The Emerald Isle Trilogy Boxed Set

by Vincent, Renee

“But what about my people? What about the High King of Tara? As soon as I agree to this outlandish demand, gossip will grace every ear from here to Northumbria of this implausible union of my daughter with a savage! I may not concern myself with the High King’s war for Baile Átha Cliath, but I needn’t him questioning my loyalties! If I agree to this, I will have more enemies than you have men outside my gates!”

  “So you did count,” Dægan jested. “But should you not ask yourself where Mara’s loyalties would lie if she knew the truth about you?”

  Callan quieted a bit under that remark.

  “Very well,” Dægan allotted. “I am willing to extend my mercies a bit further and help you keep your intolerant reputation for the men of the north if that contents you. You can lay claim to the massacre of my twin brother’s army just west of the Shannon, boasting your fiendish hatred for my kind, using the slaughter as your proof, and Domaldr’s hanging as your testimony.”

  “I hardly believe you,” Callan sneered. “You would give up your own brother, your own blood, knowing ‘twould mean his death?”

  “‘Tis hard to fathom, I know. But hostilities between brothers are no more forgiven through blood, than you and I through heedless war.”

  “How endearing,” Callan snarled.

  Dægan stepped back and placed the bare tip of his sword at Callan’s heart, double-fisting the hilt in preparation for a good hard thrust through his ribcage. “Remember, you stubborn fool, Mara is more my wife than she is your daughter. And as much as I hate to bring this pain upon her with your sudden death, I will take back what is mine—with or without your consent!”

  Dægan felt a cold shiver ripple through him and his fingertips began to tingle, a feeling he’d never felt before. In determining it was his body’s way of forewarning severe blood loss, he gritted his teeth against it and held fast to gaining the king’s agreement. “Last chance, Sire! What say you to my terms?”

  ****

  Callan instinctively braced himself against the wall, held his breath, and closed his eyes. He had more than deserved this death for what he had done. By right, he shouldn’t even have lasted as king as long as he had, considering all the enemies he’d made from forceful conquests and bloody victories, whilst Mara was too young to remember. Up until his wife died, he continued his reign of cogent kingship, putting men under the sword for refusing to serve. And now, it was being brought full-circle—to either die, or submit.

  He thought about Mara and how he had cursed her for admitting her love for a man he considered his enemy. Yet, the bloody heathen before him had truly done nothing to warrant the title. Dægan’s was not the hand that killed his brother some twenty-eight years past, a grudge he continued to hold over every Northman. As enemies go, Callan couldn’t forge a single present-day reason for hating the man in his solar, except that he was annoyingly meticulous, respectfully civil, and highly intellectual. And yes, there was the fact that he took Mara for close to a fortnight, but even that was forgivable in light of the story Mara and Breandán had told. If anything, he knew he should be praising the Northman for his undaunted feat of bravery and final resolution toward saving his very crown. And if that were not enough, the bloody bastard didn’t even sink to a level of demanding a preposterous amount of compensation for lost men and arms! All he wanted was to be given back the woman he married—a daughter who was not rightly Callan’s to say otherwise.

  He could see Mara’s crying face now, tears pouring from her eyes. By just consenting to the terms, he could take away all the pain and anguish she was going through, and above all, avoid her ever knowing the truth behind her conception and the attempt he made to kill her real father.

  Callan swallowed hard and opened his eyes. “All right,” he muttered. “I will agree to your terms. But not because I fear death by your hand, Fionnghall, but because I could not bear to see the look of disappointment on Mara’s face if she knew the truth. I would gladly give all I have to keep her from knowing. Call me a coward, if you must, but I love her too much to hurt her. She may not be my daughter by blood, but from the moment I held her in my arms, I existed. And from the day she first called me ‘father’, I lived. If you take that away from me, I have nothing. One day I know I will have to face the good Lord above for all the sins I have committed, but I am not ready to face her. Not yet.”

  ****

  Dægan watched as the king’s fiery spirit dispersed like a misty fog. Whatever restless fight had consumed Callan before, was now just a bleak rustling amid the settling dust of their dispute. He lowered his weapon, confounded by the king’s sudden outpouring, and sheathed it, sending the tiny beads of his rosary to clatter in joyous exuberance.

