by Ashley York
Tadhg poured her a drink of water. “Sean taking over as chieftain requires a lot of time.”
“He learned well from working alongside ye.”
Tadhg nodded. “His mother’s clan is more than happy with him as their leader, just as we are to have this new alliance now.” Tadhg took a sip before handing it to her.”Methinks they have news for us.”
“Did young Brighit come with them?”
“She did.”
Tisa looked down in the little face of her son. Such a handsome boy with dark, curly locks like his father. “Do ye think Darragh will be upset that his betrothed is older than he is?”
“‘Tis Brighit! She will be a lovely lass for him. What matter is her age?”
Tisa took a sip of the water, cool and refreshing. She sighed. “She is not much older. Months only.”
“True.” Tadhg managed to lay behind her on the bed, pulling her back into his arms without disturbing the babe. “Did ye not wonder of their news?”
“A child?” Tisa raised her eyebrows, knowing she was being a total grouch. “What other news could there be?”
Tadhg kissed her neck before nuzzling behind her ear. “Ye may be correct. Mayhap it is more?”
Tisa could not think of any other news they could bring. They had all been busy with their planting and rebuilding after the winter storm. “I dunna ken what else it could be.”
She looked over her shoulder. Tadhg’s averted eyes told her he knew something.
“What have ye heard?” she asked.
He shrugged. “Ye are probably correct. With child. That is all.”
Snuggling Darragh up on her chest, she turned to her husband with lowered brows. “Tell me.”
Tadhg’s face split into a wide smile. “They have had word from Malcolm.”
“Caireann?”
“They will be down for a visit.”
“Oh!” She had expected something more. “No news of a child?”
He kissed her gently on the forehead. “Nae. Not that I have heard.”
In all her talks with Caireann, it had always been Tisa’s greatest wish to have many children with Tadhg but she couldn’t remember her dear friend ever saying as much.
“Do ye think they are happy?”
“I do.” Tadhg searched her face.
“Mayhap they should have returned with us. Gerrit still lives. A constant reminder to her.”
“Hmm, not nearly as arrogant, of that I am certain. And Brian has done very well with his trading to the north. Even in Alba.”
Tisa nodded. She had never been to England or Alba and that suited her fine.
“He sends Ian in his stead. The captain deciding to stay on has given Brian a commander he can trust,” Tadhg said.
“How fares Breandan?”
“He travels with Ian. Methinks they are happy to be together. That they were able to set aside their jealousy when Darragh died to comfort each other speaks well of them.”
“That is very good.”
A sudden fluttering in her belly made Tisa place her hand there.
“The babe?” Tadhg asked.
“Mayhap but ‘tis more forceful than I would expect so early.”
“Mayhap ‘tis two babes.”
She turned her evil eye on him. “Dunna even say that.”
“Why not? If we have two more boys, we will be nearly halfway to another seventh son.”
Tisa laughed, the baby wiggled in her arms and she rocked him back to sleep. “And what is the blessing with that?”
Tadhg kissed her cheek. “That they have the seventh son of the seventh son of the seventh son for their father and all will be right with the world.”
“Aye and that it will.”
AUTHOR’S NOTES
~
THE ANCIENT PEOPLE LIVING in Ireland in 1075 had a very sophisticated social structure. The different titles they would use for “King” were specific to the amount of land they had and the number of people in their clan:
The king of a túath (small territory and its people) = rí túaithe (later ‘clan land’)
The overking of several túatha (small territories, their people and kings) = rí túath
The king of a ruirech (lordship, a huge territory, their peoples & kings) = rí ruirech
The king of a cóiced (province) = rí cóiced
The high king = árd rí
Although not historically accurate, I decided to simplify the system by using the term “chieftain” in all instances and ask for your indulgence. The authentic names may be enough of a challenge and here is a short pronunciation guide to assist with some of them.
