Yet Dægan’s story does not end here with his body laid to rest, for there is more to be told….
With his settlement laying in burnt ruins and everything taken for which to trade, there was still the heavy burden on his people of how to rebuild their houses of wood and sod when the very land they lived upon could not furnish those materials.
But Mara had an idea.
Just as Dægan had done, and his father before him, she took the beautiful sunset as a sign, a sign that no other place would be more suited for her and the people Dægan left behind than that of the splendorous Inis Mór.
That night as everyone slept, Mara sped her horse across the rocky plain to what was left of Dægan’s house. She walked carefully through the ashes and scorched timbers to what would have been the main room of the longhouse and past the central hearth. She imagined where their boxbed chamber would have been and the closet nearest it, dropping to her knees to search amid the ash-strewn ground for evidence of the trap door. She knocked on the floor in several random spots, listening for a hollow sound, and finally the hidden space beneath the closet made itself known.
In tucking her fingers between the boards, she tore open the badly damaged trap door, fearing the flames had reached beneath and ruined that for which she so desperately searched. She reached blindly into the dark hole and felt the old leather satchel at her fingertips. She gripped it fervently with both hands and lifted it from its deep earthen home, hugging it tightly against her chest as though it were Dægan himself.
Mara looked up at the dark midnight sky brazen with bright stars and smiled, knowing Saint Ciarán’s book would again save Dægan’s people.
And…she smelled rain.
THE END
Mac Liam
Book Two of the Emerald Isle Trilogy
Terms, Names, and Phrases
Donnchadh Mac Flainn: Irish king who threatened to rise to power in the 10th century.
Nevan: Irish king of the Uí Bhriain on Inis Mór
Callan Mac Conchubhair: King of Connacht, Mara’s father
Dægan Ræliksen: Mara’s first husband
Dún na hAbhann: Ring fort of Callan Mac Conchubhair
Crannóg: A fortified, man-made island, built mostly of rocks, logs, and debris upon which circular homes made of wattle-and-daub walls and thatched roofs were constructed.
Currach: Wooden framed boat upon which animal skins were stretched
Chevaux de frise: A medieval defense around a castle, sometimes consisting of iron or wood spikes, or as simple as logs and/or stone obstacles scattered about for the purpose of slowing if not warding off the advancement of an attack.
Fionnghall/Fionnghaill: “Fair-haired foreigners” Irish terms for Norwegians (singular/plural)
Langskip, Drakkar: Viking longship (swift warship with very shallow draft)
Knarr: Viking merchant ship (larger in size—both in depth and width—to carry goods and supplies)
Lughnasadh: A Gaelic holiday traditionally associated with the first of August, marking the start of the harvest season. It was a time for reuniting with distant family and friends, having festivals, and for the Irish, the beginning and/or end of the favored handfasting.
A chara: ‘My friend’ in Irish (Gaeilge)
A thaisce: Literally ‘my treasure’ in Irish (Gaeilge); term of endearment
Tá m'anam is mo chroí istigh ionat: ‘My heart and soul are within you’ in Irish (Gaeilge); very strong expression of love
Prologue
Iceland, 923AD
The door of the longhouse burst open and seven men, outfitted in conical helmets, snow-dusted wolfskin cloaks, and swords, rushed in. They hastened to surround the boxbed where two entangled bodies sat up in complete surprise, the covers drawn to their chins to hide their nakedness.
Before the master of the house could utter a single word of protest about the rude intrusion—not to mention the seven swords now pointed at his heart—an eighth man entered, taller and broader in stature but with more of a casual arrogance than his comrades. He, too, was helmeted. But as he strolled closer, he removed it, revealing a headful of dark blond hair.
The master of the house swallowed hard against the nervous fluttering in his chest and somehow gained his tongue for speaking. “How dare you burst into my home!”
The Norse intruder only stared, as if to collect his thoughts after the long tiresome journey he’d endured before this moment. His breathing was not heavy or labored, and his face showed no signs of emotion. It was difficult to say why his words failed him, but there was no doubt the tension in the room grew as the silence lengthened. Finally, he spoke, but not to the master. He looked at the woman.
“Are you his wife?”
“Of course not! She is but a whore!” the man answered for her. “And what matter is it of yours?”
The red haired woman’s lips pursed tightly and her hand met her master’s face soundly. In the heat of her anger, she let the linens fall, revealing an ample blessing of youthful breasts for all to see.
For the first time since his entering, the Northman smiled. “Be not angered, woman. What insult he has spat of you, just saved your life. Get your clothes and leave.”
“And where must I go on a cold night like this?” she asked, seemingly unafraid of the eight towering men surrounding her.
“Wherever you choose. But know this, I shall never insult you should you decide to leave with me, my lady.”
A slight grin eased across her rosy cheeks upon hearing the noble title with which the bearded stranger used to flatter her. Likely, no one had ever called her by a dignified name. And it seemed enough to convince her that tagging along with a man—whose name she had yet to learn—was a better idea than wading in knee-high snow drifts toward the next warm longhouse owned by a man she’d already lain with countless times.
