Riona

by Linda Windsor

  PRAISE FOR LINDA WINDSOR’S

  HISTORICAL NOVELS

  THE FIRES OF GLEANNMARA #2: RIONA

  “Linda Windsor deftly weaves a tapestry of Irish myth and legend with the glory of knowing Christ, creating a masterpiece of medieval fiction. Riona is more than a novel, it’s an experience—a journey to a faraway time and place where honor and faith are lived out amid the clamor of swords. A glorious read!”

  LIZ CURTIS HIGGS, BESTSELLING AUTHOR OF BOOKENDS

  “With a lyrical voice worthy of the Isle of Erin, Linda Windsor’s Riona is a wonderful novel, peopled with memorable characters who will lay claim to your heart. I believe I could see the green hills and feel the kiss of mist upon my cheeks with every page I read.”

  ROBIN LEE HATCHER, CHRISTY AWARD-WINNING AUTHOR OF RIBBON OF YEARS

  THE FIRES OF GLEANNMARA #1: MAIRE

  “This story has it all: spiritual inspiration, history, and love.… Ms. Windsor’s voice is crisp, vibrant, and professional in its delivery, providing readers with characters who will live long after the last page. Linda Windsor provides readers with a lush Celtic saga sure to touch their spiritual soul with a promise of love both secular and religious. Maire is a breakout book sure to find its way to many a bestseller and reader’s keeper lists, creating a whole new sub-genre where a Windsor book is going to be the classic standard to achieve.”

  ROMANCING THE CELTIC SOUL

  “Linda Windsor’s talent for creating a faraway land and time is flawless.”

  ROMANTIC TIMES MAGAZINE

  “A captivating fictional chronicle of Christianity’s dawn in Ireland. Remarkable for its appeal as both a historical saga and inspirational novel, Maire achieves success that few other books can boast.”

  SUITE101.COM

  “This enthralling tale reveals Gods miraculous power at work and how His love conquers all. The thrilling finale will bring chills—as well as the assurance of God’s incredible omnipresence. A definite page-turner.”

  INSPIRATIONAL ROMANCE REVIEWS

  “Maire is an exciting work of historical fiction that brings to life the Celtic heritage mindful of the great Beowulf. The current story line is exciting and fast-paced, while centering on the conflict between Christianity and Druidism. The lead couple is a charming duo, and the support cast fills the Dark Ages with light. Readers will want to read this tale even as they impatiently await the sixth century (Riona) and seventh century (Deirdre) novels.

  MIDWEST REVIEWER’S CHOICE

  “Ms. Windsor’s writing is creative and informative to say the least. She captures the reader with her characters’ wit and charm, keeping them enthralled until the very last word. The love between Rowan and Maire is a joy to watch and will keep your faith strong and true.”

  ROMANCE REVIEWS TODAY

  “An exciting fictional tale of love, faith, and war.… The plot is smooth from start to finish and holds the reader enraptured, unable to put the book down.”

  BOOKBROWSER

  “Maire has a host of exceedingly wonderful characters who support the exceptional storyline … excellent reading and definitely a keeper.”

  RENDEZVOUS ROMANCE REVIEWS

  NOVELS BY LINDA WINDSOR

  THE FIRES OF GLEANNMARA SERIES

  Book 1: Maire

  Book 2: Riona

  Book 3: Dierdre

  It Had to Be You

  Not Exactly Eden

  Hi Honey, I’m Home

  This book is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogues are products of the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  RIONA

  published by Multnomah Books

  A division of Random House, Inc.

  Published in association with the literary agency of Ethan Ellenberg Agency.

  © 2001 by Linda Windsor

  Scripture quotations taken from: The Holy Bible, King James Version

  Multnomah is a trademark of Multnomah Books,

  and is registered in the U.S. Patent and Trademark Office.

  The colophon is a trademark of Multnomah Books.

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise—without prior written permission.

  For Information:

  MULTNOMAH BOOKS

  12265 ORACLE BOULEVARD, SUITE 200 • COLORADO SPRINGS, CO 80921

  LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING-IN-PUBLICATION DATA:

  Windsor, Linda.

  Riona / by Linda Windsor.

  p. cm. – (Book two of the fires of Gleannmara series)

  eISBN: 978-0-307-75669-5

  1. Knights and knighthood–Fiction. I. Title.

  PS3573.I519 R5 2001 813′.54–dc21 2001002100

  v3.1

  Once again, to my family—Jim, Jeff, Kelly, and Mom—

  without whom I could not possibly have dedicated

  the time needed to complete Riona.

  Contents

  Cover

  Other Books by This Author

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  A Foreword, from the Heart of Erin …

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Chapter Twenty-six

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-one

  Chapter Thirty-two

  Chapter Thirty-three

  Chapter Thirty-four

  Chapter Thirty-five

  Chapter Thirty-six

  Epilogue

  Gleannmara’s Glossary/Reference

  Bibliography

  Dear readers,

  In an effort to maintain historical accuracy, I’ve used several terms or mentioned historical figures that may be unfamiliar to you. You will find these explained in the glossary at the end of the story.

