The Emerald Isle Trilogy Boxed Set

by Vincent, Renee

  With that, Dægan took a slap to his back. “Here! Drink you bastard!” Steinar bellowed as if he were far across the table and slammed Dægan’s stein of unconsumed mead in front of him.

  Without taking his eyes from Mara’s face, Dægan grabbed the mug, threw it up to his cheek and over his right shoulder so that the brew appeared to have been drunk. Once it was emptied upon the ground behind him, he laid it upon the table, ignoring Mara’s look of bewilderment.

  Steinar, too drunk to know the difference, raised his hands in praise and went back to his merriment, consuming more mead as he sang and beat the table.

  “As you can see, some are more pleased than others,” Dægan said drolly.

  And why shouldn’t they be happy? It was not their fault Eirik was dead, nor did their celebration mean they were not saddened by the loss of their friend. A huge feast had been prepared in their honor, so to speak, and it would seem very impolite if they didn’t enjoy the banquet to its fullest. But their happiness still hurt, nonetheless.

  Except for Mara’s. Her happiness, by no means, made him hurt inside. He liked her smile and her little laughter that fluttered around him. Even through the drunken shouts and praises, it was like music to his ears. She sparkled like the northern star in the sky and he felt proud having her seated next to him at his table. He touched her face and drew her chin up. “I, too, am pleased…to the fullest extent.”

  Mara raised her chalice ever so slightly, offering a private toast. “To small blessings.”

  Dægan clicked his empty cup gently to hers and before he could make good on a kiss, a roar of laughter echoed behind him. There was Steinar, flat on his backside with his mug still in hand.

  “Pour me another!” he ordered.

  Tait took Steinar’s mug and tossed it aside. “Get to your bed, you idiot! You could not drink another drop if you tried.”

  But Steinar did try. With all his might he tried—at least to sit up and prove himself capable. No sooner than he lifted his head from the grass, did the world spin around him, and he was back on his hind end beckoning for his wife, Etti, who was no more sober than himself.

  Tait shoved a heel to Steinar’s chest. “Lie down you fool, before you retch your guts!”

  “I will not retch!” he cried, raising a pointed finger. “I am a man! What mead I consume, consumes me, and we part not! I dare any man here to say differently!”

  Dægan looked at Mara and sighed. “I suppose I am the only sober one here who can get this drunken sod to his bed. Will you excuse me?”

  Mara smiled warmly. “Of course.”

  Dægan first looked at the pitiful man at his feet. “Come on…get up!” He helped Steinar to stand, being both a lean pole and a pair of legs, as they teetered and tripped across the way.

  Tait laughed as he saw Etti stagger behind them, singing as she had done all night with her glass raised to the gods. He slid from his seat on the bench, over to Dægan’s, motioning for the cupbearer to fill Mara’s glass.

  “You are to be commended, my lady, upon this exquisite feast, and for being able to tame the heart of a bear.”

  Mara studied the man she had remembered from the ship, an obviously loyal fellow with a striking handsomeness to boot. “I understand not what you mean.”

  “Dægan,” Tait said flatly. “No woman has ever been able to claim his heart as her own.”

  “To have claimed anything, I think not.”

  “Ah, but you have. I have been friends with Dægan since we were boys with sticks for swords, and since that time, there has been no one who has ever occupied his every living thought. You are the purpose for every breath he takes. He does nothing that is not firstly for you. This I know, as I, too, have been tamed.”

  Mara gave him a sideways glance. “So, where is she…this tamer of your heart?”

  “Oh, I wish she were here,” Tait began, his admiration creeping into a smile. “But she lives in Luimneach with her mother. She is young like yourself, but not as quick to learn. I suppose that is what I fancy most about her. She is shameless to—” Tait stopped abruptly, as if his words lacked an appropriateness in front of Mara, and changed them accordingly. “Let us just say she is shameless to certain unspeakable pleasures in life…and with that comes this profound purity that I cannot wait to claim as my own.”

  Mara watched Tait melt into the thought of his woman’s presence. Without seeing Tait’s change in posture, she would have doubted that he even knew what love felt like, much less know how to recognize it in others. But clearly, she was wrong, gladly wrong. She enjoyed seeing Tait become so mesmerized by the notion of one woman.

