The Emerald Isle Trilogy
by
Renee Vincent
Emerald Isle Trilogy Boxed Set
Copyright © 2014, Renee Vincent
ISBN: 978-1-62237-282-9
Cover Art Design by Calliope Designs
Edited by Kim Jacobs
Digital Release, March, 2014
The boxed set includes the single title novels Ræliksen, Mac Liam, and The Fall of Rain.
Warning: All rights reserved. The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work, in whole or part, in any form by any electronic, mechanical, or other means, is illegal and forbidden, without the written permission of the publisher, Turquoise Morning Press.
This is a work of fiction. Characters, settings, names, and occurrences are a product of the author's imagination and bear no resemblance to any actual person, living or dead, places or settings, and/or occurrences. Any incidences of resemblance are purely coincidental.
This edition is published by agreement with Turquoise Morning Press, a division of Turquoise Morning, LLC.
TABLE OF CONTENTS
Ræliksen
Mac Liam
The Fall of Rain
ABOUT RENEE VINCENT
TURQUOISE MORNING PRESS
For God, your presence in my life is constant and pure.
Thank you for listening to my prayers and being with me every step of the way.
***
For Lindsey,
I can smile with deep satisfaction knowing I’ve kept my promise to you.
The trilogy is finished…we did it!
Love always,
Your big sister—who still looks up to you.
Ræliksen
Book One of the Emerald Isle Trilogy
Terms and Places
Ard Rí: High King of Ireland
Berserkers: Elite force of Viking warriors, often cloaked in animal skins to portray an image of intimidation and fierceness
Boxbeds: Long beds for sleeping that ran along the lengths of the outer walls of a longhouse, often times doubling as benches during the daylight hours.
Chieftain: Viking leader, also a term used for an Irish king.
Cumal: Value of worth, originally stemming from the number of female slaves, but later could be in the form of cattle, i.e., 2 cumal = 3 cows, often times given as a bride-price or as compensation to a family victim of a killing.
Drakkar/Langskip: Viking longship (swift warship with very shallow draft)
Éireannach: Irishman
Fionnghall/Fionnghaill: “Fair-haired foreigners” Irish terms for Norwegians (singular/plural)
Fridrbond: “Peace strap” a strapthat crisscrosses around the hilt of a sword to secure it within the scabbard
Gaeilge: The Irish language
Hel: Viking hell
Hirdmen: Army of Viking men
Jarl: Viking nobleman; a term sometimes used as king in the early period.
Keelson: A longitudinal timber on the top of the keel that is connected to multiple ribs within the hull for the purpose of transferring the force of propulsion generated by the sail.
Kerling: Old Norse word for “old woman”
Knarr: Viking merchant ship (larger in size—both in depth and width—to carry goods and supplies)
Lochlannach/Lochlannaigh: Irish terms for Vikings (singlular/plural)
Loki: “god of lies” “promoter of deceit”
Longhouse: Viking home
Mjollnir: Thor’s hammer
Mundr: Viking term for “bride price”
Odin: “god of victory and wisdom”
Skald: “Poet” often deemed in high regard for his ability to recite or create verses of poetry, as well as narrate a good story
Thor: “god of thunder and justice”
Thrall: “Slave”
Valhalla: “Eternal Heaven of heroes”
Valkyrie: “Choosers of the slain” warrior women sent by Odin to escort the bravest men to Valhalla
Ward: Means of defense, specifically with the position of the sword: Ox-ward, High-ward, Plow, etc.
Chapter One
Connacht, Ireland 916 AD
I shall marry this woman, Dægan Ræliksen decided. It had been over a fortnight since he first followed her through the green meadows to the waters of the River Shannon, watching her with intent. Observing her gave him great pleasure, and every day he anticipated her arrival, secretly longing to hold her in his arms. Only lately did he grow impatient with his desire for her, and this day, he settled on, would finally be the day he’d put his suffering to an end and make her his wife.
She stood amid the knee-high grasses and flowers in a white flowing tunic, hemmed with an embroidery of vibrant gold at the ankles and wrists. The sleeves were long and tapered. The bodice mildly followed the curves of her dainty torso, blooming into a tasteful neckline that allowed just a slight hint of cleavage to show before a single jeweled brooch, settled under her chin, fastened a matching cloak at her shoulders.
In days past, her tunics included colors of deep crimson, indigo, and sometimes an earthy beige, but today’s choice, he noted, was his favorite. She embodied the very likeness of a beautiful Valkyrie, save for her lack of weapons and fair hair. Her color was distinctly dark with shades of auburn glistening like radiant sunlight upon long russet curls. Her skin was as smooth as fresh buttermilk and her smile, like a cool drink of water. She stood no taller than his shoulders, but she easily filled the empty space in his heart, if not the entire expanse of his mind for the past weeks.
By her attire, Dægan could only guess her to be an Irish maiden of wealthy descent. This, too, excited him, for in contrast to her befitting nature, she was rugged and spirited, riding her stallion as well as any of his mounted hirdmen to this specific place every day, yet still looking elegant upon it.