  “Thank you, wise king,” Dægan said.

  “For what?”

  “For reaffirming why I wanted not to kill you in the first place. I had hopes that a man who raises a daughter into a fine woman, whether his own or someone else’s, does so by example and not by chance. You have taught her well. She is of sound mind and good heart, not to mention hard-headed,” Dægan added in humor, gripping his nose between his thumb and fingers. “I would have to say even you took to me better than she did in the beginning. ‘Twas not an easy courtship between a spar-taught woman and an arrogant warrior, I assure you.”

  “Broke your nose, did she?”

  “Aye,” Dægan said, giving up some of his pride. “I hope that brings you some comfort.”

  “Little…” Callan sighed, still burdened by his surrender, despite the Northman’s lighthearted idle talk. “What now?”

  “We do what truced men do. We uphold our end of the bargain and walk away peacefully with our blessings.”

  “And what blessings do I have as you leave with Mara?”

  Dægan walked to the far wall and bent over to pick up the king’s scabbard, feeling another tiny current of weakness cut through him, a blackness overtaking his eyes. He shook it away, so as not to bring it to the king’s awareness, and focused his attention on the encased weapon in his hands. He twisted it about, admiring the bronzed scabbard and the talent for which the Irish artisan had in creating such a piece. “You have a long life ahead of you.”

  Callan scoffed. “I am not too certain of the length of my life with these lands in exasperating conflict.”

  Dægan handed the scabbard to the king. “You speak of Baile Átha Cliath?”

  “Aye,” Callan said, accepting the sword with much skepticism before securing it at his side.

  “May I ask why you concern yourself with a port whose control has often wavered like the changing weather?”

  “My concern is not for the port itself, but for the unity of Ireland.”

  “Is that what the High King has used to gather his baker’s dozen?”

  Callan eyes widened. “You know of his numbers?”

  “I know of his meager numbers. These thirteen lesser kings, and you giving thought to being the fourteenth, will not make the slightest difference in this war. He could assemble twenty lesser kings and their armies, but ‘twill still not be enough. You will all die. Songs will be sung in your defeat for years to come and stories will emerge from fireside drunkenness. Is that the manner in which you want to be remembered, with Mara visiting a makeshift grave of your scattered bones across Connacht’s battlefield? Heed well my warning, old king, and Mara shall visit you at your door, smiling upon you on yet another blessed day.”

  “You speak very assuredly,” Callan noted, “almost as if you have chosen your side and would hate to come across me in your affairs, fighting for Baile Átha Cliath yourself.”

  “Baile Átha Cliath is not my affair. I am through fighting—ours being the last.”

  “One can never be too certain, as enemies rise and fall like the sun.”

  Dægan saw the concern in Callan’s eyes that had long been etched by years of fear and childhood prejudices, fed not only by his elders who had personally clashed with the Northmen of their day, but by witnessing his own brother’s bloody dea
th.

  “I am not your enemy. I never was,” Dægan said sincerely as he started to remove his own sword and scabbard from his belt. “This was my father’s. ‘Tis a king’s sword and it belongs in a king’s hands. Take it, and may you never doubt that I am not a threat to you.”

  Callan looked at Dægan as if it were a trick, but Dægan insisted saying, “My father died much like your brother; in the hands of ruthless, greedy men. Let this sword be a reminder that hearts can mend, and even uncommon ties can bind.”

  Callan shook his head in disbelief as he held the sumptuous gift in both hands. “Who are you?”

  “Truth be told, I am no one. Just a man, who bleeds like any other, and sins just as much as the next. I cannot change what has happened in the past, but I can surely steer the course to where I am going. And hopefully, I have God at my starboard.”

  Callan watched Dægan turn and walk toward the barred door. As Dægan started to undo the chains from the levers, Callan slowly pulled the newly acquired heavy iron from its sheath, letting the high-pitched ring of pounded metal be heard. “You know I could kill you right now, and no one would be the wiser of our truce.”

