Patrick stretched and opened his eyes. “You’re awake.” His sleepy gaze moved from her face to where the blanket fell over her breasts. “I’m glad.”
Charlie gasped when he rolled over her, then she let out a soft moan.
The gathering at Jerrick’s ranch was well attended. Mrs. Delworth helped Charlie invite several families who lived near the bachelor. From her seat on the porch, Charlie watched as women watched Jerrick from under their lashes as he carried a bucket of water from the well to fill a small trough for horses.
In total about twenty people gathered for a large meal of roasted pig, mashed potatoes, fresh vegetables, and assorted pies and breads.
One man played a fiddle while another joined him with a guitar, giving the get-together a festive air. Everyone fed, most lingered chatting and relaxing under shade trees while the younger children played, no longer shy as when they’d first arrived.
“Thank you for this,” Jerrick neared and smiled at her. He lowered to sit on the steps near her and looked across the way. “It’s nice to get to know my neighbors.”
“I’m glad for it. I’ve met people I didn’t know as well. Everyone is having a good time.” Charlie tapped her foot in time to the music as she watched Patrick stroll past with a man, both deep in conversation. “I think Patrick is enjoying getting to know people too.”
“Yep.” A young woman walked past and blushed prettily when Jerrick tipped his hat at her.
“It won’t be long before you find a suitable wife, I’m willing to bet,” Charlie told him and chuckled when he shook his head. “Don’t give me that. The young girls are competing for your attention today.”
He got to his feet and hurried away in the direction Patrick went. Charlie laughed.
“Why, you’re in good spirits,” Mrs. Delworth walked out from the house and sat in a chair next to hers.
“Oh, I am,” Charlie told her with a bright smile. “I’m so very happy, Mrs. Delworth. I can hardly stand it.”
In the distance she could spot her lands, the cattle grazing lazily on the plush pastures. “How can I not be? I have everything a woman could ask for.”
“I agree,” Mrs. Delworth said and motioned for a child to come near. “Run over there and get me a piece of berry pie, Jimmy.” The boy scampered off and Mrs. Delworth turned to the open door. “Louisa! Can you bring me the cup of tea I left on the table there?”
She settled back with a satisfied look on her face. “Now, Charlie. When do you plan to tell your husband you’re in the family way?”
“What?” Charlie sat upright her mouth falling open. “Why would you think I am?”
“You had to rush out here from the kitchen. Turned a horrible shade of green. I figured since you are nauseous…” She was interrupted by the arrival of a slice of pie and her tea.
Charlie considered that it had been several weeks since planning the get-together and before that she’d not had her monthly flow. “Oh my goodness.” She placed her hand on her stomach and swallowed. “I think you may be right, Mrs. Delworth.”
“Of course, I am,” the older woman said between bites. “This is a delicious pie. Almost as good as mine.”
Charlie stood and went to find Patrick. From beside a tree, his gaze met hers and he rushed to her. “Are you all right? You look pale.”
“I am fine. As a matter-of-fact, I’m more than well.” She beamed up at him and took his hand. “I think we’re going to be parents.”
Patrick let out a loud hoot and wrapped his arms around her swinging her in a circle while she giggled and attempted to protest.
Children came running, jumping up and down, then circling them pointing and laughing when Patrick kissed her.
Breathless and content, Charlie allowed the wonder of the moment to fill her and she lay her head on her husband’s chest.
She’d made the best choice ever when saying yes to Patrick Callahan.
Chapter Seventeen
Jerrick opened the letter Mrs. Delworth had brought to him from town. He didn’t recognize the handwriting, but the name on the return address made him hurry to tear it open.
Although he’d wanted to read it while everyone was there, he preferred to wait until alone.
The words floated off the page and his lips curved.
Dearest Jerrick,
I write in hopes you have not forgotten me. I remained longer than expected and although I do enjoy helping my sister with the children, every day that passes, I miss you more.
In a week I will depart to return. I cannot wait to see everyone and especially you.
In hopes you have not forgotten me, I look forward to seeing you and your new home.
Warmest Regards,
Mary Ellen
He sat back and let out a long sigh before looking around the room. He’d best finish cleaning it up and making the needed furnishings because as soon as Mary Ellen returned, he’d never let her leave again.
The End
About the Author
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The Taking of Ireland
Anna Markland
For my great, great grandmother,
Susanna Moore,
who left Ireland in 1840,
never to return.
Foreword
Dear Reader,
My story was initially inspired by the Lebor Gabála Érenn (The Book of the Taking of Ireland), a collection of poems and prose narratives that purports to be a history of Ireland and the Irish people from the creation of the world to the Middle Ages.
The earliest version was compiled in the 11th century (probably by Christian monks) and tells of Ireland being settled (or taken) six times by six groups of people.
My story centers on the last two groups, the Tuatha Dè Danann, who in the Lebor represent Ireland’s pagan gods, and the Milesians who sailed from Galicia and represent the Irish people, the Gaels.
