Tara: Taken (Viking Guardians Book 5)

by Kaitlynn Clarkson

  “I have accomplished my mission,” he told the sheep, whose ears flicked back at the sound of his voice. “I have brought her home. Now I will learn if she loves me or not.”

  He continued to stroke the thick woolly back, his thoughts serious. He had not understood the words that Tara’s parents were speaking last night but they had clearly been alarmed at the sight of him. It hurt to think how afraid her people were of his. They had seen him and immediately assumed that he intended to harm them. How could he tell them that he was simply a peace-loving merchant who had no desire to raid or destroy? Yet, he could hardly blame them. His countrymen had stolen their daughter and countless others, leaving families bereft of loved ones and villages in ruins.

  But apart from his discomfort at Tara’s parents’ reaction to him, Tara herself was still a mystery. Despite the dam-busting flood of tears that released all the pent-up emotions of her life as a slave, he felt that he was still no closer to knowing how she felt about him.

  He was startled when an arm slid around his waist from behind and Tara laid her head against his back. He swung around to face her and held her close.

  “I did not hear you approach,” he said.

  “I can be as silent as a cat,” she replied, and he could hear the smile in her voice. “I missed you when I awoke,” she added. “I thought I might find you here.”

  “The animals help me to think,” he said.

  “What were you thinking about?” she asked, snuggling her head under his chin.

  “You,” he said.

  “Why were you thinking about me?” she asked.

  “Tara, I feel as if I do not know you,” he said. “There is part of you that you do not share with me.”

  She drew back and looked at him but said nothing.

  “I brought you here to set you free,” he told her, even as it broke his heart to say it.

  “Set me free?” she asked, puzzled. “Do you not want me anymore?”

  “No, no, no!” he exclaimed, horrified that she had misunderstood. “I want you more than I ever have!”

  “Then what do you mean?” she asked.

  He took a deep breath. “I love you, my precious Tara; I love you with all my heart. That is why I brought you home again. I am giving you the choice, my love. If you wish to stay here with your parents, in the land of your birth, you can.”

  She gasped. “You mean … you brought me here to return to the life I had before?”

  “Yes, if that is what you want. I want you to be happy.”

  She flung her arms around him and clung to him as if she would never let him go. “Oh Erik, I am happy!” she exclaimed, tears gathering in her eyes. “You have made me the happiest woman on earth!” She drew back and looked into his eyes, seeing only kindness and love. “Coming home has filled a hole in my heart,” she said. “It has been wonderful to see my parents and family again.” She took a deep breath. “But as wonderful as they are, I do not belong here anymore. I did not know that until now. I always thought I would like to return to the life I left behind.” She reached up and smoothed a fair lock of hair off his brow. “I am not the same person that left this place. Oh Erik, what a wonderful gift you have given me! My freedom and my return to my family.”

  “What are you trying to say?” he asked quietly.

  “I love you, Erik,” she said shyly, a faint blush tinting her cheeks in the golden glow of the early morning sunshine. “I love you more than I ever thought possible. I just did not realize it until you gave me this choice. You loved me so much that you were willing to let me go if it meant that I would be happy. How could I fail to love you in return? My place is with you, Erik. Wherever you go, my place is there. My heart belongs with yours.”

  A huge grin split his beard, so red-gold in the early morning light. His blue eyes sparkled with delight. “You mean …?” he asked with a catch in his breath.

  She nodded. “When we leave here, I will be going with you,” she said. “Wherever we go, it will be together.”

  EPILOGUE

  “Brendan!” Tara exclaimed as she opened the door to her old friend. “I did not expect to find you on my doorstep!”

  The older man hugged her. “It is good to see you again!” he exclaimed. “Where is Erik?’

  “He will be home soon. Come, tell me of the news from Norowegr.” She led him to the table and they sat down.

  “I have been here for several weeks,” he said. “I went into the country to my old village to see if my wife and son are still alive.”

  “And?” she prompted.

  “They are indeed. We had a very happy reunion. My wife thought I was dead, of course. I am fortunate that she did not marry another.”

  “So what brings you to Dubh Linn?”

  “I wished to repay Erik the money that he spent on setting me free. And the money that I owe him for the lease of the longhouse after you left.”

  “Oh, Brendan, Erik forgave you that debt before we left!”

  “It matters not,” he said. “I wished to repay it. There is enough there for Inger, also.”

  “Tell me of Inger,” she said eagerly. “Is she well?”

  “She is,” Brendan said. “She knew she would be lonely in the longhouse after I left, with only Kappi for company.”

  “Dear Kappi,” Tara said, her eyes soft. “I do miss him.” After much deliberation, she had decided to leave Kappi with Inger. The old woman adored him and had no one else to love.

  “Inger went to visit Leopolda one day and they realized that they both love Kappi and are both alone. So Inger has moved in with Leopolda and now they both spoil that cat.”

  Tara grinned. “I can imagine,” she said. “The pair of them would be fussing over his every move.”

  “And cooking up every delicacy they can think of to tempt him,” Brendan laughed.

  “It will be good for them to have each other and Kappi,” Tara said. “I am so glad that I persuaded Erik to set you both free.”

