Chapter 1: Earl of Legain
The Master Bedroom of the Earl of Legain's Manor was a sight to behold. High ceilings adorned with intricate carvings of flowers and vines greeted anyone who entered, while tall windows allowed sunlight to stream in and illuminate the room. A large four-poster bed dominated the space, its dark wood intricately carved with the Earl's coat of arms – a fierce golden lion on a field of deep red, symbolizing his power and linens of the finest silk covered the mattress and pillows, and a thick fur blanket lay at the foot of the bed.
On either side of the bed were matching mahogany nightstands, each adorned with a lamp and a vase of fresh flowers. Across from the foot of the bed stood a large fireplace, its stone hearth filled with glowing embers. A soft rug of woven wool covered the stone floor, providing warmth and comfort to the feet of anyone who walked across it.
To the right of the fireplace, a tall wardrobe stood, its doors carved with the family crest of the Earl of Legain. Inside, fine silks and woolen garments hung neatly on wooden pegs, while shelves below held shoes, boots, and other accessories. To the left of the fireplace, a comfortable armchair and a small side table provided a cozy nook for reading or conversation.
This was the private sanctuary of Festus Earl of Legain and his beloved wife Redmonda Teemore. Here, they found solace from the stresses of the outside world and shared moments of intimacy and love. But on this day, the room was filled with sadness and grief, as Earl Festus lay dying, surrounded by loved ones.
Festus Earl of Legain lay in bed, his breathing shallow and ragged. Surrounding him were his wife, Lady Redmonda Teemore, his children Count Crispus, Lady Fabia, Lord Antonius, Lady Gloriana, and Lord Henricus, and in another room, a group of brother monks from the Ordo Verbi Dei. The monks had come to offer prayers and support during the Earl's illness, and their melodic chanting could be heard softly from close by.
The Earl's face was etched with pain and exhaustion, and his once-robust body had wasted away to a shadow of its former self. His wife and children looked on with sadness and sorrow, tears streaming down their faces. The room was filled with the scent of incense and the low murmur of prayers.
Despite the somber atmosphere, the Earl's mind drifted back to memories of happier times. He remembered the sound of his children's laughter, the warmth of his wife's embrace, and the joy of victory in battle. But these memories were tinged with a sense of loss and regret, as he knew that his time was near.
As the chanting of the monks continued, the Earl's symptoms worsened. He was racked with pain, his skin pale and clammy. His breathing became more labored, and his once-sharp mind grew foggy and confused. Lady Redmonda and the children held his hands and spoke soothing words, but it was clear that their efforts were in vain.
In the face of the Earl's suffering and impending death, the family and monks could do little but offer their prayers and support, hoping for a miracle to spare him from his fate. The room was filled with an overwhelming sense of grief and loss, as everyone present realized that the end was near for Festus Earl of Legain.
His eldest son, Crispus, said to one of the Governesses in a low voice, "Take the young ones. I'd rather they leave now, for they don't need to see their father like this."
"Come along children, there's sweets downstairs," she said with a big fetching smile on her face to entice their desires to follow willingly.
As Festus Earl of Legain lay on his deathbed, his eldest son Crispus, standing near, began to drift back in memory to a period before his father's illness had taken hold. Memories flooded back to him, unbidden and vivid. He saw himself sitting at a long wooden table in the great hall of Legain Manor, his father and advisors seated around.
Suddenly, like the mind is oft to do, the memory shifted to a dispute that had arisen between two farmers who lived in the Earldom. The dispute centered around corn seeds that had scattered in the wind and landed on one farmer's land, where they had grown into a healthy crop. The other farmer claimed that the corn belonged to him, as it had come from his own fields.
Crispus watched as his father listened to the arguments of both sides, his face grave and thoughtful. He knew that such disputes could quickly escalate and divide the people, and his father was determined to find a fair and just solution.
After considering the evidence and hearing testimony from both farmers, Festus delivered his ruling. He declared that the corn should be split equally between the two farmers, as it would not have grown on one's land without the other's seeds, nor the seeds would grow without the nutrient rich soil of the other.
The farmers grumbled at first, but as Festus explained his reasoning and the fairness of his ruling, they came to accept it. They left the great hall feeling heard and respected, and the tension between them dissipated.
As the memory faded, Crispus felt a deep admiration for his father's sense of fairness and empathy. He had seen his father in action many times before, but this particular memory had stayed with him over the years. Festus had always been a just ruler, even when it meant making difficult decisions or facing opposition from others in the Earldom.
Crispus recalled how his father had always taken the time to listen to both sides of a dispute, to weigh the evidence carefully and to seek out a solution that was fair to all involved. He admired his father's ability to communicate his reasoning clearly and to diffuse tension and conflict.
As he watched his father lying on his deathbed, Crispus felt a pang of sadness mixed with gratitude for the time they had spent together. He knew that his father's legacy would live on, not only in the Earldom but in his own heart and mind. Festus had taught him many valuable lessons about leadership, compassion, and fairness, and Crispus vowed to carry on his father's legacy with pride and honor.
As Festus drifted in and out of consciousness, his mind having difficulty holding onto any specific cognition. The mind shifted and swayed like a ship upon rough waters, replaying scenes from the past. He saw himself visiting his people in the villages and fields, listening to their concerns and offering guidance and support. He remembered the pride he felt in seeing his lands thrive and prosper under his leadership.
As Festus' memories of his leadership and care for his people faded, the solemnity of his present circumstances filled the monks' chants and the scent of incense mixed with the emotions of his loved ones, creating a peaceful yet bittersweet atmosphere.
Despite the pain and suffering of his illness, occasionally Festus Earl of Legain felt a sense of peace and contentment. His son and wife gathered around him, their faces etched with sadness and love. The chamber was filled with a solemn aura as the holy men continued their chant, and the fragrance of burning incense became thick in this space.
As Festus took shallow breaths and drifted in and out of consciousness, his eldest son, Count Crispus, felt a pang of sorrow and fear. The thought of losing his father, the pillar of his family and the Earldom, loomed large in his mind, and he found himself reflecting on the teachings of the Order.
He thought of the long hours spent in meditation and prayer, the ascetic lifestyle that he had chosen. He thought of the brothers who had supported him and helped him on his path. He wondered if he had made the right choice, dedicating his life to a higher purpose rather than the worldly affairs of ruling.
As he looked around at his family and listened to the brother monks, he felt a sense of conflict. He loved his family deeply, and the thought of losing his father was painful. But he also felt a sense of duty and calling to the Order, to continue on his path of self-discovery and spiritual growth.
Crispus wondered if his father had any regrets as he faced his illness. He hoped that Festus had found peace and contentment, that he had lived a life that he could be proud of. And he wondered if he would be able to say the same when his time came.
As the room filled with the sound of weeping and mourning, Count Crispus felt a sense of uncertainty and fear. He knew that his father's illness marked the end of an era, and the beginning of a new chapter in his own life. And he wondered what the future held, both for himself and for the Earldom of Legain.
Festus lay in his bed, his breathing shallow and his eyes closed. He felt the warmth and love of his family and the soothing presence of the brother monks. Memories flooded back to him once again, unbidden and vivid.
He saw himself on horseback, riding towards a meeting with the other lords to discuss matters of trade and defense. His mind was focused on the task at hand when he heard a commotion up ahead. He spurred his horse on, hoping to get there quickly.
As he approached, he saw a young woman in her late twenties pulling at a stubborn mule. The mule bucked and the girl was flung into the mud, her skirts soaked and her face twisted in pain.
Festus approached the young woman, seeing the mule that had been causing her so much trouble. "Are you alright, my dear?" he asked, a look of concern on his face.
The young woman looked up, her face twisted in pain. "I am fine, my lord," she said, trying to stand up. "It's just my ankle that hurts."
Festus helped her up, his strong arms supporting her. "What happened?" he asked, looking at the stubborn mule.
"I was bringing the mule back from the local market where I bought a week's supply of grain and assorted vegetables," she explained. "But the mule just stopped and refused to go any further. I've been trying to get it to move for hours now."
Festus looked at the mule, studying it carefully. "I think I know what the problem is," he said, a smile crossing his face. "Let me take a closer look."
