Misfortune of Time

by Christy Nicholas

  In 11th century Ireland, Étaín must hide her pagan magic from her pious Christian priest husband, Airtre. She wants to escape his physical abuse, but she must stay to protect their grandson, Maelan. Over many lifetimes, she has learned how to endure her own pain, but Maelan is young and vulnerable.

  When Airtre's paranoia and jealousy spiral out of control, Étaín has no choice but to escape in the night with little more than the clothing on her back, leaving a trusted friend to protect Maelan.

  This is not the first lifetime Étaín has fled, and she knows how to survive. But when her past comes back to haunt her, she must make decisions that may result in disaster for her, her grandson, and everyone she loves.

  MISFORTUNE OF TIME

  Druid’s Brooch Series, #6

  Christy Nicholas

  Published by Tirgearr Publishing

  Author Copyright 2018 Christy Nicholas

  Cover Art: Cora Graphics (www.coragraphics.it)

  Editor: Sharon Pickrel

  Proofreader: Barbara Whary

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be resold or given away. If you would like to share this book, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not given to you for the purpose of review, then please log into the publisher’s website and purchase your own copy.

  Thank you for respecting our author’s hard work.

  This story is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, incidents are products of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual events, locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  Publisher’s Note

  Dedication

  Acknowledgements

  Pronunciations and Definitions

  Author Note

  Foreward

  Part I

  Part II

  Part III

  Part IV

  Part V

  Part VI

  About the Author

  Other books by Christy

  PUBLISHER’S NOTE

  Publishers and authors are always happy to exchange their book for an honest review. If you have obtained a copy of this book without purchase or from the publisher or author, please consider sending a review to the author or publisher, as reviews help authors market their work more effectively. Thank you.

  DEDICATION

  I dedicate this book to all those who have suffered abuse at the hands of another. Physical, emotional, workplace, whatever the dynamic, I urge you to be strong and survive through the pain. You do not deserve the abuse. You deserve happiness.

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  More thanks to the wonderful folks in the Corning Area Writers’ Group, who continue to offer valuable feedback and encouragement, as well as my beta readers.

  Siobhán of Bitesize Irish has been wonderful in her help with proper Irish pronunciations for my increasing list of Irish Gaelic words.

  I also thank Walker Metalsmiths of New York for the use of their wonderful brooch for inspiration for the cover art.

  I would like to thank Gretchen Meunier, Lindsay Archer and Ian Morris for their invaluable insight into the horrors of abusive relationships. I’d also like to thank Ian for his incredible diligence and assistance with being my critique partner.

  PRONUNCIATIONS AND DEFINITIONS

  (ð is a soft TH, as in “then,” while Þ is a hard TH as in “thing”)

