Markhale, Jean. Women of the Celts (translated from French La Femme Celte by Editions Payot, 1972) Vermont: Inner Traditions International, 1986. An intrigin’ chronicle of Celtic ladies in myth, literature, and history.
Mann, John. Murder, Magic, and Medicine. New York: Oxford University Press, 1992. Now I mentioned the Tuatha DeDanans were known as great healers so gifted that they were considered to possess magic powers of healing. Read as to how some of the medicine of the past—that what didn’t kill folks, that is—is being used again by our modern medicine. Magic? Use that modern day brain o’ yours and decide for yourself. Not only will ye be entertained, but enlightened as well.
Matthews, John. The Bardic Source Book: Inspirational Legacy and Teachings of the Ancient Celts. London: Wellington House, 1998. A taste o’ me past in rhyme and the story o’ them what composed it.
Matthews, John. The Druid Source Book. London: Wellington House, 1998. Here are accounts o’ ancient druidism and how it has evolved throughout the centuries, with a foreword by Philip Carr-Gomm, Chief of the Order of the Bards, Ovates, and Druids.
Nairn, Richard and Miriam Crowley. Wild Wicklow—Nature in the Garden of Ireland. Dublin: Town House and Country House, 1998. This is the book for the armchair traveler who’d see the beauty and charm of me County Wicklow as it is today, with some hint of what it used to be in Gleannmara’s day.
Ó Cróinín, Dáibhí. Early Medieval Ireland (400–1200). New York: Longman Group Ltd., 1995. The man takes ye there and surrounds ye with all manner of information on what it was like to live in them times. ’Tis a veritable wealth of information and fascination.
Ó Corráin, Donnchadh and Fidelma Maguire. Irish Names. Dublin: Lilliput Press, 1990. Now one can never have too many books on me children’s names, for sure their use and meanin’s are as varied as the shades o’ green in Erin.
Scherman, Katherine. The Flowering of Ireland: Saints, Scholars, and Kings. New York: Barnes and Noble, 1996. Another favorite! ’Twas the most inspirational of all reads to this soul, for it’s the memory of how the Pentecostal Flame kindled in the hearts of saints, scholars, and kings. Praise be, I’ve not been the same since. Come to think of it, neither has the rest of the world.
Smith, Charles Hamilton. Ancient Costumes of Great Britain and Ireland from the Druids to the Tudors. London: Bracken Books, 1989.
Smyth, Alfred P. Celtic Leinster: Towards an Historical Geography of Early Irish Civilization A.D. 500–1600. Dublin: Irish Academic Press, 1982.
Time-Life Books, Editors of. What Life Was Like among the Druids and High Kings: Celtic Ireland A.D. 400–1200. Alexandria, Virginia: Time-Life Books, 1998.
Various Authors and Topics: “How the Irish Were Saved.” Christian History magazine 17, no. 4. In keeping with the story of Maire and of Christianity comin’ to me green shores, this issue takes a look at Patrick behind the legend, the pains and pleasures of Celtic priests, and the culture clash of Celts versus the Romans. A keeper, to be sure!
Faith, I’d love to list the host of other books full of riveting fact and legend that contributed to the tellin’ of Gleannmara’s story, but I’m runnin’ out of time and space. Since this work was started, the numbers of works on Ireland and its past have doubled and then some. Looks like the Golden Age of the Celts may not be over after all. May the good Lord take a likin’ to ye, dear hearts, and keep yer eye open for me next tale, the story of Deirdre, The Fires Of Gleannmara series, Book 3, and revel in me seventh century.
Coming April 2002 from
LINDA WINDSOR
DIERDRE
Don’t miss book three in the captivating
The Fires of Gleannmara series!
Deirdre stared boldly up from the ship’s hold at the Saxon warrior who had captured the Mell. Blood still dripping from the long, single-edged knife hanging at his lean girded waist, he eased down to one knee and peered into the hold.
Her breath seized at the clash of their gazes, blue fire against a steel gray as hard as the hidden sword she concealed in her robe. No doubt his heart, if he had one at all, was just as cold.
She lifted her chin. “Will you stand there gaping like a village idiot, or will you help us out of this stink hole?”
His surprise transformed into a smile. “By all means, milady,” he said, reaching down to help her, “do come up where my men and I might have a look at you.”
He spoke the Latin of a scholar, not a brigand.
“You’ve nothing to fear from me.” He hesitated upon recognizing the clerical robe Deirdre had donned to hide her identity as well as her weapon. “Sister.” Clearly, he was not convinced.
The sword strapped to her leg hampered her progress up the ladder, but that was the least of her concerns at the moment. She felt as if the stranger looked not just into her eyes, but into her very soul. She lowered them hastily but could not resist challenging his shallow reassurance.
“Is that what you said before you slaughtered Erin’s sisters in God’s own house?”
His cordial demeanor darkening, the Saxon growled like thunder’s own god. “Neither I, Alric of Galtstead, nor my men make war upon women anywhere.”
As Deirdre searched her memory for either the name or the place, he tilted her face so that she could not avoid his penetrating look. “Women are for far more … pleasurable activities than war.”
A rush of heat singed Deirdre’s neck on its way to her face. How dare he! She was a princess, her bloodline traceable to the first kings of Ireland. He was nothing but a bloodthirsty swine. Deirdre raised her hand to slap Alric, but he seized her wrist just before it made contact with his gold-stubbled jaw.
“I see your study in Christian humility has been a waste of time.”
“No more wasteful than praying for your black soul.”
One of the Saxon’s eyebrows shot up, arching higher than its mate.
Father Scanlan rushed to Deirdre’s defense. “My colleague is new to the order. She only wears the mean garb of our church community because—”
“I clumsily dropped my belongings overboard,” Deirdre finished, sparing the priest further involvement in her charade.
“Grace is sorely lacking among your more obvious charms,” her captor conceded with a chuckle. “You took to yon ladder like a fool on stilts.”
“Better an affliction of the limb than of the mind.”
Far from stung by her sarcasm, the oaf seemed to be enjoying it. His mercurial gaze was an unsettling study of contrasts—slow, yet quick; warm, then cool; amused, then something that made Deirdre shiver involuntarily, if such intense heat could make one shiver.
At length, he made an announcement in his native language, banishing the heat she felt as she recognized two of his heathen words. She’d heard them from a family of Christian Saxons who’d sought refuge in Erin a year earlier.
“Slave market?” Deirdre’s challenge clearly took her captors back. Her smile smacked of a satisfaction she was far from feeling. “There are some words in your sore language well known in my country. Your reputation precedes you.”
“It’s a shame it did not precede us on this ship.” The Saxon recovered with an unsettling gravity. “Your crew wouldn’t surrender until they’d spent their last breath.”
“Wouldn’t you prefer death’s freedom to a life of slavery?”
“Life offers the chance escape from slavery, sister. There is no escape from the grave or urn for free man or slave.”
“There’s none for your heathen likes anywhere.” Deirdre spat out her contempt. Anger was the only mainstay left her, for her bravado bled away by the heartbeat.
The blond giant threw back his head and laughed. “If I hope to fetch any price for you, I shall have to parade you with that tongue of yours bound securely. No man in his right mind would expose himself to its sharpness … unless he cut it out. Now there’s an idea.”
Alric scratched his chin thoughtfully, and, for one terrifying moment, his other hand moved toward the hilt of the blade at
his waist. Only the faintest twitch at the corner of his mouth gave Deirdre a whit of reassurance—that and the way the sunlight cavorted in his gaze.
She ventured a breath of relief, just a brief one, for with the likes of Alric of Galtstead, it was sure to be short lived.
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