Mannan: A Tale of Vengeance: A Novel in the Chronicles of Philip Williams

by Jason Henry Evans

  Connell began to speak as he leaned forward on his horses back. Somewhere far away a feint thunderclap echoed in the glen. “You bear no ill will?” He nodded towards Diarmuid, “Do you mean that? You will keep the peace?”

  Mannan nodded. “Aye, I will.”

  Connell narrowed his eyes at Mannan, as if to judge the young man. “Well then. If you can keep your men from harassing mine, I can do likewise.”

  “What about my justice?” Diarmuid said.

  “Quiet boy, before I back hand you,” Connell said.

  “She scared me. What am I to do with this?” Diarmuid pointed to his face. “I demand restitution. I demand justice.” Diarmuid trotted forward a bit to speak. “Your sister shall apologize to me. And you shall recompense me with three heifers and a bull.”

  “You’re lucky you’re not dead. If Deborah had a knife, you’d wake up with a second smile last morning,” Seamus said.

  “I’ll not take this from this riff raff. This is my farm and I will not be spoken to in that —”

  “Hush yourself or you’ll get the back of my hand,” blurted out Connell. “That’s a mighty fair bargain, MacOwen. How can I be sure your kin will abide the peace?”

  “I will make them abide,” Mannan said. “Do we have terms?”

  Connell looked back and forth, to the east and the west. His eyes narrowed on Mannan as he leaned forward. Lightning flashed followed by distant thunder. “Very well, we have terms.” Connell steered his horse in front of his cousins and road back to the house. Diarmuid’s horse lingered for a long time, then he trotted the old mare back to the barn. The others went with him.

  “Well, that was diplomatic,” Seamus said.

  “Connell,” Mannan called out.

  Connell stopped his pony and turned back to look at Mannan.

  “I thank you, truly.” Mannan pulled on the front of his tam.

  Diarmuid trotted forward and leaned into Mannan. “This isn’t over, MacOwen. You and your slut sister will pay.” A fire flashed in his eyes.

  Connell trotted his pony aside Diarmuid’s and grabbed the reins. “They come here against all reason and offer us peace. They are guests here,” Connell said. He looked at Mannan steely-eyed and nodded before he pulled Diarmuid’s horse back around. Diarmuid struggled against Connell for a moment. Suddenly Connell released his reins and slapped his nephew as lightening flashed. Diarmuid trembled with rage but had the common sense not to act as Connell pulled his pony down the hill.

  “This is done. Let’s go home,” Mannan said as he turned Fiona around. The three trotted through their way back through the storm to Mannan’s farm. He insisted they stay the night. After putting away the horses in the barn and feeding them, the three cousins went inside. There, Eibhlin fed them barley stew with root vegetables and fresh baked bread.

  “Do you think the peace will hold?” Aaron Rue asked as he buttered his bread.

  “I do,” Mannan responded.

  “But what about Diarmuid?” Seamus asked.

  “His uncle Connell will keep him in line. They have as much to lose as we do.” Mannan drank from a cup of beer.

  “I hope so,” Aaron Rue asked. “Why is Diarmuid so filled with rage?”

  “He’s a prideful man, that one is,” Seamus said.

  Mannan paused before taking a spoonful of soup. “And pride goeth before the fall.”

  Deborah came out of Mannan’s space, now hidden with a blanket hung by the rafters.

  Mannan stood. “How does Ote?”

  Deborah nodded. Her hair was wild and her eyes were puffy and red. She trembled.

  “Here, sit by the fire sister.” Mannan gave her his seat and fetched his brat to wrap her in. “Seamus, get her some food,” he said as he placed the wool around her shoulders.

  “I’m not hungry,” she said.

  “Mother tells me you haven’t eaten in a day. You must eat, Deborah,” Mannan said.

  Seamus brought a bowl of soup.

  “How is Ote?” Aaron Rue asked.

  “His breathing is better. He wakes and then falls back asleep. He sees people who aren’t there and speaks to them. I think the angels visit.” Deborah planted her face in Mannan’s shoulder and cried.

  “Don’t worry, he’ll get better,” Mannan said.

  Deborah looked up. “Has there been much fighting?”

  Mannan looked at Seamus, then Aaron Rue.