  People

  Aes—/Ace/

  Adhna—/Eye-na/

  Airtre—/Ar-tra/

  Ammatán—/Om-ah-tawn/

  Bódonn— /Boh-dun/

  Cadhla—/Kye-lah/

  Crom Cruach—/Krum Krookh/

  Cú Chulainn—/Koo Khu-lun/

  Dál gCais—Dalcassians, a Gaelic Irish tribe /Dawl gash/

  Déisi—/Day-sheh/

  Digdi—/Dee-jeh/

  Étaín—/Ay-deen/

  Flidaisínn—/Flee-sheen/

  Maelan mac Lorcáin—/Mwayl-aewn Mok Lurk-aw-in/

  Manannán mac Lir—/Mon-ah-nun Mok Leer/

  Medb—Mayv

  Mór-Ríoghain—/Mohr Reen/

  Odhar—/Ow-ur/

  Scathach—/Skaw-hukh/

  Searlait—/Shar-let/

  Síne—/Sheen-eh/

  Rognr—/Rog-ner/

  Toirdelbach Ua Briain—/Tur-lukh Oo-a Bree-in/

  Ua Neachtain—/Oo-a Nyokh-ten/

  Ui Briain—/Ee Bree-in/

  Ui Lochlainn—/Ee Lukh-len/

  Ui Néill—/Ee Nayl/

  Places

  Cathair Chonaill— Caherconnell /Koh-her Khun-ell/

  Ceann-Coradh—Kincora /Kyon-Kur-ah/

  Cenn-Indis—Ceannindis /Kyon In-ish/

  Cluain Mhic Nóis—Clonmacnoise /Kloon Vik No-ish/

  Dubhlinn—Dublin /Div-lin/

  Gaillimh—Galway /Gol-yiv/

  Hí-Breasail—Hy-Brasil /Hee Brass-el/

  Loch Riach—Lough Rea /Lukh Ree-okh/

  Midhe—Meath /Mee/

  Sionann—Shannon /Shun-an/

  Teampull Chiaráin— Temple Kieran /Cham-pul Khee-raw-in/

  Other

  Bainne clabair—A sour, thickened milk /Bon-yeh Klob-er/

  Bóaire—A cow lord /Boh-ar-eh/

  Bodhran—Small handheld drum /Bow ran/

  Caidal—Sleep /Kud-el/

  Cailleach—Hag Goddess /Kol-yukh/

  Caraid—Friend /Kor-red/

  Crannog—A roundhouse on a lake /Krawn-owg/

  Cumals—A unit of land /Kum-als/

  Curragh—A small boat /Kur-okh/

  Fir midboth—A lower freeman /Fir Mid-buh/

  Géis—A curse or requirement /gesh/

  Léine/léinte —A long belted tunic (singular/plural) /Lay-na/ /Layn-tah/

  Midach—A trained medic /mid-okh/

  Mo chuisle—My pulse /Muh khwish-leh/

  Mo ghrian—My sun /Muh ghree-in/

  Ócaire—A lower freeman with land /Oh-kar-ah/

  Samhain— A holiday near November 1st /S-ow-in/

  AUTHOR NOTE

  Abuse is not unique to a particular place or a particular time in history. Those with power of any kind have the ability to abuse others. It is a measure of a person’s moral fortitude when they do not exercise this power. There is no excuse.

  FOREWORD

  As a nation, Ireland wasn’t called such until later in history. At this time, the people were Gaels and called their land Hibernia. It was named Ériu by the Ostmen (Vikings), which later became Éire or Erin. The Christian Church, while becoming more cohesive on the continent, still had strange orphan rules in Ireland.

  MISFORTUNE OF TIME

  Druid’s Brooch Series, #6

  Christy Nicholas

  PART I

  Chapter 1

  Cluain Mhic Nóis, early spring, 1055AD

  Étaín peered into the cauldron, sniffed the savory aroma of lamb stew, thyme and dill, and added a pinch of pepper. Just a few more minutes and the pot would be ready to swivel off the hearth fire. She tucked an escaped strand of gray hair behind her ear and stirred the stew with the long wooden spoon. With a practiced hand, she filled a small bowl with cream to set outside for the Faeries, careful to hide it where no one would notice. Then she turned her attention to the oat flatbread. She grew anxious in case her husband, Airtre, returned home before she completed her tasks.

  A drip, drip, drip made her turn just as she placed the bread on the cooking hearth. She scanned the thatch of the large roundhouse, searching for the telltale dark spot which might betray the leak. She finally spied the culprit, directly above the eating area. With a muttered curse, she sh
oved and wrestled the heavy wooden table under the leak.

  After wiping the damp from her brow, she climbed and stretched, standing on tiptoes to reach the soaked thatch. Étaín pushed daub into the thatch, but the patch would never hold. Still, the patch should serve until morning. She’d do a proper repair when the rain slowed.

  Slowed, not stopped. The rain never seemed to stop in the spring.

  The faint odor of char sent panic through her blood and made Étaín scramble down from the table to rescue the bread. She pulled back the cloth and grimaced. Airtre would not be pleased. Still, he hadn’t yet come home from the abbey. The other night he hadn’t even come home until much later, but he’d offered no explanation. Perhaps she had time to make another loaf. She usually kept more dough resting in the cool room. The new loaf would be tarragon rather than chervil, but Airtre liked both.

