Maire

by Linda Windsor

  Tara: Essentially the capital of early Ireland in its Golden Age, beginning as the burial place of Tea-Mur, first queen of the Milesian’s ruler Eremon and daughter of one of the kings of Spain. It was said that from Tara’s hill, all five provinces of Erin could be seen on a clear day, and it was at Tara that the Five Roads of Erin converged. Not only was it the seat of the High Kings of Erin, but boasted seven duns, each with multiple buildings of wood and stone.

  Here kings, druids of all manner—from doctors to lawmakers to poets and historians—heroes, and Erin’s loveliest ladies gathered in a glory not seen since. Most well known was its banqueting hall, attached to the high king’s dun. The hall housed a thousand warriors. Each of Erin’s province kings had their own lodges and buildings for various purposes of administration and hospitality. Today’s archeology testifies that the songs and legends of its splendor were not exaggerated.

  torque: a neck band, often made of gold or silver; many times took the place of a crown for a king or queen; its degree of elegance often indicated rank in society.

  tuath: a kingdom; a land

  tuatha: a people

  Tuatha De Dana: These were a learned race who were thought to come from the north. Because of their extensive knowledge of astrology, medicine, and the science of the time, they were thought by the common man to be gods. They reigned supreme in Ireland until the coming of the Milesians and the Iron Age. Upon their defeat in a battle where their druids matched wits and magic with the Milesian druids, it was thought that they shape-changed into spirits or faeries and went to live in the hills. More likely, they lived in caves in the hills and continued to study nature, the stars, and the elements. However, folklore has them becoming the Sidhe—faerie people.

  Uí Niall: formal for of the clan Niall, as opposed to the familiar Niall, meaning the same thing

  vallum: area within a rath or circular fortification, usually an inner and outer vallums divided by an inner fosse, or ditch, and enclosed by an outer one

  White Martyrs (White Saints): Peculiar to Ireland were the saints who did not have to shed their blood or die the horrible death of a martyr for their faith. These were a Pentecostal, fire-hearted lot, who sought to spread the Word with love and humility, rather than with force.

  Their willin’ness to allow me children to keep all familiar and precious customs and laws which did not conflict with Scripture added to the druidic legends and prophesies regarding Christ. And the end of the druidic order as it was known, paved the way for the fervent embrace of Christianity. Taking pagan holidays and rededicating all the glory and honor to God, rather than its former god or purpose, was yet another way in which they won the heart and souls of Erin’s children.

  These were a feisty lot, a combination of saint and warrior for Christ. They made mistakes in their zeal, just like ordinary folks, but their love for the truth in the gospel always brought them back in line with Christ’s teachings. I’m proud to boast that Erin produced more missionaries than any other country in time.

  And while I’m gettin’ full of meself, I might as well add that it’s my children what preserved civilization and all its records, while the barbarians did their barbarian best to destroy it during the Dark Ages. ’Twas to Erin in that Golden Age of Knowledge and the Book of Kells that the nobility of continental Europe sent their children for education. Why, ’tis the subject of the whole book, How the Irish Saved Civilization by Thomas Cahill!

  BIBLIOGRAPHY

  ’Twas the followin’ books that spawned me story of the comin’ of Christianity to Ireland and to my dearest Maire of Gleannmara. So if your appetite has just been whetted by all these interestin’ facts and lore, take a gander at the following titles.

  Bonwick, James. Irish Druids and Old Irish Religions. New York: Barnes and Noble Books, 1986. If this were any more fascinatin’, I couldn’t stand it! Certainly an eye opener regarding the druids of Ireland in particular. Many of these fellas got a bad rap, take Camelot’s Mordred, for instance, but that’s a whole ’nuther story, ’nuther place, ’nuther time.

  Cahill, Thomas. How the Irish Saved Civilization, the Untold Story of Ireland’s Heroic Role from the Fall of Rome to the Rise of Medieval Europe. New York: Doubleday, 1995. An interestin’ peek at just what the world owes me children, preservin’ light and knowledge in a darkening world.

  Curtis, Edmund. A History of Ireland. New York: Routledge, 1996. Full of historical information in a scholarly presentation, comprehensive.

