Prologue ©2017 by Amanda Dykes
The Distant Tide ©2017 by Heather Day Gilbert
A Song in the Night ©2017 by Amanda Dykes
The Forgotten Hope ©2017 by Maureen Lang
A River between Us ©2017 by Jocelyn Green
The Swelling Sea ©2017 by Joanne Bischof
Epilogue ©2017 by Joanne Bischof
Print ISBN 978-1-68322-091-6
eBook Editions:
Adobe Digital Edition (.epub) 978-1-68322-093-0
Kindle and MobiPocket Edition (.prc) 978-1-68322-092-3
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All scripture quotations, unless otherwise noted, are taken from the King James Version of the Bible.
Scripture quotations marked NIV are taken from the HOLY BIBLE, NEW INTERNATIONAL VERSION®. NIV®. Copyright © 1973, 1978, 1984, 2011 by Biblica, Inc.™ Used by permission. All rights reserved worldwide.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any similarity to actual people, organizations, and/or events is purely coincidental.
Published by Barbour Books, an imprint of Barbour Publishing, Inc., P.O. Box 719, Uhrichsville, Ohio 44683, www.barbourbooks.com
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Table of Contents
Prologue
The Distant Tide
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
A Song in the Night
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
The Forgotten Hope
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
A River between Us
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
The Swelling Sea
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Epilogue
Prologue
“You will surely forget your trouble, recalling it only as waters gone by.”
JOB 11:16 NIV
Ballyfír Monastery, the North of Ireland
834 AD
Flames lapped at the monk’s robes. He raced down corridors that crackled with the collision of dampness and heat, dodging fire-lit debris. So this was to be the end, then. The night the stones of Ballyfír Monastery would tell their last tale.
Voices ricocheted. Quick into an alcove he pressed himself, wincing against the sharp, foreign echoes. One man barked out heavy words, only to be cut off by another. How many were there? Five in the cross path, by the sounds of it. Maybe more. Perhaps there was yet hope, if their number was small. Another, more distant voice summoned them away, and they thundered in the direction of the cellarium.
Good, he thought. Let them take the food. If they will but leave the words…
The monk released his breath then pulled in ash-thick air only to sputter it back out in a fit of coughing. Turning, he flung open the latched window and gasped for clean air. He was too far from the round tower where the finished manuscripts were stored, but he might reach the scriptorium before the fire did. The Living Word must endure.
But as he filled his lungs afresh, he saw them: three ships curled against the night in stark silhouette, horrible dragon mouths agape upon each prow. Torchlights running to and fro on board, on the beach, winding their way up the hill to the monastery like one great serpent, ready to swallow them whole.
“Please, Father.” His whispered prayer was raspy. “If we perish, may hope yet live.”
Slipping into the empty corridor, the prayer released a thousand leaden weights that had anchored him: the sight of the abbot moments before, slain in the refectory; the desperation that washed over him at the thought of those confined to the infirmary, unable to escape; and the subsequent realization that none of his brothers could flee—not far enough, on this island. Tonight Ballyfír—the place of truth—would give its life for truth. For hope.
Suddenly the yelling, the crashing debris, the pounding footsteps, and shrieks of a raid faded until all he could hear was his own heartbeat carrying him swiftly to what he sought. In the darkness of the scriptorium he grabbed for something—anything—to protect the words. He laid hold of a vessel, hand-forged by one of the metalworking brothers, its cold bronze inscribed with braided intricacies and a Latin word encircling its neck. He pitched the quills it held and capped it. The bottle was a messenger, now. A guardian.
He gripped it and ran to snatch the parchments from the table. With full arms he lingered but a moment, torn: Should he flee back into the fiery mayhem, where destruction would surely consume the pages? The room seemed smaller and smaller, and so did he, until his eyes fell on the small wooden door in the corner—only waist-high, created to retrieve candles from the cupboard shared with the kitchen. He dashed to it, flung open the door, tossed the cupboard’s contents out, and burrowed through to the other side.
A door scraped open behind him. They’d breached the scriptorium. Pulse rushing in his ears, he scrambled into the kitchen and through its door to the outside, where the night cloaked him long enough to reach the cliff-side tower. Wind lashed his face and plucked the parchment leaves from his arms until he held fast to what remained: one solitary sheet in a swirling dance of wind-borne pages. Despair threatened to cripple hi
m, but truth was truth whether one page or fifty. The tower door creaked open to his push, and he took the steps up, up, up two at a time until he burst into the tower chamber—home to the perpetual flame that guided weary visitors to them. The monk shivered, realizing it was the work of his own hand that had guided the Vikings here—for he’d tended the flame just hours ago. Was it such a short time? It seemed an eternity, and now he stood on the brink of just that.
