The Lion and the Cross

Joan Lesley Hamilton

Description

The man who would become Ireland’s beloved patron saint confronts his destiny during the tumultuous Dark Ages in this vibrant, enthralling novel

In 410 CE, arrogant sixteen-year-old Magonus Sucatus Patricius denounces Christianity as a religion for cowards when the Roman legions withdraw, leaving Britain vulnerable to raiders from the west. Determined to wield a sword despite being the grandson of a priest, the affluent young man is taken captive by barbarians and sold into slavery to a cruel Irish king. On a mountaintop in Eire, a shepherd strips him of his grand Roman name and calls him Padraic, marking him a man of no consequence.
 
Set against the magnificent backdrop of ancient Ireland and based on available historical facts, Saint Patrick’s Confession, and Celtic myth, this gripping novel follows Patrick as he finds his faith while fighting to escape bondage in Eire. Friendship with a king, love for a queen, and enmity with the druids who fear his God will embroil him in a civil war in a land from which he will struggle to flee—only to be called to return.

 

Sujets

• Christianisme
• Eire
• Saint Patrick
• Prehistoric Ireland
• Druid
• Celts
• Christianity
• Adventure
• HIStory

Informations

• Publié par: Open Road Media
• Date de parution: 26 janvier 2016
• Nombre de lectures: 1
• EAN13: 9781480417830
• Langue: English
• Poids de l'ouvrage: 1 Mo

