Curse of the Celts Read online

  Curse of the Celts

  The Once and Future Queen

  Clara O’Connor

  One More Chapter

  a division of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd

  1 London Bridge Street

  London SE1 9GF

  www.harpercollins.co.uk

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  First published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers 2021

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  Copyright © Clara O’Connor 2021

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  Cover design by Andrew Davis © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2021

  Cover images © Shutterstock.com

  Map © Laura Hall

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  Clara O’Connor asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work

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  A catalogue record of this book is available from the British Library

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  This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

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  All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

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  Source ISBN: 9780008407698

  Ebook Edition © March 2021 ISBN: 9780008407681

  Version: 2020-12-14

  Contents

  Part I

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Part II

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Part III

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Acknowledgments

  Author Q & A

  Exploring the World of The Once and Future Queen

  Recipe: Griddle Cakes aka Welsh Cakes aka Pice ar y maen

  Thank you for reading…

  You will also love…

  About the Author

  Books by Clara O’Connor

  One More Chapter...

  About the Publisher

  The final touches of this book were done in the strange summer and autumn of 2020, when the gift of family and friends has never been more precious.

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  Thank you for being there (near and far).

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  Cx

  Part One

  Through The Blast

  It was a winter evening,

  The snow was falling fast.

  There was a little travelling wanderer,

  Came trotting through the blast.

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  It had no covering on its head,

  No cloak to keep it warm.

  I ran to meet it on its way,

  And save it from the storm.

  — The Little Wanderer, Esther “Hetty” Saunders

  Chapter One

  Londinium, Imperial Province of Britannia

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  In the reign of Caesar Magnus XVII

  “You are accused of crimes against the Code. How do you plead?”

  The hood covering my face prevented me from seeing but I knew where I was. Underfoot was sand. The praetor’s voice boomed out, silencing the roar of the crowd. We had been caught. Did I stand alone?

  My thoughts were racing as my heart pounded. Was I here on the sands by myself? I was fully conscious of everything I had done, fearful of the punishment that would be meted out to me, but not sorry. Not regretful. I did not accept any guilt. Nor the right of the mob to judge my actions. I would not kneel.

  The crowd’s jeers and cries gained in volume as I remained standing in defiance, a great wave of sound crashing into me. Their fun could only be had if I knelt; my crimes would then be displayed for all the world to see and judge, collected from the cameras and microphones that dotted the city, pieced together and used in evidence against the accused. I was now that accused. Devyn had given me a charmed pendant that he promised would conceal me from the all-pervasive surveillance in the city. I guess now I would find out if it had worked.

  Where was Devyn? Was he here? I wasn’t sure. We shared a bond that allowed him to communicate with me as long as he didn’t block it off to conceal what he was feeling. I didn’t know whether or not I wanted to sense him here, now. With the handfast cuff on my arm, the range had been reduced to a few feet, so he could be here, caged, awaiting his turn at the other end of the arena, or he could be… My mind balked at the darker possibilities.

  I had always believed in the transparency, the righteousness, of our judicial system. I knew now that there was a whole hidden world where the council chose who did and did not appear on the sands, one where people disappeared and left no record behind. I suppose it was harder to disappear an elite. My social visibility at least granted me the appearance of a public trial.

  Why hadn’t they started proceedings yet? Typically, by now Praetor Calchas would have moved on to telling the crowd what my crimes were, and I had to admit the list was probably long. Actually, I’m not sure the city had terms for some of the things I’d done in recent months. The crowd hushed in anticipation. My entire body tensed in reaction; this was all very off script. What was going on?

  “You are accused of crimes against the Code. How do you plead?”

  Was he talking to me again? I wasn’t sure what was expected of me. I looked around despite the mask preventing me from seeing, waiting for some indication from a guard or someone of what I should do. I couldn’t breathe. I swayed. I bumped into a shoulder. A guard standing so close? No, another accused taking their place beside me; that was who Praetor Calchas was addressing.

  A hand brushed tentatively against mine. Then more surely entwined our fingers together. Marcus. It was Marcus. I still wore the handfast cuff on my upper arm, so Marcus’s presence made me feel better. My emotions over the last months swayed between two boys, like a pendulum swinging between two versions of myself, depending on which piece of metal I wore.