She stood up from the boxbed and approached the handsome Northman, her seductive eyes looking up at him.
Her body was stark naked and firm, blushed pink from the warmth of the room’s fire, since it was obvious a meek sense of embarrassment was not the culprit.
The Northman reached out to the nearest wall and swiped her master’s fine bear cloak, wrapping it around her shoulders. “Go on,” he ushered with a subtle jerk of his head. “This is no place for a delicate woman.”
She slowly walked away, dragging her hand across his armored chest before bending down and gathering the rest of her clothes. The Northman did not catch sight of her provocative stoop, for his eyes remained fixed on her master, whose face now fumed with rage.
Once the Northman heard the door close behind him, he stepped forward, this time in a quicker fashion. “Get up!” he demanded.
The man stood as he was told and locked eyes with his aggressor, the very man who stole his woman property right out from under him with barely an effort. “Who do you think you are?” he growled.
As if thankful the man finally asked, the Northman smiled callously and introduced himself in a monotone delivery. “I am Gustaf, son of Rælik, son of the man you slaughtered in Hladir twenty-three winters ago…in his own home…his wife to watch. There were ten of you sent by Harold ‘the Fairhair.’ I have traveled through rain, snow, and bone chilling north winds, avenging—on behalf of my father—eight worthless men. You are the ninth, Ragnar, son of Thorsteinn.”
Gustaf watched as Ragnar’s eyes widen—not because he burst into this man’s home, threatened him with a show of swords, insulted him, and took his harlot—but because he’d been thorough enough to trace Ragnar’s lineage while proving that the rumors of Fairhair’s involvement in the other eight deaths were all untrue. Fairhair had not paid a group of thugs to rid his past treacheries left hanging in the wind. It was one man’s vengeance—an avenging son.
Ragnar scoffed. “So ‘twould be you who have forced us all to leave our families and homelands to live in exile—”
“Give me the name of the tenth man,” Gustaf cut in, “and I swear your death wi
ll be swift. Give it not, and you will die in the same manner which you had once deemed necessary for my father—drawn and hanged by your own entrails.”
It did not take long for the man to decide his fate. “I will not give you his name, as I am neither a coward, nor a traitor. What I did, was by order of the king.” He spat at Gustaf’s feet. “Long live Harold ‘the Fairhair’.”
“So be it.” Gustaf unsheathed his dagger for the comparable punishment at hand.
Chapter One
Ireland, 923AD
Seven Years After Dægan Ræliksen’s Death
Breandán Mac Liam sighed, just as he had done so many other nights after finishing his days work, and slumped to the cold ground. He wished he were somewhere else.
He was a hunter—a damn good one. And it had brought him a considerable amount of wealth in the trade market despite his tender age of twenty-seven years. But even the grand livelihood of trading the surplus of hare and fox furs in Gaillimh didn’t come close to the thought of being a simple husband and lover.
His days were lonely. Even while occupied with the hunt, he was consumed with the thoughts of being with Mara, the daughter on the Connacht king. Though it had been more than seven years since he had seen Mara, his love for her had not lessened. He was literally chained to her memory and the hope that one day they could be together.
When he had first laid eyes on Mara, she was a young teen-age girl, riding her horse naively through his hunting grounds. Had it been anyone else, Breandán would have stopped them and directed them elsewhere. But with Mara, he longed to have his hunting disturbed.
It was her natural beauty and gracefulness that had first caught his eye. The more he had seen her lingering in the fields and lounging near the Shannon, the more he came to appreciate her free-born spirit and gentle kindness, traits he assumed she hadn’t inherited from her pompous father, Callan Mac Choncubhair.
Mara was nothing like him. She was light-hearted and nimble as she sang and danced in the meadows. She was elegant and agile as she raced her horse through brooks and briars. And above all, she hadn’t an arrogant bone in her body. She was the kind of woman who would greet and welcome anyone who came into her life without ever looking down at them.
Despite her graciousness, Breandán had never felt comfortable enough to approach her. In his eyes, he was still just a common man with common needs, and—given her noble status—he couldn’t give her what he thought she deserved.
When he finally did make himself known to her, she was already in love with and married to a Northman named Dægan Ræliksen. To add to his misfortune, Mara no longer lived near Breandán, but on Inis Mór, an island off the west coast of Ireland.
Since that time, Breandán had desperately tried to move on. Tried to forget her. But it proved useless.
Each passing summer, when the ports were brimming with gossip, he’d hear word of her and find himself eavesdropping to keep up on what was happening in her life. One summer, it was news about her husband’s tragic death. The next year, was how she had bore his son the following spring.
The thought of Mara being all alone and raising a son on such a harsh island as Inis Mór pulled at his heart. Much of his desire to see her again was driven by the deep love he’d always had for her and the sincere need to make certain she was all right. He had mulled the idea of going to her a thousand times over in his head. But soon after he had convinced himself to go to her, he learned she was to be married to another.
Again, he’d missed out on his opportunity to be with Mara.
From the moment that final stake was driven through his heart, he hardly visited the ports of Gaillimh anymore, relying on his friend and hunting partner, Marcas, to bargain his goods. He stayed clear of everything that would or might remind him of Mara. He even went as far as hunting further north to avoid familiar landmarks she used to frequent.
