The Emerald Isle Trilogy Boxed Set

by Vincent, Renee

  “I like this not one bit.”

  Marcas rolled his eyes. “I agree. Your undue suspicions are getting rather annoying.”

  “I am serious, Marcas. What if Donnchadh Mac Flainn has decided to return for the Connacht men? He took not kindly to his defeat at Ath Luain a few years ago and we have known for a quite some time he is ruthless and will stop at nothing to gain more territory. He blinded one brother and killed another, for heaven’s sake. Whether we wish to admit it or not, the chances of him returning for his dignity are more than probable, especially with the health of our Connacht King deteriorating. We would be foolish men to think he graciously turned his back on us.”

  Breandán looked at his friend nervously and sighed, finding it hard to stomach the idea of a man—such as Donnchadh Mac Flainn—forcing his expanded reign here.

  It was a serenely peaceful place with the ever-essential lake in the basin of the surrounding northeast mountains and southwestern rolling hills. The nearby woodlands of deciduous trees were the perfect addition to the multi-layered landscape, providing both a colorful palette in any blooming season and a much needed supply of timber for sustaining the crannóg and its defenses.

  While Breandán hated to see his childhood home under attack, it was more insufferable to think of his family enduring it.

  His father was getting of age where simple actions, such as climbing this very hillock, became increasingly difficult. Chores, which were once finished by midday, took more time and even required an additional exertion of the body, both of which his father had little to spare. And then to think of his mother or his two younger sisters coming face-to-face with an onslaught of sword-wielding men who cared only for the victory at hand and the spoils they could offer Donnchadh—merely salvaged from a fire-engulfed village—was even harder to imagine.

  His gut twisted and his heart ached as he looked helplessly from his lofty vantage point. Nothing of which he pictured in his head seemed to have taken place, but being at such a helpless distance, he couldn’t stop his mind from inventing the worst.

  Then something caught his eye beyond the tree line. There were five armed men—as far as he could tell—on horseback, conversing with another, just outside the wooden causeway of the crannóg. He assumed the solitary man to be his father, yet he feared the others might be Donnchadh’s men, considering everyone else had taken to hiding.

  Breandán immediately grabbed his bow from the cart, tossed Marcas’ bow to him, and unhooked both horses from the confines of the shaves.

  “Be quick and mount your horse!” Breandán whispered heatedly. “I fear Father is in danger. I could only count five. There may be more.”

  Breandán led his horse into the open, turned the horse about, and leapt upon its back. He only waited a brief moment to confirm Marcas mounting as well, before he dashed away down the hillside. With his heart pounding, he reached over his shoulder and plucked an arrow from his quiver.

  ****

  “I understand the message you bring is urgent, as ‘tis from the king himself, but I can no more rouse my son from the vast lands of the Uí Briefne than I can a dead man deep in his grave. You are more than welcome to go searching for him in the mountains. But I should warn you, he hunts those lands keenly—and never misses with his bow.”

  Liam Mac Ruairc stood bravely before his mounted company, despite their growing agitation. He didn’t care…even if they were the Connacht King’s messengers. By right, he should have allowed them to enter, feed their bellies and shelter their horses until his son, Breandán, arrived. But his return could be weeks from now—as he tried to explain. He never knew when Breandán would descend from the hills, nor could he predict it. They’d be better off taking their forceful demeanors and gallant steeds to the woods if they wanted to find him.

  Liam nearly smiled, knowing how angry Breandán got when his hunting was disturbed by wayward travelers. “Like I said, should you seek him out in his own hunting grounds, you are sure to find him.”

  Liam’s white hair swept across his stern brow. The vibrant woad-dyed cloak at his shoulders waved wildly beside him. And even though his weathered face and stance confessed his near-elderly years, he was not a man to underestimate. There was still enough strength in his back and arms to yank a few men from their horses and inflict several fatalities before someone could stop him.