  The cuff tied me to my old life, coded to make me long for Marcus, my city-mandated match, and to feel immediately better when he was near. And, as we found out too late, to cause intense pain if we were too far apart. The general desire to comply was only blocked by the charmed Celtic pendant Devyn had given me, the one that allowed me to remain the new me, the me who no longer did as her parents – and her city – wanted, but it had been rudely ripped from my neck weeks ago in Richmond. I realised I was not clouded by that urge to comply now, and my free hand found the familiar disc with its etched triquetra engraving. I was comforted to find it returned, however mysteriously. The crowd stilled again.

  “You are accused of crimes against the Code. How do you plead?”

  This time I could sense the approach of the latest accused taking his place beside me, could feel the rage and desperation and defiance rippling off him as he stepped closer
. Devyn. I breathed more easily underneath the confining mask. He was here. The crowd roared as the third figure on the sand also refused to kneel. The growing displeasure of the mob at the unfolding events was evident in the noise that came at us like a tide of rolling surf. I had once sat in the audience here watching an accused take the sands, the masked and hooded figure cowed by the waves of sound coming from those seated in the arena as well as pouring down from the balconies high up in the glass and steel sky towers that encircled the ancient amphitheatre.

  Another hand found mine. We were not cowed; we stood united. Like something out of a story. Stories of adventure sound so much more impressive from the outside. Guinevere, Elizabeth Tewdwr, Boadicea… Had their knees felt as unstable as mine did now? Had their mouths tasted of copper in their fear?

  “Citizens, we are in uncharted territory here.” Praetor Calchas addressed the mob. “These three are accused of serious crimes. Their story is shared, and their crimes are many. This extraordinary Mete has been assembled to deliver swift justice and punishment to these three who were captured attempting to escape the city last night.”

  Whatever happened to waiting until the city passed judgement? Was Praetor Calchas so sure that we would be found guilty? My mind raced. The charms must have failed to work. If they had enough on us to serve up to the crowd then we were indeed damned.

  “The first is accused of repeat offences. He has been punished here before. Despite the mercy of the city, he has returned to the sands once more.”

  There was a shove from behind, and Devyn stepped forwards, breaking contact.

  “You are accused of hacking. You have further offended the Code by aiding and abetting the escape of a convicted Codebreaker. Kneel to receive the judgement of the city.”

  There were the sounds of a scuffle. What was going on? In accordance with the law, Devyn had the right to refuse to face the city. By standing, he was choosing to go straight to sentencing. We would receive no fair trial, so why go through the charade?

  “Your choice to refuse trial is dismissed. Your crimes are heinous and the city has the greater right here to bear witness. Begin.”

  I assumed Devyn’s mask would still be on as the film rolled. Despite Calchas’s unprecedented overruling of the most basic right of a citizen to refuse trial, the rules of the Mete were in many ways just; anonymity was total until the judgement was made. The accused’s identity was protected by the mask and concealed in the evidentiary film that was shown to the citizenry. I could picture everything: the praetor on the balcony in front of us lifting his hand to indicate that the evidence should be played on the screens; the crowd turning their attention from the more commonly solitary figure on the sands to the big screens that allowed the audience within the ancient amphitheatre to watch the broadcast that was simultaneously being viewed everywhere in the city; the forum, highwalks, upper gardens – all public spaces would be empty as the citizenry assembled in front of hundreds of thousands of screens in homes across the city, from the hovels in the warrens of the eastern stews to the lofty, leafy levels of the towers in the western suburbs I had called home.

  The crowd hushed as the film started. I heard the sentinels enter the civics classroom in the basilica and pull Devyn out. This was the moment when all this had started, when I took the illegal device from his pocket. There was a snippet of him being questioned and then a replay of the Mete I had attended, unaware at the time I was witnessing my classmate’s sentence and subsequent flogging.

  The crowd muttered, outraged to discover the accused was a known Codebreaker who had previously taken the sands and been forgiven for a capital offence. The film played on and the mob reluctantly quieted to hear the praetor’s instructions that he be cleaned up and his memory wiped to see if they could get his accomplices.

  Me. He had led them to me.

