Galen's Child

Galen’s Child

Copyright © 2015 Tracey Lee Hoy

Published by Tracey Lee Hoy at Smashwords

Tracey Lee Hoy asserts the moral rights to be identified as the author of this Ebook.

Characters, locations and settings in this ebook unless otherwise stated are fictitious and bear no resemblance to persons living or dead, of actual persons or places.

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Table of Contents

Prologue - A Circle of Three

Chapter 1 - The moon doth shine as bright as day

Chapter 2 - I dreamed a dream

Chapter 3 – As Time Doth Pass, Remember

Chapter 4 - A Strange, Dim Light

Chapter 5 - A Time for Everything

Chapter 6 – Rachel’s Journey

Chapter 7 – Those Angel Faces Smile

Chapter 8 - Begins a New Dawn

Chapter 9 – Dark, Celtic Ones

Chapter 10 - A Timely Arrival

Chapter 11 – Sailing Across the Lonely Sea

Chapter 12 - Lilting Songs from Long Ago

Chapter 13 – Madoc the Mad

Chapter 14 – I have put my heart near your heart

Chapter 15 – The Journal and a Forewarning

Chapter 16 – The Misadventure

Chapter 17 – The Long Dream

Chapter 18 - A Misunderstanding and Mishap

Chapter 19 – A Memory Absent

Chapter 20 – A Tapestry Cursed

Chapter 21 – The Circle of Life

As Time Doth Pass, Remember…

Girls and boys come out to play

The moon doth shine as bright as day

Leave your supper and leave your sleep

And come with your playfellows

Into the street…

Prologue

A Circle of Three

1373AD Conwy Castle, Northern Wales

They were a circle of three; unbroken by time or space and kept safely for him during the dark hours where only dreams mattered. That night though, his safe world tilted on an uneven axis onto an uncommon, extraordinary path.

Protected in the corners of his slumbering mind, Connor saw the familiar young girl swirl her dark hair back and forth. It had grown and so had she. He thought her to be around fourteen summers; the very same as him. Through expectant green eyes the lanky girl keenly watched her father with a mixture of love and amusement, he, who stood nearby reading to her dramatically from a book; one arm waving about him. A flaxen haired woman entered the room and drew her daughter gracefully, lovingly into her arms. The spoken words were muted and unintelligible in the dream, however he knew the faces as well as he knew his own family. He watched her as her mother conversed with her. The girl’s father finished with his reading, walked closer to them and casually slung an arm about her thin shoulders, smiling down at his wife.

Although sleeping peacefully, Connor experienced a deep pang of longing as he watched her stroll absently out to the garden – her garden. Following her, feeling like a sneak-thief he watched as she folded her long limbs easily under her on the leafy ground, beside her favourite Wych Elm. Idly, she picked up a twig and absently chewed the end of it, lost and faraway in meditation reserved for grown women, yet with the graceful poise only youth can accomplish. A fragile sadness crept into her angelic features and he felt a tensing in his chest. Though he knew it to be just a dream, Connor wanted so very much to meet this special girl, so often did he dream of her she became a like friend in his mind. If only he could reach out to her; touch her; share her thoughts and dreams—make her real, somehow. He should have grown out of this long ago and his family, were they to suspect would think him foolish and child-like, as children so oft have ‘friends’ who are in truth not there.

Studying her face carefully he moved nearer, attempting in vain to reach out his hand to her. She did not respond, of course, yet even so he moved his face to hers, seeing her closer than he had ever dared venture. Listening to a different song in the beat of his young and impulsive heart he leaned in suddenly and softly brushed his lips across hers; if only to capture what he would like to do, yet knowing even in the dream she would not ken him. Her lips were grainy, with remnants of sandy dirt from the stick she’d had in her mouth, but he cared not, and experienced a deep longing and strange emptiness that he instinctively knew were her own feelings. He wondered how is was that dreams could be so convincing…to feel her lips that way. He had never felt anything real in his dreams before, only ever observing.

For the first time in a long time, Connor felt a tear slide down his face. It was then that he realised something. He loved her deeply, even though she was nought but a sweet dream lass his mind had conjured and grown over the years. Then, Connor realised that the girl’s sparkling green eyes had widened; she could see him! They stared at each other for several, shocked seconds. Connor heard the slow pulse of time slowing as he leaned in and pressed his lips to hers again. She did not panic, but instead closed her eyes and returned the ethereal kiss; impulsively tasting and exploring for the longest moment before the dream vanished.

Connor awoke then with a start amid rumpled bedding and shot upright. His dishevelled black hair fell loosely across his dark eyes and his features the rugged beauty of a timeless landscape. Collapsing back down on the soft downy pillows with a thump, and wearing a lopsided grin he remembered the pleasant dream. He had kissed her, and she recognised him! He was confident of it and dream or nay, twas a most pleasurable thing. He wondered whether through all of her years from the faraway place where she dwelled, had she also dreamed of him and their shared kiss?