  “What is her name?”

  “Thordia,” Tait uttered romantically. “Ottarr promised me her hand in marriage when we return from—well…”

  Mara finished for him. “From making peace with my father?”

  Tait fell quiet and only nodded.

  “May I ask you something? And I want only the truth, not a slur of words spoken to keep me from worrying.”

  “All right.”

  “Do you think that peace can be made between Dægan and my father?”

  “Lady Mara,” Tait said adjusting himself closer, “if Dægan can bring the Irish natives of this isle to welcome pagans on their Christian lands through only words and a wedding, then aye, he can make peace with anyone. Including your father.”

  “You truly believe that?”

  Tait’s smile turned wry. “If I didn’t, I would not be here. I would be in Luimneach, assuming my wedding night ahead of time…again. But that is between you and me. Now, if you will excuse me, I should see how Dægan fairs with Steinar.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  Tait looked everywhere for Dægan, after seeing that Steinar and Etti were both sound asleep in their beds. He tried Dægan’s longhouse first and then his mother’s, the bathhouse, and finally the barn without success. But he did notice a dark shadowy figure entering the storage house at the far end of the settlement.

  Tait sneaked from house to house, making his way to the building, thinking he had found a thief, or maybe even an opportunistic Irishman, stealing dried meat and dairy from their stock while everyone was well occupied by the feast.

  The figure went in and never came back out.

  Cautiously, Tait crept closer, and slipped to the back of the storage building, waiting patiently for the thief to exit the door, readying himself for a fight.

  Suddenly a tall man emerged from the opening, rocking a full barrel of mead across the ground from the storage house to the wagon. He struggled with the weight of its contents, and no one else exited to help him.

  Glad that the thief was a loner, Tait drew in two quick breaths and lunged at the man. They both fell to the ground and Tait threw the first punch before the thief could get up. The man rolled and tried to stand, but Tait kicked him in the stomach, dropping him like a stone.

  The thief coughed and groaned, getting fiery mad, and jumped to his feet, unsheathing his dagger. “I demand you make yourself known!”

  Tait gasped, realizing the voice was that of Dægan’s. “Wait!”

  ****

  “Tait?” Dægan asked, breathing heavily. He squinted through the darkness, trying to see if his attacker was really his best friend. “Are you mad? I nearly killed you!”

  “I think I nearly killed you,” Tait corrected. “You never laid one hand on me.”

  “Really?” Dægan stated, still feeling the pain from the blow to his gut. He sheathed his dagger and immediately threw a quick punch at his friend’s face, knocking him to the ground, while staggering off balance into the storage wall. “How about now?”

  Tait held his chin in his hand. “You bastard!”

  “Come on, ‘twasn’t that hard a hit!” Dægan belittled, rolling his eyes as he pushed himself from the wall. “Now help me load this barrel, you kerling.”

  “I only struck you because I thought you were thieving!”

  “And I struck you because yo
u were gloating.”

  “I was not gloating,” Tait replied, walking over to the barrel. “I was simply making a point.”

  “I think my point was better made.”

  “Now you are gloating,” Tait indicated. “Does that mean I can strike you back?”

  “Try it.” Dægan knew Tait was smart enough not to challenge him and soon his friend waved off the suggestive dare. Together, he and Tait grabbed the bottom of the barrel and lifted it to the back of the cart.

  “Did Steinar drink all the mead?” A sardonic expression laced Tait’s grin.

  “Nay.”

  “Then why another barrel?” Tait asked, sniffing. “And by the gods, Dægan! What is that smell?”

  Dægan sighed, smelling it too. “That smell is Rutland.”

  Tait scoffed, no doubt thinking he was speaking of a sour grudge. “’Twill be difficult for everyone to rid that stench from our memories. You should not be so hard on yourself, Dægan. No one, not even Hansen who wanted to force his fist down the lad’s throat, thought him capable of doing such a thing.”

  “That is not what I mean,” Dægan said incensed. “I mean, Rutland is in the barrel and the smell is literally coming from him.”