  “I will be forever grateful to you both,” Brendan said. He reached into his cloak and pulled out a bag. Tara heard the coins clink inside.

  “It took a long time and a lot of work but now I truly consider myself free,” he said. “Thank you for everything you did for me.”

  “Oh, Brendan, it was nothing. You befriended me when I had no one. I could not leave without trying to share my good fortune with my friends. I know Erik was reluctant at first but now he does not regret it for a moment. He is a good man with a kind heart.”

  At that moment, the baby stirred with a squeak.

  “Is that a baby I hear?” asked Brendan, his eyes lighting up.

  Tara rose to her feet. “I will get her,” she said.

  A moment later, she returned with a neatly wrapped bundle. “This is Ealga,” she announced proudly. A tiny face with curious round eyes peered from the bundle and Brendan could see wisps of red hair on the smooth little head. “She is beautiful,” he said. “I am glad you have found happiness.”

  “I give thanks to God every day for hearing my prayers to return to my homeland,” she said. “Yet, I am also thankful that I was taken as a slave. I would not have met Erik otherwise. Everything I went through was worth it to find him.”

  As he came through the door, Erik smiled to himself as he overheard her words. There was no doubt now that his wife loved him. Surely, he was the most blessed man alive. He would join her in giving thanks to her God.

  LOVED IT? DIDN’T LOVE IT?

  Did you enjoy the story of Tara? Were there things you thought could have been better? Why not leave a review and tell others about your experience? Your feedback helps me to know what my readers like so that I can create something even better in the future.

  Kaitlynn xx

  PS You can leave a review on Amazon, Bookbub, or on Goodreads.

  GLOSSARY

  NOTE: Some of the words in this glossary are Old Norse swear words. Ignorance is bliss if they are likely to offend :-).

  OLD
NORSE

  ENGLISH

  Jarl

  Earl

  Karl

  Freeborn resident

  Heill

  Greeting

  Dubh Linn

  Dublin

  Bacraut

  Asshole

  Bikkja

  Bitch

  Írskr

  Irish

  Finngail (Gaelic)

  Vikings

  Haust

  Autumn, harvest

  Amma

  Grandmother

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  While every effort has been made to preserve historical accuracy throughout this story, some elements of Norse culture remain a mystery or are disputed among historians. Therefore, some aspects of Norse life and beliefs have been “borrowed” from the known practices of surrounding nations while others are fictitious.

  Aeveen: Healer of Ráith Mór (Sneak Peek)

  Forced to leave her village. Taken prisoner. She’s saved so many, but can he save her?

  In one swift attack by the Vikings, the life that Aeveen knows comes to an end. Grieving over the loss of her beloved teacher, she is forced to flee to the fortress at Ráith Mór, home of the handsome but unhelpful Lord Neíll Mac Carthaigh.

  She goes to work assisting the injured, but things go from bad to worse when she runs into conflict with the Lord himself. Only her skills save her from immediate banishment.

  Her reputation as a healer grows and one day, a rival clan demands her services, threatening trouble if she fails to comply. Lord Mac Carthaigh reluctantly agrees and she leaves to attend to the sick and injured.

  Soon after she arrives, the Vikings attack, kidnapping her along with several other women. When Lord Mac Carthaigh finds out, he is desperate to save her. Will he find her in time? Will he have the opportunity to tell her what’s on his heart? Or has he left it too late?

  This short, clean novella is set in Ireland in the days of the great kings; a time when Vikings raided, clans fought and adventure lurked around every corner. It is Book 1 in the Maids Of Ulaid series. It can be read as a standalone or enjoyed as part of the series.

  CHAPTER 1

  “Aeveen. Those herbs won’t crush themselves, you know,” he reminded her as she idly pushed the pestle around in the mortar.

  Fleeting memories of her mother’s red hair and soothing songs wafted through her mind as she inhaled the rich woody notes of the rosemary.

  “Aeveen Indechta. Focus.”

  She hated it when he called her that. He meant well, of course. When Aeveen had first arrived in Glenn Indechta as a 6-year-old, her father was too sick to explain what had happened to her mother. Too sick to say where they had come from. Too sick to even give his name before he’d died of that terrible esláinte. Liaig Pearse had taken her in, given her the town’s name, and made her his apprentice.

  “Aeveen!”

  The irritation in his voice brought her back to the task at hand.

  “Aren’t you finished yet?” Her teacher had little time for her musings, and she quickly remembered all the work that remained.

  “You should be grateful,” the villagers would remind her when she complained of his occasional grouchiness. “To learn from a liaig is an honour indeed.”

  She’d grown up tending to the village herb garden, or lubgort as her teacher called it, and helping tend to the sick. Liaig Pearse treated her with feigned indifference, ordering her to fetch this and that, but she knew in his heart that he cared for her. Without him, without kin, she would have died of starvation and illness long ago. Instead, he had taken her in and taught her to decipher the rhythms of sickness and healing, famine and plenty, life and death.