  Étaín dusted her hands on her apron, pulled an oiled hood over her head, and hurried past the herb garden. Several round storage structures ringed the south corner of their courtyard, filled with tools and supplies. She rummaged through her herb supplies and found three turnips to mash as well as her precious salt box. A little sweet cream, butter and sorrel, and those would make a nice dish for the side if the new flatbread didn’t bake in time.

  She had just returned to the hearth when she heard the horse outside.

  Stones and crows, he’s home early. She scrambled to scrape the burnt bread out of her iron pan, burning her hand on the still-sizzling metal.

  Étaín had long since learned not to curse out loud, but a grunt of frustration still escaped her lips, knowing her husband hadn’t come in yet. After closing her eyes tight against the painful burn, she plunged her hand into the cold water bucket by the door.

  She concentrated on her heirloom brooch and pulled time back a few moments. While she couldn’t use the magic longer without serious illness, a few moments should be enough. Still, a wave of nausea swept over her as she grabbed a scrap of rag to pull the pan out of the oven and saved her hands this time. A sound at the door made her whirl back to her chores.

  When Airtre entered the roundhouse, he shook the rain off his oiled cloak and cursed. “Étaín! Pissmires and spiders, what have you done all day? This place is a mess. Is something burning?”

  She turned to him after swallowing her distress, her head bowed. “I apologize, husband. I found a leak…”

  He stood with his arms crossed on his stocky chest. “A leak? A leak? I don’t care about a leak! What did you ruin, woman? I swear, for someone reputed to be an excellent cook, you are damned clumsy with food, and wasteful at that.”

  She busied herself with cleaning the hearth and putting things right. First, she wrapped the new dough in a burdock leaf and placed the package in the warm coals. Then she shoved the table back into its proper place. She rubbed at the scrapes the legs made on the flagstones, but Airtre was busy changing into a dry léine. Hopefully, he would not notice the damage until they wore away.

  The bubbling stew reminded her to move the pot off the fire and to the side for simmering, while she moved the turnips over the fire. Étaín tasted the stew. A touch more coriander and a pinch of her precious salt would help. Then she added a little of the unburnt portion of the flatbread, crumbled and stirred. The crumbs added thickness and wasted less bread. She stirred the stew, staring into the patterns her spoon made in the thick liquid. She often watched clouds as they drifted across the summer sky, forming imagined creatures in her mind.

  Vesper bells filtered through the sound of rain on thatch. The bells meant Airtre’s friend, Bressel, should arrive in an hour. She should have enough time to prepare the table, get a basin ready for the guest to wash his feet, and finish the meal before dressing—hopefully.

  At least their grandson, Maelan, visited a friend this evening. The blond child usually scuttled underfoot, and was little help at all when she cooked. He had little patience for women’s work, though he liked learning about medicinal plants. She’d teach him healing lore in between his fighting lessons. Soon, all too soon, he’d be off for fostering. Étaín should have at least a cycle of seasons before such eventuality.

  The sound of the rain slackened, and she peered out of the small window. The sky had definitely brightened. She took advantage of the break and ran to pluck more rosemary from the garden, as well as take the burnt crusts of bread to the compost heap.

  Étaín crumbled the herbs into the stew and sprinkled the salt. Another taste proved her instincts had been correct; her additions vastly improved the flavor. The turnips looked ready to mash, so she got the cream and butter ready.

  Another horse whinnied outside.

  Had Bressel arrived already? Stones and crows, he would come now. She took a quick survey of everything cooking. The mash would wait just a few more moments. She moved the bread out of the fire and looked down at her stained and wet léine. She had no time to change, so she wrapped her cloak around herself. At least the heavy wool hid the stains.

  Panting, she reached the entrance just as Bressel did. His bulky frame filled the wicker doorway.

  “Ah, Étaín, how fetching you look. Did you need to go out? It’s not fit for cats nor women out in this weather.”

  She held a tray with a mug of sour ale and flatbread and ignored Bressel’s question, speaking the formal greeting. “Please, be welcome in our home, Bressel. Drink of our ale and eat of our bread with the blessings of our Lord.”