  “Has there been much fighting?” Deborah asked again.

  “Hush child. Let these men eat in peace,” Eibhlin said.

  Deborah sat up and wiped her eyes. “Is it that bad?”

  “Deborah,” Seamus began. “There hasn’t been any fighting.”

  “What?” Deborah cocked her head.

  “We met with Connell and Diarmuid. They have agreed to keep the peace,” Mannan said.

  Deborah’s face flushed. “I don’t want to keep the peace.”

  “Hush child, you don’t know what you’re saying,” Eibhlin interjected.

  “I do, ma. I do. That beast Diarmuid takes his liberties with me on the dance floor and Ote is the only one man enough to try and settle accounts.” A sneer formed on her tear stained face. “And you men,” she spat. “You men talk of keeping the peace?”

  “You’re upset, Deborah. We all understand but—”

  “But what?!?!” Deborah stood spilling her soup. She point towards Ote’s litter. “My betrothed lies half dead and no one will do justice by him? By me?”

  “What would you have us do? Burn them out?” Mannan asked.

  “Yes!”

  “And then there kin would do the same. Where would it end?”

  “I DON’T CARE WHERE IT ENDS,” Deborah screamed before she collapsed into tears.

  Mannan stood to comfort her but she pushed him away. “I knew you to be a dull man, brother. Always concerned with eggs and milk and butter. I did not think you a coward, though.” She turned to her cousins. “And you. What good is a man to have around to feed and clothe if all the real work is left to the womenfolk?” Her face flushed. “I wish I were a man. I would—”

  “Deb . . .” Ote called out. “Deborah?”

  Deborah’s eyes widened as the sound of Ote’s voice left her speechless. She rushed past her mother and behind the blanket.

  Mannan wanted to go, too. But he knew to give them this moment. He looked down and saw the spilled soup by the hearth. Mannan grabbed some clean linens to clean up the mess.

  “She didn’t mean . . . Mannan. She was only angry,” Seamus said.

  “Aye, she meant every word.”

  Behind the blanket sweet nothings mingled with tears and kisses.

  ◆◆◆

  Days past and Ote’s bruises began to heal. Although he did lose several teeth in the fight, and he fractured his cheek, he was otherwise unharmed. But it was Deborah’s rage that would not heal. Every time Mannan brought Ote food or water, her icy gaze broke Mannan’s heart. He understood why. She was young. Only ten and four years old. Even in girls passion can overwhelm reason. At odd moments Mannan would look at Deborah when she didn’t notice him. He would see the concern on her face, the fear. Deborah’s rage was fear-based. The thought of losing Ote scared her more than anything. Mannan saw it in her eyes. But the peace was more important that Deborah’s fears. One day she would see that.

  During this time MacOwens and Mickens scuffled but nothing escalated too far. Insults were flung and shoves were given, but nothing worse. Both sides prevented the violence from spreading. Were things going to end? Mannan hoped so.

  On a late Saturday evening Mannan and his family came to Seamus’ farm to help bring in the spring barely crop. Ote tore through the tall grain with a weathered scythe. After mowing, he would move on while women gathered the plant and separated the seed from the chafe. Mannan and the other men bundled the plants and stacked them in the back of a wagon for moving.

  “How’s your face, Ote?” Mannan asked.

  “It hurts,” Ote said smiling.<
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  Mannan shook his head and grinned. Something had changed about the boy since his beating. He . . . grew up? He wasn’t sullen, but he was less juvenile, less immature. Somehow, he knew the stakes. Mannan shook his head. For that he would gladly buy Diarmuid an ale in any inn.

  “You’re doin’ well, boy,” Mannan said.

  Ote looked up. “When do we eat? I’m starving.”

  “Just keep cutting the barely,” Mannan said.

  They worked late into the day with the other MacOwens. It was a tradition to help family during the harvest time. Soon they would all be off to another farm, then another. Life in the highlands was precarious and required more help than life in Leinster.

  “All right,” said a woman’s voice. “That’s it for the day. Supper is waiting for you.” It was Seamus’ wife, Brianna.

