hauberk and oiled leathers he wore shone from careful
attention. In his hands lay a sword as keen and sound as it had been
when he carried it last.
But his fragile body gave
lie to the warlike attire. A wound sustained in the late king's service
nearly two years before had slowly wasted her father's strength until,
at the last, he could not rise from bed. Death had been better for him
than life, however long it might have been.
Isolde brushed away her
own tears. There was no reason for sorrow. Her father was happy now, no
doubt, and free of a body that had become for him a prison.
Some sense warned her she
was not alone. Isolde scanned the chapel as she stood. There, in the
shadows near a small side altar, stood a shape that did not belong.
The cloaked shape moved
into the light. She smiled, glad for the company and the support of an
old friend. "Connal! I'm so glad you made the trip."
Connal MacQuillion pushed
back his hood. New lines creased his face. He seemed to have aged twenty
years in the few months since she'd seen him last.
Still, his smile held
warmth as he embraced her. "How could I stay away now, Dove? I am
sorry about your father, you know."
"I know. But he's
better off this way." She drew a breath for strength and stepped
back. "I don't think he even knew the Haldane is dead. He surely
had not heard about your father. Or, if he had, he did not remember
it."
"Yes. Kinder for
him, and for Da." Connal's smile twisted into a bitter mockery of
happiness. "For the rest of us, we must go on with what is."
"And what is, Connal?"
He fixed his gaze on the
crucifix, as if the answer lay somewhere near the ceiling. "We
cannot surrender, Isolde. Rebellion grows by the day."
"And you joined
them?" When he nodded, she felt her heart sink. "Oh, Connal,
don't you see the harm that does? You won't be restored to your lands
through futile resistance."
"And I won't get my
family home back by sitting on my hands either." His hands clenched
to fists as he turned to her. "Could you sit back and wait for the
usurper to enslave you?"
"You know I could
not. I can not. But the Festil is too strong now and I would not see
more lives lost to hopeless war."
"And maybe it is not
hopeless. But even if it is I have to try."
Isolde turned from him.
His intensity frightened her.
Connal laid a gentle hand
on her shoulder. "Come now, lass. You are a woman, so you can't be
expected to feel the way I do."
"Why did you come
here, Connal? Not to see Father's funeral, surely. You could not have
known he died."
"No, I was here to
ask him for help, actually." He shrugged. "I hope you will
still assist us."
"Us?"
"There are men in
the mountains. Every day more join us." Every fiber of his body
quivered with excitement as he spoke. Isolde knew he was serious.
"We could overthrow
the usurper in a year, Dove. All we need is time, and the supplies to
keep from starving while we gather our strength."
"So you come to me
for food?"
He nodded. "For
food, and for weapons, and for men if you will lend them. Think, Isolde!
We can do this."
She shook her head. Every
sense she had warned her this was folly. "You aren't in Corwyn now,
Connal. Not everything will fall to your will in this world."
"Then you would turn
your back on us?"
She sighed. The gesture
seemed futile against the crashing wave of his purpose.
"You know I will not
abandon you. I never could, not even when we were children and you
teased me so mercilessly."
The smile she loved
tugged at his lips. "Then you will make me pay for childhood errors
now?"
"No. You may have
food, and warm clothing. Weapons too. You know where the armory
lies."
"But you will not
lend men?"
"No." Before he
could protest, Isolde trapped his lips with a slim finger. "I will
not order men to their deaths in a hopeless cause. But if you can
convince any to follow you I will not stop them going."
"Fair enough."
He nodded as he resettled his cloak on his shoulders. "You won't
regret this, you know. And when it's over I'll come back for you."
And then he was gone
without so much as a backward glance. Only the swish of his dark cloak
followed him from the chapel.
Isolde sighed again and
shook herself. Alone again, standing watch beside her father's body, she
felt the press of responsibility like a lead yoke on her shoulders.
Should she stand against the Festil usurper, risking not only her own
welfare but the lives of every man, woman and child in Kierney? Was her
pride worth such a price?
Or would it be better to
accept the hand fate had dealt them all and suffer the oppressor in
silence? Was life as a virtual slave better than death?
"What would you say
now, Father?"
Only silence answered
her.
As she walked toward the
altar her gaze fell upon a leather sack carefully propped against the
kneeling bench of a small side altar. A soft laugh tickled her lips. She
had become so absorbed in her sorrow she had forgotten the Clairsach,
after hauling it to the chapel that morning intending to play for her
father one last time.
She settled herself
against the altar rail with the small harp in her arms. Candle light
caught the copper strings in shining splendor as she tested the tone
with one fingertip. Clear notes sang from her slightest touch.
Isolde let the music
overwhelm her as she found the chords of familiar pieces. A poignant
ballad of love lost, then the stirring pace of a battle epic her father
had loved all his life. Next a random chord exercise her mother had
taught her when she was learning the placement of fingers on strings.
Music cleansed sorrow,
doubt, regret, fear and exhaustion from her. She could play on forever.
"My lady? Isolde!"
Father Thomas's voice jarred her back to reality.
Isolde looked up to see
the portly priest standing, arms folded, shaking his head not five feet
from her. The candles guttered in their sockets. They had not been half
burned when she began to play, she realized. It must be nearly night.
"I wondered if I
would have to strike a chime to get your attention." Father Thomas
was smiling as he held out his hands for her harp. "I would not
disturb you now, my lady, but we've visitors come."
"Who can it possibly
be?" Isolde handed him the instrument and rose on shaky legs. Her
feet had long since fallen asleep, apparently. She clung to the altar
rail for support until circulation returned.
"They bear the
King's banner, my lady. That cannot be good."
She tucked the clairsach
back in its bag before she spoke again. "I suppose you wrote to
inform the Festil that my father was dying?"
"I did, my lady. It
was my duty," Father Thomas protested when she glared at him.
"By my oath to serve your father I could do no less."
"I suppose not.
Would it never occur to you to lie just a little?"
The priest looked
affronted. "My lady, I could never ---"
"No, you could not.
That is what makes you a good priest and such an abysmal
conspirator."
"You plan to receive
them with all due courtesy?" Father Thomas's expression begged her
to avoid confrontation. "Shall I inform the kitchens?"
"Yes." Isolde
sighed again. "I meant to give them their due, but I suppose I must
start by being civil." |