  Tait’s eyes widened as he allowed the gruesome picture to rest in his head. “In here?”

  “Aye,” Dægan replied quickly.

  “But why in bloody Hel would you do this?” Tait asked, almost scolding him.

  “I didn’t. Ottarr and Vegard—”

  “They did this?”

  Dægan’s heavy brows hung low across his splintered eyes. “Will you please let me speak?”

  Tait crossed his arms, nearly tying his hands within his kirtle beneath his pits. “Speak fast before I heave where I stand!”

  “I like it not anymore than you, Tait!”

  “But why even bring him here? In this—this—way!”

  “They did what they thought best.”

  “Best?” Tait snapped, pacing the ground. “This was the best those clever advisors could come up with? Odin’s blood, their minds are gone!

  “‘Tis not like Rutland truly deserves better. He killed my brother!”

  “I have not forgotten!” Tait defended, spreading his right hand wide. He pointed heatedly at the long scar marking his palm, while jerking Dægan’s wrist up to remind him of his own. “Eirik was like my brother too, Dægan!”

  Dægan stood remembering the day as if it were yesterday, a trio of ambitious minds, standing in a great forest of oaks, about to be cut for the making of their first ship. They stood shoulder to shoulder, proud as cocks, as each one cut the palm of their own hand to proclaim and secure a lifelong blood oath with one another. On a single iron ring, they had clasped their lacerated hands around it, their blood running together and dripping as one onto the ground at their feet. In mixing both earth and blood, each of the three men gathered a handful of soil and shook on it, swearing to protect and avenge the other as brothers would.

  Dægan hung his head. “Indeed he was. Forgive me, Tait.”

  “There is no need to be sorry. You avenged your brother, an oath unbroken. Thor would be proud.”

  “Could we talk of something else?” Dægan asked.

  Tait gripped his friend’s shoulder. “Better yet, let me take this bastard out to sea for you.”

  Dægan doggedly blinking back his heated tears. “And take away my only pleasure? I think not.”

  Tait blocked his path. “Sending Rutland to the depths of his Hel will not free you from this pain. ‘Twill only harden your heart.”

  “Better for my heart to harden, for at least I can feel it.”

  Tait gave up and followed Dægan toward the front of the cart where the horse was hitched. Subdued by sorrow, both stood on either side of the animal, leading it through Inis Mór’s unforgiving harsh ground toward the ocean. For a long time, nothing more was said between the men, until they arrived at the shore. After they lifted the well-agitated barrel from the cart, Tait stepped back from the rancid wooden drum. “Cursed! The next time I see Ottarr and Vegard, I am going to—”

  “You and me both!” Dægan muttered, rolling the barrel to its side and kicking it down into the lapping sea. He stared at it. Dreaded it with all that was in him to see Rutland again, much less endure the stench that had been fermenting for more than a day. Just thinking about the unpleasant odor was enough to make him gag.

  Tait walked up behind him. “I hope you are not too fond of the meal you had tonight, for I would wager you are going to lose it.”

  Dægan looked over his shoulder. “I wager you sooner than me. And will you stop fussing over your jaw!”

  “It hurts!” Tait insisted. “Besides, you would coddle your pretty face just the same had I punched you for gloating.”

  “I never gloat,” Dægan said sternly. “If someone knows not already what you are capable of, then you must not be that good at what you are bragging about. Now get the rope from the wagon so you can tie it around Rutland’s waist as soon as I open this.”

  “How come I have to tie it?”

  “Would you rather stick the rock in his breeches then?”

  Tait sighed, shaking the viscid image from his brain. “By the gods, I draw the line at putting my hands down any man’s breeches, not to mention those of a rotting corpse!”

  “I shall take that as a ‘nay’.”

  Dægan put one foot on the barrel, one hand on the lid and jerked with all his might, releasing the liquid contents within. The stagnant water gushed from the barrel, filling all of the breathable air around Dægan with an unforgiving odor. He retched and gagged, trying to get away from the stench, but it was everywhere, and eventually, after much resistance, he gave in to throwing up his evening meal, just as Tait had predicted.

