The Emerald Isle Trilogy Boxed Set

by Vincent, Renee

  Dægan tried to concentrate on the ceremony itself, taking a deep breath to calm his wondering mind, but that only made it worse, for now he could smell her. He could smell her as remarkably as if she were right in his arms.

  Again, he tried to listen to the priest’s words, the cursed Latin gibberish. Nothing.

  Not a single word did Dægan understand or recognize for that matter. He wasn’t even convinced he was getting married. For all he knew, it was very likely he was being condemned to the gallows and the priest was saying his last rites before he would be dropped to his death.

  Nay. He was getting married. He knew it for sure now, for Mara was smiling at him. Certainly, she would not be smiling if a hanging were in his course. Her eyes danced and twinkled in the fire light, a shade of darker green this night. Perhaps, it was the gold flames of the many torches reflecting in her eyes that made them seem darker, or the seductive gaze she cast in his direction. Either way, they were most intriguing.

  He loved her eyes, for they shone like crystal jade through the dark of the night, a sight that gave him strength and the will to be a better man. A man who had a reason to search out his troubled world and cast aside his many demons so as to stand worthy of her. She made him believe that peace wasn’t just a hard wave to row, but a destination. A place where love comes as easily as the sunlight falling on one’s face.

  It was in her eyes at that moment when he saw his children. Many children. An image he had never thought of before, but how proud he felt to know that Mara would be the woman to birth them. All of them. Five, he thought. No, six! All of them strapping boys! Well, maybe one girl, he reconsidered silently.

  Suddenly, Mara reached out to him and took his hands in hers, interrupting his thoughts of future family plans. He looked down at her hands so small, tucked within his. They felt good and right, just like everything else when she was in his arms. It was as if everything at this moment was where it should be, and the rest of the world could fall apart at his feet for all he cared.

  For a fleeting moment, he was utterly content. He had forgotten all about the suspicious Irish watching him, or the Connacht king he’d yet to make amends with. There was nothing in his thoughts right now but Mara. She was one thing good in his life. The one thing in his world that didn’t need another man’s binding word or the strength of a sword arm to keep it.

  Lady Mara was finally his, and it was so.

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Mara was as content as she could be. Her husband was lying naked beside her, his arm tightly woven around her body, and her head on his chest. The rhythmic thumping of his heart was a trance-like drumming in her ears. The fire crackled in the hearth and the quiet whisper of his breathing added to the peaceful song of the room. There was no place she’d rather be.

  She strummed her fingers across his chest and sighed. “I want not for this night to end.”

  Dægan kissed the top of her head. “Nor I.”

  “What scares me, is as each day passes, it brings your reinforcements that much closer to landing here, and that only means—”

  “Sh...” Dægan consoled. “’Twill be all right. You should not fear men simply talking.”

  “If ‘twere truly just simple talk, you would not need five hundred men.”

  “Those men are for your protection, not mine.”

  Mara adjusted herself in his arms, pulling closer to his side, short of climbing atop. “You can lie all you want. But I know why those men are coming.”

  Dægan reached up at the strand of hair tickling his chest and idly twisted it about. “Do you believe in fate?”

  “Not really,” Mara admitted.

  “Well, then you may not believe the story I have to tell.”

  Mara couldn’t help but be interested. “I could open my mind a bit, although I cannot imagine you proving the existence of fate as well as you did a round Earth.”

  Dægan smiled. “Opening your mind would be helpful, but if you can read, ‘twould be better.”

  “I can read a little, I suppose.”

  “Good,” Dægan said with excitement in his voice. He stood from the bed and walked out of his chambers to his closet, opening the door to pull out a few things from the matted floor, only to expose a trap door beneath.

  “No one knows of this space, Mara, save you. I built this after my longhouse was erected, so I could dig beneath the floor without anyone knowing. ‘Twas what my father did to protect this book and it proved to be the best way of keeping it a secret.”

