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Ancient Memories
By Isabella Macdonald Smith AuthorHouse
Copyright © 2014 Isabella Macdonald Smith
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4969-3627-1
CHAPTER 1
A Coruña, Spain 1660
Boom!
Radiating the sky, bolts of lightning danced around the silhouette of the thousand-year-old Hercules Lighthouse. Massive strikes outlined the tower standing tall atop its base as it rose in ancient splendor above the foam-infused water that crashed onto the rock-strewn cliff. Each succession of forked strikes defined the stone tower's majestic height and grandeur.
Elizabeth O'Sullivan lifted the hem of her long skirt and knelt on the window-seat cushion. Her face pressed against the leaded-glass pane in anticipation of seeing the flash of lightning when it illuminated the storm-laden sky. She edged her hands down the frame of the window, close to the casement, and pried open the aperture wide enough for her head to peer underneath.
Sheets of unexpected rain and strong winds began whirling around in the air currents trying to enter Elizabeth's open window. Blowing south from the Bay of Biscay, the wind mixed and swirled, joining and twisting with incoming turbulence off the Atlantic Ocean. The storm pounded and rattled the panes of the villa's ancient wooden-framed windows. While Elizabeth stared through the leaded glass, she felt the wind-driven water being pushed through the window's opening and quickly shut out the elements' entrance as she closed the window. Cleansing salt water ran down the outsides of the windowpanes. The window casement frame appeared to float away from the outside wall of the building. A massive pair of carved stone brackets surrounded by a wrought-iron railing secured the window frame to the weathered stone facade of the villa.
Adjusting herself on the silk-embroidered window seat of the upstairs study, she found herself growing impatient. The room was located in one of the homes she shared with her father in A Coruña, a large port city in northwestern Spain.
Leaves whipped past the window, some attached themselves to the panes. A tree branch with baby birds, too young to fly, floated through the air. The chicks burrowed deep into the nest their father had built.
Bored, Elizabeth exhaled loudly.
All the while, she waited, albeit impatiently, for her father to finish editing the Treaty of the Pyrenees between Spain and France.
Relegated to an anteroom of the villa, King Felipe's official court couriers maintained their vigil, standing at attention, eyes alert but not seeing. They silently waited for Knight O'Sullivan to hand them the official documents.
Nonetheless, court business aside, Elizabeth was anxious to commence the trip with her father to their inland home in Santiago de Compostela.
Searching for a diversion, Elizabeth gained a sense of peacefulness as she sat in awe of the world, with its amazing sights of flashing lightning followed by booms of thunder—all hers for observation.
In the corner, on the stone window balcony, something suddenly caught her eye: an old hooded crow that had found refuge from the storm. He was perched under the shelter of the window's overhang. He moved his position closer to the leeward ledge as sprays of water glided down his back. His glistening black hood, wings, and tail attested to his majesty. He was staring—watching her. He blinked not. He cawed not. For a long moment, his eyes trapped her gaze while she received his silent message through the eons to her ancient Celtic soul.
Internally, she shuddered. She could not identify why.
She sat mesmerized as details of a recent dream became strikingly realistic. In her mind, the image was as clear as the heavens after the wind freed clouds to scatter, leaving the sun to brightly stream through a cloudless sky. In her vision, Elizabeth awakened with a start to find two figures standing at the foot of her bed. Through a telepathic process, they said in unison in her mind, We're coming to get your father.
Drizzling rain obscured the sight of the ornate coach pulled by magnificent horses. When the brougham was well inside the grounds of the villa, it set off a flurry of excited voices throughout the hardscape. Yardmen slid away from their dry hiding places and slithered cautiously into the rain to watch as the coachman brought the horses to a water-and-wind-driven halt. The coach entered through the open iron gates at the portico of the villa.
The mayordomo too noticed the carriage but could not recall being told to expect guests of this magnitude. Out of the corner of his eye, through the wind-stirred rain, he noticed additional coaches heading toward the villa. Their horses raced along the structure's main circular entranceway.