  The ocean broke at his feet, carrying away the emesis along with his desire to continue. The irony of Rutland and him in the dark water once again, propelled an unwanted vision of his wretched past, one that he didn’t want to relive.

  He took a deep breath over his shoulder, closed his eyes, and grabbed Rutland by his tunic, pulling his body all the way out of the drum. The smell of decaying flesh filtered up through his nose—intolerable and relentless as it was—and again, he felt the muscles of his stomach jerk and tighten. He ran from the putrid smell of the shallow waters and up to the wagon where he vomited anew.

  While doubled over on the shore, and cursing several subsequent oaths for no other reason than making himself feel better, he looked over and saw Tait hunkered down on the ground, his meal, also violently escaping him.

  Dægan actually started to laugh.

  “What is so funny?” Tait growled, spitting the remnants of disgorged matter from his mouth.

  “I was just thinking…if your Thordia keeps cooking the way she does, this might be a common position for you.”

  Tait, unable to find his breath for countering a decent comment, crawled to the small fishing boat, and did what was expected of him in a hurry. He tied one end of the rope to the vessel and hesitated before doing the same to Rutland, looking back at Dægan in hopes that he would have a better idea for getting the corpse further out into the deep dark sea. To his disappointment, Dægan was already on his feet, choosing a hefty rock for the sinking stone.

  ****

  After Tait and Dægan rowed out to sea and sunk the body into its nadir, they made haste for the bathhouse to scrub themselves of their hideous filth, both what was left on their bodies, as well as what afflicted their minds.

  During their fierce cleansing, they heard shouts and praises coming from the remainder of those still feasting and drinking outside. Tait, aiming to join them in their drunken fun so as to forget what his sober mind could not, rushed from the building and left his chieftain to brood within the steam.

  Dægan was partly relieved. He needed this time for himself, to gather his thoughts, if not his bearings on the swiftly turning world in which he existed. In a matter of a sennight, he had gai
ned a brag-worthy price on his head, killed one of his own men, and all too suddenly, lost his brother, because of one impulsive choice to save a woman he didn’t have a duty toward. It wasn’t like him to mull over something that was already done, but it was hard not to feel some thread of regret, especially with his brother’s death being a direct result of that decision. Most would say his bad luck was a curse, a punishment for the oath he had broken with his war god. Mayhap it was. But Dægan refused to believe that a man’s path was laid out by the gods, whereby it could improve or worsen, depending on how pleased they were. To him, a man’s path to glory was blazed solely by the righteousness of his actions. And that’s just where Dægan’s struggle lay—deep within the course of his own misdeeds.

  He could have done something else with Rutland’s body. Perhaps a proper burial would have been better. But he couldn’t bring himself to that level of decency, for no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t think of one reason why Rutland deserved anything moderately proper. The cold black water was a fitting burial for a man who thought naught of his family before doing the unthinkable. At least, that’s what Dægan kept trying to tell himself.

  He rested his pounding head against the warmth of the wall behind him and forced his mind to drift down a different channel, a place he knew and loved the most: Mara’s naked embrace.

  ****

  “I thought I would find you in here,” sieved Mara’s voice through the thickening mist. She closed the door behind her and gave Dægan a pitying smile. “When I saw Tait drinking like a fish, I assumed ‘twas not because he was exceptionally thirsty. And in seeing you with the very same look upon your face, I think you both are plagued by something you wished you had not seen or done.”

  Dægan didn’t speak and he looked as if he hadn’t the strength to try.

  “So, this is the bathhouse…” Mara stated, opting for idle chat. She took a deep breath, feeling the warm ply of air stuffing her lungs, quite amazed at how well the room was built and the effectiveness of the steaming rocks that heated the entire space and the contents within it.

  She had never been in such a room and even though she was completely warmed in a short time, she still failed to understand the real purpose for the heated building. Dægan often spoke of the bathhouse, but it was not at all what she thought one should be like. There was a hearth—hardly large enough to heat a cauldron for bathing—and only a few buckets of water on the floor with a wooden bench that lined the entire perimeter of the room. “This is where you often try to cleanse your soul?”