  “Why would a book need be kept in secret?”

  “Because of its value,” Dægan said straightly. “In sentiment as well as its weight in silver.” He reached low inside the dark hole and pulled up an old leather satchel weathered by time. He held it as though it were a fragile newborn babe and blew the dust from its top. “This, love, is what saved my family years ago—twice even.”

  “Saved your family from what?”

  Dægan carried it over to the edge of the boxbed and sat down, staring at its sacred packaging. “From starvation.”

  Mara sat up straighter. “How does a book keep anyone from starving?”

  “Before I tell you how, you should first know that I used to have another brother. A twin brother named Domaldr.”

  Those words struck Mara oddly. “Why would you not tell me this before?”

  “Because as far as I was concerned, he exists not to me anymore. He betrayed my father in the worst way and left his own family to die.”

  “Your own brother? What did he do?”

  “What did he not do? All his life, he harbored a jealous heart within him, always resenting that he was the middle son of four. Despite that Gustaf was the natural seaman and most likely to gain father’s inheritance, we were all treated the same. Father wanted his wealth to be spread evenly amongst his sons, for he was a man of fairness and generosity. We all loved the sea as father did, going out on explorations as often as he would let us, except Domaldr. He loved only himself. He truly believed he deserved of a better life, a life where his name would precede him, a life where his pockets would spill over and pave the ground in silver before his feet stepped forth. Mother loved him in spite of his envy, and said he would soon grow out of it. But after sixteen summers, he proved her wrong.

  “Father had come home from a long journey that kept him away for nearly three months, and he and his men were exhausted from fighting many treacherous storms. My father ordered the men to leave the knarr at its dock fully loaded so they could get a good night’s rest and empty it at dawn. Fortunately, father carried an arm full of valuables from his vessel to show us before we took to our beds; a silver brooch for mother, this book, and the sword I now carry at my side. Father loved that sword. We all did. He let us take turns slicing it into the wind. But not Domaldr. He took one look at its worth and ran from the house in a childish rage. Father thought it was best to let him go. Little did we know he had bribed a few of his friends into helping him steal the knarr with all its contents.

  “That night, as we all slept, Domaldr stole away with every piece of fur, every bundle of wool, every crate of spices, and all of father’s silver. Everything gone. And ‘twasn’t as though father could get more, for you see ‘twas the last journey of the year. Winter was quickly approaching and to go on another voyage would have been madness. Domaldr had made a fortune in one night and we all suffered dearly for his greed. That winter was the hardest we had ever had. My father sold many cattle and sheep to gain his footing on his losses, and rationed the rest amongst his people for wool and meat. But the cold northern winds were harsh, killing the last of the animals just when we needed them the most. Some of our people died, too, despite my father’s effort. There were mothers with babes in their wombs, husbands freezing in their sleep because they gave up their blankets and furs for their little ones. We even buried Vegard’s wife.” Dægan paused, respectfully. “We buried far too many of our family that year. And by the end of the season, food was so scarc
e, we had soon grown accustomed to the taste of tree bark.”

  “I cannot believe your brother would do such a thing. And you never heard from him again?”

  “Nay. ‘Tis been more than eighteen years since I have seen him and I doubt he survived much more than a year before someone else, not obligated by kinship, took to slitting his throat in vengeance.”

  “So please, tell me. How did you all survive?”

  ****

  Dægan enjoyed seeing her keen interest in the story. “One day, my father awoke to a warm, sunny morning. He looked out over the fjords and the ice on the sea was beginning to melt, far sooner than usual. To father, ‘twas a sign. And fortunately for all of us, he took a chance. He ventured out onto the crusted sea, braving freezing winds and floating ice. He journeyed alone in a small fishing boat around the entire southern perimeter of Norway until he could sail northeast toward Gokstad. There, he traded his last possession: this book.”

  “He traded it?” Mara asked. “To whom?”