As Festus examined the mule closely, he noticed that the animal's harness had been fitted too tightly. The straps had been digging into the mule's skin, causing it discomfort and pain. With a quick adjustment, Festus loosened the straps and the mule immediately seemed to relax. It started moving forward without any further hesitation, much to the young woman's relief.
She looked up at Festus with gratitude in her eyes. "Thank you, my lord," she said. "I don't know what I would have done without your help."
Festus smiled, feeling a sense of satisfaction at having helped someone in need. "It was my pleasure," he said. "I hope you have a safe journey home."
As the young woman and the mule disappeared into the distance, Festus mounted his horse and continued on his way, feeling a sense of purpose and fulfillment. He knew that helping others was what being an Earl was all about, and he took his responsibilities seriously.
Crispus sat silently by his side, lost in his own thoughts. He thought back to the time when he had joined the brotherhood, seeking a path that was similar to his father's. He remembered the kindness and compassion that his father had always shown to others, and how he had been inspired by his father's spiritual nature.
As a member of the Ordo Verbi Dei, Crispus had learned to focus on his own inner being and to seek a deeper understanding of the world around him. He knew that his father had always been supportive of his decision to join the brotherhood, and had even encouraged him to follow his heart.
Crispus reflected on the teachings that he had learned as part of his spiritual practice. He remembered the importance of living in the present moment, and of embracing life fully, with all its joys and sorrows.
He felt a deep sense of gratitude for the example that his father had set for him, and for the bond that they shared. As he held his father's hand, he felt a sense of connection that transcended time and space.
The chanting of the brother monks continued in the background, a soothing and comforting presence in the room. Crispus closed his eyes and allowed himself to be fully present in the moment, focusing on his father's shallow breathing and the warmth of his hand in his own.
He knew that his father's time on earth was limited, and that he would soon be leaving them. But he also knew that Festus would live on through the memories and the love that he had shared with his family and with all those who had known him.
Crispus felt a sense of peace and acceptance wash over him, as he sat with his father in these final moments of his life. He knew that his own journey would continue, with all its ups and downs, and that he would always carry his father's legacy with him.
As Festus's final moments approached, his wife, Redmonda Lady Teemore, was overwhelmed with emotion. With a tendency to focus on emotions, hers were in full force, and she found herself grappling with a complex mix of feelings.
She was in denial, unable to accept that her husband was really dying. She clung to the hope that he would somehow recover, that he would pull through this illness as he had so many others.
She was overwhelmed by a complex mix of feelings and refused to acknowledge them, clinging stubbornly to the hope that her husband would recover from his illness. After all it was a simple mishap that Festus suffered. Surely people recover from such minor wounds all the time.
As the final moments approached, Redmonda sat beside Festus, her heart heavy with the weight of loss but unable to process the thought of his death. Her mind was consumed with the belief that some unforeseen miracle would happen, that her husband would pull through this illness, that the Healers were wrong, and he would recover like he had so many times before.
As she sat with Festus, Redmonda was flooded with memories of their life together, but her denial prevented her from expressing her emotions outright. She felt a deep sense of grief and sadness, but refused to let herself cry or show any outward signs of her bereavement. Even as she whispered her love and gratitude to him, her emotions raged within her, trapped and unexpressed.
Redmonda was flooded with memories of their life together. She recalled the moments of joy and laughter, the struggles they had overcome, the love they had shared. She felt a deep sense of connection to Festus, and resisted a profound sense of loss not wanting to think of life without him.
As Festus lay in his bed, he struggled with recognizing where he was. He found himself in the excitement and anticipation during the renovation of his beloved Manor. He relived the joy and laughter that had filled the halls, as he and his wife had watched the transformation take place. They had hired a group of skilled carpenters to conduct the renovation of the Manor, in honor of their anniversary.
As Festus walked among the workers, admiring their craft, he exercised his imagination, marveling at how beautiful their home would look once the work was done. But in his careless enthusiasm, he didn't notice a wooden board with a rusty nail sticking out of it.
Festus stepped on the board, and a nail pierced deep into the sole of his foot, puncturing through to the topside of his foot .He cried out in pain, and his workers rushed to his aid. They sent a messenger to fetch a healer, but skilled healers were rare and hard to come by in those times, and none were available at the moment.
Redmonda, his loving wife, took charge and pulled the board and the rusty nail from his foot. Festus cried out in pain and she saw the severity of the wound. Her heart raced with fear and worry, but she remained calm and determined to help him. As she tended to the wound, she couldn't help but think about the worst-case scenario and how she couldn't bear the thought of losing him.
But Redmonda pushed those thoughts aside, determined to do everything she could to help her husband. As she remembered those moments, she slowly drifted back to the present, surrounded by her family and the brother monks' soothing voices. She watched as Festus lay in his bed, his breathing shallow and his eyes closed, she whispered a soft prayer to spare his life.
As Redmonda sat by the Earl's side, her thoughts slipped back to the past, she remembered how the infection had taken hold of Festus' foot.
Time passed quickly after the day of the injury, Redmonda noticed that the wound was not healing properly and had become increasingly red, swollen, and painful. She also noticed that her husband had begun to develop a fever and was becoming weaker by the day. Despite his insistence that he was fine, Redmonda knew that something was seriously wrong and sent another messenger out for a healer. Unfortunately, Deryni healers were rare in their region and it took several days for one to arrive. By the time the healer arrived, Festus was already in a critical state and the infection had spread throughout his body.
Dom Serald approached the bed where Earl Festus lay, his brow furrowed in concentration. Redmonda, the Earl's wife, stood nearby, her face etched with concern. The healer carefully examined the wound on the Earl's foot, his fingers probing gently.
"This is not good," Dom Serald muttered. "The infection has spread too far", he says pointing to the upper calf area and again to the thigh, "I fear there is little I can do to stop it."
Redmonda gasped, her hand flying to her mouth. "Surely there must be something you can do, healer?" she said with a flare of angry authority.
Dom Serald's expression turned grave as he placed his hands on the Earl's temples. With closed eyes, the healer's mind moved into the body of the Earl, searching for the infection located within the Earl's the veins of infection, like spiky barbed wire climbing up the leg, he then followed these spiky tendrils to the source.
The Healer's consciousness began penetrating the tissues of the wound. He sent waves of healing energy to the affected area, hoping to ease the Earl's pain and contain the spread of infection.
After a few moments, Dom Serald opened his eyes and shook his head. "I'm sorry, Lady Redmonda," he said softly. "The wound is not responding to my healing energies. I fear that the infection has taken hold of his body, and there is little I can do to stop its progression."
Redmonda felt a lump form in her throat as she heard the healer's words. She had hoped for a miracle, but it seemed that the fates had already decided Festus's fate.
"I will do what I can to ease his pain," Dom Serald added, his voice filled with compassion. "But I fear that Earl Festus's time with us is coming to an end."
"Get out!" she screamed, pointing to the door. "I said 'Out!'"
As time after the injury passed, Festus' condition continued to worsen. The pain grew more intense, and he began to slip in and out of consciousness. Redmonda watched helplessly as her husband's condition deteriorated, despite the efforts of the healer. At times, he would cry out in agony, while at others he would drift into a delirium, his mind consumed by fevered dreams.
Redmonda hardly left his side, tending to his every need and praying for a miracle. But as the days turned into weeks, she could see the toll that the illness was taking on her husband's once-strong body. She felt her heart breaking as she watched him slip away from her, bit by bit.
Festus' fever had reached an all-time high. With stubbornness and delirium, his perception seemed to go in and out of focus, as if the world around him was spinning and distorting. He could barely make out the faces of his family members, and even their voices seemed distant and muffled.
A strange low humming sound filled his ears, drowning out all other sounds. It was a constant, steady drone that seemed to reverberate through his entire body. At times, it would fade into the background, only to come back with a vengeance a few moments later.
He could also hear his own heart beating loudly in his chest, the sound seeming to echo throughout the room. It was as if his body was struggling to keep up with the demands of his failing health.
At times, Festus felt as though his spirit was slipping away from his body, leaving him in a state of disorientation and confusion. He was barely conscious of his surroundings, and his thoughts were jumbled and fragmented. The fever had taken hold of him completely, and he was powerless to stop it.
