The Emerald Isle Trilogy Boxed Set

by Vincent, Renee

  Mara looked shockingly at Dægan. “Your life would be quite boring without him.”

  Dægan’s stern lips dissolved into a thin wiry smile. “My life would be a lot of things without him, but boring…I think not.” He turned away from her to retrieve a thin kirtle from his wooden chest for the day’s work, and without warning he removed himself of the cloth at his waist, tossing it at Mara’s head.

  She ripped it from her face. “Was that to shield my eyes from you?”

  Dægan thought long and hard about her question, twisting his mouth against his teeth. “Nay. But you may want to hide that smirk upon your face. I assure you, ‘tis even more dangerous than wandering eyes.” He kissed her one last time, locking his fingers in her hair. “I will not forget what you started this morning, my dear betrothed.”

  ****

  “I have heard Dægan calls for as many men as possible,” Rutland inquired, carrying another load of hand-hewed planks to the crew working on the knarr.

  “Aye, he does,” Hansen replied, hammering wooden dowels in the hull’s floor. He was the burly master shipbuilder of Dægan’s group, the man every young aspiring lad wanted to be fostered by in hopes of becoming as brilliant with the making of sound, swift longships.

  “Do you know for what purpose?”

  “Nay.”

  Rutland set the boards down and climbed the side of the ship to interject quickly. “Is that not odd?”

  “What is odd, is you questioning the man!” Hansen yelled back between hammerings. “He is devising a plan, as we speak, with two very capable advisors for a purpose, needless of our input. When the man sees fit to inform us, then we will all be the wiser. Even you.”

  “But—”

  Hansen hammered his last peg in the hull and stood abruptly. “Have you got some better place to be, boy?”

  “Nay.”

  “Good,” Hansen said, putting his hands to his hips.

  “But I am a free man,” Rutland reminded, matching Hansen’s stance with his own. “I see not why I should be at Dægan’s beckon call whenever he asks.”

  “Exactly, boy—because he asked you! Not by treaty or by the point of his sword aimed at your scrawny little neck, but because he simply asked. And furthermore, you would not be alive today if Dægan hadn’t taken you in after your father’s death. I would say you owe him this. Aye?”

  Rutland dropped his aggressive front, realizing that all the men on the ship stood as Hansen did on the subject, for they all huddled shoulder to shoulder. He turned and leapt from the ship.

  Hansen shook his head, watching the argumentative teenage boy gather another set of planks to be hewn, before he turned around, stiff lipped. He cast an oath under his breath and more would fall before the day was over—he was certain of that.

  Ottarr was there in his path, smiling fondly. “Rutland is a young lad who is testing the waters, a leader in the making, perhaps. He will learn loyalty soon enough.”

  “He will learn the back of my hand soon enough!” Hansen spat, pushing his friend aside. “By the gods, I better not hear his voice complain anymore today, or—”

  “Forget about him. How soon before Dægan’s knarr is finished?”

  “Judging by the crew I have? Tomorrow.”

  “Dægan needs it finished no later than sundown.”

  “Well, if you let me flog the boy, and if Eirik ever shows up, I wager I can have it finished by midday.”

  Hansen’s sarcasm splashed clearly across his face despite the obscurity of his thick facial hair, but Ottarr was not amused. “Just make certain ‘tis finished by tonight, Hansen.” He walked away, descending from the boat’s side.

  “Where is Boden? I sent him long ago to fetch the tar and rope. If I cannot caulk it, Dægan cannot sail it!”

  Ottarr waved his hand behind him as he climbed the shore, a sign he’d take care of it himself.

  ****

  “I see you have acquired a slight limp with that gash in your leg, m’lord,” Vegard commented as Dægan entered the mead hall.

  It bothered Dægan more than he let on, but he dismissed it in light of his company. “Aye, ‘tis nothing. I barely know ‘tis there.”

  Both Ottarr and Vegard had been lifelong friends of his father, Rælik. And given the nature of the close bond between them, Dægan respected their opinions to this day, often times calling upon them for advice.