Extrait

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Also by Joan Lesley Hamilton
Writing as William Sarabande
Wolves of the Dawn
The First Americans
Beyond the Sea of Ice
Corridor of Storms
Forbidden Land
Walkers of the Wind
The Sacred Stones
Thunder in the Sky
The Edge of the World
Shadow of the Watching Star
Face of the Rising Sun
Time Beyond Beginning
Spirit Moon
Praise for The Lion and the Cross
Fans of Mary Stewart s historical fiction should welcome [this] fictionalized account of St. Patrick during his boyhood and coming of age. Hamilton has recreated this legendary character in a manner that permits the reader to understand Patrick as an ordinary man driven by a power that he can only reluctantly acknowledge and submit to. An excellent portrayal of a time when magic was a normal occurrence and violence and upheaval were everywhere Entertaining. - The Columbus Dispatch (Ohio)
A blend of legend, allegory and facts that form the story of a spirited Patrick, the patron saint of Ireland. The Celtic ambiance of 5th century Eire is well caught and a colorful tapestry emerges for a saint about whom little is known historically. - Publishers Weekly
A spare outline of plot gives no concept of the richness of the textural fabric of this book. Along with the historical figures, [Hamilton] has interwoven the stories of such fictional characters as Licinius, the Briton warlord, the beautiful maiden Clodia, and the whore Morrighan. If sheer love of subject were a guarantee of an author s success, then Hamilton is a winner on that ground alone. As a departure from the usual historical novel, The Lion and the Cross is unique. - Fort Worth Star-Telegram
An exciting adventure story about a rebellious, very human young man destined to become the revered Patron Saint of the Irish, this book is on the order of Mary Stewart s Merlin novels The Crystal Cave and The Hollow Hills . - Doubleday Catholic Book News
The Lion and the Cross
A Novel of Saint Patrick and Ancient Ireland
Joan Lesley Hamilton
This book is dedicated to Charles. His love and prodding made it happen. And to Isa. Her faith in me made me realize that it might be done. And to the memory of my father, John Leslie Hamilton, descendant of Ulstermen and Republicans, who taught me to be proud of the Irish in me.
CONTENTS
PROLOGUE
BOOK I FROM THE WESTERN SEA
BOOK II THE MOUNTAIN OF MISTS
BOOK III THE RING FORTRESS
BOOK IV THE HOLY ISLE
BOOK V FROM THE WESTERN SEA
AUTHOR S NOTES
About the Author
PROLOGUE
I am Padraic, a sinner, most unlearned, the least of all the faithful, and utterly despised by many.
Yet, in this the hour of my severest testing, knowing that the High King has sent his henchmen into the dawn wood to seek me out and slay me, I know in my heart that Destiny has led me back to Eire, and so I am not afraid.
Destiny? Yes. At last I have acknowledged it. And His name. Though once I mocked them both. For reasons which I shall never know, God has sought me out. From across the far seas. From within the soul of my youth. He has signed His mark upon me in blood and now He roars within me as a lion. He roams my conscience as a restless, prodding wind. He has worked miracles for my sake. He has given me the Sight. He has granted me the Power.
It is by His grace that the druids fear me as a sorcerer. They call me an enchanter, a magician who can command the spirits of the Otherworld. Yes. It is all true. But the Power is not mine to be summoned at whim. Were it otherwise, I would never have been taken as a slave to Eire, nor would there have been war upon the peaceful hills of Dalaradia, nor would I be here now, shivering in the forest, a hunted man. I would be at Tara, seat of Laoghaire, who is now High King over all of Eire. Like the clever, whispering male ghosts which the Gael call fershee, I would wrap myself in the fabled cloak of invisibility and take myself fast and far across the miles. With the sacred Hill of Slane at my back, I would hover like a shadow in the great banquet hall of the High King, eavesdropping upon those who now plot to destroy me.
Yet Tara is many a long mile away and, for now at least, God has brought me here to be sheltered by the forests of the Mountain of Mists. My youth was spent here. Memories of it rise in me now like dawn across an old and ancient plain. It was here that I, a Briton captive, was to learn the ways of the Gael. It was here that God first blessed me with His Power and then blighted me with His wrath. A thousand, thousand years away it seems now, for the Sight has been dimmed within me, and the Power is a mere breath stirring softly in the fallen leaves which are my memories of Yesterday. The dragons still elude me. The dragon Future. The dragon Unknown. They have led me back to Eire and still they are not content to rest. They lead me on, haunting me with the prophecies of long-dead seers, mocking me with memories of flame and stone and magic.
Magic? Oh yes. Do not scoff. There is magic. I have seen it worked in the shadow of the standing stone, and in the gray eyes of a man who could see beyond Tomorrow. The druids know it well. They practice it even now, at Tara and Emain Macha and such of their holy places as Dun Ailinne and Cashel. But theirs is a magic born out of Darkness. The Power which is born through me is the Power of the God of Light who came to me in the Long Ago, when I was a boy who knew him not, even though He moved upon my dreams and called out to me from the soft and pliable fabric of my youth.
Youth? I am nearly forty now. An old man. And still I follow the dragons, though at last I am wise enough not to ask why. The way and the reason shall be made known in God s good time. Meanwhile, I am content to follow, knowing that my future has somehow been written in my past and that the road upon which I walk has been laid for me long before I was ever born.
The road. I must speak of the road. It began for me in Briton, on a day ripe with summer. I was a boy then, sixteen and as arrogant and willful as any Gael. I had gone out upon the sea cliffs of my homeland with my childhood friend Claudius. Our talk was of taking up the sword and of becoming warriors for the sake of our people. The hot, sweet rising of young manhood was within us. I did not know that even as I spoke of battle, my life as a servant of God had begun.
Who am I, O Lord, and to what has Thou called me
Saint Patrick-from his Confession
BOOK I
FROM THE WESTERN SEA
My father was Calpornius, a deacon, son of Potitus, a priest, of the village of Bannavem Taburniae; he had a country seat nearby and there I was taken captive.
Saint Patrick-from his Confession
1
Romana called to me. A distant sound. I chose not to hear it.
The sun was high, not yellow or orange or red, but white with the noon. The heat of it seemed to be reaching across Time to touch me, to encompass me. It was life and I stood beneath it, my face upturned.
Magonus! Again my sister s voice.
My eyes had been closed. Now I opened them. The sea was before me, as calm as a lough. I could look across the miles and follow the curve of the hills which formed the lips of the bay. Green they were and as shaggy as ponies in winter coat.
Behind me, the mounded hillsides of my father s summer estate bolted against the sky. Before me, the cliffs dropped steep-away to the spuming surf. The world ended there. It slurred away with the suck of the tide. Once, guarded by the barges of Imperial Rome, ships of many nations had sailed to safe harbors along the Briton shore. Now only sea birds, wayward insects, and leaping fish dared to break the surface of the Western Sea. Silence reigned there now, and the wind. And the barbarians.
It was the Year of Our Lord, Four Hundred and Ten. It was the beginning of that period of history which men would later call the Dark Ages. But we who lived then knew only the moment which was ours in Time. Our world was changing but, we reasoned, so had the world always changed for Man; and so would it always change. The eagle which had conquered the land of my fathers had been called home to Rome. We Britons, living at the very rim of the Empire, had been cast adrift into a hostile sea. The legions had been withdrawn. The barracks stood empty. The great Roman fortresses and roadways had already begun to show signs of decay. Our villages and villas stood unguarded, like so many flocks of sheep whose shepherds had abandoned them.
Magonus! Again Romana s voice, more imperative now, growing closer.
It sparked anger within me. By all of the suffering gods of antiquity, could the woman not see that I had deliberately come out upon the cliffs so that Claudius and I might speak privately together? No doubt she was coming to fetch me in for supper, as though I were a child whom she could coddle and bully as she pleased. Lord, save the world from the ministrations and meddlings of older sisters!
Claudius! Magonus! Another voice now, a child s call. Romana evidently had little Clodia in tow.
Claudius, seated beside me on an outcropping of stone, stirred and sighed at the call of his own sister. He, Clodia, and their widowed father were guests at my family s villa this day. We must go back to the house, he said. No doubt the noonday meal is ready. Your grandfather will wish us to be present for the blessing.
I cast him a deprecating glower. My grandfather may be a priest, but he is also a senile old fool who slobbers in his soup and cuts wind into his dining cushions. His v