Aednat - a + nit
Aodh - ei
Aoife - ee + fuh
Breandan - bren + dun
Caireann - care + on
Darragh - die + ruh
Padraig - paw + dreg
Tadhg - tie + gue
Tisa - tee + suh
Ultan - ult + in
To hear many of these names pronounced by a true Irishmen, Frank McCourt, please visit this website: http://www.babynamesofireland.com/
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
~
ASIDE FROM TWO YEARS spent in the wilds of the Colorado mountains, Ashley York is a proud life-long New Englander and a hardcore romantic. She has an MA in History which brings with it, through many years of research, a love for primary documents and the smell of musty old libraries. With her author’s imagination, she likes to write about people who could have lived alongside those well-known giants from the past.
Connect with her online at:
Website: www.ashleyyorkauthor.com
Email: [email protected]
Twitter: @ashleyyork1066
Sign Up For My Newsletter Here
Please enjoy these sample chapters from The Bruised Thistle
Ashley
THE BRUISED THISTLE
~
Chapter One
Dalmally, Scotland 1149
“Where have you been?” Iseabail bristled with irritation at having waited nigh an hour for her brothers’ arrival. Trying to look busy alone in an open field was a challenge, especially with the cool autumn wind stinging her exposed skin.
“Getting supplies,” Iain answered readily enough, but he didn’t sound himself.
Their little brother Calum stood at his elbow, nodding his red head a touch too eagerly.
She glanced between them as her suspicions rose. They were hiding something. “What is wrong?” Iain usually took great care with his appearance, but today he was ill-kempt. His thick dark hair hung limp around his face and his brown eyes were bloodshot and red-rimmed. Her irritation shifted to concern. “Are you not well?”
“Well enough. See what we’ve brought?” Iain’s tone brooked no discussion.
Iseabail allowed him to distract her with the large basket Calum was carrying. He placed it on the ground and lifted the lid. All manner of cloths, containers, and herbing accoutrements greeted them. Iain pushed this aside to reach beneath and lift the false bottom, showing a good array of cheese, breads, and dried meat for their trip.
A shiver ran down her spine, but she smiled up at him. “Good. We are ready then.”
Ready to leave the only home they had ever known, the overwhelming sadness caught her off-guard. She forced herself to remember the abuses they had suffered at the hands of their powerful uncle, the new laird of their lands. What he had subjected her to as a female was the most horrendous of all.
She clenched her jaw in determination. “Shall we go?”
“Iseabail.” Iain’s face was unreadable, but she sensed his hesitation. “I cannot go.”
His words knocked the wind out of her. The thought of having to return to the hell she had been enduring left her lightheaded.
She shook her head in denial. “No, Iain, I cannot…” She corrected herself, “we cannot go back.” Her brothers did not know about their uncle’s abuse. There were no visible signs. “We cannot. We must make our e
scape now, while he is away from the castle.”
Iain’s eyes rounded with sadness and fine lines creased his forehead.
Iseabail had a terrible sense of foreboding and the whisper of hope she had been nurturing began to dissipate. The idea of escape had come up so suddenly, yet they had all agreed straight away. Their uncle’s plans to be gone for a few days gave them the perfect opportunity and it was one they could not afford to waste. They needed help ousting Uncle Henry from their lands. Not only was he ignoring their father’s last will and testament, his brutal treatment of the local clansmen had weakened them until their fear would not allow them to stand against him. Assistance from those outside the powerful Englishman’s control was their only hope.
Iain firmed his shoulders, a determined set to his handsome face. “We will not return. You and Calum will travel on without me.”
Fear slammed into her chest and it became hard to breathe. “What do you mean? We cannot go alone. It is not safe.”
Iain held her gaze and spoke clearly. “This may be our only chance to go for help. I will stay behind to see that no one follows, and then I will join you.”
The look that passed between Iain and Calum made her throat tighten. Something did not seem right. “When will you come?”
“When I know it is safe and you are not followed.” Iain’s answer came a bit too quickly.
Calum shifted and avoided her gaze.