Festus began to feel scared as he realized that he had never experienced anything like this before. He couldn't understand why there wasn't anything that could help him get better, and the thought of leaving his wife and children behind filled him with dread.
Time is wishy washy, the past blurs into the present, yet now in this present moment, Festus lay in his bed, surrounded by his loved ones and the comforting presence of the brother monks.
His wife, Redmonda, sat at his side, holding his hand and silently praying for a miracle. Count Crispus pacing around the room, he and his mother quietly grieving the impending loss of their patriarch. The air was thick with sadness, the weight of the moment heavy on everyone's hearts.
As Festus lay in his bed, surrounded by his loved ones and the comforting presence of the brother monks, he thought back on his life as Earl of Legain. Legain was the town where he had grown up, and the name he had taken when he was made Earl by King Festil. It was not uncommon in those times for people to be named after their birthplace or for families to be named after a town they originated from. Festus' own father, Havil, had likely grown up in Legain as well, adopting the name of the town just as Festus had done.
Crispus leaned over to his mother and whispered, "We had better send someone to fetch Deacon Davet Nevan." Redmonda's eyes welled up with tears at the mention of the holy man's name. She burst into tears, the floodgates unleashed. Her head bowed down shaking back and forth in a gesture that said, 'No.'
After a moment, with a large inhale of breath and a low sniffle, she nodded her head, knowing that it was the right thing to do. She composed herself as best she could and rose from her chair, a lone tear streaming down her cheek. She brushes it away and in a firm voice, she issued an order to one of the servants to go and fetch Deacon Nevan. The servant hurried off, and Redmonda returned to her place by Festus' bedside, taking his hand in hers and silently praying for his peaceful passing.
Chapter 2: Deacon Nevan
Deacon Nevan arrived at the manor shortly after the servant had been dispatched, his cassock flapping in the wind as he hurried up the path. He was greeted by Redmonda, who escorted him into Festus' chamber. As the Deacon began to administer the last rites, Redmonda's heart was heavy with sorrow. Tears streamed down her face as she clutched her husband's hand, whispering words of love and comfort to him. Crispus stood nearby, his mind racing with memories of his father and the teachings of his Order. He remained stoic on the outside, but inside, he felt a sense of peace and acceptance wash over him, knowing that his father was in the hands of a higher power.
As the Deacon finished the prayers and blessings, Redmonda's sobs could be heard growing louder, and she fell to her knees in grief. Crispus stepped forward, placing a hand on her shoulder and offering words of knew that his mother's pain would be a long and difficult road, but he vowed to be there for her every step of the way. Together, they mourned the passing of a beloved husband and father, but also celebrated the life he had lived and the legacy he had left behind.
The Deacon finished his prayers, Crispus reached down to help his mother up off the floor from which she was kneeling. Offering her a hug and his support, Redmonda clung to her son, and held on as another wave of grief washed over her.
In that moment, they remained in each other's arms, connected by their love and shared experiences. It was a reminder of the bond that existed between mother and son and the strength it could bring in times of hardship.
Shortly, they parted, Redmonda wiped her tears and smiled weakly at Crispus, grateful for his support. He nodded back, knowing that he had done what he could to ease her suffering. They both turned their attention back to Festus, watching over his peaceful face as he lay still in death.
Crispus thought back on the lessons his father had taught him, the memories of their time together flooding his mind. He would carry on his father's legacy, both as a member of the Order of the Word and as a son who loved and respected his father deeply. Redmonda also held her own memories close, cherishing the life they had built together and vowing to honor her husband's memory in all that she did.
Together, mother and son mourned their loss and celebrated the life of a man who had left an indelible mark on their hearts and the world around them.
After leaving the manor, Deacon Nevan felt a sense of peace knowing that he had fulfilled his duty to provide the Earl with last rites. As he walked back to his small home, he thought about the upcoming ordination ceremony. It was a significant event, and he knew that he had much preparation to do before the big day.
As he made his way back to his small home, he heard the sound of horses approaching in the distance. His instincts immediately went on high alert, and he scanned the horizon for any signs of danger.
In the distance, he saw a small band of men on horseback, each brandishing a sword. They seemed to be in a hurry, and as they drew closer, Deacon Nevan could see that they were rough-looking men, with tattered clothes and unkempt beards.
Despite his initial fear, Deacon Nevan remained calm and composed. As the band of men rode past him, he caught a glimpse of a small sack tied to the back of one of their horses and quickly deduced that these men had just robbed someplace, most likely a nearby house.
Over the next few days, Deacon Nevan spent much of his time studying and preparing for his upcoming ordination. He immersed himself in the teachings of the Church and reflected on his own journey of faith. As he prayed and meditated, he thought about his future as a priest and the important role he would play in his community.
As the days turned into weeks, Deacon Nevan continued to study and prepare, taking on additional responsibilities at the local church and assisting the other clergy in any way he could. He knew that the road ahead would not be easy, but he was determined to live a life of service and devotion to God and the Saints.
As the day of his ordination approached, Deacon Nevan felt a sense of excitement and anticipation. He knew that it was the culmination of years of hard work and dedication, and he was ready to take on the responsibilities and challenges that lay ahead as a priest in the Church.
Deacon Davet Nevan's thoughts turned to his own future as he contemplated the path that lay ahead of him. But for now, he was called to witness the miracle of new life. As he stood in the birthing chamber, he felt a sense of awe and wonder wash over him. All round him, the sounds of joy and celebration filled the air as the newborn baby girl was being welcomed into the world.
The birthing chamber in Lord Farnham and Lady Campbell's manor was a spacious and well-lit room, with large windows allowing natural light to filter in. The walls were painted a warm, cream color and adorned with tasteful floral patterns. Unlike Earl Festus' bedroom, this chamber had a definite feminine touch, with lacy curtains draped over the windows and delicate knick-knacks arranged on the shelves.
In the center of the room was a large four-poster bed, similar to the one in Earl Festus' room but with a softer, more feminine canopy. The bed was covered in crisp white linens and fluffy pillows, ready for the arrival of the newborn. A comfortable rocking chair was positioned in the corner, perfect for the mother to rest in during the long hours of labor.
On the bedside table was a collection of items that would aid the midwife in her work, including clean linens, towels, and bowls of warm water. The room also had a large fireplace, which added a cozy warmth to the space.
Deacon Nevan had been present during Lady Maia's labor, providing spiritual guidance and support to the mother. He had watched as she labored for hours, her face contorted in pain and exhaustion, until finally, the baby was born. As the midwife cleaned and swaddled the newborn, Nevan offered a prayer of thanksgiving, grateful that mother and child had made it safely through the ordeal. He knew that in these times, it was not uncommon for a holy person to be present during childbirth, providing comfort and guidance to the mother as she brought new life into the world. And in that moment, as he looked at the newborn baby girl, Megan Lady de Cameron, he felt a sense of awe and wonder at the miracle of birth and the endless possibilities that lay ahead for this tiny, precious life.
She was remarkably beautiful, with a full head of dark hair and striking blue eyes. He couldn't help but feel that there was something special about her, something that set her apart from other babies he had seen.
As he looked upon the child, he felt a sense of clarity wash over him. He knew that this was a sign from God, but he wasn't quite sure what it meant. He only knew that this child was destined for greatness, and that he had been present at the moment of her birth for a reason.
As the midwife tended to Lady Campbell and the baby, Deacon Nevan steps out of the manor and takes a deep breath of the cool night air. The stars twinkle above him, and he takes a moment to appreciate their beauty. Suddenly, he hears a faint, blood-curdling scream in the distance, carried by the still night air, and he spins around to face the sound. He strained his ears and listened intently, but the sound was too far away to discern its source or direction.
Suddenly, he heard the sound of hooves on cobblestones, followed by the whooping of male voices. The sound grew louder and more distinct, but then gradually receded as the riders went farther away.
Nevan felt a sense of unease wash over him, and he couldn't help but think of the bandits he had seen before. The sound of their whooping was eerily similar to what he had just heard. He wondered what tragedy had befallen someone in the distance and silently prayed for their safety.