  She didn’t mention the basin for washing, as the amenity was something every honored guest must have. To fail in offering food, drink, and water to wash would violate the hosts’ sacred duty to their guests in Gaelic Brehon law.

  Bressel had tasted a token sample of both the ale and the bread and removed his low leather shoes, well covered in mud. He left them by the entrance and swirled his dirty feet in the basin. Étaín put the tray away and nodded to him. “I must finish preparations for our meal, Bressel. You’re welcome to come into the main room when you are ready.”

  Once back in the safety of the pantry, she peeled off the cloak, checked on her preparations, and rushed into her sleeping area. Airtre had changed, and she glimpsed him in the large central room, sitting in his favorite spot. Luckily, she’d remembered to put a pitcher of ale and several cups out beforehand. Étaín stripped off her stained clothing and pulled on a simple blue léine. Blue was Airtre’s favorite color, and she needed to coax him back into a good mood.

  The turnips would get cold if she waited much longer. She placed her cloak back on to preserve her clothing from stains and furiously pounded the tough root vegetables until smooth. She stirred in the cream and butter, adding salt and a few pinches of garlic.

  It took some doing to transfer the stew, turnips, and bread onto serving platters while wearing her cloak, but she daren’t risk staining her clean léine underneath. Finally, everything looked ready, and the men would have had time for their first mug of ale. Then they would eat.

  She hung up the cloak, affixed a pleasant smile to her face, checked her hair, and emerged with the tray.

  Once she set the table and served the men, Étaín finally allowed herself to relax. She sat upright at her place, picking at the food. Her stomach fluttered in nervous churning, waiting for the moment their guest left. Airtre would surely revisit his earlier frustrations upon her. She swallowed a morsel of turnip, not tasting the mash at all.

  “Étaín? Étaín, our guest asked you a question.”

  Airtre’s voice intruded upon her musings, and she looked up at her husband’s friend. “I’m so sorry, Bressel, I was leagues away. What did you wish to know?”

  Bressel frowned and itched his balding head. “How old is Maelan now? He should be about due for a fostering contract.”

  She shook her head. “Not for several seasons yet. He’s but ten winters old.”

  “Still, he should get an education beyond basic tales and fight training. Have you arranged for a tutor?”

  A tutor? Only high-born childre
n rated private tutors. Étaín glanced at Airtre. “Isn’t that rather expensive?”

  Airtre nodded, his face set to a grim frown. Bressel pointed to Airtre with a crust of bread, causing a shower of crumbs to fall on the table. “Not necessarily. A well-picked tutor from the monastery might help get a more advantageous fostering. Let me see what I can find for you. A new monk has arrived from Dubhlinn who might suit.”

  Perhaps Airtre would be pleased if she found a decent tutor for their grandchild. Étaín retreated into her thoughts as the men discussed further details. She didn’t want to think of their grandson being sent to some foreign chieftain’s home, several days away from her. Maelan was the one thing she still had left of her beloved son, dead these eight winters.

  She choked down the sudden tears and masked her distress with another bite of her stew, concentrating on chewing the chunk of lamb. The meat tasted gristly as Airtre wouldn’t pay premium prices for the leaner cuts. Still, the fat made it tasty, and her skill with herbs helped. She’d learned to use less expensive herbs well or grow her own. At least springtime had finally arrived, and her fresh herbs bloomed.

  Bressel pounded the table with his fist, making Étaín jump and gasp. “Airtre, that’s not good enough. Yes, you helped build a church, a great accomplishment. Still, you built that church nigh onto thirty winters ago. What have you done lately? The archbishop will want to see your recent works, not some ancient history.”

  Airtre scratched at his fresh-shaven chin, his eyes on the thatch. “I had thought to increase the number of beds in the hostelry. Such a change should be easy enough.”

  Bressel snorted and shook his head, wiping his beard from the ale he’d dribbled. “Easy isn’t good enough. You need some difficult task which you complete in good time, with low cost, and great benefit.”