  None of the five seemed to want to take that chance. They didn’t budge from their aggressive circle—until an arrow came whizzing by them. It sunk soundly into the wooden post directly in front of them and inches from Liam who, undeterred by the sudden assault, merely smiled.

  Immediately, the five turned their now-spooked horses in the direction of the unknown archer, still fighting to keep their fidgeting animals under reign. A few more arrows sunk into the ground at their horses’ feet and, in the commotion of it all, one horse even reared and toppled its rider.

  Liam unsheathed his sword and prevented the fallen man from gaining his feet, the point resting beneath the man’s chin. Breandán and Marcas came sprinting closer to the group, their bows tightly drawn for the next targets—ones that would bleed.

  “Speak your names and your purpose for being here,” Breandán demanded sternly.

  Once the horses settled, the largest of the men finally spoke, causing Breandán to take aim on him. “My name is Óengus Mac Fearghail and we are messengers of Callan Mac Conchubhair.”

  Messengers of his very king, or Donnchadh’s men, Breandán was not taking any chances. He kept his bow taut. “What message do you bring?”

  “I am to speak only to Breandán Mac Liam. I have tried to explain that to this old man but he refuses to comply.”

  Breandán nudged his horse closer, putting more pressure on Óengus with an inescapable mark upon his chest. “That old man is my father.” Once the revelation of his identity sunk in, he appended his statement with, “So, did you come here to insult my father or deliver a message to me?”

  Óengus swallowed hard. He gave a quick glance at his men and back at the arrow marked for his heart. He drew a careful breath. “The king is on his death bed.”

  “News of his failing health has already reached us,” Breandán stated matter-of-factly. “Your long journey is in vain, I am afraid.”

  “The king wishes to see his daughter, Mara,” Óengus added.

  Breandán couldn’t help but be sarcastic as the king’s message sounded utterly trivial. “If ‘tis my permission he seeks, I shall grant it. Now be off.”

  “Callan also wishes for you to bring her to him,” Óengus said, undeterred by the remark. “Since she is without her Northern husband, and since Donnchadh is threatening these parts, he trusts only you to make certain her journey is safe. I, now, can see why,” Óengus flattered.

  Breandán stayed focused. “Why not have Mara’s present husband do the honors? I have never met the man, but I assume the king would not have given his blessings to a less than advantageous match. Surely he is better suited than I.”

  Óengus glanced between the mixture of his men’s befuddled looks and spoke in a tentative voice. “Forgive me but…of what husband do you speak?”

  Breandán lowered his bow and felt the twinge of hope pull at his heartstrings. Was it true Mara had not taken another husband after Dægan? Was the port gossip about her second marriage simply a rumor? He wanted to believe it, but he couldn’t let his heart be exposed again. He secured it behind a protective wall of skepticism.

  “Two summers after Dægan’s death, I was told she was to be married to another.” His jaw clenched in saying it. “Gunnar…I believe was his name.”

  Again, Óengus exchanged glances with his men before addressing Breandán. “I assure you, the king would know if his own daughter had taken another husband.”

  From alongside him, Breandán heard Marcas clear his throat. “Did you not hear what the man said?”

  Breandán could hardly believe it as he looked over at his friend, wide-eyed and grinning, but he ignored
the upshift of his own heart.

  “Are you certain the king wishes for me to take her to him?” Breandán heard Marcas mildly groan at his insistence, but continued to press the king’s heralds. “Perhaps you are mistaken in the small details of Callan’s demands.”

  “Nay,” Óengus replied assuredly. “I have four witnesses,” gesturing toward his group, “who will account for my accuracy.”

  Breandán looked at each man distinctively, reading each one’s confirmation in their face. Every affirmative nod was like an extra log added to the fire beneath the boiling pot of his emotions. Though he felt the rise of excitement, he had reservations. His heart was the most vulnerable and he’d be a fool to succumb so easily.

  Defensively, he gaped long and hard at his father, presuming his next question would affect him directly. “And if I refuse?”