As he waited for his ordination, Deacon Nevan spent his days studying the scriptures and reflecting on his future responsibilities as a priest. He felt both excited and apprehensive about the journey ahead of him, knowing that he would be tasked with guiding and serving his community.
Finally, the day of his ordination arrived, and Nevan felt a sense of nervous anticipation as he made his way to the cathedral. As he knelt before the Bishop, he felt a surge of emotion as the Bishop laid his hands on Nevan's head and offered a prayer of blessing. From that moment on, Nevan was no longer a deacon, but a priest in the service of God.
Chapter 3: Father Nevan
The early morning light bathed the chapel in a serene glow, refracting through the stained glass windows and casting hues of ruby, sapphire, and emerald on the worn stone floor. It was a beautiful sight, one that Father Nevan had quickly grown to love since his ordination a few weeks prior.
He stood before his congregation, clad in the white and gold vestments that marked his new rank. He could still feel the weight of the Bishop's hands on his head from the day of his ordination, a feeling that echoed in his heart each time he put on his priestly attire. It was a constant reminder of the sacred vows he had taken, the divine responsibility that was now his to bear.
The Mass flowed like a well-rehearsed song, Father Nevan's baritone voice resonating through the chapel. He delivered his homily with a passion born from his deep faith, his words touching the hearts of his parishioners. The service was a symphony of prayer and song, a spiritual communion that brought peace and solace to the humble folks of the community.
"Let us bow our heads and bring ourselves into the presence of the Lord," began Father Nevan, his voice echoing through the chapel with a blend of reverence and heartfelt sorrow. "Today, we come together to remember two tender souls who were taken from us too soon, young Lord Ballard MacRorie, just ten years of age, and his sister, Lady Jerusha MacRorie, barely eleven years. The fever may have claimed their earthly lives, but we trust they are now in God's tender embrace."
There was a solemn silence that fell over the chapel as heads bowed in unison, a collective moment of reverence and mourning. Father Nevan allowed the silence to linger, the names of the departed children hanging in the air, their memories etched into the hearts of their grieving community.
The service continued, flowing seamlessly as a well-practiced melody, a testament to the strength of their faith and their unwavering trust in God's plan.
As the final hymn faded into silence, Father Nevan dismissed his congregation with a blessing. "Go in peace, serve the Lord with gladness," he intoned, watching as the sea of familiar faces slowly began to dissipate.
A young couple, both with the sun-kissed complexion and roughened hands of field laborers, waited until the chapel was nearly empty before approaching him. Their eyes held a certain nervousness, a telltale sign that they were seeking more than just a simple conversation.
"Father Nevan," the young man began, his voice rough but gentle. "May we have a word with you?"
"Of course, my children," Father Nevan replied, his expression welcoming. He gestured towards a secluded corner of the chapel, offering them the privacy their apprehensive faces seemed to seek. As a priest, it was his duty to guide and aid his flock, to share in their joys, and shoulder their burdens. Whatever was troubling this young couple, Father Nevan was prepared to help them navigate through it.
Guided by his gentle nod, the couple followed him towards a quiet corner of the chapel, the remaining parishioners casting curious glances their way. The man was a sturdy figure, his body hardened by the toil of field work, yet he held a soft, almost fearful look in his eyes.
"My name is… is Aidan, Father, and this is my wife, Maeve," he stammered, as if the words were stones he had to drag from his mouth. Maeve, a petite woman with sun-streaked hair, kept her gaze fixed on her fidgeting hands, a clear sign of her unease.
"We've come to you with… a request," Aidan began, swallowing hard as if to clear his throat of an invisible obstruction. He drew a shaky breath before uttering the words that hung heavily between them, "We need… an exorcism."
The request struck Father Nevan like a lightning bolt, his heart skipping a beat. His eyes widened and he felt a tremor of shock ripple through him. An exorcism was something he had only heard of in whispered tales and ancient scriptures, a rite thought to be more folklore than reality.
He was silent for a moment, his gaze shifting between the earnest faces of Aidan and Maeve. The gravity of their plea was clear; they were gripped by an unseen terror and were seeking his aid.
"I…" Father Nevan began, the weight of his next words settling heavily on his heart. "I must seek counsel from my superior. An exorcism is not a rite undertaken lightly. It requires clear evidence of possession, and even then, only with the Church's approval."
The couple's faces fell, but they nodded, acknowledging his response. Aidan swallowed hard, his hand instinctively reaching for Maeve's, their fingers entwining in a bond of shared worry and hope.
Aidan's eyes met Father Nevan's, carrying a plea that the priest found difficult to ignore. "Could you just come and see her, Father?" he asked, his voice tinged with desperation. "It's my daughter. Just a house visit. There's no harm in that. You don't need permission for a simple house visit."
The earnestness in Aidan's voice left Father Nevan in a moment of indecision. A house visit seemed harmless enough, and it was a part of his duty to attend to the spiritual and sometimes even the emotional needs of his flock. He could provide comfort, even if an exorcism was out of the question without further consultation.
"Alright," he finally responded, his gaze steady on the desperate man before him. "I will visit your home, Aidan. To offer prayer and support, not to perform an exorcism. We must make that clear. But I am here to offer spiritual guidance and comfort in this trying time."
Aidan and Maeve exchanged relieved glances before returning their gaze to Father Nevan. "Thank you, Father," Maeve said, her voice choked with emotion. Aidan echoed her gratitude, the tension easing slightly from his sturdy shoulders.
As the young couple retreated from the chapel, leaving Father Nevan with his thoughts, he found himself filled with a sense of foreboding. He wasn't sure what he would find in Aidan and Maeve's home, but he knew that whatever it was, it would test the limits of his newly acquired priesthood.
The morning after the encounter at the chapel, Father Nevan found himself traversing the undulating landscape that separated his parish from Aidan and Maeve's homestead. A light mist clung to the rolling hills of verdant green, creating an almost ethereal quality to the landscape. Flocks of sheep grazed lazily while occasional cottages with their small kitchen gardens dotting the countryside bore testament to the lives of simple labor and faith. His cassock whipped gently in the breeze as he walked along the worn dirt road, each step bringing him closer to an experience that was entirely unknown to him.
Arriving at the modest dwelling, he took a moment to appreciate its humble charm. Built of wattle and daub, the cottage was nestled into the verdant countryside, the thatched roof blending harmoniously into the landscape. Smoke billowed gently from the chimney, hinting at the fire that would be roaring inside, providing warmth and a means of cooking for the family.
Greeted at the door by Aidan and Maeve, the apprehension in their eyes was hard to miss. As they stepped aside, inviting him into their home, Father Nevan stepped over the threshold and into the heart of their humble existence.
Inside, the cottage was sparsely furnished, reflecting the simple lifestyle of its occupants. The central feature was the hearth, a space both for cooking and providing warmth against the often harsh English climate. Nearby, a wooden table bore signs of recent use, with bread and cheese remaining from what looked like a humble meal. The earthen floor was swept clean, and handmade rugs provided some semblance of comfort. On one side, there were straw mattresses for sleeping, covered in rough homespun blankets.
The interior was filled with the smell of smoke and freshly baked bread. A certain coziness filled the space, further heightened by the flickering firelight that danced upon the humble walls of the dwelling. Yet, beneath it all, there was a palpable tension, an unseen shadow that filled the corners of the room, a silent yet looming presence that Father Nevan couldn't ignore.
Upon seeing the girl, Father Nevan's brow furrowed in concern, but not necessarily alarm. He moved closer, noting the pallor of the girl's complexion, her closed eyes fluttering under their lids, and the unnerving, icy breaths that parted her chapped lips. The boils on her face seemed grotesquely out of place on her youthful countenance, yet Father Nevan had seen ailments before; this could merely be the result of a severe fever, he thought.
Kneeling beside the girl's pallet, Father Nevan gently clasped her cold hand in his, her frailty apparent even through her fever-induced stupor. He looked up at Aidan and Maeve, their anxious eyes clinging to his every word. "I believe your daughter is severely ill," he stated, his voice heavy but calm. "The boils, her breath, it may be a manifestation of a serious fever, perhaps the same fever that claimed the MacRorie children. I'm afraid I don't have the power to cure her of this, but what I can offer is prayer and the hope that Saint Michael, our Warrior and Healer, will intervene."