  “You could…but I am afraid my twin may have beaten you to it…” Dægan let the chains fall to the floor, his hands now trembling with frailty. He turned around, fearing his doom was upon him.

  Callan stared at him, his injuries and their magnitude more apparent from the torch light at both sides of the door. The deep lacerations he’d suffered, seemed to finally affect him as he stood there, losing blood upon the floor.

  Dægan’s legs began to wobble, and despite his many efforts to stay erect, they eventually buckled beneath him. He collapsed, lying sprawled in his own blood pool, barely coherent as he gazed at the king. His eyes fluttered and his head drifted backward, unable to hold the weight of his own head anymore. Finally, he gave in to being fully recumbent, exhaling a breath of exhaustion.

  Callan came to Dægan, a slight sense of pity on his face. “Christ, Fionnghall, you are bleeding to death!”

  Dægan pressed his own hand to his punctured right side, blood oozing between his fingers. “So I am…”

  Callan stared, almost in a trance. “You cannot die here. Not within these walls. I am no fool. You die in my charge and, truce or not, your men will storm my gates in revenge. Get up! Get up now!”

  “Believe me, I would if I had the strength.”

  “Then call your men off!” Callan pleaded. “The ones who have come with you, hiding within Dún na hAbhann, waiting for your word! My men should not die because you failed to say otherwise! Give the word, and I will see that your wounds are closed! Give it, Fionnghall!”

  Dægan tried hard to stay awake. “There are no men hiding in the shadows of your fort. I breached your walls on my own. I swear it. Search the entire fort if you need to. You will not find a single man, save your own. But you are right in presuming my men’s vengeance should my last breaths be taken inside Dún na hAbhann. Get me out of here, with my wife, and all will be well. This I, too, swear. Please…I ask of you, King. Let me go home with my wife.”

  ****

  Callan heard nothing more from the Northman, save Mara’s name repeatedly on his lips. For the first time in Callan’s life, he believed and trusted in the words of a Fionnghall—that the threat of scores of Northmen in his fort, was never there. He needn’t search the grounds, for he knew well now that it was only a crafty way to create a necessary hesitation for acquiring an amends between men…two very different men, despite the improbable. Dægan succeeded on all accounts, without bloodshed, and Callan respected that.

  He reached out and touched Dægan’s arm. “Find your strength and hold on a bit longer. I shall bring you what you want.”

  Chapter Thirty-two

  There was a momentous rocking and an occasional bump which brought Dægan from his sleep. Voices carried all around him and the sound of swift horses’ hooves, rolling wooden wheels, and slapping leather gave him the keen interest necessary to open his eyes.

  At first he saw the colors of royal red and gold draped above him in a dome-like fashion, his first thought being that of utter confusion. But soon the bright sunlight pierced through the thin, yet ornate fabric above him, forcing him to shut his eyes and determine his whereabouts by memory.

  The brilliance of the sun’s rays through his eyelids drew a pounding throb across his forehead, and after many times of trying to concede with the intensity of the sun, he gave up and covered his brow with his left arm. It was then that he felt the sharp pain in his ribs reminding him of the assault he’d endured and not yet recovered from. He peered through narrowly opened slits, seeing that he lacked the blood-stained brown tunic, and was dressed in a clean white kirtle that hid the likeness of stiff bandages across his torso. At his feet, lay the king’s chest.

  “Easy, Dægan,” a familiar voice droned over the cadence of trotting hooves. “Lie still.”

  Dægan smiled as he knew well the sweet dulcet voice, and tried eagerly to see the lovely face that owned it. He succeeded without much punishment, for Mara sat in front of him, shadowing him from the rays of the fierce afternoon sun.

  “Where am I?” he asked, still uncertain of the elaborate drapes and fanciful pillows that surrounded him. “What is all this?”

  “Your carriage home, my lord.”

  His brows lifted. “I recall not owning a carriage of this grandeur.”

  There was a slight tinge of relief on Mara’s face from his tiny thread of humor. “This is my carriage and you are being escorted to Luimneach.”

  “And what of my men?”