In the hours she spent alone, no man had ever summoned or demanded her presence. He found this quite odd, for she was old enough for bedding and young enough for bearing solid, healthy sons. She came and went as she pleased, heedless to the fact that she was the object of another’s longing. Instead, she would often sing, tickling his heart with her exuberant voice, an Irish ballad that danced in his soul.
He was unexpectedly mesmerized by her, chained to the very thought that she could be all his if he only dared to make his presence known. That, in itself, would prove to be the most difficult, for he dreaded that his countrymen’s reputation as savage foreigners would precede any valiant attempt at meeting civilly. He was a handsome man with a persuasive charm, or at least he was told so by other women who had fancied him. Yet he knew an effective come hither approach would not be enough to swoon the innocent soul before him.
He had pondered his options last night over a scanty dinner of roasted rabbit, and had come up with the idea of “saving her” from the rampant run of a conveniently spooked steed. It could be done easily enough, assuredly changing her views of a savage foreigner to that of a hero, and quite possibly obtaining the affable encounter for which he so wished.
But now, by midmorning, the idea seemed utterly ridiculous. There were too many possibilities for things to go wrong. The horse may not even spook to begin with. Or if it did flee, he could have difficulties catching up with it. Or worse, the horse could rear and topple her from its back, gravely injuring her.
Discouraged, Dægan continued to gaze through the trees and brush at his enchanting maiden, wanting so desperately to step out and make himself known. Even though he could boast smooth-tonguing a few endearments in the beautiful lilting Gaeilge, he knew this woman only had to look at him to know he was not Irish. So, how could he show his face without frightening her?<
br />
Every idea, no matter how promising it seemed, had its pitfall. He could only close his eyes and pretend to exist in a different world. And how grand a world he could envision behind closed lids; a place where they could meet without apprehension, smile without pause, and converse without falsehoods. What he wouldn’t give to make that world a reality….
But as Dægan opened his eyes in weary disappointment, he caught his breath to find her walking closer to him. His body became rigid, his heart raced, and only then did he notice just how fiery his blood could run through his veins. The distance between them was diminishing slowly with each of her steps and he had not a plan to remedy this turn of events.
Fleeting ideas swarmed his brain like dancing bees. ‘Tis too soon in the day for pilfering and much too foolish to be thinking it. The only halfway respectable idea that came to mind was to lie down and fake an injury. Perhaps he could say he’d fallen from his own horse, appearing helpless and pitiful, conceivably someone in dire need of care and kindness. But for some reason, he did not drop to his back and put that plan into motion. He sat frozen, only staring as she stopped a few feet from him to peer blindly into the thicket.
“Who’s there?”
Her voice was like springtime; genuinely sweet with a pleasant, melodic tone that could very well warm a chilled soul after a long daily Erin rain. It was with this thought that he drew in a slow breath, catching her airy spiced scent that sifted between the summer green leaves of the hedge plant separating them. And he wondered if Valkyries smelled as good as she did.
Suddenly, from behind her, Dægan could see several dark figures emerging on the shores of the River Shannon. Although their distance was too far, he managed to make out that they were not alone. Coming closer were three more longboats flaunting red and white sails. He didn’t recognize the men, but he knew from the shape and adornments on the prow that they were like him, Norse.
By this time, four men had pulled the vessel out of the water and others were descending from each side. Their numbers were large and men who came in sizeable fleets were not usually merchants, but hirdmen who were following their chieftain into a devastating raid for booty—or worse yet—war!
Dægan reacted with lightening speed and pulled the Irish maiden to the ground before she could say another word. Without much effort, he stifled her screams of terror with a simple hardened hand to her mouth, while his other hand matched her frantic squirming. His legs pushed hers to the ground and held them there like they were nothing but the meager limbs of a child.
The woman, still refusing to give in, threw wide her mouth and bit the bulge of skin on his palm that lay across her lips.
Dægan retracted his hand from her vengeful jaws and, in an instant, she catapulted her forehead into his nose, a maneuver he had not expected a woman to know. The pain in his face was severe, and he dropped his head, giving way to the blood that started to flow from both nostrils and down around his mouth.
Collapsing upon her, he felt as if everything around him was going black, and whatever remained in his tunnel-view, was in complete vertigo. Despite the slip of consciousness that was rushing through him, he could still feel her relentless thrashing beneath him. He tightened his hold on her, grasping for strength as if his very will to stay coherent were cinched around her fragile little wrists. The only thing that kept him from dozing into a helpless sleep was the acute awareness of his own blinding agony, for it had now become his only incessant thought. He forgot the woman, her sweet alluring voice, her carefree mornings, and her lighthearted dances amidst the tall flowers of the Erin meadow. All he knew now was the pain in his face and the indignant wrath that followed right behind it.
He moaned, and it was in that moment, when she had turned her head to avoid his bloody face that she, too, saw what he had seen—the accumulation of more men coming ashore. And although he was unable to see the fear lanced across her face, he could tell by her sudden intake of breath that she feared for her very life.