With that, Father Nevan gently squeezed the girl's hand and bowed his head, the words of his prayer filling the room in a solemn whisper, "May Saint Michael, Warrior and Healer, bless this child. May he drive away all sickness and infirmity, filling her with health, love, and peace. We ask this through our Lord, Amen."
The room was silent for a moment, the echo of his prayer still resonating. Aidan and Maeve looked disappointed, their eyes glossed over with unshed tears, but they nodded in understanding, hands tightly clasped together as they murmured their own quiet amen.
The air was thick with the heavy silence as Father Nevan got up and moved towards the door. He took one last look at the sick girl, then at her parents, and left the small cottage, his heart heavy but resolved. The walk back to the church rectory was a long one, filled with quiet contemplation and a lingering sense of unease.
Two days later, Father Nevan stood once more at the altar, his voice resounding through the chapel as he led the congregation in another service. "We give thanks for the birth of Lady Carrega," he announced, "the daughter of Carloman, our respected Lord Thornton, and his beloved wife, Foi, our Lady Mobeoc. Let us pray for her health and for the joy she brings to our community."
His words echoed in the silence, punctuated only by the distant twittering of birds outside the chapel windows. The congregation murmured their assent, heads bowed in prayer for the newborn.
As the last notes of the closing hymn faded, Father Nevan descended the steps of the altar, his gaze immediately meeting the anxious eyes of Aidan and Maeve. They approached him with the same fervor as before, their faces pale with worry.
"Father," Aidan began, his voice shaky. "Our daughter, she's worse. We need you to come see her again."
A heavy sigh escaped Father Nevan's lips. "My children, I am a priest, not a Healer," he reminded them gently, but their pleading eyes would not be deterred. They stood firm, their hands entwined tightly as they awaited his response.
The silence stretched on for a moment longer before Father Nevan finally nodded, acquiescing to their desperate pleas. "Alright," he said softly. "I'll come see your daughter again." Their sighs of relief echoed in the stillness of the chapel, a glimmer of hope flickering in their eyes as they thanked the young priest.
Upon returning to the rectory, Father Nevan changed out of his ceremonial vestments, trading them for a simple tunic and trousers suitable for the walk to Aidan and Maeve's cottage. His steps were heavy with concern as he left the rectory, the grandeur of the cathedral quickly giving way to the simple rural landscape.
The sun was setting as Father Nevan arrived at the small cottage, and an unusual chill lingered in the air. He furrowed his brow, noting the aberrant cold that seemed to seep from the very stones of the dwelling. Pushing open the door, he was greeted by a wall of frigid air that made him shiver. Despite the warmth of the season, the inside of the cottage was as cold as winter.
Aidan and Maeve led him to their daughter's side. The changes in her condition were immediately apparent. The pallor of her skin was alarming, and the normal glow of her youthful countenance was marred by the trail of mucus and snot that had dried on one side of her face. Her right eye was wide open, staring unblinkingly at the young priest. It was a sight that filled Father Nevan's heart with dread. His earlier hypothesis of a severe fever causing her ailments seemed to dissolve under the cold, hard stare of the girl's eye, and an inkling of uncertainty and fear started to gnaw at his resolve.
As Father Nevan approached the bed, the girl stirred. Her right eye, wide and staring, never strayed from him. There was something there, a cold intelligence that seemed far removed from the innocent child he had met just days before. His steps faltered as he heard a voice, deep and resonating, emanating from the girl's throat. It was guttural, harsh, a chilling sound that was entirely alien to the petite form lying on the bed.
"I see you, priest," the voice echoed, sending an icy shiver down his spine.
Father Nevan's heart pounded in his chest. This was not the sick child he remembered, and the voice, so unnaturally deep, did not belong to her. Involuntarily, he stepped back, crossing himself.
Suddenly, the room's temperature plummeted further, and the small fire in the hearth sputtered and died, plunging the room into near darkness. The candles flickered ominously, their flames bending and twisting as though manipulated by an unseen force. A feeling of oppressive dread filled the room, an evil presence that was palpable and malevolent.
The sensation gripped Father Nevan, chilling him to his core. His rational mind fought to dismiss these phenomena as mere coincidence, but he could not shake off the reality of the situation. He was now forced to confront a horrifying possibility. Was it truly possible that he was witnessing a case of demonic possession?
She urinated herself and then defecated. The room stank of feces and urine. "Do bodily fluids disturb you father?" she taunted in that unnatural voice.
"Everything is holy in God's eyes," he recited from memory.
"Platitudes you don't believe," she challenged.
A vile odour followed the girl's crude act, overwhelming the cottage with its stench. "Or else you would consider this holy," she continued, challenging Father Nevan with her disturbing actions.
With a swift, unexpected movement, she threw off her covering, her young body exposed in the dim, wavering light of the cottage. What followed was a brazen display of self-pleasure, her body moving in an obscene, lascivious manner that was disturbingly out of place in one so young. Her moans echoed in the small space, causing Aidan and Maeve to gasp in horrified disbelief.
Through the shock and revulsion, Father Nevan remained steadfast. Bending down, he picked up the discarded sheet, and with a steady hand, gently covered the girl, restoring her dignity in the midst of the degrading spectacle. His expression was stern, his eyes reflecting a glimmer of sorrow and resolve.
Slowly, he turned to face Aidan and Maeve. The tension in the room was palpable, their faces a portrait of desperate hope and fear. He sighed, bracing himself for the words he was about to say.
"I fear that your daughter's condition may not merely be the result of fever or any natural ailment known to us," he began, choosing his words carefully. "It seems to me that there could be… a spiritual affliction."
The couple stared at him, their eyes widening in confusion and dread. They nodded slowly, absorbing the weight of his words. They didn't need to ask what he meant; the fear in their eyes told him that they understood.
"I need to consult my superiors in this matter," Father Nevan added, his voice firm. "I will do everything within my power to help your daughter."
He left the cottage then, the biting chill of the evening air a stark contrast to the stifling tension inside. He made his way back to the rectory, his mind a whirl of thoughts and fears. Whatever was afflicting the young girl, it was far beyond his current understanding and ability to handle. His next course of action was clear: he needed guidance from those more experienced in these matters.
After taking his leave from Aidan and Maeve's home, Father Nevan made his way back to the church, his mind heavy with the burden of the situation. The countryside, normally a source of tranquility and reflection for him, seemed distant and unresponsive to his troubled thoughts. He needed counsel, wisdom that his own nascent priesthood could not yet offer.
Upon reaching the rectory, he sought solitude in his chambers, pouring himself a cup of lukewarm ale as he mentally prepared for the task ahead. He knew he must reach out to the ecclesiastical hierarchy, to someone with more experience in such matters. And there was one person he had in mind - Dom Emrys, the newly elected Abbot of Saint Neot's Abbey.
Despite the late hour, Father Nevan penned a letter detailing the dire situation, describing the symptoms he had witnessed and the chilling words uttered by the afflicted girl. He wrote of his concerns, his fears, and his earnest plea for assistance. Finishing his missive, he rolled up the parchment and sealed it with the church's insignia.
With the first light of dawn, he entrusted his letter to a young novice bound for Saint Neot's Abbey. As he watched the boy disappear into the morning mist, Father Nevan could only hope that his plea for help would not be too late. For the first time in his new priesthood, he felt a chilling uncertainty, a tangible darkness that seemed to threaten his faith. Yet, he knew he had done all he could, for now. The rest was in God's hands - and Dom Emrys's.
CHapter 4: Dom Emrys
Secluded in the serene setting of St. Neot's Abbey, Dom Emrys presided over his monastic community with a calm and steady hand. A man of advancing years, his age had only served to enhance the wisdom and perception gained over a lifetime of devoted service.