With a mighty heave, he pushed open the window latch overlooking the surf. Time stood still as he rolled the solitary parchment up, glimpsing its ornately illuminated words as he did. He slipped the scroll inside the bottle. This, then, would be their legacy to the world. He would set it free to be carried somewhere, to safety if it pleased God.
Windows in every direction, he turned to take in the sight of his earthly home one last time, clutching the vessel to his chest.
Behind him, he glimpsed the far end of the monastery, where the open-air cloister walled in a handful of candles flickering amid the firestorm encroaching around them. Those who still lived must have gathered there. He could hear their harmonies rising on the wind, a haunting and sweeping steadiness carried with each interlaced note, wrapping him with the peace of his God. Peace that made no sense. Peace that could only be from its very Author.
Beside him, the steady stream of torches grew closer.
And before him, the midnight sea waited to swallow the precious words. Through cracked lips, the monk prayed the waves would not bury them, but carry them until they could speak life into another soul.
Perhaps even the souls of their attackers.
“Father, forgive them….”
He lifted the candle and dripped its wax around the bottle’s mouth to seal it before securing the lid. By the light of the single flame, he read the word etched upon the bronze with such care: SPERO.
He stretched his arm out through the window and, gathering every bit of strength left within him, hurled it outward. It arced, briefly catching the moonlight, then dropped into the dark water below.
It was finished.
The monk dropped to his knees, hands clasped, and joined his voice with his brothers in a song of life, even as Viking shouts overpowered them.
The stones of Ballyfír told their last tale that night…but it was just the beginning.
The Distant Tide
by Heather Day Gilbert
Chapter One
Ciar’s Kingdom, Ireland
1170 AD
The skies were as unsettled as her own future.
Swirling mountain breezes billowed through Britta’s narrow castle window, carrying with them the unmistakable tang of a storm. The sunshine of the morning had given way to glowering clouds this evening. Springtime in Ireland could be fickle.
She swiped at another errant tear. Refocusing on her favorite book, her finger traced the Latin words on the ancient vellum page.
A sharp rap sounded, and her nursemaid, Florie, entered her room in her usual way, without waiting for permission. She bustled toward Britta’s chair, her brass-blond hair escaping her kerchief. Her round face was flushed from walking up the tight circular stairs.
“I’ve been shoutin’ for you, Princess. There’s no one to come and fetch you, since your father took my servants with him on his journey to see the high king. It’s time for our evening meal.”
Florie was bolder than any other servant in the castle, but for good reason. After Britta’s mother had died young from the fever, Florie had stepped in to care for the toddler princess. Britta couldn’t recall one day when her loyal Florie hadn’t come rushing when she needed her.
The woman leaned closer, the smell of cooked meat wafting from her clothing. She cupped Britta’s quivering chin with her rough hand then pushed black strands of hair off Britta’s face. “You’ve been crying. What worries could be weighing on you, safe and healthy as you are?”
That was just the problem. She was perfectly safe here in the castle—so comfortable, she never had to leave this place. And the largest part of her didn’t want to leave. Generations ago, the O’Shea family had settled in this lush pocket of Ireland. This beloved castle and land held her close, as tightly as if she were shackled.
She tried to explain. “You know I’ve always wanted to share my faith with those who have never heard of Christ, and even to those who still hold to druidry.”
Florie nodded, thoughtful. A smile broke across her face. “Perhaps your father will make your dream possible with this journey. You are of marriageable age now, and I have heard the high king has four handsome sons—”
Britta gasped at the suggestion. Surely her father had traveled to discuss kingdom business with the high king, as he did every year. “I can’t leave you, Florie. Nor could I leave Father, although he might not miss the opinions I so freely offer him.”
“True, I shouldn’t like to see you leave, Princess. I doubt your father would, either.” Florie’s light eyes crinkled. “Perhaps God has another suitor for you, closer to home.”
Britta sighed. She didn’t want to think about suitors yet. She wanted to understand how to use her talents for God—whatever those talents were. She was a proficient reader. She also enjoyed talking to Father about decisions for the kingdom, but every time she shared her thoughts, it was as though she was talking into the wind. Father listened to his right-hand man, Ronan. Not to her.