  Óengus’s mouth turned up in a quick smile as if he was slightly amused. “Callan thought you would ask that.”

  Breandán didn’t find the humor in it as he glared at Óengus, who soon amended his grin to a straight line, almost stuttering. “If you agree not to his wishes, then Callan will have to assume he has not the majority alliance of the Connacht men, and will be forced to ally himself with Donnchadh.”

  “A bit drastic…” Breandán uttered with one brow raised.

  “Aye, but Callan’s choices are limited since he is near death. He claims he would rather side with the devil to keep peace, than make war with the devil and lose it all. Also know if he allies with Donnchadh, that would mean—”

  “I know what that would mean,” Breandán interrupted, an unexpected stint of anger suffocating his veiled excitement. He would rather die than see these lands—that his father, and his father before him, had bled to keep—fall into the tyrannical hands of the enemy of the Uí Briúin Bréifne. His jaw clenched at the thought. Then there was the thought of Mara and seeing her once again. No matter how many times he tried to turn it over in his head, he could barely imagine such a grand moment. And how could he be so fortunate? Did God actually take pity on him and grant his request?

  Close to being hysterical, he hid his wild elation from everyone.

  “I will give you my decision by sun-up,” Breandán finally said, returning his arrow to the quiver on his back and threading his arm through the bow. “I have made a long journey myself and I aim to fill my belly with the red stag I have brought. I would imagine the lot of you could stand a good meal as well. Your horses will be given the proper food and water, and I give my word there shall not be any threats made upon you as you stay here. However,” Breandán modified. “None of this will be granted you, until an apology is given unto my father, and thus, accepted.” He nodded respectfully to his father and waited for Óengus to do so.

  Óengus was left in an uncomfortable position. Crowding his brows, he seemed to ponder his degrading request for pardon. Before he could open his mouth, Liam rolled his eyes and waved off his attempt.

  “Ach, save your breath,” Liam dismissed, looking up into the darkened sky. “Let us all take cover before this rain soaks us to the skin.”

  Breandán winked at his father and turned his horse excitedly, trotting back up the hill to retrieve his cart, Marcas following. The two men made their way up the steep incline, silently at first, until Marcas noticed Breandán’s face.

  “Is that…a smile…I see?”

  No answer.

  “Look at you,” Marcas said, now staring. “You look like a grinning fox who stole the egg right out from under the goose.”

  “Why should I not smile? Has not the right opportunity presented itself this day?”

  Marcas shook his head and laughed. “You prayed last night, a chara, did you not?”

  Quite earnestly, Breandán thought.

  Chapter Three

  “So, my Prodigal Son returns,” Liam jested as he and Breandán entered his thatched home.

  It was large by comparison to the other eight on the crannóg, but quaintly built nonetheless. There was a substantial fire in the central hearth—something Breandán was thankful for, considering the spitting rain outside and the strength of the wind that carried it. The circular room was spacious, yet snug, with several beds lining the perimeter walls, each boasting an assortment of animal furs and thick woolen blankets for the cool nights ahead.

  His mother, Aoife, was nervously embroidering, until she looked up and heard her husband’s voice. Gráinne, the youngest sister, immediately left her mother’s side and ran to her brother. “Breandán, you are home!”

  He bent down and opened his arms, preparing to catch her mid leap. He swung her from the ground and embraced her warmly. “Oh, my little Gráinne. Have you been a good girl whilst I have been gone?”

  Her tiny-toothed smile was bright and honest. “I have.”

  A single scoff from the back of the room interrupted the cheery air.

  Breandán glanced up at his other sister, also embroidering, who had barely acknowledged his presence. “Clodagh,” he said with a humored smile. “I trust you have behaved as well.”

  Clodagh rolled her eyes and didn’t miss a stitch as she sewed.

  Breandán carried Gráinne on his hip to meet his mother’s embrace. He kissed her forehead. “‘Tis good to be home, Mother.”

