The Emerald Isle Trilogy Boxed Set

by Vincent, Renee

  “Aye,” he replied with a sigh. “As I have every day, Mother.”

  Mara knew exactly where Lochlann’s anger came from and what he was thinking when he defended his reliableness. As I have every day, Mother, did not translate to, You needn’t doubt I finished my chores. What it really meant was, I am perfectly capable of finishing them, despite that I am smaller than the other boys my age.

  “You know you should not worry so much about what your friend, Alfarinn, says about you.”

  “He is not my friend,” Lochlann reminded his mother.

  “What happened?” Mara asked, getting the impression the frequent minor teasing may have gotten out of hand—as it can easily happen between three rambunctious boys.

  “The same as every day. Alfarinn kicked my arse in swords…again.”

  “Let us clean the mouth, which kisses me, Son,” Mara corrected lightly. “And were you not supposed to be gathering seaweed?”

  Lochlann rolled his eyes. “We were—I mean, we did.”

  “Did you now? How many baskets?”

  “Five.”

  “Lie not to me, boy. I want not to have Tait breathing down my neck like last week when you failed to gather all the cattle. We lost a good calf in that storm because of you.”

  “I know.”

  Mara stopped abruptly, knowing her son had taken enough punishment for his mistake and didn’t need anymore. “Five baskets?”

  Lochlann nodded.

  “Look at me, Son,” Mara said, her voice low and gentle now. “Look me in the eye and tell me how many baskets you, alone, gathered.”

  Lochlann looked up at her, his face as innocent and sweet as the day he was born, his eyes, big and pleading. “I carried five full baskets of seaweed to the field.”

  Mara’s smile grew with motherly pride. “Good,” she nodded, tousling his hair. “I believe you. Now eat your meal. You want not to be late.”

  Lochlann let out an enormous sigh. “I am not going.”

  “What? You have been waiting for months to go to Vedrafjiordr. ‘Tis your first time on the langskip—”

  “I have been on it many times.”

  “But not when ‘tis sailing across the ocean,” Mara bartered.

  “Is Alfarinn coming?”

  “Of course,” she concluded. “You honestly think Tait would bring you and leave his own son behind?”

  Stiffening his bottom lip, he reconfirmed his previous statement. “Then I am not going.”

  “But what about Brondolf? He would be very disappointed if you did not go along. He needs you. You know this.”

  Mara couldn’t help but pity Lillemor’s son. Brondolf had talked all the time when he was younger, but soon after the death of his grandmother, Nanna, he never spoke again. Many attributed it to the trauma of the ordeal as he was one of the first to come upon her in her bed that morning. But with at least three years passing by, Mara thought he should’ve come out of it by now. She had never known a boy of this age with so little to say and she longed for the day when he’d overcome the ordeal—for his mother’s sake.

  “You are the only one who knows what Brondolf means to say. He needs you to be his mouth for him.”

  Lochlann rolled his eyes. “He has to learn to use his own mouth someday.”

  “And with you encouraging him, one day I believe he will.”

  “Nay.”

  Mara tapped the wooden ladle against the iron pot and set it upon the hearth, thinking only of what could make her son happier—what would cheer him up enough that he’d forget all about the sword play, and Alfarinn’s big win.

  She wiped her hands on her apron and bit her lip, slowly making her way to a chest at the foot of the boxbed. She paused, feeling a grim sense of nostalgia taking hold of her. It was not overbearing, but she did find that kneeling helped her to keep from trembling.

  She took one look at her son staring at his cold food, lost somewhere between two hard biscuits, last night’s cheese, and his defeat. She opened the heavy lid. On top, neatly folded, was a bear cloak of deep brown fur.

  A cloak that once belonged to Daegan.

  It had kept her late husband warm and dry on many occasions, and she remembered how noble and strong he looked with it draped across his shoulders, the wind blowing in his hair. She even recalled the cloak wrapped a few times around her as well, when he gladly gave it up at his expense.