“How will we know that you are safe if you return to the castle?”
“Trust me, sister. I can take care of myself.” His smile did not reach his eyes. “Do not worry so.”
A thousand scenarios played out in her mind as desperation seeped into her thoughts. “And in the woods? How will we stay safe? Calum is only nine years old.” She smiled an apology at her little brother for such a frank statement.
“I have protection. See?” Calum withdrew a dangerous looking knife from its hiding place in his boot.
“You fight very well, Calum, I know, but…” She turned beseeching eyes on Iain. He had to come with them.
“You must remain vigilant. I know you can do this, Iseabail. Here.” Iain held out a dagger. “Take this. Keep it near you at all times.”
Iseabail accepted the sgian dubh Iain offered. She slid the knife out of the scabbard. Their father had given it to Iain when he turned ten and she found comfort in its weight and the cold metal of its blade.
This would never work, but there was no other choice. Was it not better to die trying than to live playing dead?
“If you think this is best.” She slipped it into the basket.
“Go on and do not worry about me. I will protect what is ours. Understand?”
“It will be dangerous for you.” She wrapped her arms around him and drew him close to keep him from seeing her tears, but he stiffened and stifled a gasp. She drew back. “What is wrong?”
He smiled at her with misty eyes. “I love you, Iseabail. I pray you will be safe. And you,” he grasped Calum’s shoulder as men do, “you must look out for her. Aye?”
Calum wiped his nose. “Aye.”
“We will stay together.” She straightened her shoulders and held her head high, feigning a strength she did not truly feel. “And we will get help.”
Iain tipped his head, a small smile playing on his lips as his features softened with relief. He glanced around, searching the far-off woods. He pressed his mouth into a thin line and his eyes almost looked black as he surreptitiously slipped a small leather-wrapped parchment from beneath his tunic. Their father’s will.
“This is the only support we have for our claim.” With his eye on the document, Iain continued, “You must protect it if we want to take back what is rightfully ours.”
She nodded, solemnly accepting his edict. She shifted the silver cross that hung against her bosom then tucked the treatise down the front of her gown. The worn leather was comforting where it rested, snug between her breasts.
“When you get to the Campbell’s land, look for the shepherd boy, Inus, in the lower fields. He shall get you to Hugh, who knows of our dear uncle’s treacherous ways firsthand. Trust no one else. Do you understand? No one.”
Her brother’s closest friend had always been a thorn under her skin with his constant teasing. That he was her savior now made her want to laugh, but the dire look in her brother’s eyes stopped her. He held her at arm’s length as if memorizing everything about her. A lump grew in her throat as she fought back tears. She wanted to be strong for him. Make him proud. Despite her concerns, despite the strangeness of his behavior, she trusted him, and she would respect his decision.
“You must promise me, Iseabail. Trust no one else.”
“I promise.” Despite her best intentions, tears coursed down her face. “I look forward to being with you again, dear brother.” She kissed his cheek and hugged him. She did not want to let go, but when Iain made a strangled sound, she released him at once. His breathing was heavy and his forehead glistened with sweat. “Iain?”
He stepped back, his jaw clenched. He shook his head at her to stay away. “Go, both of you.”
Chapter Two
Seumas looked up as the two newcomers entered the hall. Frigid air swept across the room with their arrival, but it was not the cold that caught his attention—the large, wooden door opposite the great hearth had opened numerous times since dusk as peasants sought shelter from the suddenly plummeting temperatures. Something about them tugged at him. Their lack of grumbling, perhaps? Or the timid way they moved amongst the rabble? Either way, he seemed to be the only one who took an interest. Glancing at the other soldiers he sat with, he was not surprised they had noticed nothing.
“Ta hell ye did, Miguel! Dere were only five av dem!” The Irishman’s indignant retort echoed across the hall. Patrick, always ready to argue, was instigating yet another fight. The bench Seumas shared with the burly man tipped unsteadily as he stood.