  Cusack, Mary Frances. An Illustrated History of Ireland from 400 to 1800. London: Bracken Books, 1995. Sigh. ’Tis hard to pick a favorite out of so many fine books, but this has to be among the best, written in an academic approach, but with true bardic flair.

  Daley, Mary Dowling. Traditional Irish Laws. San Francisco: Chronicle Books, 1998. A delightful peek into me past with the entertainin’ and informative Celtic law before Patrick got his saintly hands on ’em, also referred to as the Brehon Law.

  Laing, Lloyd and Jennifer. Celtic Britain and Ireland: The Myth of the Dark Ages. New York: Barnes and Noble Books/St. Martin’s Press, 1997. Ye’ll never confuse non-Roman with uncivilized again.

  Lea, Henry C. Superstition and Force: Torture, Ordeal, and Trial by Combat in Medieval Law. New York: Barnes and Noble, 1996. What can I say? After witnessin’ such as this, I can’t help but think that some of the folks in these pages just missed the whole point of the faith they professed, and sadly, it’s still bein’ missed today by some of our most pious o’ professin’ saints.

  Macalister, R.A.S. Ancient Ireland, A Study in the Lessons of Archaeology and History. New York: Benjamin Blom, Inc., 1972. An arrestin’ plethora of early Irish information, quite scholarly in its presentation, combining the knowledge from historical record and that confirmed by archeological digs.

  MacManus, Seamus. The Story of the Irish Race. Greenwich, Connecticut: The Devin Adair Co., 1971. Ach, what soul with Celtic blood flowin’ through his veins couldn’t fall in love with this rendition of me children’s story? ’Twill tickle the funny bone, move yer heart, and light yer fancy.

  Mac Niocaill, Gearoíd. Ireland Before the Vikings. Dublin: Gill and Macmillan, 1972. We all need this kind of friend to keep us humble. ’Tis a bold and brash account of how things were in olden times, but I got the impression that, despite himself, this learned fella had to say some wonderful things about me and me children—all of which was true, o’ course. No lore philosophizin’ for this one, but full of spell-bindin’ facts, some flatterin’ and some, left to me, best forgotten—lessin’ ye’re writin’ some academic paper or whatnot.

  Mann, John. Murder, Magic, and Medicine. New York: Oxford University Press, 1992. Now I mentioned the Tuatha De Danaans were known as great healers, so gifted that they were considered to possess magic powers of healing. Read how some of the medicine of the past—that what didn’t kill folks, that is—is being used again by our modern medicine. Magic? Decide for yourself. Not only will ye be entertained, but enlightened as well.

  Ó Cróinín, Dáibhí. Early Medieval Ireland (400–1200). New York: Longman Group Ltd., 1995. The man takes ye there and surrounds ye with all manner of information on what it was like to live in them times. ’Tis a veritable wealth of information and fascination.

  Scherman, Katherine. The Flowering of Ireland—Saints, Scholars, and Kings. New York: Barnes and Noble Books, 1996. Another favorite! ’Twas the most inspirational of all reads to this soul, for it’s the memory of how the Pentecostal Flame kindled in the hearts of saints, scholars, and kings. Praise be, I’ve not been the same since. Come to think of it, neither has the rest of the world.

  Smith, Charles Hamilton. Ancient Costumes of Great Britain and Ireland from the Druids to the Tudors. London: Bracken Books, 1989.

  Time-Life Books. What Life Was Like among the Druids and High Kings: Celtic Ireland A.D. 400––1200. Alexandria, Virginia: Time-Life Books, 1998.

  Various Authors and Topics. “How the Irish Were Saved.” Christian Hi
story Magazine, (Issue 60, Vol. xvii, No. 4). In keeping with the story of Maire and Christianity comin’ to me green shores, this issue takes a look at Patrick behind the legend, the pains and pleasures of Celtic priests, and the culture clash of Celts versus the Romans. A keeper, to be sure!