  Mara laid her hand upon it, lightly petting the fur with one long stroke. It was soft against her palm, the fur flattening beneath her caress. With two reverent hands, she grasped it and shook it out, its length nearly touching the floor at her knees.

  By this time, Lochlann had noticed his mother holding the bearskin. He watched her lift it up to her nose where she drew in a deep breath. Her exhale brought a pleasant grin to her lips as she seemed to fold against it—as if a real person were still wearing it.

  When Mara opened her eyes, she noticed her son staring at her. “Would you like to hear a story?”

  For the first time, in a long time, Lochlann actually grinned with anticipation, as if he knew a tale about his father was about to unfold—as only a six-year-old boy could earnestly hope.

  Mara thought of Daegan and how he’d jump head first into a grand narration, much like Tait had assumed in the past years. A talented skald, he was, and Mara only fancied to be half a good as he.

  She took a deep breath, and led her son into a day when Daegan was a gangly teenage lad.

  “Your father set out one early brisk morning to venture through the sharp inclines of Hladir’s mountainous terrain—the hunting grounds. His family was hurting for food that year since Rælik, your grandfather, and many able-bodied men of the village were away on a long merchant journey, unable to bring back the necessary wares and supplies for the fast approaching winter. Gustaf, your father’s oldest brother and the finest hunter of Hladir, was also on that ship. So, it was up to your father to bring back the much needed venison.”

  Lochlann, still immersed in the story, picked up a biscuit and bit into it without taking his eyes from his mother. “Go on,” he encouraged, his mouth full.

  Mara stood to give more emphasis on the next part.

  “Your father was in the middle of tracking a big stag after spotting a series of impressive tree rubs, but he soon found a bigger prize—a brown bear.” Mara swung the heavy cloak around her shoulders, imitating the massive creature.

  “Knowing his family would benefit more from this size animal, he decided to forget all about the buck, and, instead, made plans to bring down the beast.”

  Mara watched her son take another slow bite and smiled.

  “Your father never forgot what it takes to be a successful hunter—or warrior,” she pointed out specifically. “Rælik had told him, at about your very age, that a man who slights caution, presumes his death. And in keeping his advice, your father carefully plotted the way in which he was going to ultimately kill the bear, leaving nothing to chance. He even had a way to escape the bear should his first plan fail.”

  Almost coming off the edge of his seat in excitement, Lochlann shoved the rest of the biscuit in his mouth, chewing eagerly.

  Mara ignored his lack of manners and walked toward him, acting out the careful footsteps Dægan had taken to close in on the animal.

  “Your father crept up to the bear…staying downwind…and when he was close enough, he threw a rock at its snout.”

  Lochlann’s eyes widened.

  “The bear immediately stood on its hind legs, growling first at the pain and then at your father, who had jumped out of the brush, waving his arms. When that was not enough to provoke the bear, he picked up another stone and hurled it. This time, the bear was rightfully angry and charged your father.

  “He ran as fast as he possibly could,” Mara re-enacted, running around the table and past the hearth, “never looking behind him, as he could already feel the bear gaining on him, the weight of its paws thundering upon the ground. At the moment when the bear
could have reached out and clawed at him, your father deliberately ran across a sound log, which had fallen between two cliffs, jumping below to a short ledge. There, he had placed a well-sharpened spear.

  “Of course the bear did the same. But just as the bear followed and outstretched its body to lunge forward on the ledge, your father had positioned himself directly beneath the animal and thrust the spear up through its heart, killing it instantly.”

  Mara let the ending sink in a bit before removing the cloak from her own shoulders. “This, Lochlann, is the hide from that very animal, taken by one small lad who possessed the willpower of ten men. Your father was no bigger than me when he brought down this bear, but the size of his determination was what made him successful.”

  Mara wrapped the esteemed fur around her son’s shoulders proudly, watching as his little body practically disappeared beneath it.

  “It looks good on you,” she praised.

  Lochlann looked as if nothing could erase his smile. He straightened his back and pulled the cloak closer under his chin, watching as it barely adjusted in height.