“‘Tis the truth,” Miguel responded to the insult with as much heat. Though he remained seated, he moved his hand to the dagger at his waist. “You had already turned tail and run.”
Seumas shook his head and lifted his gaze heavenward. His patience with these men was gone. “Do ye need to get on like this every night?”
“Ye don’t care for our company?” Patrick’s bloodshot eyes did not appear to focus as he turned his anger on Seumas, his face a little too close. “Bugger off, den!”
As the leader of these men, Seumas knew what power he wielded over them. They knew it too, but that did not change how they acted. “Methinks not.” Seumas lifted the mug to his mouth, his eyebrows raised in expectation as he held the man’s glare.
Patrick stumbled backward onto the bench. Seumas caught him before he fell against the wall. “Why are ye such an arse, Seumas? Have ye not got anywhere else to do yer carousing?”
The man was a son of a bitch to be sure. “Nae, Patrick, I have nowhere else to go. Now settle yerself down.”
It was true enough. He had believed he would eventually get over what he had been through in Edessa and stop hating himself. Then he would go home. But he had played the wait-and-see game too long. Now his father was dead, and Seumas had even more reason to hate himself.
Needing a diversion from his troubled mind, Seumas searched the crowd again for the two. The hard frost had come too soon, finding many unprepared, and the Great Hall was cramped with villagers and peasants. Nevertheless, he soon spotted them. Covered with grime, from the hoods obscuring their faces to their cloth-wrapped feet, they blended well enough with the others in the hall, but they had a certain bearing that did not match their outward appearance. They did not shy away or shuffle their feet. The one who led the way, the smaller of the two, had a surprisingly noble posture but hesitated the slightest bit before joining the ever-increasing crowd by the fire. Interesting.
He was intrigued by their presence, but, for their sakes, he hoped he was the only one. The people at this castle were as cruel as their overlord, Lord
Bryon. Any who did not belong, no matter the circumstances, would be cast out without a moment’s hesitation. There would be no mercy, even in freezing weather.
Patrick slammed his cup on the table emphatically as he told his next story, the earlier argument already forgotten. The other men at the table were enraptured by the tale, but Seumas ignored it, intent on his study. The bitter mead dribbled down his chin as he took a deep swallow, and he traced his lower lip with his tongue.
They had their heads down and turned away from the room now, but were not cowering at all. Sitting up straighter, Seumas realized they were trying to avoid being noticed.
“Right, Seumas?” Patrick slapped him on the back as spittle came out with his words. “Damn beauty that one, right?”
Seumas exhaled in irritation. He had not been listening, but he nodded to keep from being drawn into the conversation.
“Not that ye could do anything about it.” The man burst into laughter at his own joke. “But do not worry yerself, Seumas. I took care of her. I gave her what she wanted, since ye could not.”
Seumas tensed at the insult, giving the Irishman his full attention as he turned toward him, jaw clenched. Patrick was clearly too drunk to notice that the others had grown ominously quiet. Seumas slammed his fist against the thick wooden table. The Irishman locked eyes with him and his laughter stopped abruptly. The tin cup rolling along the edge of the table was the only sound. It landed with a dull thud on the rushes covering the floor and perspiration broke out on Patrick’s brow. He was very unwise indeed to let his tongue loose every time he drank and he had the crooked nose and missing teeth to show for it.
The blond man across the table took up the retelling. “You might have taken care of her, Patrick, but was she pleased with what you gave her?”
The rest of the men laughed nervously. Uncertain glances came Seumas’s way as he struggled to accept the intervention and let the insult pass.
“I would say ye have the right of it, David.” Seumas’s voice was tight. He appreciated the man stepping in, but he should not have let it get this far in the first place. He had to control himself. He was their leader not because he had earned their respect, but because Lord Bryon thought it humorous to put “God’s soldier” in charge of his pack of mercenaries, and because Seumas had no other prospects. From being a man with integrity and beliefs to a man with no self-respect was a mighty fall. He had to consciously release his clenched fist.
