The other concern was that he’d need some time to mourn the unforeseen death of his brother, thus putting the wedding off for a few more days. He hoped the unexpected rite of burial would not interfere with the notion of bringing a much desired treaty of peace with the Irish.
Dægan sat rigidly in his chair inside Nevan’s great hall, watching him pace the floor.
“These men that lead the council are a bit rash, I am afraid. Albeit, some are my brothers and uncles, but the majority of these men look for you to fail in your end of the truce. And this temporary delay, Dægan, would only add to it.”
“My brother is dead, Nevan. He deserves a proper burial.”
“Which I dispute not. I merely ask that you hold it after the wedding.”
Dægan rose from his seat so quickly it turned over behind him. “Some of your men are here on pilgrimages, seeking to make amends with their God, are they not? Are you telling me that these same men would not have enough respect to give the man who saved their precious Irish maiden, a proper burial because of sheer impatience? Tell me your men are more gracious than that, for I am starting to question why I even came back here.”
“You knew how they felt about you before you left,” Nevan reminded, feeling small in front of his taller comrade. “Naught has changed. They have awaited the coming of this bride with great expectation and telling them that a pagan burial will precede a Christian wedding is not the first step to proving your amity.”
“Your people wish not for amity,” Dægan retorted. “They want sovereignty—over me! But yet without me, they will never be able to keep their precious dominion. Your so-called kingdom will continue to feel the threat of constant pillaging if they choose to banish me. Is that a risk you are willing to take? Can you stand alone with sheep herders and farmers?”
“Nay, I cannot,” Nevan admitted. “But these men will never admit that.”
“Then make them.”
“‘Tis not that simple, Dægan.”
“You cannot or you will not?”
Nevan sighed. “Look around you, Dægan. These men have been here for hundreds of years, living the same life as their grandfathers, and their grandfathers before them. Change is not something they take with a grain of salt. But think not for one moment these men are not willing to fight for what they believe in. You are neither the first foreigners on our beaches, nor will you be the last. For years they have fought to keep what is theirs. And as long as you or any other fleet of pagans comes to these shores, there will be sheep herders and farmers waiting in arms. And that, my friend, will never change. So, if you think altering their minds about living harmoniously with pagans is as easy as simply proclaiming it, then you would never have needed an Irish bride in the first place, now would you?”
“I am only asking for a few days,” Dægan said. “If it were your brother, Nevan, I would not think twice about it.”
“I know you wouldn’t. And I commend your decency.”
“Then give me that right! You know my brother, under your God or his, deserves a proper burial. Give him that right!”
“Or what?” Nevan asked raising a single brow.
Dægan stepped daringly into Nevan’s space. “Or I shall assume that right for him.”
“Is that a threat, my friend?”
“Twist my words if you wish,” Dægan said sternly, “but the last thing I want to do is wield a war with you. I came here for peace. I am willing to wed for peace. But I will bury my brother first. Tell your people there shall be a wedding in three days. Not a day sooner.”
“You know you are making things very difficult for me.”
Dægan huffed and turned on his heels to give himself some distance. “You did this yourself. You chose me. You chose to ally with me over the countless other options you had. You needed me to protect this land like it was my own. And in giving me my own land, your men took offense to it. How is that my fault?”
“I am not saying ‘tis your fault,” Nevan said, slumping into the chair at the head of the table. “Nor is it your problem.”
Dægan watched the belligerence slide from Nevan’s face. He felt the scales tilt a little in his favor and to ensure success in his wagering, he pushed a little further with careful reinstatement. “Nevan, I am not going back on my word. I just need three days.”
“Go on. Do what you need to do.”
Dægan happily bowed his head to Nevan’s change of heart. “Thank you.”
“Just go before I change my mind,” Nevan said from behind a silver chalice raised to his mouth. “Three days?”
“Three days,” Dægan echoed.
“Ah, Dægan. One other thing.”
“Aye?”
“Your little Irish bride…do I know her?”
Dægan stared a long time at the king who was casually pouring another chalice of wine for himself. The thought that Nevan found a familiarity with Mara sent his mind tail spinning. He swallowed. “I do not believe so.”
Nevan turned his mouth under in thought. “Really? She looks so strangely familiar. Of course I have not been to the mainland in over a decade.”
“Had you known her ten years ago, that would have made her barely nine, Sire.”
Nevan brushed the ridiculous thought from his mind as he was soon gracing close to fifty. “You are right,” he said, pushing the full chalice of disillusioning liquid far across the table. “Perhaps I drank too much this morning.”
****
From Nevan’s mighty stone ringfort, Dægan rushed on horseback to his mother’s longhouse. The morning was still cool, but the sun glared in his eyes, adding to the misery of his next obligation. Not only would his mother have to suffer yet another loss, but he would have to shoulder the burden as the messenger.