  I heard my voice discussing the tech with Devyn, discussing what he planned to do with it. It was an early conversation before I had worn the triquetra pendant. The crowd was barely reacting; my identity must be concealed. I didn’t understand. The praetor had referred to Devyn as having assisted a Codebreaker, but it couldn’t be me because until convicted I was merely accused. Who was he referring to? I listened fiercely to follow the events unfolding on screen. There wasn’t a great deal of audio; the charms must have worked for the most part, protecting our conversations from being captured despite what must have been close surveillance. The crowd gasped as they recognised a second person. It had to be Oban, the apprentice tailor to whom the mob had shown leniency on the same night Devyn was flogged. Then I heard Oban and Marina discussing Devyn’s offer to forge papers and get them out of the city. Their home had a camera, so they would have discussed it somewhere they thought safe, but nowhere in the eastern stews was camera-free; the gaps in surveillance in the poorer sections of Londinium were few and far between.

  They were twisting everything, making it appear as if Devyn helped Oban and Marina escape from the city to evade justice for using magic. Marina had magic? I had only been aware that it was a possibility, and I shook off the hurt that they had hidden this from me.

  There was no mention of the illness that would have alerted the authorities to her status as a latent, and with it, of course, that she potentially had magic in her blood, making her a target for the sentinels to steal away as they had countless others in the stews.

  It was difficult to guess at what was being shown – most likely whatever footage they had of Oban and Marina’s escape from the city which would testify to Devyn having hacked the city’s networks to get them out. Then there was the sound of horses – that must be my attempted escape the night I met Devyn in Richmond. But we hadn’t got away. Devyn had, but I hadn’t. His promise to come back for me echoed around the arena.

  The roars started again as the film ended. The crowd had seen plenty. Now the praetor would be stepping forward, his outthrust thumb, held horizontally, an indication that it was time to vote to see whether the accused was deemed innocent or guilty. The seconds ticked away. It seemed endless. Was the minute always this long? Devyn’s hand took mine again as he was allowed to stand. Finally, the gong sounded. Devyn’s hood and mask would be removed now to face judgement. He would be displayed to all.

  The crowd’s jeeringly triumphant reaction indicated it was thumbs down.

  “Devyn Agrestis, you have been found guilty of hacking for a second time as well as aiding and abetting the escape of two Codebreakers. In light of a 99.27% conviction rate, you are sentenced to our most severe sentence for your offences: your blood will be spilt upon the sand in full payment for your crimes. Death.”

  The crowd cheered its approval at the sentence. Capital punishment was rare, but when it did happen the condemned was granted a boon and a final night, returning to the sands the next night with the black-hooded executioner. I held Marcus’s hand tighter. Which one of us was next?

  A hush fell and I gripped the hands on either side of me tightly. Marcus’s hand pulled away as he in turn was pushed forward.

  The praetor’s stentorian tones carried across the arena.

  “You are accused of crimes against the Code, of using magic within the city walls, and aiding and abetting the escape of yourself and these others who stand before me. Kneel to receive the judgement of the city.”

  I didn’t need to hear the crowd’s reaction to know Marcus still refused to kneel. The mob exploded on learning that the use of magic was being tried here today, so that the praetor’s direction to the sentinels to put the accused on his knees was barely audible over the din.

  The clamour of the crowd faded as the evidentiary film began to play. I could identify the sounds of the hospital and could guess at what they would be seeing: a doctor with his face obscured, standing over patients who were dying of the illness. I had seen it many times myself: Marcus holding his hand above them when no one was paying attention and the patient clearly responding. I heard gasps and murmurings from the crowd, but it was impossible
to know how this was being presented. Were they editing it to make Marcus look like he was making them worse? They surely couldn’t try and blame the hundreds of ill individuals on one man? Could they? It wouldn’t make any sense; those people were already ill when they came to the hospital. The film moved on, and I could hear the sounds of the pre-wedding revels as we sailed down the Tamesis less than twenty-four hours ago. It had been a cover for our ill-fated escape attempt.

  “Marcus,” a voice rang out from somewhere in the amphitheatre. “Marcus. That’s Marcus Courtenay.”

  Pandemonium ensued. Marcus’s name was on everyone’s lips. His name was being chanted. He had been recognised. Of course he had. He was a well-known member of the elite, often featured in the social bursts and gossip feeds. Showing a film of a doctor and then clips of a party attended by members of the elite who were even now seated in prime spots around the amphitheatre made it inevitable that someone would connect the dots.