  Speaking of the glossary, the earthy speech with which I have Erin present the foreword, the glossary, and the bibliography is not reflective of the educated Irish, either by past standards or by those of today. It is intended to effect the earthy speech of an old storyteller or seanchus, and is reminiscent of that which filtered down through my grandmother from her grandmother, an uneducated mother of eleven. This lady supported her children as a laundress, surviving three husbands. I am proud to claim her as an ancestor. Like those who fled to Ireland in the dark ages of western Europe, she was a brave, devout, and honest soul who came to America with a dream: building a better life for her children.

  Linda Windsor

  A FOREWORD, FROM THE HEART OF ERIN …

  I greet you a free soul, good friend! Sure, it’s been a long time and ye’re a joyful sight for these sore eyes. All the while I’ve been collectin’ me memories of me sixth century after the death of our Lord Jesus, and the second hundred years of me children�
�s enlightenment of God’s Word. My heart leaps like a mountain spring over a fall with excitement and pride, for them seeds of knowledge the good Lord planted the century before took root and grew beyond the ken of the angels themselves.

  I am none other than Erin—the blessed Green Isle to the North of history and legend alike; Thomas Cahill’s savior of civilization; motherland to warriors and bards, kings and saints, magic and miracle. Ye read as much, did ye not, in the first of me series of stories, Maire, Fires of Gleannmara? Aye, ’twas there ye saw the first flame of Christianity kindled in me heart.

  Now, in the wake of Patrick and his likes, a new Erin emerges, where secular and clerical schools have grown to quench me children’s thirst for knowledge while churches multiply to nourish their souls. I’m proud to say that public education began right here on me shores.

  But what would ye expect in a place where literacy was near a religion in itself? Why in one generation me children mastered Greek, Latin, and some Hebrew. And their own Irish was so pure there was no dialect, no matter where ’twas spoken. When they weren’t mastering a language, they was inventin’ one, like that secret one, Hisperica Famina, made up as it were of bits o’ Latin. And books, my heart, they were turnin’ ’em out the likes of which was unheard of. Sure, I lay claim to bein’ the world’s first publisher. What with libraries fallin’ to barbarian flames all over the continent and in Rome itself, there were me priests and druidic bards preservin’ history and culture alike on pages for all time. And, I might add, fit as I am to bust me britches, that in the process of savin’ such masterpieces of the past, their whimsical doodles and witty commentaries jotted in the margins come to be admired as an art form in itself.

  Alls I can say is it’s time, well enough, for the world to recognize me Celtic forefathers as far more civilized than their pompous Greek and Roman counterparts gave ’em credit for. No culture copycats among us! Our poems and tales, preserved by word of mouth, are purely our own dear Irish—a delight to the eye as well as the ear.

  Plagiarism was not tolerated, as demonstrated when our precocious, but no less dear, Saint Columcille copied a rare and coveted psalter that his teacher, Ninian of Moville, had just brought back from Rome. High King Diarmait decreed “to each cow, it’s own calf,” and the disgruntled student had to give back his copy. By me mother’s own milk, ’tis true!

  Meanwhile, me feisty lads o’ the cloth made a few o’ their own rules, like confession. Ye see, Rome would have a body confess his transgressions afore all, public-like. Instead me saints adopted their ancestral custom o’ sharing a soul’s innermost fears and secrets with an anmchara or soul friend. In Patrick’s time and afore ’twas said, “Anyone without a soul friend is like a body without a head.” Me children looked for the likes of wisdom, holiness, generosity, loyalty, and courage in an anmchara, and in Columcille’s time, me saints took to this private confession like fleas to a plump, hairy hound.

  Aye, lads and lasses, whilst the rest of Europe was plunged into darkness by the barbaric hordes, I glowed like a lamp to the world, drawing seekers of truth from the black-hearted throes of destruction. Offerin’ men and women alike refuge from oppression. I was an America o’ the Dark Ages, there to share mercy and light, both within and beyond me shores.

  Unlike elsewhere in the world, me daughters held social, political, and spiritual sway as queens, entrepreneurs, and abbesses. Me saintly sons gave up their greatest earthly love—the love of their mother country and people—to take God’s Light and Word into the barbarous blackness beyond me surroundin’ waters. Evidence o’ their travels as far away as Iceland and the Americas exists to this day. Just take a gander at St. Brendan and the Milesians in the back o’ this book if ye’ve a notion to see their wonderful accounts. Blessed so, how on God’s green earth could I not turn out more missionaries for Christ than any other nation in time? Shame on the soul who takes such a gift as the gospel and doesn’t use it to the glory of Him who gave it.

  Yet, for all their best intentions and piety, me children were still troubled by temptation. They took the bounty for granted, no different than God’s chosen in Scripture. If something went awry, like spoilt prodigals, they blamed God for their failin’ faith, not themselves. Greed for power and wealth turned clan against clan and, sad to say, clergy against clergy at times. Such, ye see, is the power of worldly corruption. Aye, me children have their faith, thanks to the fifth-century saints, but hanging on to it will require all their courage and stubbornness, heart and spirit. Thankfully among the Irish there’s no lack of such virtues.