He hoped for the sake of buying more time, she would not be there, that she would be anywhere but home. To his disappointment, the smoke streaming from the opening in the roof confirmed his mother’s presence inside. He knew cooking the meals for the day started as early as sun up, and continued throughout the afternoon, especially when there were plenty of mouths to feed. Although his mother had many servants to help with the preparations—and she was well within her rights to bid them to do so—she still assumed most of the work.
A smile surfaced as he thought of her. He missed her. Her tall build that had shrunk with time, the warm smile which gave the lines on her face a purpose, the twinkling of her silver eyes, and oddly enough, the subtle scolding he would get when he would steal a taste from her iron cooking pot; he missed it all! If not for the awful news he had to tell, he would have already stormed through the door to see her.
With a long-winded sigh, Dægan dismounted, feeling the weight of his feet as they thumped on the ground. He felt like a child, stalling to admit a mistake for fear of the inevitable punishment. His chest was tight and his throat was dry, and he hated the weakness in his legs.
Be a man.
Boldly he walked to the door and opened it. His mother, Nanna, was at the pit, just as he had imagined, stirring stewed meat and onions. Her gasp of welcomed surprise dissolved the valor he tried to fake.
“My son!” she cried. “You are home.” She threw the wooden spoon back into the pot and met him before he cleared the doorway. “When did you get here?”
“Last night whilst you slept,” Dægan said, hugging her tightly. “‘Twas too late to disturb you.”
“I wish you would have, Dægan, so I could finally meet the mother of my grandchildren.” Nanna peeked around him and then out the door. “Where is she?”
“She is not with me,” he started to explain.
“Trouble with her father? Did you not account for enough silver?”
“Nay,” Dægan said, turning to face his mother, but before he could report anymore, her eyes widened and her mouth dropped open.
“What happened to you? What have you gotten yourself into?”
“Mother, please. I am fine.”
“Have you seen yourself?”
Nanna asked, touching what was left of the dark patches under his eyes and his slightly swollen nose. “You know your nose is broken?”
“Aye, I do,” he said, jerking his face to the side to avoid another pinch at his nose. He laughed a little at her maternal fixating and walked to the fire pit to smell the cooking meat.
“You should never have gone alone. ‘Twas very foolish. Now look at you!” she criticized. “What Irish woman would want you now?”
“Worry not your pretty little head about that, Mother. Despite what horror you may see, the Irish woman is quite taken by my hardships.”
Nanna felt indifferent to her son’s lightheartedness about the bruises and broken bones. “‘Tis easy to see through a hardship that will eventually fade with time.”
“Well, then I beg you not to look at my leg.”
Her eyes flashed open wide. “What happened to your leg?”
“‘Tis not but a scratch,” he contended, smiling deeply as he looked down at her crossed arms. In grabbing her elbows he warmly greeted her. “I have missed you.”
“Do not try to change the subject, Dægan. What happened?”
“What happened, is I have been away far too long and I think I have lost a fardel or two,” he joked, patting his hungry stomach.
“Ah, you have not changed, always begging for a meal. But just a taste. ‘Twould be embarrassing for your feast to come up short on meat tonight.”
“We are feasting?”
“Aye, why not?” she said lifting the spoon to his mouth. “Careful. ’Tis hot.”
Dægan savored the meat as he chewed. “Why are we feasting?”
“Do we need a reason?”
“Nay, but usually we wait until after harvest when we have determined how many calves we cannot hay this winter. ‘Tis a bit hasty, do you not think?”
“My son is home. That is reason enough for me.”
“But you were cooking this before you knew I was even home. What was your reason then?”
Nanna thought for a while but couldn’t think past the complacent smirk on Dægan’s face. He had finally caught her in a fib and was now basking in the glory. “I had a reason. I simply cannot remember it. I am getting old you know.”
Dægan shook his head and walked aimlessly around the main room, trying to figure a good way to tell her about Eirik. But she was so happy. How could he think of ruining that?
He took a seat on the bench near the hearth and pulled at his mother’s hand. “Come, sit with me.”
“I cannot, Dægan. I have much to do.”
“Please. I really need to talk with you.”
Her eyes softened from the sound of distress in his voice. “Is everything all right?
“Nay, ‘tis not,” Dægan muttered under his breath. “I am afraid I do not have good news.”
“What is it, son?” Nanna asked, sitting beside him. She reached up to gently cradled Dægan’s jaw that was usually stiff and sturdy with confidence.
He felt guilty feeling her hands console him and pulled them down, cupping them in his own. He studied them, seeing they were bony and fragile, spotted gently with age. “I know not where to begin, Mother.”
“The last time you looked like this, we had just buried your father. What is it?”
Dægan almost choked on his breath from her morbid choice of words. “Mother,” he started again, finding it difficult to look her in the eyes. For a lack of resilience in her company, he opted for blunt as opposed to discreet. “Eirik is dead.”