Dressed in the villa's finest garments, the mayordomo hurried over to the rain-soaked coach to greet and assist the occupants in their descent. Opening the door, his eyes glanced toward two men seated inside the coach—one in full regalia attesting to his status as a high-ranking member of the Protestant Church. What does this mean? the mayordomo asked himself.
The senior man of the cloth slid from his seat to descend from the carriage. Raindrops fell from the carriage's roof onto the highly glossed, magnificent black boots he had extended outward, reaching for the ground. The man simultaneously extended his hand, displaying the all-powerful ring to be kissed, while the mayordomo bowed in respect for the man's apparent position.
Enormous bolts of lightning and claps of thunder penetrated the sky.
Elizabeth turned her head and peered out a corner of the window. At that angle, the carriageway arch was directly underneath where she sat. Hands and face pressed against the windowpanes. She could see the bishop and hear his sharp, authoritative tone as he addressed the villa's manservant. She could feel the tension in the manservant's demeanor. Vibrations of shivers passed over the body of the mayordomo.
Sounds of horses whinnying were heard as other wagons began to arrive and pile up behind the bishop's carriage. Sharp male voices emitted from the coaches as groups of ruffians staggered out and away from the slender coach-door openings. Throwing their hard voices into the wind-driven rain, they began yelling in unison, their words indecipherable. Their brawny bodies moved into action as their leader instituted their designated undertaking.
The ruffians mindlessly commenced their assigned task—they invaded the villa.
With a twist of fate, it would be a long time before Elizabeth would have the luxury of a simple daydream.
Soon her life would forever change.
Elizabeth ran through the villa until she was close enough to hear the voice of the clergyman. His face was hidden from her view. In a commanding voice, the man of the cloth was speaking to the mayordomo.
"Gather every servant in the villa. Have them meet me here. Now!"
Scared of the unknown, Elizabeth bent down and sat close to the end of a dark velvet cushion positioned over a window seat.
Standing in the anteroom, the two couriers from King Felipe's arsenal turned to face each other; they would never question the authority of a bishop. With no hesitation, they queued alongside the villa's staff and silently exited the Knight of Santiago's home.
As swiftly as the bishop's coach had appeared, the clergyman, along with his carriage companion, had sped off from the villa's grounds.
The booming sounds of lightning strikes became less intense. As the line squall began to dissipate and blow south, the torrential rainfall changed to a slight drizzle.
As she rose from her window seat, Elizabeth saw the reflection of an outline of a man who had discreetly positioned his body close to a sculptured topiary of bougainvillea growing at the edge of the courtyard. Raindrops trickled gently away from the broad-brimmed hat pulled low over his forehead, shielding his eyes from her view. Enough of the Hapsburg lip extended to reveal his well-trimmed facial hair while his goatee and mustache collected rainwater.
Elizabeth had no doubt of the seriousness the man's presence evoked—he was hiding in her father's yard. Even though he was wet, from his attire, she was keenly aware of the man's station. A wide linen collar slightly extended away from the top of his long top coat, which covered a pair of gentlemen's breeches; he was a member of the king's palace. He was part of the inner circle of retainers.
A second man quickly exited the villa's wooden side door; its metal hinges clanged against the doorframe. Elizabeth watched as he sprinted through the courtyard in the direction of the nobleman. His apparel had the appearance of poor quality. The cut and style of his garments suggested he was not of the first man's station. His dark pants and shirt were fashioned from a coarse grade of material. Short leather gloves covered his hands.
Scurrying at a quick pace, the man ran until he was within shouting distance of the nobleman lurking in the shadows. Elizabeth understood what he was saying—she could hear the verbal communication between the men.
She knew, in the innermost part of her soul, ill will was in the winds.
Tidings of what ensued that day would be chronicled to the church and the jealous nobles excluded from the power of the privy council. For hundreds of years, grandees' often exhibited fueled resentment toward the king. Perhaps, a contingent believed the Spanish crown had spent too heavily in time and financial resources on the renegade Irish O'Suilleabhain clan.