  “Tell me you have good news about the knarr, Ottarr.”

  “‘Twill be finished tonight, but the tar rope must cure before we sail. Not until tomorrow will it be seaworthy.”

  Dægan sighed, for in the past few days, time and consequence had been a brutal enemy. He hoped that once he was in the familiarity of his port settlement, both would render pity among his trials. But not today it seemed. He rubbed the stress from his brow.

  “You have not a plan, do you?” Ottarr asked, pouring his chieftain a curative cup of mead.

  Dægan drank to drown his burdens. “Nay, I do not. All I know is I need men—a lot of men! There were nearly two hundred on that river, ready to fight anything in their path, Irish or Northmen alike. They want Baile Átha Cliath and they will do everything to see that nothing interferes.” Dægan eyed Vegard who was oddly quiet. “What about you? You have allies in the Orkneys and the Hebrides. How much would it take to freelance a solid group of mercenaries?”

  “More than you think, m’lord. The need for mercenaries has grown since the Danes overtook Mercia and East Anglia from the Anglo-Saxons.”

  “Then offer them what they want. I have must have an army in my backing and I need them now. I fear sooner, rather than later, Mara’s father will send word to all major ports in hopes of retrieving her with a heavy reward. I am certain he thinks highly enough of his daughter that she would be worth more to someone in the slave market than just killed outright. Regrettably, gossip spreads like the plague around here and the longer we stay, the more likely someone will take matters into their own hands.”

  “My lord,” Ottarr began regrettably. “I have already heard the talk. Both merchants and locals have begun to rattle their tongues with such gossip. There is a heavy price issued, not only for the girl’s return, but the capture of those responsible for her disappearance. For the kinsfolk, he has offered seven cumals and for the merchants, he has offered payment in straight silver—fifty-six ounces. Considering what it takes to make issues of those amounts, this father is a nobleman indeed, quite possibly a man whose wealth runs heavy in the pockets of nearby kings.”

  “Or he is the king himself,” Dægan said snidely.

  Ottarr froze. “You took a king’s daughter?”

  Dægan stood and paced fanatically. “Aye, I took a king’s daughter! But her life was in danger and I am not a man to shrink behind a rock and watch her die before my very eyes. I did what I saw fit to save her.”

  “Well, if you want to save your own life, you have no choice but to leave this port as soon as possible.”

  “I cannot do that,” Dægan articulated, recalling his vow. “I gave my word to Mara that I would take her home. I cannot go back on that now.”

  “What good is your word if you are dead?”

  Dægan actually pondered that thought. And he hated to say it, but Ottarr was right. As much as he loathed breaking a promise to Mara, he worried more that something terrible might happen to her should he stay for ignorance sake. “So I leave Luimneach. And then what?”

  “Vegard and I can send word to the north of your need for an army. ‘Twill take more than a sennight to gain them, but with Vegard’s influence, I am sure they will come as fast as the wind can carry them.”

  “If I may, Dægan,” Vegard appended. “Let us assume you will gain your army and defeat the men on the Shannon. What of the king? How will you convince him not to punish you outright?”

  Dægan slumped into his chair and almost laughed. “Sometimes, honesty goes a long way.”

  “Make not the same mistake your father made by underestimatin
g the vanity of a king,” Vegard stated sharply. “‘Tis larger than any army you lay across Connacht and words of honesty are just leaves in the wind.”

  “There shall be no more ill talk of my father. He was a man of many words, often times keeping our very brothers and sons from the battlefield. If you want a plan, old man, then know I shall walk in my father’s footsteps, offering words, a precious herd of fat cattle, and seven marks of silver to match his own reward—along with a fine barrel of mead to the good king.” Dægan lifted his cup in a brief silent toast and drank like a fiend, only to slam it down and raise a single curious brow. “If that proves unsuccessful, Vegard…then I shall double the mundr and try wine.”

  The burly man shook his head. “Jest all you want, m’lord, but you are in uncharted waters. I hope for your sake you will not forget the weight of that anchor fastened to your heart before you set sail.”