  “You stayed away so long this time, I began to worry you forgot where home was.”

  “Never,” Breandán crooned.

  Aoife glanced at her husband, dread plaguing her aging face. “Have those men left?”

  “Fear not, all is well,” Liam uttered deprecatingly. “They are Callan’s men and will be staying here until the morn.” He gestured toward the outskirts of the room, though privacy was hard to come by in the open space. “Let us talk, Son. It seems we have much to discuss.”

  Breandán set Gráinne to the ground and did as his father bid him. He knew his father was insinuating upon the journey he was about to embark on in favor of their king. But Breandán was more inclined to broach matters that were more life-threatening, things even his mother had often worried about.

  “You should not have been standing against those men alone, Father,” Breandán reprimanded lightly. “Féilim and Deaglan should have been with you.”

  “I agree,” his mother chimed in from across the room. “There was absolutely no reason to purposefully outnumber yourself.”

  “I am not an invalid, you two,” Liam said, retrieving a simple earthenware mug of mead from the table.

  Breandán noticed the slight tremble in his father’s hands. “Aye, but you are long in the tooth.”

  “I prefer the term, venerable.”

  Aoife scoffed and quickly turned her back, pretending she wasn’t listening anymore.

  Liam handed his son the drink first, but Breandán refused it with a quick shake of his head. “You are ignoring me.”

  “Aye, well,” Liam began, raising the cup to whisper behind it. “I have gotten pretty good at it since you left me to fend for myself with your mother and sisters. ‘Tis the only way a grown man can survive around here.”

  Breandán couldn’t help but smile. “Your ‘survival’ is relevant to the point I am trying to make. Donnchadh is ruthless—”

  “Every king is ruthless if you are on the opposing side,” Liam declared, drowning that thought with long drink.

  “Even so. Perhaps ‘tis time for me to come back home—for good.”

  “Ah, but not before you make your way to the king’s daughter, aye?” Liam said inquisitively as he found a seat on one of the beds. When Breandán fell silent, he simply motioned with a twitch of his head for Breandán to sit as well.

  “I know why you hide yourself away. And I know you are very anxious to see Mara again. But I warn you, just because she has not taken a husband does not mean she will feel the same as you. Seven years is a long time for a woman—a highly valuable young woman such as herself—to be without the company of a man. You may not like what you find when you get there.”

  “
I know,” Breandán said, closing his eyes to that likely thought.

  “All right, enough of her,” Liam interjected, “Let us talk of her father. It seems Callan has not forgotten how to twist the arm of his supporters. He has always made it difficult for the Connacht man. Clever coercion is the way of our king and his deathbed has not changed that. He is as cunning and ruthless as Donnchadh, but Callan’s alliance, as it stands, is crucial and we cannot afford to lose it.”

  “So, I have no choice but to go.”

  “A man always has a choice. No matter what he is faced with or how far back he is cornered, there is always a choice. But if I had to decide between Donnchadh and Callan, I would rather choose the lesser of the two evils.”

  Breandán nodded, knowing his father spoke sensibly. He had always regarded his father as a great man with a natural air for leading. People, even from the widely dispersed clans, respected him and highly regarded him as a man to whom they should listen.

  Venerable. It was—Breandán concurred—an ideal word to describe his father.

  “Let not Callan scare you,” Liam asserted, drinking the last gulp of his mead. “That is what he wants. He learned at an early age that fear is a great motivator. You do what you think is best.” Liam paused for emphasis. “And no matter what you decide, I will always stand by you.”

  Breandán privately sighed a breath of relief. Though he desperately wanted to make the journey toward Mara—one his heart had already decided upon—his father’s approval ultimately determined the real course of his actions.

  ****

  Another arrow sunk deep into the heart of the hay-stuffed burlap sack resembling a human torso, where four other tightly settled arrows had already found their marks. Pleased with the consistent accuracy of his newly strung bow, Breandán lowered his weapon and leaned it against the closest tree, crossing his arms over his chest.