Father Rye shuffled a bit. Wallace still hung at the door with Rufus, plainly not sure whether to leave his dog out in the cold.
“What are you waiting there for?” the priest scolded. “Get yourselves out of the cold.”
The invitation was for both. Rufus headed inside even before Wallace moved. The terrier made straight for the fire, curled up, and dropped with a sigh.
Once the rest of them settled, Gray started in. “Father Rye, can you tell us why Father Giovanni—”
“Poor boy.” The priest cut him off and crossed himself. “May he rest in peace.” He turned and patted Rachel on the hand. “And I’ll say a prayer for your uncle in Rome, too. I know he was a good friend of Marco’s.”
“He was and thank you.”
The priest turned back to Gray. “Marco…now let me think. He first came here to the church some three years ago.”
“That would be just after he first visited my excavation,” Wallace added.
“He came quite often after that, traipsing all over Wales. We talked about all manner of sorts, we did. Then last June, he returned quite agitated from Bardsey Island. Like he’d been spooked to the bone. He prayed all night in the church. I heard him, I’m afraid—not that I was eavesdropping, mind you—asking over and over again for forgiveness. When I woke the next morning, he was gone.”
Gray returned to that first visit. “Did Father Giovanni say why he first came here?”
“Aye. He was on a holy pilgrimage to Bardsey Island. Like many people before him. To pay homage to the dead.”
Gray tried to sort through what he was hearing. Clearly the good father hadn’t been totally honest with the elderly priest. But a few words made sense. “What dead are you talking about?”
“The twenty thousand saints buried on Bardsey.” The old man pointed an arm toward the small window, which looked out to sea. The island was all but lost to sight as rain poured heavily over it. “Marco wanted to know all about the history of the dead.”
Gray did, too. “What did you tell him?”
“What I tell all pilgrims. That Bardsey Island is a sacred place. Its history is a long one, going back to the peoples who first came to these fair lands. The ones who stood the stones on end and built the ancient cairns.”
Wallace perked up here. “You’re talking about the Neolithic tribe who first inhabited the British Isles.”
“Aye. You can still find their hut circles up on Bardsey. It was a sacred place even back then. Home of royalty. Do you know the Celtic tales of the Fomorians?”
Gray shook his head. Wallace’s eyes pinched. He plainly understood but wanted to hear what the old priest had to say.
“What are Fomorians?” Rachel asked.
“Not what, but who. According to Irish legends, when the Celts first came to these islands, they found them occupied by an ancient race, quite monstrous. Supposedly they were descendants of Ham, who had been cursed by Noah. The Celts and Fomorians fought over Ireland and its islands for centuries. Though not as skilled with swords, the Fomorians were known to be able to cast plagues upon their invaders.”
“Plagues?” Gray asked.
“Aye. To quote one Irish ode, they cast out a ‘great withering death’ upon their enemies.”
Gray glanced at Rachel and Wallace. Could this be the same as what wiped out the highland village?
“Other stories abound over the centuries,” Father Rye continued, “of great wars and wary peace between these two peoples. The Irish storytellers do admit it was the Fomorians who passed on knowledge of agriculture to the Celts. But at the end, one last great battle was fought on Tory Island, and it resulted in the death of the Fomorian king.”
“But what does all this have to do with Bardsey Island?” Wallace asked.
The priest lifted one brow. “As it is said, Bardsey was home to ancient royalty. According to local stories, it was on Bardsey that the Fomorian queen made her home. She was a great goddess who had the power to heal the sick, even cure the plagues.”
Wallace mumbled under his breath, “No wonder Marco kept coming back.”
Gray wanted to ask Wallace what he meant, but Father Rye was on a roll.
“And so the Celts took possession of all the lands. But even their priests, the Druids, recognized how sacred this region was. They made their center of learning on nearby Anglesey Island. Students gathered from all over Europe to study there. Can you imagine? But it was Bardsey Island that the Druids considered to be the most holy. Only the most elevated of the Druids were allowed to be buried there. Including the most famous Druid of all time.”
Wallace must have known this legend. “Merlin.”
Seichan stood on the leeward side of the Land Rover, keeping out of the wind. She opened and closed a folding knife while keeping watch on the rectory door. She didn’t fear anyone trying to escape, nor even using the rectory phone. Though to ensure the latter, she had slipped over and cut the telephone wires.
She could have simply gone inside with them, but piecing together bits of history was not her specialty. She looked down at the knife in her hand. She knew where her talents lay. And she didn’t need Gray distracted. She felt the fury radiating from him, stoking higher the closer she came. So she stayed away. She needed him focused.
For all their sakes.
She had watched the Audi sedan slip into the nearby town soon after they arrived. They were being watched from afar. Her handler, Magnussen, was keeping her on a short leash, tracking them out of the mountains. The hunters skillfully swapped out vehicles. She counted at least three tails. Unless you knew to look for them, they would have been impossible to pick out.
But not for her.
With a flip of her wrist, she snapped the folding blade closed and slipped it into her pocket. Sensing eyes on her even now, she needed to move. She abandoned the vehicle and strode toward the door to the old church. Its stone face was cold and imposing, as hard as the people who eked out a living off the sea here. The weight of centuries was palpable. Even its door was massive, scarred, and old. She tried the handle and discovered the church had been left open.
It always surprised her to find a door unlocked.
It felt somehow wrong, an unnatural state of being.
Before she thought better of it, she pulled open the door. The wind was kicking up. No telling how long the others would be. She entered the church and passed through the entry to the nave. Expecting a gloomy, somber interior, she was surprised to discover an airy and high-raftered space. The walls had been painted a creamy white that captured and held the meager daylight flowing through the arched windows. Polished wooden pews flanked either side, and a bright blue carpet led down the center aisle.