You shall not die this day, he wanted to say to her. You shall not die. But he hadn’t the ability to reassure her like he so wished for he couldn’t see past the smart of the pain. His nose continued to spew in rivers, and once it drew out both pain and pressure from his head, he realized that his female captive was catching most of it on her dress.
In trying to be considerate, he wiped his upper lip on the bear cloak that hung from his shoulders, albeit that it was a prized possession, a trophy for the animal he’d killed in his bygone youth. He would not have that bearskin at all had it not been for his father’s words: a man, who slights caution, presumes his death. How foolish he was to dismiss those important words just because his opponent was a woman and not a growling beast of muscle, claws, and teeth. How ever-innocent her semblance was, the tremendous amount of blood that oozed from his nose was a painful reminder of his mistake, which now stained his esteemed fur. He vowed never to underestimate her again, starting with this unusually quiet moment. She was far too passive and her sudden surrender seemed daringly calculative.
Dægan spoke first. “I know you are frightened. But say not a word. Those men will hear you and they will kill us both.”
She looked at him as though he had two heads.
“I will not hurt you,” he whispered again, his eyes fixed on the deep pools of green in hers. And for a moment, time stood still.
Even for her, he swore.
He noticed her trembling body and how tightly he held her wrists. He didn’t mean to hurt her. It was not his intention to grab her and hold her down like some belligerent thug about to take his pleasures. It was solely to save her life, and if he hadn’t forced her to the ground, they would have been seen, probably pursued, and undoubtedly slain.
With kinder eyes, he tried to give her comfort. “You must believe me. I will not hurt you. I give you my word.”
She seemed utterly confused by the viciousness of his actions and the contradiction of his noble words. He could only hope that his pledge meant something to her and that he didn’t appear to be just an animal ready to ravage the reward of his successful hunt.
His heart went out to her, and he loosened his hold. But, at that very moment, she brought her right elbow up to his nose again, hitting it with such force that it nearly killed him. Immediately, he brought his hands up to his nose, his eyes pooling with water.
She scrambled out from beneath him, and he could do little about it. The pain was so tremendous it threatened to split his skull in two. Never before had he taken such abuse from a woman that he actually contemplated the idea of her being a demon from Hel.
As the blood filled the spaces between his fingers and down his wrists, he made an effort to open his eyes, and he saw his lovely hellion on horseback, shrinking to that of a distant white blur, flee deeper into the woodlands.
He grunted a swift harsh oath, trying to tolerate all of his misfortunes at once. Yet his greatest problem was not the damage done to his face, but the setback of her escape in plain sight. The once-quiet shores of the Shannon were now filled with shouts and commotion from the very men he so desperately tried to elude.
Somehow, Dægan found the ability to sit up and crawl on all fours to his horse. He took extra care to stay low and out of sight, for it was better that the Northmen not even know of his presence. Should she be captured, he would at least have the element of surprise in his favor. With that in mind, he scaled the animal with dexterity and stealth, booting his horse into a gallop.
Through the speed of the pace, his heart quickened, his body went numb, and his face cooled with the rushing wind. He felt nothing as he tore through the woods, dodging trees and ditches. His only thoughts were catching up with her—keeping her safe.
What seemed like a ride through eternity, soon ended when Dægan saw the single hind quarters of her horse and her white dress flapping like a heraldic flag ahead. He looked over his shoulder to check the other men’s advancement and realized they were still far behind as they had not yet
come into view.
With the satisfaction of their distance, Dægan contemplated the difficulty of catching her without the others seeing him. He was greatly outnumbered and his facial injury did not give him any advantage. One more hit to the face and he was sure he would drop like a stone. Nevertheless, he expected the undertaking to be nothing short of arduous, and banished most, if not all of the strategies that had come to mind, instead relying on the will of the gods.
He gained on her with every stride, and at first chance, he rounded her horse to the left so as to steal the reins from her hands, but his attempt failed, piloting him straight toward a labyrinth of trees. He barely steered clear of the well-aged oaks, teetering in his saddle to avoid crushing his knee, while shifting back to circumvent another. After surviving a few more challenges of low-lying tree limbs, he emerged again, hot on her trail.
Upon seeing a stream in the approaching valley, Dægan drove his heels in, charging his steed forward in hopes of using the water to his advantage, or at the least, to contain her. He unsheathed his dagger from his ankle and placed it between his teeth, freeing his hands for the jump he decided he would take upon her horse. Steadying himself on his haunches, he prepared to leap when they crossed the stream, plotting to have something other than the hard ground to catch their fall.
Her eyes widened with a paralyzing fear and she failed to see the shallow muddy shore that lined the creek bed. Her horse fell swiftly to the ground and threw her over its head. She landed hard against the rocky embankment and lay there motionless in a crumpled heap.
Dægan immediately pulled back hard on the reins, cinching his horse’s chin to its throat, making every attempt to stop short of the creek and avoid the same catastrophe. His horse stamped for traction and quickly reared to relieve itself of the bit drawn tightly in its mouth, only to dodge the oncoming path of her fugitive horse that was now hell-bent on running back across the water.
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