  “A holy man. My father had heard of his conversion to your Christian religion and knew he was probably the only one who would know its worth.”

  “Did he?”

  “And then some. My father came back with a new crew of men, a bigger boat, and enough food and wool for three winters.”

  “One book did all that?”

  “Ah, but ‘tis not just any book, love,” Dægan said scooting closer. “This book is said to have survived both a downpour of rain, and a watery grave in the Loch Rí, yet its pages remain as dry as the day it was written.

  “And you believe that?”

  “I should be asking why you do not. ‘Twas your Saint Ciarán who first possessed the book. If I remember correctly, the story goes that he was sitting on a bench outside the monastery of Clonmacnois reading from this very book, when visitors came. Like a good host, he fed and gave rooms to his traveling friends and forgot all about the open book he had left on the bench. That night, it rained like never before, but in the morning when he rushed out to retrieve the book he thought ruined, all the pages were dry, even the place in the grass beneath the bench where the book had lain.”

  “You and your stories, Dægan.”

  “Do you not like them?”

  “I do, but you are so well-versed in telling them that ‘tis hard to differentiate tales from the truth.”

  “Fine. I shall stop.”

  “You cannot stop now. What about the watery grave?” Mara asked skeptically.

  “‘Tis also said that this man was on a boat on the Loch Rí with many other dedicated followers. The book was still in its satchel, but one of the monks was careless and dropped it over the side of the boat where it sank to the bottom of the gray lake. To Ciarán’s disappointment, he left the water that day empty-handed. Time passed and one afternoon, the cattle, being hot from the summer sun, waded in the cool water of the Loch Rí. As one of the cows came out, the satchel was tangled around its leg. When Ciarán saw this, he rushed toward the cow and unhooked it, finding the book untouched by the water.”

  Mara gave Dægan a sideways glance. “As a child, my mother told me that story, but I just thought ‘twas a good fireside tale. Surely, that could not have really happened.”

  “How is it that you doubt the existence of a magical book, but not of your Christ rising from the dead after three days?”

  “Because Christ’s rising was called forth by God Himself. With all due respect, Dægan, this book is just legend, and your father was fortunate enough that someone believed in that foolishness.”

  “Foolishness, aye?”

  “I am afraid so,” Mara said, nodding her head.

  “Then open it.”

  Mara scoffed. “Well of course it shall be dry. You had it stored beneath your closet for many years. My opening it, after all this time, will prove nothing.”

  “Open it,” Dægan said again. “If you can read, then open it.”

  Mara sighed and took the satchel from his hands, laying it in her lap. He watched her, knowing the smell of aged leather filled her nostrils, as did the faint smell of rain. She paused, taking in another breath and furrowed her brow

  Dægan smeared his grin to one side. “Cannot imagine why anyone would smell rain on a starry night like tonight.”

  “I never said that I smelled rain.”

  “You did not have to. Everyone makes that face when they hold the book.”

  Mara ripped open the satchel and pulled it out. “You must be out of your mind, Dægan. I—I…” Mara’s eyes grazed over the cover, her mouth dropping slightly as she lifted it up. “I do smell rain.”

  “Now open it,” Dægan commanded sweetly.

  And Mara did. She flipped through the pages quickly and found that every page was dry, unsmeared and perfectly legible. She read a few lines from the middle of the page. “This is a book of the Gospels.”

  “And are not the Gospels written about your Christ whose rising was called forth by the hand of God, Himself?”

  “Aye,” Mara said, trying to swallow it all.

  “Then tell me why ‘tis easier to believe Christ can rise from the dead than His own life’s story withstanding a little water?”

  Mara couldn’t answer. She sat there searching the book for just one mark, one slight stain of lake water, one smudge between words. Her efforts grew in frustration as she flipped faster through the thin vellum-like pages.

  Dægan placed a firm hand upon her wrist. “I have already searched with a thorough eye. You will not find one blemish upon it.”