The psalmist said she should ask for the desires of her heart, but the two strongest desires were irreconcilable. There was no way to spread the Word without leaving the kingdom she cared so deeply about.
Florie patted her hand. “Come on down to eat. You’ll feel better with something in your stomach, and then I can prepare a bath for you.” She rustled down the stairs without waiting for Britta’s response.
Not even vaguely mollified, Britta glanced out the window. The low gray clouds obscured her view of the nearby mountain. Because its crowning rock formation was shaped like a crow’s beak, many viewed the monument as an annoyance, an obstruction to the clean line of rolling green hills that swept to the ocean. But to her, it felt like a protective ally, solid and reliable. Even though it was simply called Crow Mountain, she liked to imagine more poetic names for it, like Eagle Aerie or Piney Bluff.
If only God would make His plans for her as obvious as that mountain.
When Britta reluctantly trailed downstairs, she caught Ronan and Florie attempting to move the tabletop onto the trestle in the great hall. To save space, the table was always taken apart after meals and moved into a corner.
The tabletop was a dense plank of cherrywood, and it would be impossible for two people to manage it, even given Ronan’s considerable strength. The guards her father had left behind were already camped at their posts for the evening.
“Let me help.” She grabbed a beveled corner, ignoring their black looks. They didn’t want the princess to sully her hands with menial labor. But she was the princess, wasn’t she? Even though Ronan had been left in charge, she could still do as she pleased.
After considerable effort, they successfully maneuvered the tabletop into position. Cringing to think of repeating the task before each meal, Britta declared, “We will leave the tabletop where it is for the duration of my father’s absence.”
Florie murmured her approval of this plan then scurried off to the kitchen to retrieve the food.
Ronan, too, nodded in agreement. He removed his mace from his belt and propped it against the wall, near his shield and sword.
As always, Britta felt a wave of thanks that her father had left his best warrior behind to protect her. Ronan’s family had lived near the castle all her life, and he had battled alongside her father many times. His loyalty was unquestionable.
Glancing at his mace, a shudder passed from head to toe as she imagined the damage the heavy spiked weapon could inflict. A nervous giggle escaped as she tried to picture such a gentle-spirited man wielding such a deadly weapon, although his build was undeniably powerful and sh
e knew he would not hesitate to protect her life with his own.
He glanced up, his dark eyes softening. “Is something amusing?”
Before she could explain, Florie emerged with a large pot of onion soup. She served it up, accompanied by a hunk of white cheese and slightly scorched oatcakes. Finally, she took her seat, waiting for a look from Britta.
Nodding, Britta sipped her soup, the cue that others could eat. She took an oatcake from the pewter dish then cast a furtive look down the table.
Florie started to wipe her mouth on her sleeve then instead used her linen napkin. “Pray tell, what d’you need, Princess?”
“Have you any of the bog butter? I find it gives my oatcakes incomparable flavor.”
“I surely do, and I don’t know how I forgot to set it out.” Florie hastened into the larder, returning with a greeny-black butter ball.
“Thank you. I know Father says it’s uncouth, but I’ve found nothing matches its taste.”
As she finished slathering a thick layer of butter on the oatcake, Ronan spoke. “I shall be riding over to Brennan’s castle to trade horses in the morning. Would you care to accompany me?”
It seemed a careless question, a discussion to pass the time, until Britta raised her eyes and met Ronan’s dark ones. His completely unguarded gaze struck her like the lightning that had finally loosed outside.
She took in his intense look, his half-quirked smile. He was so expectant, so…fixed on what she would answer. Realization dawned. Ronan found her desirable. Had her giggling led him to think she was admiring him?
Or had he felt this ardor for some time? If so, how had she missed it?
An embarrassed flush covered her cheeks. She tried to invent an excuse. “My stomach…perhaps I need to…” Unable to continue, she stood and rushed from the great hall. She heard Ronan shove his chair back to stand, and Florie’s anxious voice trailed after her, but she could not stop.
Bolting into her room, she threw herself on her bed, thoughts fluttering about like doves’ wings.
How long had Ronan found her attractive? For so many years, they had wandered the land together, discussing everything from hawks to laws to books. Had the storm-charged air, coupled with her father’s absence, released his hidden feelings?
The Message in a Bottle Romance Collection Page 1