The Abbot's study was a testament to the simplicity and austerity of his chosen path. Shelves crafted from aged, but well-maintained oak, housed numerous texts, some ancient and delicate, others more recent but equally treasured. Parchment scrolls, stained by time and use, were rolled and stacked neatly alongside leather-bound books filled with intricate script, the product of countless hours of careful transcription by the diligent monks. The only concession to vanity, if one might call it that, was a small, hand-carved crucifix positioned on his desk, a symbol of the faith that guided every aspect of his existence.
A single narrow window allowed in a sliver of natural light, illuminating the room with an ethereal glow and casting long shadows across the stone floor. The chill of the English winter was offset by a modest fireplace, its embers casting a gentle warmth into the room, and the scent of burning wood mingling with the musty aroma of parchment and ink.
The silence in the study was broken by a soft knock. One of the brothers, a young novice, entered with a missive. The Abbot paused in his reading of a Psalm to receive the letter, his eyes studying the seal before he broke it open. As he read the contents, his brow furrowed in concern.
The letter from Father Nevan was disturbing, to say the least. It spoke of troubling events in the parish, of a young girl exhibiting signs that hinted at the unthinkable. His experienced mind sifted through the information, analyzing the symptoms and the situation. This was a matter that required serious consideration and, possibly, immediate action.
As the soft glow of the fireplace flickered against the ancient texts around him, Dom Emrys found himself contemplating the road ahead. His next steps could have profound implications, not just for Father Nevan and the afflicted girl, but also for himself, his monastic order, and perhaps, the Church itself.
The correspondence from Father Nevan was disquieting. It detailed unsettling events unfolding within the parish—a young girl displaying symptoms which, to the inexperienced or the overly zealous, might insinuate the unimaginable. As an individual weathered by years of spiritual guidance and service, Dom Emrys attentively assessed the details shared, weighing the tangible facts against the more speculative elements. This was an issue demanding discernment and, possibly, prompt intervention.
Beneath the gentle, wavering illumination cast by the hearth, Dom Emrys considered the path that lay before him. His forthcoming decisions would carry considerable weight, influencing not only Father Nevan and the stricken girl, but also extending their impact to himself, the brethren of St. Neot's Abbey, and potentially even to the broader structures of the Church.
Beneath the gentle, wavering illumination cast by the hearth, Dom Emrys considered the path that lay before him. His forthcoming decisions would carry considerable weight, influencing not only Father Nevan and the stricken girl, but also extending their impact to himself, the brethren of St. Neot's Abbey, and potentially even to the broader structures of the Church.
As the seasoned Abbot contemplated the situation, he was aware that he could dismiss it, cast it aside as an overreaction borne from fear and inexperience. Yet something in him hesitated. He recognized a potent opportunity for guidance and learning, a chance to shape the young priest's spiritual understanding. With this notion in mind, he decided to lend his expertise to the matter.
Picking up a quill, he penned a measured response, agreeing to lend his aid in the situation. His hand moved with careful precision, conveying reassurance, caution, and wisdom in his words. Once finished, he sealed the letter and entrusted it to a swift courier with instructions to deliver it directly to Father Nevan.
In the days that followed, Dom Emrys prepared for his journey. He packed lightly, bringing only the necessary items: his holy books, a simple change of clothes, a small wooden cross, and a vial of holy water. He spent his time in prayer, seeking spiritual strength for the challenges that lay ahead.
In the gentle morning light, Dom Emrys began his journey. His travel took him along the undulating countryside, a peaceful tableau of lush, green fields and ancient woodlands. As he moved on his sturdy horse, his eyes beheld the tranquil beauty of the land. The vibrant hues of wildflowers blooming along the road, the larks singing their melodies from the tree tops, the occasional rabbit darting into the underbrush - all were testament to the abundance of God's creation.
The path twisted and turned, following the contours of the land, leading Dom Emrys past scattered farms and humble settlements. Their inhabitants paused in their work to watch him pass, their sun-hardened faces breaking into smiles of recognition and respect, lifting their hands in greeting. He waved back, his warm, steady gaze holding a silent promise of prayer for their well-being.
As the day waned and the sky began to be painted with hues of crimson and gold, Dom Emrys approached a modest dwelling. The humble family who lived there, devout followers and familiar with the monastic community, welcomed him with open arms. They shared their simple meal of stew and fresh bread with him, their faces glowing with quiet pride as they played host to the respected Abbot.
The following day, Dom Emrys continued his journey. He was greeted by the warmth of the morning sun, the cool, sweet breeze that stirred the leaves and ruffled his robes. It was an affirmation of the ever-present cycle of life, the continuous ebb and flow that governed everything under God's watchful eyes.
Two days later, as the sun began its descent, painting the sky with hues of red and orange, Dom Emrys arrived in Father Nevan's parish. His presence, calm and reassuring, carried a gravity borne from years of service to the Church and its people.
In the warm glow of the waning day, Dom Emrys spied the cathedral in the distance, a silhouette contrasted against the vibrant, painted sky. Father Nevan standing in front, a tall figure with jet black hair and long wiry limbs.
"Dom Emrys," Father Nevan greeted, bowing slightly in reverence and extending a welcoming hand. "It's a pleasure to have you here."
"The pleasure is mine, Father Nevan," Dom Emrys responded, dismounting and accepting the handshake with a firm, warm grip. His eyes held a familiar warmth, and Father Nevan felt an immediate sense of camaraderie.
"Come, let us share a meal and find rest," Father Nevan suggested, leading the way towards the rectory. The building was modest but comfortable, its rooms echoing the centuries of faith and worship it had borne witness to.
Inside, the smell of roasting meat and baking bread filled the air, a comforting aroma that spoke of home and hearth. They ate heartily, sharing stories of their service, their hopes, their concerns, all while night fell gently outside.
After the meal, Father Nevan led Dom Emrys to his quarters. The room was simple, with a small bed, a desk, and a prie-dieu for prayer. Dom Emrys unpacked his modest belongings: a few changes of clothes, a small collection of holy texts, and some simple necessities for travel.
Once settled, Dom Emrys spent a quiet moment in prayer before retiring for the night, the room filled with the soft glow of a single candle and the soothing hum of evening prayers. As the day came to a close, the two men found solace in their shared purpose, ready to face whatever the new dawn would bring.
Morning dawned with the warm hues of the rising sun flooding through the windows of the rectory's dining hall. Dom Emrys and Father Nevan broke their fast on ripe figs and wine, the traditional morning fare of their holy order.
After the meal, they sat back, the air in the room ripe with anticipation for the discussion at hand. The subtle clinking of dishes and occasional chirping of a bird from the courtyard offered a gentle soundtrack to their conversation.
"I must admit, I nearly didn't come," Dom Emrys began, his tone serious. His eyes fixed on Father Nevan with a level intensity.
Father Nevan blinked, taken aback. "Indeed? I admit the situation is unusual. I myself am unsure when an exorcism was last performed."
Dom Emrys raised a hand, halting him. "Allow me to interrupt, Father. Would it shock you if I were to tell you there is no Devil?"
Father Nevan stared, the weight of the statement momentarily rendering him speechless. "No…Devil?" he repeated, his voice barely above a whisper.
"That's right," Dom Emrys continued, his gaze steady. "There is no Devil."
Father Nevan shook his head, struggling to make sense of this revelation. "But…the girl… what could be controlling her to do such things, if not the Devil?"
Dom Emrys leaned back, folding his hands over his stomach. "Her own mind, Father Nevan," he stated simply. "It is a much more complex and capable force than many believe."
"Her own mind?" Father Nevan repeated, a bewildered expression clouding his features. "I must admit, Dom Emrys, I'm struggling to comprehend."
Dom Emrys leaned back in his chair, fingers steepled, a pensive look on his aged face. "Consider this, Father. Our conscious self, the one we're aware of, is merely the tip of an iceberg. Beneath the surface lies a vast and profound power, a power that only a few of us truly understand, let alone control."
"Deryni?" Father Nevan asked, recalling the term from their earlier conversation.
"Indeed," Dom Emrys nodded approvingly. "The Deryni are those rare ones who have mastered this internal power. Occasionally, there are people who experience… let's call it an unintended 'leak' of this power. It bursts forth, disturbing their lives, and they seem unable to control it."
Father Nevan paused, absorbing the words. "But if she could learn to control it…" he began, his voice trailing off, filled with both apprehension and a hint of hope.