  They came again with the rolling fog early in the spring. Aeveen heard the tolling of the alarm bell; the lowest, largest bell in the monastery. For a moment it stopped, then started, its mournful tones warning of death and destruction. Her teacher came in, wordlessly telling her the nightmare had begun again, and together they gathered supplies. They both knew their skills would soon be needed.

  Why did the Vikings have such greed and disregard for life? These finngail, fair foreigners, were anything but fair from her point of view. Two years ago, they had raided farms across the region of Ulaid, taking most of the winter’s store of grains. She shuddered as she remembered the fevers that had resulted from the famine they’d endured that winter. Everyone hoped they’d never return, but the next spring they’d been back, taking half the village sheep and many of the cows.

  Mac Artáin and his sons had tried to stop them, to no avail. Her teacher had done his best to save their lives, but when it was all over both Mac Artáin and his eldest son Finnegan were dead. Seamus had taken over as the head of the family, but he’d been crippled in the attack and … Aeveen stopped herself. She could not dwell on the misery of the past in the middle of a new crisis.

  Liaig Pearse had done his best back then. She had done her best too and even earned a rare compliment from her teacher. Bittersweet, it was, since the herb pillow she’d applied had done little to save Finnegan. “Liaigit,” he’d called her, “little healer.” At 16 years old she’d been tempted to harass him for calling her little… but it was the first time he’d seemed genuinely pleased that she had learned his craft.

  A loud crash of the monastery bell shook Aeveen out of her reminiscing. They had arrived, then. She sighed. Stories of other churches being raided were becoming all too common along the coastline, ransacked and raided for the precious metals the village had so carefully stored away. She quickly packed strips of clean linens, a bottle of burdock extract, a bottle of vinegar, and the precious basil oil they’d imported. She slipped some oats and buttermilk in too, along with some cheese curds and nuts. They wouldn’t likely have much time to eat today if last year’s raid was any indication.

  “Don’t forget the fresh herbs,” Pearse reminded her. “I’ll get the apples and meet you outside.”

  Aeveen slipped outside with her healer’s bag and quickly picked what she could, carefully putting them into the pockets sewn on the side. Mint, for nausea and headaches. Chives, to keep the bugs away from wounds. Brooklime, to help with the pain and stave off poisoning.

  A sudden scream pierced through the fog. Surely the finngail hadn’t already made it into the village? Aeveen closed her bag and darted between the oaks in the garden. Had her teacher heard the scream too? Her heart pounded as shadows passed in the thick fog. Closer, now, another scream, and then shouting as she heard some of the villagers defending their homes.

  “Fire!” someone yelled.

  “GET OUT!” roared another.

  Cruel laughter could be heard over the cacophony of the skirmish. Metal clashed against metal, doors slammed, and the crackling sounds of the fire quickly intensified. Aeveen couldn’t be sure where it was coming from, but the acrid smell of thatch burning set her whole body on edge. She risked looking out from her hiding place. Wisps of smoke curled up through the thatch of the liaig’s neat cottage.

  But where was he? Liaig Pearse hadn’t come out to meet her as he’d promised. It shouldn’t have taken this long for him to collect the apples, even if he was starting to slow down in his old age. With a sickening feeling, she slid back towards the window. She didn’t see any fire in the kitchen, so she slipped inside.

  “Liaig?” she whispered. “Liaig Pearse?”

  Nothing. Slowly she lifted the cellar door, praying that she’d see him, still gathering the precious apples wrapped in paper. She could see that most of the apples were gone, so he’d been there. But the tiny dirt cellar contained only the bottles and jars with their preserves and remedies.

  Was that a cough? She quickly closed the cellar door in silence and edged her way into the front room.

  “Teacher!” she called softly, forcing herself to look around. No other dangers? She decided to ignore the smoldering roof above them; at least the Vikings had left as quickly as they had come. She rushed to the liaig’s side.

 
“Liaig Pearse. What happened? What do you need? How can I help?”

  Aeveen’s words tumbled over one another as she bent over her teacher. The apples were strewn across the floor and the precious medicines they’d made were gone. His bag was torn, and she could see blood on his sleeve.

  “What did they do to you?” she whispered, quickly trying to assess his injuries.

  He didn’t answer. His breathing was shallow, rapid, and he was as pale as the daisies that grew outside. She could feel his heart beating quickly; it was much faster than normal, with an unsteady rhythm.

  “Focus, Aeveen,” she reminded herself.

  She quickly ran her hands under his body, looking for signs of swelling or bleeding. There. Heat radiated from his side, where she suspected a broken rib. She groaned as she felt hardness in his belly. Internal bleeding. There was nothing she could do.

  “I am sorry,” she whispered into his ear, and looked up, silently praying that Saint Athracht would help heal him. As she raised her eyes to the roof, she realized that it was no longer just smoldering. Small pieces of thatch started to fall around her.

  She hugged her mentor. “Please. Do not leave me. I am not ready.” She started to pray, but then it was over. He was gone.

  She carefully set him down; there was no time to grieve now. There was no time to cover him with a blanket, no time for anything but survival. She gathered the scattered apples and stuffed them into her bag before tearing herself away from her home, her teacher, her life. Then she fled into the open just as the fire took hold on the thatch.

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