Though the years passed, it did nothing to lessen the pain or water down the vivid image of Mara’s face. Her absence only escalated his longing.
In the beginning, he only had to endure his thoughts and yearnings of her in the waking hours of the day, finding relief in the solitude of his sleep. But lately, there was no comfort in closing his eyes. Mara had now barged into his peaceful dreams, nearly haunting him as he slept. Often times, he’d awaken in a cold sweat. She was always out of his reach, calling him…pleading for him to save her.
There was never any apparent danger in his nighttime visions from which he needed to rescue her; just an overwhelming desperation to grasp her outstretched hand as if it meant his very life.
Through the sleepless nights and exhausting days, he had become run down—depressed—and as Marcas would say, “hardly worth a shite.”
“I suppose you expect me to build the fire tonight,” Marcas grumbled as he dismounted from his horse, finding Breandán already reclined against a tree.
“I did snare more rabbits than you this day.”
“You always do, Breandán. But I knew not it meant I had to wait on you hand and foot. Would you like me to cook your dinner as well? Perhaps even draw a bath for you?”
“Dinner would suffice.”
Marcas scoffed as he unsaddled his horse and tossed the heavy tack on Breandán’s lap. “When are you going to get Mara out of your head?”
Breandán closed his eyes and ignored both the question and the gear his friend threw at him. He didn’t want to have this conversation—not now, not ever. It was bad enough he had to cope with being without Mara, much less explain the reason he couldn’t let go of that little strand of hope. And honestly, he didn’t have a reason. All he knew was he wanted her and needed her as badly as any man could want or need a woman. He was tied to her in a way no one could understand and trying to put it into words was beyond his capability.
“Or better yet,” Marcas added, adjusting the cloak around his shoulders, “Why do you not simply go to her and find out for certain whether she is married? Perhaps ‘twas naught more than port gossip.”
“The man I spoke to said he heard it directly from Tait’s mouth. Why would Dægan’s best friend say anything untrue? Besides, I cannot go to her without a relevant reason. I would look like a fool—and a desperate one at that.”
“I suppose you are content to wait around for God-knows-how-long?”
“I have no choice.”
Marcas patted his horse absentmindedly and spoke to the animal. “See what happens to a man when he has denied himself a woman for too long? His will to live and prosper simply vanishes. ‘Tis utterly brutal to watch.” He looked at the horse and waved his hand dismissively. “Ach, what do you know? You have been gelded.”
Though the discussion with the equine was meant to humor Breandán, he wished his friend would leave to fetch the wood for the fire and give him a few moments peace.
“You have to stop thinking of Mara. It has been seven years, a chara. She has moved on and you must do the same.”
“You think I do not know that?” Breandán uttered sleepily. “I have tried.”
“Isolating yourself in the hunting grounds is not going to help you forget her. You need to remove her from your mind permanently. And I know the perfect remedy.”
Breandán let his head fall back against the tree, knowing his friend’s antidote was probably either a drunken stupor or a wild romp with a practiced woman, neither of which interested him.
“What you need,” Marcas said joyously, sliding to his knees beside Breandán, “is that fine woman your father has deemed worthy of you…Ríoghán’s daughter. What is her name again?”
“Sorcha.”
Marcas’ smile grew at the sweet sound of her name. He even reached out with both hands as if to touch her very bosom, with a hand gesture that resembled a mild groping. He shot Breandán a sideways glance. “Can you not see what great things she has to offer you?”
Breandán couldn’t help but smile at his crude companion. “My eyes have seen, but…”
“But what?”
/>
“She is like a sister to me.”
“Ach,” Marcas groaned with distaste. “Why must you resort to that?”
“Because she is,” Breandán reconfirmed. “I have known her all my life. She used to meet me in the forest when her father and brothers were busy with their chores. She would often keep me from mine, which in the beginning gained me a swift beating, but I found ways around it. Rising before sunrise to get a head start or simply working faster.”
Marcas’s interest suddenly peeked, albeit for suggestive reasons. “Aye...go on.”
“Nothing ever happened,” Breandán amended. “We were merely children who got along well together. We fished, climbed trees, laughed at each other…”
“Naught more?” Marcas asked, completely unenthused with the tale thus far.
Breandán furrowed his brow. “We were children.”
“Not forever. She grew up mighty quickly if I recall.”
Breandán nodded his agreement, swiftly adding, “And so, lost interest in fishing and climbing trees as most girls often do.”
Marcas shook his head in disappointment. “You are truly daft, a chara. There are other things you could have done in that forest to keep her interest.”
“And have her three brute brothers, not to mention her very large father, after my hide? I think not.”
Marcas raised a single finger, denouncing Breandán’s logic. “But now, you have attained their blessings. You could do anything you wanted with that gorgeous woman and have no ill will from any of her family because you would be her husband. You would obtain a heavy dowry for her and your father would gain the alliance he desires with Ríoghán. Everyone would win, including me.”
The Emerald Isle Trilogy Boxed Set Page 36