  “I thank you,” Mannan said. He thought about messing with Ote’s hair, but remembered his swollen cheek and changed his mind. “Come now, let’s try to fill that belly of yours.” They walked back to the house proper where the smell of roasting meat lingered in the air. Some thirty members gathered around. The menfolk squatted by a creek nearby and washed their faces and hands before eating.

  It was an hour or so before sunset and laughter echoed throughout the valley. Men and women ate their fill while children ran around the yard and screamed in delight. Mannan stabbed at a succulent piece of beef with his eating knife. “So, when are you and Deborah getting married?” asked a cousin named Brian.

  Ote almost chocked on his food. “In the fall, after the harvest.”

  Brian wanted to reply but something distracted him. “Well, more company.” He nodded behind Ote and Mannan.

  Four men on horses meandered towards the house. It was the Mickens. Angus rode in front with his brothers Lochlan and Orin to his left. To his right rode Diarmuid, stern and silent.

  Mannan stood. Seamus walked forward but Mannan placed a hand on his chest. “We have a truce, cousin. Remember that.”

  “I know that, but this is my home, Mannan. I’ll take care of this.”

  Mannan nodded and stepped back.

  “What can I do you the pleasure of, neighbor?” Seamus asked.

  Angus tugged his tam. “We saw the harvest was about. If you need more hands, I can bring my cousins by tomorrow.”

  Seamus raised an eyebrow and turned to Mannan quickly, then turned back. “I thank you for your generosity, but we can manage.”

  “Then what say you we speak about selling some of your crop?” Angus asked.

  Seamus turned and smiled at Mannan before continuing. “Well, now we come to the truth of it. Have you eaten?”

  Suddenly people gasped. Mannan turned to see Deborah tromp towards the horses. “Well, now. How’s your face, Diarmuid?”

  Mannan grabbed Deborah’s arm. “What are you doing?”

  She shrugged his grasp away. “More than you supposed men would.”

  Diarmuid clinched his jaw, but said nothing.

  “I hope you like my gift, you’ll have it to remember me by,” Deborah hissed. Some women came over to take Deborah away, but she wouldn’t go.

  “Aye, you wolf-bitch. Just like your pup of a man will remember my gifts,” Diarmuid said as he dismounted.

  “NO!” Mannan hollered as he rushed forward.

  The other Mickens, Angus and his brothers, leapt from their horses but the horses neighed and whinnied, then suddenly reared in fear. Men rose and women gathered children away.

  As some women tried to drag Deborah away she hissed one last insult. “You aren’t half the man Ote is. None of you Mickens are. In fact, I hear your mother’s last words were regrets that she bore such weaklings. Well, at least one of them has the scar to mark him as such!”

  Diarmuid rushed forward and pulled his dirk from its sheath. Mannan did not remember his eating knife in his hand. Nor did he remember tackling Diarmuid, or his eating knife finding its way into Diarmuid’s throat. All he did remember was rolling off of Diarmuid and the sound of him chocking on his own blood. The site of his face turning blue as he clutched his wet throat in the dirt.

  “No,” shrieked Angus. He rushed forward to Diarmuid, clutching his cousin in the late evening sun. He looked up at no one in particular. “Help him, please.” But it was too late. Diarmuid made his last spasm then relaxed in Angus’ arms. His final breath brought peace to his face.

  Lochlan and Orin finally calmed the horses down with the help of some MacOwen men. “No,” Lochlan sputtered before reaching for his dirk. A dozen knives and axes was his reply. He fought back tears and trembled, eyes darting to and fro, while his face glowed redly.

  “Easy, brother. Easy,” Orin said. Gently, he took the dirk from Lochlan’s hand and tossed it on the ground.

  “I . . .” Mannan sputtered. “It was an accident.”

  Angus glowered at Mannan. He rocked slowly back and forth with Diarmuid’s body clutched to his bosom. His eyes darted back and forth as if calculating something, then shut in sorrow.

  “Angus, you have to believe me. It was an accident,” Mannan said. Behind him women and children began to softly moan in mourning.

  “What will you do with us?” Orin asked.

  “I—I don’t know,” Seamus said. “Mannan, what do we do?”

  “Angus,” Mannan said kneeling in the dirt. Kneeling in penance. “Angus, it was a mistake.”

  Angus cradled the head of Diarmuid and said nothing.