Most scholars regard the Lebor as myth rather than history, and it was perhaps an attempt to reconcile native Irish myth with the Christian view of history.
I often base my plots on actual historical events, but this tale didn’t provide such a framework, which left my imagination free to soar into the realm of the mythical and magical. It was a scary journey into the unknown at first, but one I thoroughly enjoyed once the ideas began to flow and I got to know my characters.
Bear in mind, however, that my Tuathans and Gaelicians are figments of my imagination and are not meant to be a literal interpretation of the pseudo-historical peoples in the Lebor.
“Myth is more potent than history.
Dreams are more powerful than facts.”
~Robert Fulghum
Vengeance
Fort of Kings, Hill of Tara, Ireland in a time of myth.
Aislinn kept one hand hooked in the collar of her faithful hound as she stood in her sleeping alcove, nervously awaiting the High King’s summons. The fingers of the other hand fidgeted with the corded bronze torc around her neck. She expected the imminent arrival of the guards, yet an adder slithered into her belly when they appeared outside the doorway of the longhouse. Lop growled and bared his teeth.
Since the warriors were forbidden to enter the women’s quarters, she nodded her understanding of the captain’s silent command to accompany them—alone. Tears welled when her dog whimpered at being left behind. He was her only true protector.
The snake remained coiled as the dozen armed warriors escorted her the length of th
e ceremonial avenue and over the crest of the grassy rampart. The narrow wooden bridge spanning the ditch bowed under their weight when the giants crossed one at a time, but made hardly a sound beneath her booted feet.
Other men they encountered paid them no mind. Tuathan warriors were forbidden to exchange greetings and it wasn’t the first time she’d been escorted into King Moqorr’s presence by a small army. She supposed she should appreciate his concern, but suspected the precaution was more to make sure she stayed within the perimeter than to keep her safe.
No one in Tara would dare harm the High King’s prophetess.
She’d sent word of her latest vision, though it troubled her for reasons she couldn’t name. However, the all-seeing Moqorr would sense if she failed to reveal future events.
She swallowed the bile rising in her throat as the double planked doors creaked open and she was ushered into the Royal Enclosure. She caught a brief glimpse of Moqorr slouched on the Seat of Kings atop the raised dais before averting her eyes and falling to her knees. She bent her forehead to the cold stone floor and waited.
The hooded falcon perched on his shoulder squawked, intensifying the thudding in her ears.
“The vision, Aislinn?”
The king’s high-pitched voice never failed to grate on her nerves, but of late there’d been a different tone to it that sent shivers up her spine. She had no desire to become one of his concubines.
Mayhap she was imagining things, since it was he who had commanded she remain virgin. According to his dire warnings, surrendering her maidenhead would result in the loss of all her powers, not only the gift of sight.
She inhaled deeply and uttered the words she’d rehearsed over and over. “He will come seeking vengeance.”
Moqorr ruled the Otherworld as well as Inisfail and had named her in recognition of her gift, but it was impossible to predict his reaction when her visions foretold bad tidings. Powerful magic enabled him to veil his thoughts.
“Vengeance?” he growled, causing the falcon to protest again.
Taking it as a good omen that he hadn’t leapt from the throne in outrage, Aislinn looked up and met his glowering gaze. The vision had been clear. Her voice must carry conviction. “For the murder of his uncle.”
“Murder?” he shouted, his words echoing off the fortress’s grey walls of layered rock. “Who dares accuse me of this crime?”
Suddenly he was on his feet, towering over her. An icy wind swirled through the draughty chamber, stirring a whirlwind of eye-stinging dust that was borne up to disappear in the chimney hole in the roof. A chill raced up her spine, despite the heavy woollen cloak she wore whenever she came into Moqorr’s presence. The twisted bronze torc, symbol of his ownership, tightened around her neck.
She was one of many who had witnessed his fit of murderous rage upon hearing accusations of treachery against Nith of Gaelicia, the Iberian trader, but no one dared give voice to the truth. “I am your prophetess, my lord, not your judge. There can be no mistaking my dream. A prince will come.”
She breathed again when he slumped back onto his throne, long legs sprawled. “Why should I fear him? It’s unlikely he will survive the perilous voyage from Iberia.” He gestured to the sharp-fanged predators brought forth from the giant pillars by the craft of the stoneworkers. “Even the grinning wolves mock your dire predictions, Aislinn.”
He glared at the dozen warriors arrayed at attention against the wall, as if daring them to acknowledge his jest. None rose to the bait. They were aware of the consequences if they deviated from the stern demeanor expected of them. They stood like the monoliths erected by the ancient priests, axe in one fist, spear in the other.
She closed her eyes, reliving her vision. “The one commands hundreds. The God of the Wind will fill his sails and carry his fleet safely to the mouth of the Bhearù.”
Since Moqorr claimed to be immortal and mightier than all other gods, it occurred to her belatedly that mentioning Quebi perhaps wasn’t a good idea. “I do not yet know what will happen to him afterwards,” she lied in an effort to calm his seething anger.
