The Master's Reliquary

Book Two: The Song of the Cross

Sample

Prologue

Scotland AD 1057

Bridi retreated down the hallway. Behind him he dragged his father’s sword, though it was nearly too large for him to wield. He paused to lean for a moment against the hall’s cool stone wall, and pushed the long, dark hair back from his forehead. Something wet came away on his hand. He raised it up and stared at blood. It was Brec’s. He thought of the sacrifice that Brec and his father’s other retainers had made to protect him. Bridi alone had reached the shelter of the tower. Even now He could hear the slayers of his brave friends breaking through the oaken doors below. Impatiently Bridi wiped away tears and continued on to the door at the hall’s end. He took a deep calming breath and entered.

Soft light from a single high-up window illuminated the small chapel. A fragile peace began to fill his heart as he remembered times spent here with his father and mother. He turned and barred the door behind him. This door was far less stout than those at the entrance of the keep. It would not hold his pursuers for long. It would be long enough.

He stepped before the tiny altar and knelt. There beneath the altar, draped with gold-threaded cloth, stood what his father had called his most precious possession – their ancient wooden reliquary. Bridi tried to recollect the stories which his father, the great warrior Aidan, had woven for him many nights in front of a warming fire in their Great Hall. Stories of how his long-ago namesake Ri Bridi nOengusa, son of Ri Conall nOengusa, had been led by a vision to find this very chest on the Holy Isle of Brude.

The clash of steel on stone steps tore Bridi from his reverie. Canmoor’s men had finally broken through the lower door and were coming. Quickly Bridi reached into the satchel at his hip and drew out the roll of parchment it contained. Gently he unrolled the scroll, the age-old record of his clan. At the top, barely legible, were connected the names Conall nOengusa and Taezal mettMaelcon. After these came a long list of Mother’s of the Great and their sons who had become Ri. At the bottom of the long list was his own name, written at his birth sixteen years earlier. Bridi nOengusa, last of their line. The previous winter, when Bridi’s father had been struck down by fever, he had admonished Bridi to hide this cherished proof of their heritage in the reliquary. “The reliquary shall endure, and therefore the memory of our lineage shall also. In time of trouble, place it in the reliquary.” Bridi had nearly left it too late.

A sudden hammering on the chapel door urged Bridi to action. Hastily he threw off the golden cloth from the chest and removed its lid. Amid cries and poundings on the door he pulled out cups, silver plate, and a large book of scriptures. Below these items was the false bottom a clan leader had installed sometime in the far past. His father had shown him how to first slide, then tilt, the thin board to reveal a small space in one corner. There Bridi reverently laid the rolled-up parchment.

Behind him Bridi heard splintering wood as door planks finally surrendered to steel. There was no time left. Swiftly Bridi tossed the articles back into the chest and replaced the lid. The door flew apart. Bridi in one motion rose, turned, and lifted his father’s sword heavenward before him.

In spite of his fear, Bridi’s anger kindled as Canmore’s soldiers rushed in to profane his family’s sanctuary. The sweating, blood-covered men paused briefly at the door, eyes darting about to identify what resistance remained.

“Come forward and feel my father’s sword!” called out Bridi.

As the soldier in the lead realized that their only foe was a single boy with an over-large sword, he laughed. “My friends, the day is won. Dispose of this one and let us be to our drink.”

The leader and two of his men stepped unhurriedly toward Bridi in a tight semicircle. Bridi, his back to the altar, hoped that he could strike at least one blow before he was cut down.

“Hold!” came a commanding voice from behind the men crowding the entrance. All eyes turned to the tall, mail-clad figure who strode into the chapel. The man looked at Bridi and gestured his soldiers back.

“Well, Bridi of Oengusa – do you continue?”

It was Canmoor himself. Bridi’s anger rose anew. He fought to keep his composure, wishing only to throw himself desperately on this man who had brought ruin to his clan. To all Scotland, for that matter. But Bridi knew that would accomplish nothing. His arms struggled to hold the sword. His only chance to hurt this man was to hold his ground and hope Canmoor became careless. He might yet have the opportunity for one swing.

Canmoor came closer. “You could have spared good men this day, boy. Your lands are gone. Your pretense at title is annulled, given by King Edward to me.” Canmoor rested the point of his sword on the wooden floor and leaned casually on its hilt. “Still, I would not have the clans think I war with children. I will grant you your life and those of your misled men I hold captive, if you will publicly renounce your claims. It is best for the people.”

Bridi said nothing. It seemed Canmoor did not want to kill him outright, perhaps leaving the title in doubt. He looked at Canmoor’s down-turned sword. He measured the two paces to Canmoor’s throat. Any distraction, and he could have his moment.

“Bridi, my son, lay down your sword.”

Startled by the command, Bridi answered aloud. “Who speaks?”

“Bridi, do not come to Me with a bloody heart. Lay down your sword.”

“Lord, it is not right that I should submit to this evil man. How could I do such a thing?”

“You submit only to Me. See, I give your enemy into your hand.”