  “They, too, follow you. Tait as well.”

  “But our ships are not in Luimneach—”

  “Sh…” Mara said, soothing Dægan’s furrowed brow. “Ottarr led half the men westward to Gaillimh to retrieve the ships, along with Havelock and Ingvarr. They will unite with us in Luimneach and sail you home again. I realize ‘tis a shorter distance to Gaillimh, but this carriage would not make it through the bogs. My father has arranged everything for you and even has his own men escorting you in your journey.”

  “More importantly, what did he arrange for Domaldr?”

  Mara straightened her face. “He has been hung by the neck. My father declares you the victor and a lifelong ally of the Uí Bhriúin Ai. With that union, he said he would brave whatever the Ard Rí would accuse him of, just as you braved him. He also asked that I return you this.” Mara uncovered the entitling sword of Dægan’s father. “My father said it takes a brave man to lift a sword in battle, and an even braver man not to. You made use of a sharp tongue in place of a sharp iron as a stronger, more compelling means of peace, and the reward for your courage should be no less than the withheld iron itself. With it, may you never think of him as a threat.”

  Dægan couldn’t believe his eyes as he held the noble weapon in his hands once again. Perhaps it was weakness that kept him from saying anything, but all in all, he was overjoyed to once again hold the sword that had protected him so many times.

  “Is something wrong?” Mara asked of Dægan’s quiet reserve.

  He sighed and rested his heavy head back into the pillow, taking hold of Mara’s hand. “I have only dreamed of this day—you and I, together at last—with no one trying to come between us. I cannot help but feel that even my own eyes are deceiving me. Are you certain you are naught but a vivid dream, sure to disperse as I wake?”

  Mara leaned forward, slowly stroking his face from his forehead to jaw. “If you fear your eyes deceive you, then close them and feel for yourself that I am real.”

  Dægan did as he was told, and was soon rewarded with a light kiss, firstly upon his upper lip ever so softly, and then deeper. She drew his tongue easily from his mouth, and he felt the wash of sensual pleasure ripple through him. He strung a hand into the thick of her hair with an undisputed conviction to satisfy his rampant desire, pulling her closer to claim that kiss as his own.

  “Do
your hands and mouth deceive you too, my lord?”

  “If they do, ‘tis but sweet deceit.”

  Mara succumbed to the adamant pull of his arms around her and draped herself carefully across his chest, avoiding his many injuries. “There is still strength in your hands and in your kiss. ‘Tis good.”

  Dægan saw the fear hiding behind her eyes. He caressed her cheek. “Your words say one thing, whilst your eyes tell me another. Fret not over me, love. I am a blessed man this day.”

  ****

  Days passed.

  And the journey to Dægan’s small port settlement seemed relentless at best, as each passing hour proved to be more difficult for him. Not only did he continue to grow weaker, but an insurmountable fever had taken hold.

  Mara had hydrated him often with a thrice-boiled brew of barley, water, and honey and had wiped his entire body down with a cool wet cloth that had steeped alongside several agate stones. Despite her thorough efforts using remedies, prayer, and even superstition, the fever still clung to him without any sign of breaking.

  His next added struggle came as he spent the last hours of the night shivering uncontrollably. No matter how many blankets Mara wrapped around him, or even how long she used her own body heat for warmth, the trembling continued, and his fever grew to heights beyond her imagination. He tossed his head and straightened his limbs as though chained to a violent nightmare, only a stuporous mumble escaping his pursed lips. By the third day, his dreams had escalated in aggression.

  Mara continued to wipe his brow, calling his name amorously. “Dægan, can you hear me?”

  He shouted at her, but not in a language she understood. He rambled in his native tongue—swear words, she thought. To her, they seemed like formidable commands as if he were right in the middle of a bloodthirsty battle.

  “Dægan, please, open your eyes to me.”

  He assuredly heard her, for his brows seemed to twitch, but his answer came in another fierce bawl.

  Mara bit her lip, frightened by his obsessive delirium. His long days of fighting the fever were the source, and unless it subsided, she feared he would soon lose his mind completely.