"Potentially, she could become a significant Deryni," Emrys continued, "but that's a conversation for another time. Right now, our focus should be on how to help her. My proposal is to perform the exorcism."
Father Nevan looked aghast. "Dom Emrys, forgive me," he interjected, "but your words appear contradictory. You claim there's no Devil, that it's her own mind causing these symptoms, yet you still suggest we perform an exorcism?"
"Yes," Dom Emrys continued, a spark of intensity in his eyes. "She is thoroughly convinced that she's possessed, displaying extraordinary events to corroborate her belief. A great Deryni healer once said, 'The cure must be as convincing as the problem.' If she requires an exorcism to quell her own fears, then we shall provide her with one."
Father Nevan, still somewhat skeptical, began to see the reasoning behind Dom Emrys' unorthodox approach. He nodded slowly, his gaze meeting that of the seasoned abbot. "I must admit, I have my doubts," he confessed, "But I trust your wisdom and experience, Dom Emrys. Please instruct me on my role in this plan, and I shall do as you bid."
"Your role is easy, just follow my lead."
Chapter 5: The Exorcism
Later that day, as the afternoon sun began to set, Dom Emrys and Father Nevan arrived at the small cottage. As soon as they stepped inside, the sick girl began writhing in pain. "It hurts, it hurts. Their presence hurts us," she wailed.
Unfazed, Dom Emrys approached her sleeping area. He sent out a psychic probe and verified the girl was in fact not possessed by any so-called evil spirit. He retreated is psychic assessment, so as not to violate the girl's privacy.
He signaled Father Nevan to sprinkle holy water, and he began to recite a powerful prayer to Saint Michael. The girl cried out as the holy water fell upon her, "It hurts, the holy water hurts."
Completing his prayer, Dom Emrys declared with an intensity that echoed through the room, "… and the Archangel is summoned, NOW!" He extended his hand towards an empty corner of the room. "There," he affirmed, pointing to the unoccupied space. All eyes turned to the spot, including the sick girl's.
"See him, Father?" Dom Emrys asked. Father Nevan hesitated, his face a mask of bewilderment. Then slowly, as if illuminated by a new understanding, he replied, "Y…Yes. I see him. He wears white robes and wields a sword of fire."
Dom Emrys fell to his knees in reverence, "Oh beloved Michael." Father Nevan followed, dropping to his knees and bowing his head in prayer. The sick girl stared at the empty space, visibly taken aback by the sudden change of events. After a moment, she shrieked, "NO! Get away from me, angel. You can't save this child."
Amidst the intensifying scene, the mother began to sob, her cries echoing in the small cottage. The father trembled visibly, wrapping his arm around his wife in an effort to provide solace in this chaotic moment.
"Oh holy angel Michael, slayer of dragons and beasts. Save this girl from the evil that grips her," Dom Emrys intoned, his voice steady and commanding, cutting through the raw emotion pervading the room.
A moment of silence hung in the air. "He comes closer. See, Father?" Emrys continued, pointing again towards the corner of the room.
"Yes, his robe waves as he takes a step, indeed he approaches," Father Nevan responded, playing along, his eyes never leaving the corner.
The girl's cries reached a fever pitch, her fear and agony palpable. "Each step Michael takes brings him closer to justice and redemption. Can you hear his footfalls upon the ground, Father?" Dom Emrys continued, his voice reverberating through the room.
"Yes, like thunder they are," Father Nevan echoed, his voice strained.
In response, the girl shrieked, "No!" she pleaded, her eyes wide with terror as she stared into the empty space, "Don't come any closer, I warn you!" Her voice rang out, filled with a primal fear, as though she too saw the imagined specter of the archangel.
"He raises his sword. High above his head. Now! He will strike the Devil once and for all, in a moment he will be no more on this physical plane," Dom Emrys declared, his voice a powerful crescendo.
"Yes, the sword of flame rises above his head, I can feel the heat of the flame now," Father Nevan echoed, his eyes alight with fervor.
The girl's cries of terror hit a fevered peak. "No! No! Don't harm me!" she shrieked, her eyes wide with absolute terror before her body slackened, succumbing to exhaustion.
A slow, knowing smile spread across Dom Emrys' face as he glanced at Father Nevan, standing up with a soft sigh of relief. Quietly extending his own mind towards the unconscious girl, he sensed her usual self had been restored, and she was simply sleeping off the physical and emotional exhaustion.
He approached the shell-shocked parents, reassuring them gently, "The power of light has won once again. Your daughter is restored to you."
The mother's tears continued to flow, but now they were tears of relief. The father reached out, vigorously shaking the hands of the two holy men, gratitude resonating in his voice as he thanked them profusely. "If we can ever repay you…"
Dom Emrys replied with a soft chuckle, "The only payment is to attend church services with Father Nevan." His eyes met the Father's in a moment of shared satisfaction, knowing their work was done.
As they tread the familiar path back to the rectory, Father Nevan turned to Dom Emrys, his voice bubbling with enthusiasm. "That was incredible! Wonderful! It was a ruse, but so convincing, I almost began to see the angel myself."
"The mind creates," Dom Emrys responded, his voice gentle yet firm. "It created the Devil for that young girl, and all we needed to do was create an angel."
They walked in silence for a few moments before Dom Emrys spoke again. "Remember, Father, two is greater than one. It is important that the two of us claimed to see the angel. If it was you alone, it may not have been enough to convince the poor girl."
Father Nevan tilted his head, deep in thought. "I'm not sure I understand. Surely acting is acting, whether it is the two of us or just one, no?"
A soft chuckle escaped Dom Emrys as he explained, "If I'm the only one who sees something, that is a hallucination. But if you and I both see something, then it becomes real."
The simplicity of the statement made Father Nevan pause. The sound of their footsteps seemed to echo in his mind as he mulled over Dom Emrys' words, the silence stretching between them filled with the weight of the realization. The rest of the walk was spent in contemplative silence, each man seemingly lost in his own thoughts…yet only one was lost.
With a final lingering look back at the humble cottage, the two holy men continued their silent trek back to the rectory. Meanwhile, many miles away in a different part of the country, life held a different rhythm.
Chapter 6: Lady Redmonda
The warm, comforting aroma of fresh ale swirled through the air, enveloping the two women in an aura of familiarity. Lady Redmonda, the mother of five children and recently widowed, sat poised yet pensive, her spirit displaying a mixture of resilience and vulnerability. Across the table, the sympathetic gaze of her confidante, Hild, provided an unspoken solace.
Hild paused, her eyes softening as she queried gently, "Red, it has been almost a full turning of the seasons since his departure, has it not?"
"Indeed," Redmonda responded quietly, her gaze falling on her half-empty mug, "Ten months to the day. I persevere, my dear Hild, as I must."
Hild's concern etched deeper lines on her seasoned face. "And what of Crispus? How fares he in his new role?"
Redmonda managed a small smile, a hint of pride gleaming in her eyes. "He's fulfilling his duties as Earl, accepting his responsibilities with grace."
"Ah, a true testament to his father," Hild replied with a hint of relief. "And how about dear Fabia? Is she applying herself to her Latin lessons?"
Redmonda sighed, her eyebrows knitting together. "That child has a stubborn streak. Brother Cafell's patience is being sorely tried, I'm afraid."
"And your youngest, the little Gloriana and Henricus?" Hild ventured further, her tone indicating the end of her inquiries.
"All are well, Hild. The children… they're all fine," Redmonda assured her, her voice holding a hint of tired determination.
Hild offered a reassuring smile, her own hand reaching out to cover Redmonda's. "That's comforting to hear, Redmonda," she responded, her voice gentle yet resolute, echoing the sentiment of silent support that hung between them.
As the conversation continued, it was Redmonda's turn to ask after Hild's family. "And your dear husband, Godric? How fares his hand? The cold months have never been kind to him."
Hild sighed deeply, her gaze momentarily drifting away. "Indeed, the winter seems to exacerbate his suffering. We've sought out healers, and while they help alleviate the pain, it never truly departs him."
With a change of tone, Redmonda gently steered the conversation towards a lighter subject, "And your lively little son, Alden?"