Once again he wondered, did she exist somewhere, and not for the first time whether other folk dreamed this way. He had not really ever heard others mention dreams, apart from one of the kitchen girls, Cara whom he'd once heard dreamed of a beautiful red-haired woman on a white horse that none could catch. His dream was just a fantasy conjured by him but to pretend that she were real was a pleasant enow thought to entertain him. He climbed down from his high bed and stretched his long-limbed arms above his head and smiled like a cat, but became aware of a wetness on his cheeks. Surprise crossed his face as he brushed away spent tears that he thought he'd only dreamed. Standing very still he traced his fingers slowly down to his still warm lips, reliving the realistic taste of her mouth. It had felt so real. His broad fingers suddenly brushed across something grainy and instinctively, he pulled them away as though burned. His eyes stared in panic at the shocking but tangible evidence of his nocturnal escapade as several real grains of fresh dirt fell from his hand and onto the floor below.

*

Deepest grey-green

Tumultuous, tempestuous

Sea of people’s slumber or nightmare

Bewailing, thou wouldst consume me.

Chapter 1

The moon doth shine as bright as day

1385AD Conwy Castle, Northern Wales

The salted air hung oppressively as Connor Gruffydd stared out at the sea and inhaled deeply. The men finished loading the Rachel Mary some hours ago and the waters, still and calm like a child before its first breath. The mucky, changeable waters of the Conwy River lapped the sides of the gently rocking vessel, soothing Connor more than had the three hours of drinking mead and brandy with his father, Pádraig, and his brothers Rhys, Richard, and Aidan. As a cool breeze flowed through the channel, the fading pink hue of the sky gathered in the growing darkness; signalling signalled a profitable day ahead for the journey on his new boat.

Connor oft travelled to Ireland with his father, to his father, Pádraig’s good friend in Dun Laoghaire. He shared his father’s love of boats and the sea. Pádraig employed auld Sin for many years to construct what he needed for Conwy’s fleet of vessels. Unfortunately, auld Sin had since passed on, yet they found his son Michael more than satisfactory in his father’s stead. Upon their return three days before, Pádraig overwhelmed Connor by bestowing that very boat upon him.

Unable to believe his good fortune, he stepped outside and down to the shore before retiring early to soak in the sight of the Rachel Mary with her long pointed pennants flying high, emblazoned with the Conwy signet.

At one score and two, he believed himself to be in the pinnacle of his mortality and furthermore would not tie himself down to anyone, save for his changeable and tumultuous sea. There was only one woman he would ever consider, but her existence was only true in the darkest realms of his mind and had thus ruined him for any other. He had heard stories about his father from Grandfa'r Ciáran. Pádraig had apparently been a lazy, wastrel of a fellow who only loved women and sailing across the seas. In desperation of his slothful ways, his Grandfa'r had sent his father his Fraser kin in Eilean Donan, Scotland to teach him the ways of a chieftain, but he had been mistaken for a Macarthur and Pádraig was beaten and left for dead when his mother, Eílis MacDonnell came upon him and healed him. There were other parts of the story that had obviously grown wings over the years in the telling - that his mother had special gifts she'd inherited from her old grandfather. Pádraig apparently changed his ways and became the son his father, Cieron always wanted him to be. It was difficult to imagine his father being a lazy wastrel and he smiled at this thought.

Four of his brothers and sisters had thus far succumbed to the fatal charms of marriage already, so Connor thought it was safer at sea where there were no women to tempt him or matches to be made. Never had he lain with any woman yet who gave him any inclination to want to attach himself and he would not start now. He cared only for the sea and his duty to his father and mother. True, twas his own mother who forewarned him with her uncanny insight that he would find his love at sea. Mayhap he would find a mermaid!

Despite his good humour, he was unusually tired of late and thought to go back to the castle soon. The tiredness he blamed on the dreams. The dreams had been vivid since he was barely old enough to stand; though until recently, were quite fleeting in their nature. Usually, there was a girl, who had grown into a most alluringly captivating woman. The strangest thing was that she grew when he did. He remembered snatches of her as a tiny, toddling child when he himself was that age and when he first started remembering his dreams when he had thought her was part of his family. But then she had started to change, to blossom—her moods and nature changing with it. Her natural beauty was astounding although it seemed entirely possible that his mind would have conjured such a beautiful young woman with which to share his nights. He saw unusual things and places in his dreams, but she was always there. In an odd way, her nocturnal presence comforted him, like the familiarity of home and family or a child’s comfort blanket.