  Typically, the cloak was far too long for his little stature, but Mara made an exception as she hoped this gift would help Lochlann gain self-confidence.

  “Look at you,” she winked. “You look exactly like your father.”

  “I do?” he asked in disbelief.

  She grabbed his chin playfully between her thumb and forefinger. “There is absolutely no denying it.”

  His face beamed with joy. No better compliment could have been given him as he had longed for so many years to be like his father.

  Mara turned away from him, as tears of both joy and sadness crept in. It had been seven long years since she had seen that bear cloak on Dægan, and once she put it on her son, she remembered how much she liked the sight of her husband in it. He was always an impressive man—no matter what he wore—but that particular cloak represented the kind of man Dægan was.

  And she dearly missed having him in her life.

  “Mother,” Lochlann said, oblivious to his mother’s emotions. “Are you not going to tell me the rest of the story? How Father dragged the bear down to his family?”

  Mara stopped short, swallowing back the sorrow and hiding it with a grin, determined to keep the grief away from her son.

  “Well,” she said, facing him slowly. “I hesitate to tell you the rest as your father failed to continue to use his head amidst all his excitement.”

  “Please…”

  Mara picked up the ladle and began stirring again as she spoke. “Your father packed the animal in snow and ice, probably more than he needed, until he could get the elders to help him bring the carcass down the mountain. He nearly lost his hands to frostbite after he carried handfuls and handfuls of snow to the ledge.”

  Mara looked at her son, dithering on whether to advise much more to such an impressionable boy. The look on his face begged for more and she had a hard time refraining. “Always remember, Lochlann, even the smartest of men—or young boys—can lose their wits. Everyone has a weakness. Even Alfarinn.”

  Lochlann ran to his mother and hugged her around the waist. “Thank you, Mother. I will treasure this cloak always.”

  Mara knew he would. He was just like his father in that respect too. He had a keen sense of worth and a high regard for sentiment at such an early age.

  “Does this mean you are ready to face Alfarinn?” Mara asked.

  “Aye, but I am still not going with Tait to Vedrafjiordr.”

  “Why not?”

  “I have more important things to do now.”

  “Such as?” Mara probed, raising a single brow.

  “Such as going to Nevan’s,” Lochlann stated. “After Alfarinn left me sitting in the field, Nevan offered to give me lessons with the sword.”

  “He did, did he?”

  “Aye. And I want to show him my new cloak.”

  Mara clasped his cute little face and leaned forward. “Very well. But—after you finish your meal and the rest of your chores.”

  Lochlann sighed.

  “Not a moment before, understand?”

  As he nodded, she rubbed his nose with hers.

  Lochlann was the joy in her life, the little gift that filled the hole Dægan had left in her heart. Not entirely, as there was always something missing, something only a husband could provide. But she hardly dwelled on that absence. She knew raising Dægan’s own son and feeling his unconditional child-like love was the next best thing.

  Chapter Five

  “May I speak to you before you leave?” Mara asked as Tait loaded the last chest aboard the knarr. “’Tis about Alfarinn.”

  Tait spoke a few commanding words to those upon the large cargo ship and then descended from the gangplank. She watched the way he strolled across the pebbled shore, his thoughts in full speed while his eyes were distant and slow to look at her.

  “You mean, ‘tis about Lochlann.”

  Mara grimaced slightly, twisting her hands within the folds of her tunic.

  Tait approached her, his arms defensively crossed. “What has my son done this time?”

  “You know Lochlann is a troubled boy,” Mara began.

  “I know. And I have tried to remedy that. But you refuse to accept my offer.”

  “Lochlann needs a father figure in his life.”

  “Exactly,” Tait stated coolly. “Gunnar would make a fine father for him, but—”

  “Tait, we have been through this,” Mara interrupted, closing her eyes to his persistence. “I am not marrying out of convenience. And besides, Gunnar, is not the sort of man I want raising my son.”

  “Why?”