  Faith, I’d love to list the host of other books full of riveting fact and fiction that contributed to the tellin’ of Gleannmara’s story, but I’m runnin’ out of time and space. Since this work was started, the numbers of works on Ireland and its past have doubled and tripled. Looks like the Golden Age of the Celts may not be over after all.

  May the good Lord take a likin’ to ye, dear hearts.

  DEIRDRE

  Deirdre stared boldly up from the ship’s hold at the Saxon warrior who had captured the Mell. Blood still dripping from the long, single-edged knife hanging at his lean girded waist, he eased down to one knee and peered into the hold.

  Her breath seized at the clash of their gazes, blue fire against a steel gray as hard as the sword she concealed in her robe. No doubt his heart, if he had one at all, was just as cold.

  She lifted her chin. “Will you stand there gaping like a village idiot, or will you help us out of this stink hole?”

  His surprise transformed into a smile. “By all means, milady,” he said, reaching down to help her, “do come up where my men and I might have a look at you.”

  He spoke the Latin of a scholar, not a brigand.

  “You’ve nothing to fear from me…” He hesitated upon recognizing the clerical robe Deirdre had donned to hide her identity as well as her weapon. “Sister.” Clearly, he was not convinced.

  The sword strapped to her leg hampered her progress up the ladder, but that was the least of her concerns at the moment. She felt as if the stranger looked not just into her eyes, but into her very soul. She lowered her eyes hastily but could not resist challenging his shallow reassurance.

  “Is that what you said before you slaughtered Erin’s sisters in God’s own house?”

  His cordial demeanor darkening, the Saxon growled like thunder’s own god. “Neither I, Alric of Galtstead, nor my men make war upon women anywhere.”

  As Deirdre searched her memory for either the name or the place, he tilted her face so that she could not avoid his penetrating look. “Women are for far more… pleasurable activities than war.”

  A rush of heat singed Deirdre’s neck on its way to her face. How dare he! She was a princess, her bloodline traceable to the first kings of Ireland. He was nothing but a bloodthirsty swine. Deirdre raised her hand to slap Alric, but he seized her wrist just before it made contact with his gold-stubbled jaw.

  “I see your study in Christian humility has been a waste of time.”

  “No more wasteful than praying for your black soul.”

  One of the Saxon’s eyebrows shot up.

  Father Scanlan rushed to Deirdre’s defense. “My colleague is new to the order. She only wears the mean garb of our church community because—”

  “I clumsily dropped my belongings overboard,” Deirdre finished, sparing the priest further involvement in her charade.

  “Grace is sorely lacking among your more obvious charms,” her captor conceded with a chuckle. “You took to yon ladder like a fool on stilts.”

  “Better an affliction of the limb than of the mind.”

  Far from stung by her sarcasm, the oaf seemed to be enjoying it. His mercurial gaze was an unsettling study of contrasts—slow, yet quick; warm, then cool; amused, then something that made Deirdre shiver involuntarily, if such intense heat could make one shiver.

  At length, he made an announcement in his native language, banishing the heat she felt as she recognized two of his heathen words.

  “Slave market?” Deirdre’s challenge clearly took her captors aback. Her smile smacked of a satisfaction she was far from feeling. “There are some words in your sore language well-known in my country. Your reputation precedes you.”

  “It’s a shame it did not precede us on this ship.” The Saxon recovered with an unsettling gravity. “Your crew wouldn’t surrender until they’d spent their last breath.”

  “Wouldn’t you prefer death’s freedom to a life of slavery?”

  “Life offers the chance to escape from slavery, Sister. There is no escape from the grave or urn for free man or slave.”

  “There’s none for your heathen likes anywhere.” Deirdre spat out her contempt. Anger was the only mainstay left her, for her bravado bled away by the heartbeat.

  The blond giant threw back his head and laughed. “If I hope to fetch any price for you, I shall have to parade you with that tongue of yours bound securely. No man in his right mind would expose himself to its sharpness…unless he cut it out. Now there’s an idea.”

  Alric scratched his chin thoughtfully and, for one terrifying moment, his other hand moved toward the hilt of the blade at his waist. Only the faintest twitch at the corner of his mouth gave Deirdre a whit of reassurance—that and the way the sunlight cavorted in his gaze.