  Dægan grinned ruthlessly, recalling every weight and curve of that pretty little anchor.

  ****

  Night fell. Dægan sat in his longhouse without the company of Mara. She had gone missing and earlier, Dægan had searched through the settlement, and even nosed into the homes of strangers to find her—but without luck. He was assured by many that she would turn up safe, along with the suggestion that his best place of waiting, was in the most obvious place to which she’d return—his longhouse.

  To ease Dægan’s mind, Eirik and a few others took to the harbor, while he kept himself busy, if not sane, sharpening his dagger on a sanding stone like a monster.

  The door came open, as it did many times that night, and as his breath caught in his lungs yet again in earnest hope, he finally saw Mara step inside. She removed the hood of her cloak, feeling the heat of the hearth’s fire, but she almost wished she hadn’t, seeing the look on Dægan’s face.

  “I was beginning to worry about you. No one knew where you had gone.”

  “I am sorry. I meant not to stay away so long. I was enjoying the walk around the harbor and—”

  “You went to the harbor?”

  Mara swallowed, brushing back a straggling lock of hair from her face. “I did.”

  “Eirik told me he left you in the stables this afternoon.”

  “Did you think I would stay there all the while? Do you not know that the entire day has come and gone?”

  “Should I not be asking you that very same question?” Dægan asked, slamming the dagger to the table, now towering above her. “You are not to leave here without me! A harbor is not the safest place for a woman like yourself?”

  Mara turned defensive. “You mean a woman who resembles the likeness of a stolen Connacht princess?”

  “Nay! I mean a woman who would make some tightfisted vagrant a dandy profit in the slave trade! This is not the Shannon you used to swim in or the people that oblige your path simply because of who you are! This is Luimneach, dear love, where men venture and often times loom in the darkness to steal from their right hand and feed the left!”

  Mara stared up at him, looking deeper than his present torment. “Your troubles come not from my absence, do they? There is something greater that burdens you. Is it my father?”

  Dægan sighed, took a step back from her, and plopped into the chair behind him. “Aye. He has issued a price on my head and a reward for your return.”

  Mara sped to the future. “What are we to do now?”

  Dægan let his head fling to the back of the chair. “I know not. But we certainly cannot stay here. Make no mistake, this is a Northmen’s port and you stick out like a sore thumb. We must leave this place and not come back until my reinforcements arrive.”

  “Where will we go?”

  “The only place I know we will be safe—Inis Mór.”

  “And how soon before your reinforcements come?”

  Dægan stared at his roof, “Days…weeks most likely.” Feeling the weight of her long silence, he reached for her, cupping her hands in his and bringing them to the tenderness of a lasting kiss. He staggered on his next words. “I know you want to go home. And I gave my word that I would get you there. But realize that my promise extends to ensure your return is a safe one. As much as I hate doing this, leaving Luimneach is the most important thing I can do to keep you out of harm’s way. This port is dangerous enough without your father’s warrants, and now ‘tis twice as unsafe with that hefty sum of coinage being dangled in everyone’s face. I could care less about the price on my head, but your value over exceeds mine, making you the easier, more profitable find.” Dægan pulled her to his lap and wrapped his arms around her. “I cannot bear for anything to happen to you. I cannot.”

  Mara touched his face in woeful sympathy. “I understand.”

  He knew she would, but it was her disappointment that hovered in his mind like a black cloud, keeping him from freely relinquishing the rest of his mind. “There is something else you should know. My family on Inis Mór is expecting a wedding when I return.”

  Mara nodded, recalling those words.

  “But what you fail to understand is that where I come from, a marriage denied for any reason by the woman’s family is considered an insult. I realize in your case, lack of consent by your father is the grand dilemma you face, but I should warn you, in the past, blood vengeances have been sought for less. I am not trying to say we should marry the moment we step off the ship, but we should at least assure them of an agreed proposal. I can stall the festivities until we are able to return to Connacht and gain accord from your father once I pay the appropriate mundr to him.”