Hild chuckled, shaking her head. "Alden is a whirlwind of energy, as usual. He seems to be everywhere at once—running, jumping, and scaling anything he can get his hands on." Her eyes sparkled with a mischievous glint, "On the topic of climbing, have you heard the recent tale of Rhirid?"
"The Earl of Ebor?" Redmonda queried, her eyebrows furrowing, "No, I haven't. What transpired?"
A grim shadow passed over Hild's face. "A terrible accident. He fell from a tree and broke his back… passed away instantly."
Redmonda gasped, her hand instinctively moving to cover her mouth. "Merciful heavens! What was he doing in a tree?"
"Attempting to rescue his daughter's cat. It was stuck, and in his determination to help, he met a tragic end."
"Oh, that is dreadful," Redmonda exclaimed, her face mirroring Hild's shock. "Such a loss over such a small creature."
"But as they often say, in the wake of one life's departure, another is gifted. Robine has just had a child with Radon," Hild shared, changing the subject once more.
Redmonda grimaced slightly, "Oh, I've never taken to him."
"I'm aware," Hild said, her voice a gentle tease. "But their son is an absolute delight to behold. They've yet to settle on a name. It's either Rondel or Radon, named after his father. We'll have to wait and see."
"If it were up to me, I'd opt for Rondel," Redmonda replied, her tone resolute. "Avoid any association with that roguish father of his. Once a soldier, yes, but now a mere mercenary."
"Well, Red, I'd argue that a hired sword doesn't equate to an assassin," Hild gently countered, her tone calm yet firm. Her eyes held Redmonda's with a knowing look, acknowledging the fine line they were treading in their conversation.
Quick to change the course of their conversation, Redmonda smiled and steered it back towards more pleasant news, "Speaking of births, Frederice, Lady Bermond has just given birth. Now, that's a birth of distinction. Such reputable parents, Jonah Baron de Morisey and all. They've had a son who I'm certain will do extraordinary things in his life. Lord Fulbert. Just savor that name. Lord Fulbert. It carries a resounding ring of nobility, doesn't it?" Her eyes gleamed with delight, her earlier displeasure forgotten. She took a moment to sip her mug, savoring the anticipation of the future she was envisioning for the young noble.
"You always did like the Deryni," teased Hild, catching onto Redmonda's enthusiasm. "It's a name befitting a future Baron, at the very least. No doubt, he'll succeed his father when the time comes."
The conversation flowed easily between the two women, as it always did. They exchanged news and gossip about the village and its residents, the comforting rhythm of their shared confidences a familiar song. The names of various neighbours, friends, and acquaintances were thrown about, painting a lively tapestry of their close-knit community.
"And did you hear about Godwin's daughter, Edith?" Hild continued, a mischievous twinkle in her eye. "Rumour has it that she's caught the eye of young Edgar from the next village. They've been seen walking together near the meadow…"
Redmonda gave a nod, her lips curving into a knowing smile. "Love in springtime, it's as certain as the blooms," she mused. A moment of silence lapsed as they both considered the young lovers, before Hild decided to change the course of the conversation.
"Ah, and I have something else. I received a missive from our dear Lord Dunstan. His daughter has just celebrated her third summer."
As Hild wove intricate narratives of local love and courtship, Redmonda found her thoughts straying. An unexpected tangent crossed her mind, and she seized it. "Speaking of news, I received a letter the other day," she interrupted, her tone more muted than usual. "It was one sent to me for a change, and not my husband. Allow me a moment, I'll go fetch it."
With a slight rise from her chair, the soft whispering of Redmonda's gown resonated through the quietude that followed her interruption. Her gait, steady and composed, carried her out of the comfort of the hearth-lit room.
Her form slipped through the archway, disappearing into the corridor's dim serenity. The faint echo of her footsteps marked her path down the stone-flagged hallway, a lineage of portraits offering silent company.
The study lay in a secluded corner of the manor, a still-life painting of scholarly disarray. Towering shelves lined the room, straining under a weight of ancient texts and scrolls. A grand stained-glass window permitted a beam of sunlight to break through the subdued lighting, illuminating the worn rug with a mosaic of colors. An imposing oak desk resided in one corner, strewn with documents laid out with a semblance of order.
Approaching the desk, Redmonda swiftly sifted through the ordered chaos, revealing a neatly folded parchment from a stack of personal letters. She paused for a moment, her fingers brushing over the sender's crest – Aislinn Kethevan MacRorie's recognizable insignia.
Securing the letter, she returned to the hearth-lit room, her mind contemplating the contents of the parchment. As she retook her seat, Redmonda found Hild waiting patiently. With a sigh of resolve, she unfolded the parchment, a mix of emotions swirling within her as she prepared to share its contents.
Taking a deep breath, Redmonda began to read, her voice soft yet resonant in the quiet room. "This letter is from Aislinn Kethevan MacRorie, the youngest daughter of Ballard II, sister to dear Camber MacRorie. Aislinn married Iain I, the Earl of Kierney and they have brought forth a new generation."
She paused briefly, a trace of a smile playing on her lips. "Their eldest son, Iain II and his wife have been blessed with a son, they've named him Lord Adrian. Iain, who indulges in the thrill of the hunt, was not by his wife's side during the birthing, a lamentable reality of his pursuits. But, they assure that the mother is recovering well and the babe is healthy."
Redmonda glanced at Hild, her eyes shining with an unspoken joy. "It is heartening to know that amidst all the world's troubles, new life brings us a glimmer of hope."
Her gaze drifted back to the letter. Her voice faltered slightly as she continued, "Do send your prayers to their family, Hild. Camber's children… It's a tragedy what befell them. We must ask the Lord to grant them peace in His heavenly abode. God bless their innocent souls."
Her words trailed off into silence, the emotions in the letter echoing in the quiet room. The simple piece of parchment had traversed miles and brought with it tales of joy, the cycles of life, and a poignant reminder of the transience of human existence. The two ladies closed their eyes in mutual prayer for the MacRorie family.
The embers in the hearth glowed a warm orange, the room illuminated by their gentle light. As Hild concluded her prayer, Redmonda sat in thoughtful silence. The narratives of life and death, of beginnings and endings, had woven themselves into the tapestry of their lives. From Festus' last moments to the new life in Kierney and the spiritual struggles in their midst, they bore witness to the ebb and flow of existence.
She glanced at Hild, a soft smile playing on her lips. There they sat, two women each charting their own path through the unpredictable labyrinth of existence. Redmonda, having stepped into the role of aide to her son Crispus, the successor to her late husband, was now grappling with the weight of responsibilities that were once alien to her. And Hild, the ever-constant presence in her life, served as a beacon of wisdom and solace amid the swirling tides of uncertainty.
The quiet chattering of the maids in the distance, the subtle fragrance of the blooming flowers from the gardens - they were a testament to life carrying on. Even amidst the specter of death, life sprouted and blossomed in the most unexpected places.
Redmonda turned her gaze back to the hearth, watching the embers flicker. Their light, much like the tales they had shared, painted a beautiful picture of life's complexities - a picture of love and loss, of faith and fear, of birth and death. A tapestry of human existence, woven together by the threads of their intertwined lives.
As the fire began to die down, surrendering to the encroaching darkness, Redmonda found a strange sense of peace. It was as if the stories of the past year had come full circle, completing a cycle of life and death. She felt a profound connection with the people of her community, their stories, their struggles, their triumphs and losses.
She looked at Hild once more, a nod of gratitude in her eyes. They had traversed the year together, sharing, comforting, and learning from each other. Now, as the chapter closed, a new one waited to be written. And they would be there, ready to live it, to share it, to learn from it.
She gazed out the window at the Legain Estate nestled amongst rolling hills, the manor house standing proud and timeless. Beyond it, the waters of Pleasant Lake shimmered, dotted with elegant swans that traced serene paths across its surface. A cool breeze began to stir, rustling the leaves of ancient oaks and setting the wildflowers to a soft, whispered dance. As dusk fell, drawing the day to a close, a sense of quiet peace settled over the land, mirroring the tranquility in her own heart. Tomorrow, with all its promises and uncertainties, would come. But for now, this moment was enough.