He knew not her name, only that of late she seemed as disturbed as he himself was. Did she sense his presence? He scolded himself. She was but a dream, a fantasy created by a young man’s lust. Kevin, his good friend and squire, said that he too dreamed of women since childhood; nevertheless Connor’s dream featured only the same girl. Always. He forcefully shrugged away these notions, but instead, her lithe form crept back into his thoughts and he allowed her sparkling blue gaze to wander unchecked into his mind in the same way that the mead and brandy flowed through his blood, warming him.

Rachel Mary.

The words were unclear from this distance, merely the shadow of where he knew the name that he gifted his boat with lay. From whence it came, he knew not, but woke on the morn after his birthday with it ready on his lips. It was a name of beauty and he would guard this vessel with his life. Great Aunt Bryn came for a visit with her husband, Darius the old Druid, Merrit’s son and his cousin, Adam. Great Aunt Bryn told him the Rachel Mary was his destiny. She had actually said the name as though it were a person and he’d laughed, because women ofttimes did not understand boats. But his Great Aunt had not taken offence, merely gifted him with one of her intense, and awkward smiles. Mayhap he would take on a grand adventure on the high seas. Find his destiny with a woman, he thought not, at least not until he was forced to. Unless his dream lady were real.

Connor became angry - with himself. He must try to forget this blasted woman. She occupied too many of his thoughts these days and even going to sea had done naught to destroy her image. He clenched his jaw tightly, willing her away but a fleeting movement caught his eye. He staggered nearer to the water - the brandy and ale making his movements clumsy and unpracticed on the stones by the shore. He saw an unnatural, shimmering light wavering atop the dark shadow of his boat. Moving closer, he watched the light dancing…transforming and something in the way that the light grew fascinated him. It sparkled and roiled above the water, changing shape into the figure of a person. ‘Nay!’ he whispered, and staggered forward. 'It cannot be her!' He stepped towards the figure. Shock coupled with the effects of the brandy caused him to stumble, falling and hitting his head sharply on a jagged, protruding rock. ‘God in heav…’ he did not finish, for the pain enveloped him and as he crumpled down onto the rocky shore where his precious lifeblood seeped out onto the sand and into the lapping water that he loved so much, Connor saw the shimmering form transform…into the woman from his dreams.

*

Northern Wales - Present Day.

The wind whistled ominously around the imposing structure of the Archives and whipped up the fallen leaves and dirt which twirled and twisted strangely in front of her, then died as quickly as it had begun. As she strolled to the lonely vehicle in the car park, Rachel realised that she had finished almost a year in her job. Walking briskly, dusk enveloped the town around her, and unseasonable mist encircled the solitary street lamp and she shivered as an ominous consciousness settled upon her. She thrust her hand into her bag and tucked her long black hair behind her ear in order to see properly as the dim glow of the lamp overhead obscured her vision.

Objects and belongings shifted and moved as she scrabbled around inside her bag. She could just hear her friend Helen’s patronising, whiney voice in times such as these. ‘Rachel get yourself together! Your life is sooo shambolic!’

Shambolic? Rachel kind of liked the sound of being shambolic and couldn’t care less that Helen thought her disorganised. Rachel had never, ever wanted to be like everyone else anyway. She’d always felt blessed being different. Sometimes it had been a lonely existence – especially as a child, yet for the most part she quite liked the innovative, resources and creative thought that came from being different. Her view on life was that you get one chance at things and you had to make the very best of what you were born into and what experiences were foist upon you – for what one person took for granted, another would spend their life dreaming about. Life was a little like a marriage of sorts; for richer, poorer, sickness or health till death do you part.

Anyway, whoever decreed that what one person thinks is right, actually is right? It was right for them, perhaps but really, it all depended upon what a person referenced their life to. She liked Helen and at times enjoyed their heated debates about the way to live your life and it had been a source of irritation for Helen all the way through uni, but her friend was very self-righteous and tried desperately to make Rachel feel less worthy. Yet for all Helen’s carry-on her own life was so organised that no man, woman or child could ever get near her for fear of interrupting her routine and initiating a self-important rant. Rachel knew that their friendship of many years had a shelf life and the sad poignancy of it all was that Helen would never know why nobody but a Helen-carbon-copy woman named, Louise from her work, wanted to stick around, and those things that came between them were a gulf that widened more with the passing of each year.