  Mara clenched her jaw. She didn’t want to insult Gunnar as he’d been nothing but loyal and kind since he first joined Dægan to defeat Domaldr. And even after Dægan’s death, when Gunnar had made the decision to leave his hired-soldier lifestyle behind and stay on the island with Tait, he’d been the perfect substitute for all things missing.

  Tait had been utterly crushed by the loss of his best friend and chieftain. And Gunnar was the right sort of man to rebuild not only the many longhouses destroyed by the fire, but Tait’s will to prosper as well. Even Gunnar’s humor helped to make the gruff Northman smile through the difficult and trying times of simply restoring all that was destroyed. He was virtually a godsend for Tait, but to Mara, he was still a stranger in the midst.

  “Why is Gunnar not good enough for you?” Tait repeated. “Have you forgotten the sacrifices he made in leaving Havelock and his own men to join us? Or that ‘twas he who helped rebuild this entire settlement when all was in ashes? He has even gone above the call and taken Brondolf under his wing, and God knows the boy needs it! Has Gunnar not proved himself time and time again? Or must he wait half a score more?”

  Mara heard well the sarcasm in Tait’s last words. “I have not forgotten Gunnar’s loyalty and selflessness. But just because a man is loyal, does not make him—”

  “I know, Mara. He is not Dægan. No one is, or ever will be.”

  Mara looked up at Tait, hearing the pain in his voice. “I had no intention of saying that.”

  Tait, scrubbed his hands down his face. “It matters not anyway. I know where you stand when it comes to Gunnar and I cannot force you to see him as I do. All I can say is you are doing your son no good by being overly particular. Lochlann needs a father.”

  “What he needs is a little time from you. He looks up to you, Tait. You are the closest thing he has to his father and if you would give him a small portion of yourself, a smidgen of the man who knew and loved Dægan, ‘twould mean so much to him. ‘Twould mean so much to me. Please. You knew Dægan better than anyone—better than myself.”

  Tait’s eyes bore into her, and before he could stop it, she saw his guilt starting to rise within him. He dropped his head and sighed. “What exactly do you want from me?”

  Mara bit her lip before saying, “I want you to teach him how to beat Alfarinn
in swords.”

  Tait raised his brows and a quirky smile lifted one corner of his mouth. “You realize these boys are only six years old?”

  “Lochlann is six. Alfarinn is five, a full head taller, and more skilled with weaponry. Do you not know what that does to a lad’s confidence when someone younger gets the better of him?”

  Tait remained staring at her, still struck by her unusual request. “They are boys. They will have the rest of their childhood to build their confidence and ‘tis nothing you can force. Lochlann is smarter than that. If Alfarinn lets him win, Lochlann will know it.”

  “I want not for Alfarinn to throw the fight. But for you to teach Lochlann to beat him squarely. You know Alfarinn’s strengths and weakness and you can teach Lochlann how to use them to his advantage.”

  “So, at the expense of destroying my own son’s confidence, you want me to help build Lochlann’s?”

  “I am only asking for one time,” Mara pleaded. “I want him to feel proud of himself, to feel as if he is worthy of being Dægan’s son. My words are not enough for him, Tait. He needs to feel it.”

  Tait looked past Mara and saw his lovely pregnant wife, Thordia, coming toward him, toting his excited son in hand.

  “What you ask is a lot of me, but I will do it. As soon as I return, I will make certain Lochlann has his day. Satisfied?”

  Mara smiled and nodded.

  “Everything loaded and ready for your departure?” Thordia asked upon reaching them.

  Tait immediately grinned, grabbing his son playfully and throwing him up in the air to hear his fit of boyish giggles. Once he caught Alfarinn, he tossed the boy over his shoulder and settled him on his back before putting him in a head lock. “I believe everything is loaded save for this sack of—”

  “Tait,” Thordia corrected before her husband could spout off a jocular slur ill-fit for young ears. “Need I go along with you so my son does not come back with as coarse a tongue as his father?”

  Tait winked at Mara and let the boy slide from his back to the ground. “Go on, Son,” Tait jibed, swatting Alfarinn on the rear. “Get to the ship before your mother puts an end to our fun. Hurry!”