CHAPTER 2
Knight of Santiago Don Philip O'Sullivan
At the far end of the villa, Elizabeth's father, Don Philip O'Sullivan, a Knight of Santiago, was in his study, surrounded by scattered pieces of parchment. Some overlaid the floor or were haphazardly scattered across the top of his massive writing desk, consuming the entire surface. Don Philip O'Sullivan grappled with the fact that he was spending too much time and effort searching throughout the debris for a particular directive. He alone knew the secret held within the historical documents.
Politics in the Pyrenees, thought Don Philip O'Sullivan.
Oh Lord in heaven, I beseech your intervention.
Andorra! Since 1200, the battle has raged between France and Spain over the sixth-smallest country in Europe. Smallest country. No forward thinking when negotiators used outrageous judgment to award a prized piece of land to two countries. And then finalizing the treaty, Spain awarded a bishop the authority to rule Andorra. Too long the political turmoil has been fueled. The interference of the church has worn on the nerves of the king.
A superb view of the rugged Pyrenees Mountains. Andorra. Ah! Truly the most beautiful valley I've ever laid my eyes on, enveloping the deepest part of my soul.
Spain to the south, France to the north.
Oh! The king. Now the king of Spain has assigned me the responsibility of negotiating an agreement with the bishop. I'd prefer to ride my steed into battle, my sword held high, than negotiate with the bishop. He rules for himself. Spain is unable to control his pomposity. The portentous, self-absorbed Bishop Urgell—he pontificates too frequently about his achievement of successfully creating his own personal link to God and the kingdom of heaven.
Suddenly, he found the object he'd been searching for. It had been hiding in plain sight.
He reached for a parchment and held it loosely between his thumb and index finger, letting it flutter slightly as he waved it back and forth. The mislaid document was of great importance to O'Sullivan and his daughter, Elizabeth, before him. Unbeknownst to him at the time, it would be to his advantage to unearth it from his pile and leave it within view.
O'Sullivan thought, Ah! I believed I had misplaced this epistle.
This is the document King Felipe signed confirming Elizabeth's legitimacy to the title and land in Ireland. Thanks to our Lord in heaven, I have been provided the financial means to appoint the best scholars among the Irish monks and Spaniard fathers to provide Elizabeth with the education and knowledge she will need to rule. A polyglot she is in Gaelic and Spanish, fluent in English and French—she has the intelligence, beauty, and capabilities to hold influence over courts of many lands.
CHAPTER 3
Abandoned by the Retinue
The attendants!
Such exasperation I'm forced to endure, O'Sullivan thought. Where are the servants?
His temper was evident by the force behind his right hand as it pulled several times on the long silk cord. In his left hand, he still held tightly on to the treasured parchment.
Where is my manservant?
I need help removing these Spanish boots from my feet. Ouch, the leather is wet, and my feet are soggy. These boots have stiffened and are straining against my nerves. They are cutting off my circulation. The boots are way too tight; I'm unable to remove them myself. I swear I'll not put them back on my feet again until the cobbler has inserted a vice into the boots and stretched out the leather.
Realizing that naught a manservant was coming to his aid, O'Sullivan located his jackboot remover. One at a time, he placed each boot inside the implement. Struggling, he pushed and squirmed the heels of his feet hard enough to loosen the boots' hold. In this fashion, he was able to yank the boots free from his feet.
Relaxing in his space, O'Sullivan picked up a cup and drank the last drop of mead.
Freedom and a sense of ease surrounded O'Sullivan as he removed his wet socks, dried off his feet on a hand towel, and then placed his feet into a pair of gold-braided maroon-colored velvet slippers.
Comfortable, his disposition improved, he returned his attention to the top of his desk and the manuscripts dispersed over its surface. For just a moment, as he gazed over the untidiness, his mind was at peace.
Past verbal clashes with Bishop Ussher emerged in his psyche and choked in his throat as accusations jumped to the forefront of his consciousness.
James Ussher!
O'Sullivan's aggravation renewed at the thought of Ussher—self-defending, playing the scene out in his mind's eye between himself and Ussher (1581–1656).
(Continues...)
Excerpted from Ancient Memories by Isabella Macdonald Smith. Copyright © 2014 Isabella Macdonald Smith. Excerpted by permission of AuthorHouse.
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