  Seamus pulled a hand through his dirty blond hair. “Let them go. Someone help Angus with Diarmuid’s body.”

  Two men stepped forward.

  “Don’t you touch him,” Angus barked. “Keep your filthy hands off of him!”

  Lochlan stepped forward but another man stood in his way.

  “Jesus, let him through,” Seamus said.

  Lochlan moved around the MacOwen blocking his path. He leaned to whisper in Angus’ ear. As he whispered, Lochlan touched his forehead to his brother Angus. Slowly, they picked up Diarmuid’s lifeless body and placed him on his horse.

  “Angus, it was an accident,” Mannan kept repeating.

  Ote stepped forward. He picked up Diarmuid’s dirk and Lochlan’s, too. “Here,” he said while offering them to Orin.

  The Micken’s trotted their horses towards home.

  “It was an accident,” Mannan mumbled.

  Chapter 5

  Mannan worked the farm as he always did. Today the cows needed to be watered and fed. The summer barley would need harvesting soon, too. But there were other things to think about.

  In the three days since Diarmuid had died there was an eerie peace in the valley and surrounding hills and dales. Men cut down their barely. Women mended clothes and baked bread. But for the first time since moving to the Highlands of Scotland, every man in the field worked armed. Dirks hung on belts while spears leaned against barns and houses. Bows were strung and arrow fletched.

  Mannan went to the barn to fetch his crook. Inside hung his shirt of chain mail that he and his father made when he was a boy on the verge of manhood. Mannan hung it in the barn as a reminder to be grateful for their new circumstances. He swore to himself that he would never put it on again. But now the tension could be cut like cloth.

  The Highland summer returned after that fateful night. Late, bright evenings filled with the smell of blossoming heather filled Mannan’s nostrils. Today, something else lingered on the wind, too. He stepped outside and looked east, over the hills. A funnel of black smoke rose higher and higher. “What’s that?” Eibhlin asked.

  Mannan’s heart pounded in his chest. He knew. “Ma, get back in the house. Tell Deborah and Ote to stay with you. Do you understand?”

  Eibhlin’s face turned to stone. She nodded and went back inside.

  Mannan ran back into the barn. He grabbed Fiona, swung onto her back and rode out the barn. In the distance three men rode hard to his house. When they got closer Mannan made out Seamus, Brian and Aaron Rue. “It started,” Seamus said.<
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  “Aye,” Brian continued. “All along the border. Cattle stolen, crops trampled,” he said. “The bastards even burned a home.”

  The door opened and Eibhlin came out. “What goes on?”

  “There’s trouble, Mother Eibhlin. People displaced,” Seamus said.

  “Then we must help them,” she replied.

  “Mother, it’s dangerous. It’s safer here,” Mannan said.

  Eibhlin brandished a kitchen knife at Mannan. “Don’t you talk to me about dangerous. I was a girl of ten during the Second Desmond War and your father and I fought off a raid of O’Donnell’s after my water broke with you. Our cousins are in need and we’re going to help.” Eibhlin carried a blanket around one shoulder filled with things Mannan could not see. She strode over to him, held onto his arm and climbed onto Fiona’s back. “Well? Off with you,” she ordered.

  ◆◆◆

  They rode to the nearest farm. There, Ullum MacOwen and his wife, Sarah, took in the displaced. A dozen men sat dazed and wounded while Sarah directed the women in what to do.

  Eibhlin jumped down from the horse to greet and comfort the women. Meanwhile the men all stood. “Glad you’re here, Mannan. Now what do we do?” asked one of them.

  “We fight back,” another said to the agreement of the crowd.

  “I brought my ax,” another said.

  They all looked to Mannan as they spoke at once.

  “My friends,” Mannan began. “Cousins. We must be wise here. Let us look to our families, first. To their safety and protection.”

  “My family won’t be protected until we drive the Mickens from this place,” said another. His words were met with hoots and other shouts of approval.

  Mannan shook his head. They had to see. They had to understand. “Cousins, we must look to our own. Gather what cattle is scattered, find shelter for your families.” The men grumbled. “Some of you can stay at Seamus’ farm. Some of you can follow Brian to his. We’ll make room for your wives and children.”