  “How can that be? Are you certain this is Ciarán’s Gospels?”

  “All I know is that this book saved my family years ago. Whether this book is truly imperishable, I know not. I have not the nerve to try to destroy it solely for the sake of spite.”

  “But if your father traded it, then how did you get it back?”

  Dægan lifted his finger. “Another great story, if I may. My father and brother were killed some two years later, and I knew we had to leave Hladir soon. Their deaths may have saved many men from going to war, but I was not about to pay taxes to support the man who had them killed, nor did I want to bring about my own death. I had not enough resources to pack up and leave because favor with my father had grown in multitudes, which in turn, nearly doubled the size of our clan. But I promised our people we would all leave, or no one would.

  “One fateful autumn morning, I woke up to a sunny sky. I looked out over the fjords just as my father had years before, and like him, I took it as a sign. I gathered a few men and left to find the book. I know not why, but I swear I heard my father’s voice call to me from across the sea.

  “I first went to Gokstad to find the holy man whom father had traded with. But after questioning the locals, they told me he had been killed in his sleep because some did not like his preaching around the ports. I was fortuitous in meeting his daughter, for she told me she knew of the book, but had sold it cheaply to buy food for her bastard son. After finding the man who had bought it from her, and another who stole it from him, and another, and another, and so forth—finally, my journey took me to the Isle of Man. But when I arrived on the shore, I had realized that a battle was being fought and I was literally caught in the middle. Before I could retreat, several arrows darted passed me and struck the hull, setting it afire.”

  Mara eyes grew wide. “What did you do?”

  “I did what any sane chieftain would do—I commanded we abandon ship and run for our lives to the nearest house. We hid inside. Unfortunately it, too, was set afire. I waited as long as I could, and just before passing out, I crawled from the burning hutch and collapsed. When I awoke, everything was burnt to the ground including my only means of getting off the isle.”

  “And your men?”

  He shook his head.

  “What then?”

  “I believe I sat for a while on the shore, cursing everything I could. I even think I cursed my father. But night came quickly, and so did my desper
ation. By morning I had pulled every salvageable piece of wood from the smoking fires and began to reconstruct a seaworthy boat, albeit very crude with what I had to work with. As I went back in search for one last piece of wood, I caught sight of a leather strap sticking out from under the ashes. My first thought was that ‘twould make a fine rigging for a mast, but then I remembered my purpose for going to the isle. And wouldn’t you know, it was the satchel’s strap. I found the book just as I had remembered it, and how you are seeing it now.”

  Mara seemed to forget all about the amazing compilation of Gospels. “So? Come, come, tell me!” she said impatiently. “How did you get off the island?”

  Dægan laughed. “Did you not hear me? I pulled the book from the fire. ‘Twas unharmed, just as you see it now.

  “I heard you,” she replied. “But how did you ever return home?”

  “All right,” Dægan said, adjusting himself on the bed. “But I warn you, ‘tis not as exciting as the book in the fire. I set back to work on my boat, and within four days I sailed west for Baile Átha Cliath. I bought a horse—the one I have now—and rode across Éire to Luimneach. From there I bargained with a young widow I knew who still owned her late husband’s langskip.”

  Mara narrowed her eyes at him. “With what?”

  Dægan rubbed his chin between his thumb and fingers, sizing Mara up for the answer. “Now, judge her not so quickly. It had been eight long years since her husband had died and she was quite lonely.”

  Mara smacked him across the arm. “Dægan, you did not!”

  “I had to get home to my family.”

  “And you could not give the woman your horse?”

  “I liked the horse.”

  “Evidently more than your self respect,” Mara snipped.

  “You asked,” Dægan said, reclining across the boxbed and lugging her on top of him. “I was perfectly content to end the story with the unburned book.”

  Dægan set to kissing her and Mara struggled to keep his wandering mouth from hers, but eventually gave in under a string of giggles. “You think you are quite the nobleman.”