Eventually, in a very dark corner of her bag, the elusive keys allowed themselves to be found, and she pushed her friend’s face back to the darker recesses of her mind. Helen was right though when she stated (rather primly for Rachel’s liking,) a girl’s bag was symbolic of her life. Rachel’s bag was a veritable magic cavern with tissues, (used, new…) slightly scratched Red or Dead sunglasses, paracetamol, wire, bits of ribbon, a broken watch of her father’s which she’d been promising to get fixed for him, spare house keys, small sewing repair kit, pink child’s comb, assortment of pencils and pens and a small notebook, phone cord, overstuffed purse with a dicky catch, make-up purse, body spray, really scary looking packet of menthol cough drops bought so long ago that the paper was melded onto the sweet, and a new paperback from the library which she'd picked up during her lunchtime that she couldn’t wait to get home to read. She thought of Helen's pious friend, Louise who said that Rachel's family were just plain weird. She lifted her mouth in a wry curve. She definitely needed to find some different friends and move on.

The abandoned streets provided little security and suddenly flooded an uneasy feeling which seemed to plague and torment her lately. Her work, love of history and the quiet life melded one year into the next and she had to concentrate for several moments before remembering how old she was. Twenty two. Not exactly young however, yet in no way old. At times though, Rachel felt much older than her peers but Helen’s taunts that she would never find anyone to marry because of her eccentricities, she shrugged off. Caring about such things was an utter waste of her time, for what would be would be and no amount of fretting would alter that fact. Reassuring herself for the thousandth time, she sighed, though preferring not to examine this rebuttal of her feelings for too long. Her friend did not realise one important fact; Helen was successful and organised, but also alone, and still secretly yearned for a man, so all her pious rantings hadn’t helped her find what she liked to call her ‘ideal spouse.’ ‘Ooh!’ Rachel had replied mischievously once, ‘…you mean you want a lover!’ Helen had been apoplectic with embarrassment.

Rachel had always felt different during her growing years, though not in an alienated sort of way. Precocious even as a toddler, she astounded her mother and father by reading an excerpt from a Shakespearean play they had left lying around at the age of three, and fell deeply into the fantasy realm of books just as quickly. Fortunately for Rachel, a series of excellent teachers at her local school recognised and fostered her intelligence and facilitated her skipping several grades at school so she was able to apply for early entry to university. She’d thoroughly enjoyed her courses where history became her vital energy and Helen could never understand.

History came alive for her, and she astonished her lecturers with her fervour, and thoroughly accomplished mind. Rachel thought she was fortunate that history had always been a part of her life, and her fantastic imagination allowed her to live the most enriching, and mysterious childhood of which other children probably could only dream.

Galen and Rhee, her parents, were also history enthusiasts. Grandfather Keith was pleased when she developed her yearning and often retold the story of how her mother became a lecturer of history, confounding even his peerless professors with her startling knowledge. It was a strange set of circumstances, but one that Rachel had just always accepted and deemed normal. Her father, Galen had always encouraged her to learn all that she could about medieval history, though pressure was really unnecessary for she loved it all. Both her parents were quirky and eccentric and as an adult, Rachel now realised the full impact of this fact, though it did not bother her in the slightest – she was part of them and they her and she’d been blessed with such wonderful, loving parents. Her mind drifted lazily back to her childhood; a childhood filled with fantasy, warmth and history.

Several short blocks from her home, Rachel swung her car, an old and unreliable beast around a sharp corner, darting through the dimly lit streets, unable to shake the impending feeling of something so strong that the thought clenched her stomach. ‘dejá vu – rubbish!’ Helen would have said, but Rachel knew that was not the answer, for dejá vu was a slight feeling of having been somewhere or done the same thing before. Rachel had her own theories about that, and it involved a slight hiccup in the human thought processes that made the brain believe it had actually done or seen a thing milliseconds afterwards.

The trouble was, she did not know what the this strange and almost ominous feeling was, though sometimes it seemed as though if she searched her mind deeply enough that perhaps the truth lie dormant…waiting, but just not quite discernible. Why then could she not shake this coming dread? Passing the small fish and chip shop on the corner, she spied a group of teenagers huddled outside, pretending to be oblivious to the cold in order to socialise, and relief washed over her that she would never have to suffer being that young and bothered about what other people thought of her ever again.

Pulling up in front of her house, Rachel gathered her bags and a box of papers. She regretted promising the local History Group she would sort them by the end of the week because it clearly was not going to get done. Ignoring the first rumbling of thunder beyond the edges of her own little Welsh village, she hurriedly made her way inside.

Yawning, she knew vivid dreams would besiege her again this night. The frequent, peculiar dreams normally did not bother her, for her nights had been the same since she could remember, but more recently she began to also dream about people she knew, and what happened in her dreams would sometimes happen in real life. Her main dream though was of a gorgeous dark haired boy with earnest brown eyes and of his life somewhere she concluded, in medieval times. As she grew in real life, so too had the boy of her dreams and she’d come to think of him as her ‘imaginary friend.’ Grown into a quite handsome man in a rugged sort of way, with midnight black hair and fathomless brown eyes – for she had been