  She ventured a breath of relief, just a brief one, for with the likes of Alric of Galtstead, it was sure to be short lived.

  RIONA

  Now let me take you to another place and time, where the sound of the pipes haunts the mist and the land itself is so green, you can smell the very color. While the smoke of barbarian fires plunges Europe into the Dark Ages, Ireland’s Christian priests and their bardic counterparts work hand in hand to build fires of faith, preserving and spreading knowledge in their light. I give you my second Gleannmara story of Kieran, the mercenary king whose faith has fallen more on his sword than on God, and of the gentle Riona, the lady he’s sworn a blood oath to protect. So sit back and savor each word as a tempting morsel of a grand feast for the heart, mind, and soul.

  With a click of the tongue, Kieran signaled his warhorse to the race. The horse plunged ahead with a mighty leap that would have unseated any but the most skilled equestrian. This was more like it. Give him the fingers of the wind through his hair to soothe his tortured mind. Give him the command of a powerful horse that responds at the slightest pressure of his knees over the hopes that a fickle God might grace him with favor. Young and naive, Kieran had given God a chance once, and for all his earnest submission and belief, he’d watched his mother and father die of the plague that made him a king at twenty. His best friend Heber’s faith rewarded him as a corpse, run through with wounds, his life’s blood soaking a foreign soil.

  Nay, Kieran swore silently, give him the sword song for victory today, not a chant of that reserved for the next life. Today was for the living. Tomorrow was for dreamers.

  Kieran and his horse were waiting by the river when Bran and his smaller steed caught up with them.

  “If you keep this up, Kieran, I’ll be looking for yet another mount before we reach Killmare,” Bran complained. “Mayhaps another friend as well.”

  “Your horse is bred to these hills, sure of foot,” Kieran said, letting Bran’s latter remark slide. His companion would not.

  “And you’re baptized in the church, though painfully short of faith.”

  Kieran rolled his eyes. “So it’s Saint Bran now, is it?”

  “Far from it, sir. But I don’t take kindly to others ridiculing Him. If you’ve no regard for the Father, then at least have regard for my right to revere Him.”

  Kieran met Bran’s solemn gaze and nodded. Guilt warmed his face. Heber had a way of making him feel the same, with regard to his faith—or lack of it. It vexed Kieran how Heber had accepted the death of his father in battle and the resulting suicide of his mother as the will of a loving God. It was beyond him.

  “You have my sincere apology, Bran, so long as you don’t start telling me how God’s my Father, too. I’ve said it before. A Father wouldn’t treat His son the way I’ve been treated.”

  “Are you better than His own Son, who also prayed to be spared an unthinkable death, yet was denied?”

  Kieran shook his head. “No, as
far as I see it, He let down His own Son, too.”

  “No, it was all part—” Bran broke off at the sharp look Kieran gave him.

  Good. Heber hadn’t been as easily dissuaded as Bran when he’d felt the urge to preach God’s goodness.

  “But if you keep on this track,” Bran continued, “you’ll make no headway with Riona.”

  Riona. Back to the second of Heber’s last wishes. Kieran exhaled a long, weary breath.

  “Riona will have no choice in the matter. I gave Heber my word as his friend in life and death.”

  “It will take more than a promise to a friend to make Riona change her mind about you. She turned you down once when she had no reason.”

  Kieran winced at the reminder. Was there anything harder to tolerate than a smug poet? The new king of Gleannmara needed to take a wife to provide heirs. Any lass in the kingdom and more would leap at the chance to become his bride, and Riona was not only the choice of his logic, but of his heart as well. No beauty before or since consumed his mind day and night. Yet he was reminded of her last words to him: I cannot give you my heart, dear brother, for it belongs to God.

  Kieran’s mouth tightened, his teeth clenched, until the tide of anger, hurt, and humiliation from the past ebbed. “Aye, then she had no reason. But now, she has no choice.”

  “LINDA WINDSOR NEVER FAILS TO DELIVER AN INSIGHTFUL, WONDERFULLY FUNNY STORY!”

  —Lori Copeland, author of The Island of Heavenly Daze

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