  So against this illustrious settin’ I give ye me second Gleannmara story, that of Kieran, the great-great-grandson of Queen Maire and King Rowan, whose faith has fallen more on his sword than his God, and of the gentle Riona O’Cuillin of Dromin, the lady he’s sworn a blood oath to protect.

  So, I pray ye, sit back and savor each word as a tempting morsel of a grand feast for yer heart, yer mind, and yer soul.

  May the good Lord take a likin’ to ye.

  ONE

  570s Dalraidi Scotia Minor frontier, early spring …

  The mist over the loch was so thick a body could walk on it. It permeated the tunics and cloaks of the warriors on the bloodied banks at the lake’s edge. Kieran of Gleannmara walked among the wounded and slain, his lean, muscled legs as heavy as those of the dead. It was wrong, all wrong, he thought, turning over this body and that, numbly searching their features, now waxed in the horror of their demise. What the devil had happened?

  Their early morning raid took the enemy by surprise and routed the marauding pirates from their stronghold on the bank. Bold when striking a helpless trading vessel, the cowardly brigands had scattered like smoke in the wind in the face of Kieran’s forces. They’d either taken to the water in whatever would float or disappeared into the thick air at the Dalraidi’s charge. At least that’s what was thought. The main of the Dalraidi forces, among them Kieran’s mercenary warriors from Gleannmara, had turned to looting. The more for King Aidan, the more for them.

  It wasn’t the loot that attracted Kieran, a young lord from Erin’s tuath by the Wicklows. It was the adventure, the prospect of putting the long years of training in warfare to use. For all the heath fruit of Brigh Leithe could not make enough beer to induce the euphoria of plunging into combat, weapon to shield, blade to flesh, and—if need be—brutish hand to brutish hand. The greatest challenge at home was an occasional cattle raid or petty clan squabble and scholastic pursuit. Aye, it was good exercise for the mind, and Kieran of Gleannmara’s fine, muscled body and keen battle senses demanded testing.

  Young, hot-blooded, and eager to put their training to practice, Kieran and his chiefs had left with the high king’s blessing to join King Aidan of the Dalraidi Scots on his campaigns against pirates who had been harassing his fleet and the trade routes along the coastal waters. The restless young warriors from the various clan lands of Gleannmara had rallied enthusiastically to Kieran’s call for volunteers to help their scottish cousins establish their domain across the sea.

  Mayhap a year later Kieran hoped to return, richer and wiser, yet on this day, and at this hour, he would give his share of the sacks and carts filled with booty to see his men—men he’d grown up with, attended school with, and learned to fight with—rise up from their still-blooded sleep. What in the name of Gleannmara’s useless God had gone wrong? What had happened to the rear guard?

  The sight of the well-armed and fresh enemy pouring down from the same craggy hill that Kieran and his men had just descended had taken Kieran and his men off balance. Only sheer will and raw courage helped them prevail. Countless bodies later, the enemy was routed for the second time and chased down until none lived in the godless mingle of lethal rock and bog that nestled the loch.

  Kieran climbed the rocky rise, his limbs burning from exhaustion, only faintly aware of the fresh streamlets of blood the effort opened on his cut and bruised flesh. Faith, he felt colder than the dead surrounding him.<
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  Kieran adjusted his cloak, securing it with a jeweled gold brooch worthy of his kingly station. All Gleannmara’s royalty had worn it proudly. Its precious stones represented the union of Gleannmara’s founding clans, placed in reverence around a silver inlaid Chi-Roh. As he fastened it, Kieran’s staggered thoughts turned from instinct to reason. If the rear guard had failed and let the enemy regroup behind them, then—

  “Kieran, God’s mercy, hurry!”

  At the top of the rise, Bran O’Cuillin—bard, would-be priest, and friend—waved at Kieran frantically. The young king’s heart seized, run through by a terrible dread as logic came to conclusion. The rear guard was no more. And if that was so, then the O’Cuillins of Dromin, the clan who had raised Gleannmara’s prince in fosterage and trained him under its champion, Murtagh, had been defeated. The image of his foster brother, the late Murtagh’s son, flashed before him. Heber!

  Kieran broke into a run, dodging and leaping over the bodies that lay in his path.

  “It’s Heber,” Bran sobbed, confirming Kieran’s worst fear.

  Kieran mouthed the name and ran even harder after his foster brother’s cousin. Heber was not Kieran’s brother by blood. By law, Dromin’s O’Cuillins were part of tuatha Gleannmara and owed allegiance to Kieran. But Heber was more than chief of a subkingdom. He was Kieran’s anmchara, his soul mate. They shared life and all their secrets, their dreams. Heber’s breath was Kieran’s and vice versa since the day Kieran arrived at Dromin to be tutored in the art of war.