The sound of long nails scouring his black beard echoed in her bones. Had he sensed the lie?
“I wish you to meet this prince as my ambassador,” he commanded with a sneer. “Bid him welcome to my land.”
Despite her efforts to keep the snake in her belly under control, it raised its venomous head and hissed.
When the High King had become aware of her gifts, she’d been taken from her parents and allowed contact with few other humans, mostly the women under his domination. Since childhood she’d lived within the double-ditched and ringed precincts of Tara.
For some reason known only to him, he was sending her into the outside world, and encouraging a meeting with a man—an ordinary human. It was a test. She had no experience of men, but the evil gleam in his ebony eyes left little doubt as to what sort of welcome she was expected to provide. There was no choice but to obey. The prospect of exploring the world beyond Tara was admittedly something she’d contemplated fleetingly as a hopeless dream. But surely he didn’t intend for her to go alone? “My god and king,” she murmured in compliance, eyes downcast.
He waved his hand as if shooing away a pesky gnat. “A company of my guards will escort you and help guide the visitor up the Bhearù. It is a hazardous river for the unwary.”
He raised his arm to his shoulder and the falcon hopped onto his wrist. It was a signal the interview was over. She touched her forehead to the cold stone. The adder coiled up and went back to sleep when he swept out of the chamber.
Legs braced against the rise and fall of his ship as it rode the choppy swell carrying them towards land, Sibrán of Coruña muttered his disappointment to his navigator. “I expected dark mountains, not a flat green plain.”
Iago shook his head. “The river cuts a broad swath here at Làrag. The mountains rise later.”
The gruff reply and the stern set of the old man’s jaw left no doubt of his hatred for this foreign land where he’d witnessed the slaughter of his chieftain and most of his comrades.
“You’ve done well to guide us back to Inisfail, in defiance of the heavy weather,” Sibrán told him.
“The gods are with us,” Iago replied, his gaze fixed on the treeless landscape beyond the low dunes. “I was spared so revenge could be ours.”
“I admit there were times during the voyage when I despaired the gods had abandoned us,” Sibrán revealed, recalling the unforgiving seas they’d encountered.
“Never,” Iago retorted. “Our cause is just, and we lost only three men during the entire journey.”
They stood side by side as the boat made headway. Sibrán’s thoughts filled with the memory of his father’s outrage upon first hearing Iago’s account of Nith’s murder. It had prompted him to dispatch one of his younger sons to seek vengeance for his brother’s death at the hands of the High King of Inisfail.
However, King Milead would never risk the life of his heir in such a venture. It pained Sibrán to acknowledge the truth of Iago’s words. They’d been fortunate to lose only three sailors—brave men swept overboard by a giant wave during a sudden squall.
As the second royal son, Sibrán had been elated at the chance to command the expedition. When his older brother ascended to the throne there would be even less reason to remain in Gaelicia. He and Millas rarely saw eye to eye. This new land of Inisfail might provide an opportunity for a man to carve out a realm of his own. It appeared only King Moqorr stood in the way.
“You say this murderous monarch claims to be immortal?” he asked.
“He uses his dark powers to prove it,” Iago confirmed. “I myself witnessed day turn to night at his command.”
It was the first hint of fear Sibrán had detected in the stalwart warrior’s voice. Memories of the desperate flight from Moqorr’s fortress and the harrowing voyage home with a handful of survivors must be getting the better of the old man. “I prefer the men not hear of such thing
s,” he warned.
Iago glanced at him briefly, but made no reply, leading him to suspect the crew had already been told the tale.
Sibrán looked back, but there was no sign of the other ships in the fleet, scattered by storms in the course of the long journey. He prayed the gods wouldn’t require further sacrifice of his men.
A decision had to be made. “We will wait in yonder bay for two days, then proceed upriver. I leave it to you to decide on the best place for us to come ashore.”
His navigator scanned the shoreline, then pointed to a lone fawn watching their approach from the dunes. “The deer is a good omen.”
He strode off to give the command to the steersman.
Sibrán watched the fawn until it wandered away and disappeared into the tall seagrass. A young deer faced many perils and wasn’t likely to survive alone. Once they made camp he’d send the huntsmen to track it. The crew had been a long while without meat and there was nothing like venison to fire a man’s blood.
Flesh and Blood
The skies remained fair, but the journey from Tara to the coast seemed endless. The Tuathan warriors who formed Aislinn’s escort provided her with food, water, and protection. They tended the donkeys loaded with the necessities for the journey. They carried her heavy litter without complaint. However, not a word passed between them. At least in Tara she was allowed to converse with the royal concubines who slept in the women’s quarters, though they never seemed to tire of competing with one another for Moqorr’s favor.
She thanked the gods for Lop’s companionship. The hound was her one friend. During the long days of waiting for the arrival of the invaders she explored the seashore with her dog. She filled her lungs with the salty tang that smelled fresher than the sometimes oppressive air in Tara, and took to walking barefoot in the dunes, enjoying the feel of warm sand trickling between her toes.
Lords of Ireland II Page 61