  “Faking a marriage proposal will not be as difficult as persuading my father to agree to one. But even so, I shall do what you ask of me.”

  “I will get you home to your father, Mara, and I will amend what I have ruined,” Dægan pledged as he cupped her face. “I will find a way to make this all work.”

  Mara kissed him, assuring him of her confidence.

  “You must be hungry,” he replied, knowing she had not eaten since morning.

  “A little.”

  “Then please, eat.”

  He slipped from beneath her to let her have the chair and walked to the hearth, stoking the fire in habit, and then to the door.

  “Where are you going?” Mara asked in surprise.

  “I have to find Eirik. He and the others are probably still searching for you. And then I need to inform Ottarr that we shall leave first thing in the morn. Worry not, I will not be long. Perhaps, whilst I am there, I can charm his wife into giving me one of those tarts you are fond of.”

  When that did not bring about the smile he wanted, he cocked his head and altered his words. “You are right. One tart is never enough. Two, then?”

  As if suddenly unleashed, a warm smile roamed freely across Mara’s face.

  “Ah, there ‘tis. That sweet little blessing that fills my heart with hope.”

  Chapter Eleven

  Dægan had been gone longer than the length of Mara’s meal and now she was left sipping the last of her wine in the near dark, meandering through thoughts of her father and the pain he must be suffering with her absence. She recalled his deep-set eyes, his barely-there smile, and the simple joy of hearing his voice echo within the keep, longing to hear it again in her own ears. By no stretch of the imagination was he a man of quiet voice or demeanor, for everything he did was of sound austerity. Yet with her, there was an unusual gentleness in his tone and appearance. Only she could bring that side of him to light and without much effort. She was his only child, his very pride in the flesh.

  Thinking of all these things was earning the right of her tears, but she refused to let them fall. Dægan would bring her home, he said he would, and she believed him. There was no other man she’d trust more to do the impossible. But her faith came with a price: patience. And moreover, a miracle that her father would see more than just a lowly Fionnghall in Dægan.

  She stood from the lonely table and removed the two brooches from her cloak, ridding herself of the overs
ized garment. Her tunic beneath hung loosely around her shoulders now, drooping lower at her chest. She sighed, wishing she had her own elegant linen gowns with fitted sleeves and stylish embroidered hems, not so much for the sake of nobility, but for the simple fact that she preferred the way they fit.

  With a certain longing in her heart, whet through with boredom, she paced the room with her drink in hand, barely noticing that the light from the hearth was dying. There was the soapstone lantern on the table, a solitary flame that barely lit the corners and doorways of the main room, but for her deeply shadowed thoughts, it was sufficient, matching the grim mood she seemed to be in as she waited for Dægan.

  Unexpectedly, the lantern behind her suddenly blew out and she was pushed violently to the boxbed before she could turn around. Her drink was knocked from her hand and her head was driven forcefully into the center of the boxbed by an aggressive forearm.

  A man’s body lashed into fury against hers, holding her down by her neck, and tying a gag around her mouth. She fought to keep her mouth closed, teeth clenched, but he twisted her hand behind her back, threatening to break her wrist. She shrieked in pain and the gag filled her mouth instantly.

  He spoke not a word and flipped her over, binding her wrists tightly together with a coarse rope. He lay across her, his heals digging into the raised stone hearth for leverage. She could hardly breathe, waiting for his next move.

  His voice came suddenly, deep and low so only her ears could hear. “Now, sweeting, you make a sound and I will cut you so deep your unborn children will feel it!”

  His words were barbaric and the thought sickened her. For that very reason, she remained obedient as he tore her from the bed.

  She tried not to stumble, but her legs weakened with each step. He had no patience for her feebleness and pulled her harder through the room to the back door. The outside wasn’t as dark as Dægan’s longhouse, illuminated by a bright silver moon and a sea of stars, but she still couldn’t make out her kidnapper for he had deliberately covered his head with a woolen hood.