His words bit like a snake, over and done with before Nanna knew what hit her. Her eyes narrowed in disbelief, then gradually widened in slow recollection, but still she questioned him anyway. “Eirik is what?”
Cautiously, Dægan spoke again, but just as straight forward. “He was killed. Eirik was stabbed in his own stable in Luimneach.”
“‘Tis not true,” Nanna protested, in hopes that Dægan was telling a cruel joke. “Tell me ‘tis not true!”
“I wish I could,” he said tightening his hold on her trembling hands. “I would do anything to not have to tell you this.”
“Why?” Nanna wheezed. “Who would want to hurt Eirik?”
Dægan watched her eyes fill with tears and spill over in lines, trailing down her aging face. “I fear to tell you the rest. It only gets worse.”
“Is Lillemor all right? Was she—”
“Nay,” Dægan reassured vigorously. “She was unharmed. But I could not leave her or Eirik in Luimneach. I brought them both here with me.”
“Then what else is there?” Nanna asked impatiently. “What could possibly be worse?”
Dægan sighed before revealing the awful details of Lillemor’s condition. “She is with child.”
Nanna’s face fell with pity. “I have a grandchild?”
“Aye.”
“Eirik is a father?”
As soon as Dægan nodded, she ripped her hand from his grip and slapped his face. “You knew this last night as you slept! How could you? How could you not tell me?”
“You needed your sleep.”
“Tell me not what I need!” Nanna shouted at him. “I will decide that!”
She stood from the bench and left his side in a hurry to escape the sudden smallness of the room. “Where were you, Dægan? Why were you not there to protect him? You know he is not but a craftsman! Where were you! How could you let this happen?” At her last outburst, Nanna grabbed her chest and fell against the middle wooden post of the room, gasping for air.
“Mother!” Dægan yelled catching her around the waist and lowering her to the matted floor. “Mother, what is happening?”
She could barely draw a breath and her arm fell numb.
“Mother, speak to me.” Unnerved by her silence he called for his mother’s servant. “Kari! Kari!”
No answer.
“By the gods, Mother, where is Kari?”
“Right here, m’lord!” The young thrall appeared from the storage room wiping her hands on her apron. To her surprise Dægan was hunched over his mother pleading with her to hold on. “M’lord, what happened?”
“Her heart is weak! Help me get her to the bed!”
Immediately the woman worked to reassemble the boxbed with stuffed mattresses and linens while Dægan picked up his mother. Nanna still clutched her chest, looking into Dægan’s eyes as he talked. She found safety there, he knew, for his eyes resembled his father’s. He knew how terribly she longed to have Rælik next to her, holding her from the gravest of life’s allotted perils. He had been good in that way, and so was Dægan, her last living son. She tried to speak, to cry out to him, but her voice was as gone as the shimmer of gold in her hair.
“Sh... Mother. I’ve got you. ‘Twill pass soon. Just breathe slowly. Sh... That’s it. That’s it, Mother.”
Dægan gently laid her on the boxbed, watching her close her eyes as the softness of the bed cradle her body. He pulled his arms out from under her and stroked the loose white hair from her face, feeling the wetness of her fallen tears. “Mother, can you hear me?”
Nanna simply nodded.
“Kari, get her some water,” Dægan said, slipping his hands back within the frail fingers of her hands and holding them snugly at her chest. “What can I do, Mother? Are you hurting? Please speak to me.”
****
But words never came, nor did she have the strength to speak them even if they had. And what would she say? What could possibly be worth saying at this point? Another son was dead and there was nothing she could do to change that. It was the will of the gods, she thought, or maybe even a curse upon her household. Either way, it was done and no amount of crying or blaming could undo it. Odin had made his choice.
Despite the silence, her heart ached and raged within her. The gods had taken her family, one by one, leaving only a son and an unborn grandchild she probably wouldn’t live to see. Silently she cursed them for the never ending nightmare she was forced to live through, day after day. In hopelessness, she finall
y succumbed to a deep sleep.
****
“Here is the water you asked for, m’lord.”
Dægan was at a loss, seeing his mother fall limp and lifeless. He spoke nothing as his thoughts whirled like the wind in his head and his throat hurt as he tried to swallow.
Kari touched the woman’s mouth with her fingers. “‘Tis all right m’lord. She is only sleeping.”
Dægan sighed with tremendous relief and held his weakened head in his hands, confining his emotions deep within his soul. He cleared his throat of the cursed lump. “Has my mother done this before?”
“Aye,” Kari said, placing the ewer on the nearest table. “But only once, m’lord.”
“Whilst I have been away, I presume.”
“Aye. She did not want anyone to fret over her.” Kari rolled her hands in her apron nervously. “I gave my word that I would not tell.”
“Then I did not hear it at all,” Dægan replied to ease her restlessness. “I am grateful for your loyalty to her. But I will need you more than ever now, Kari.”
“I will do what I can.”
“The reason my mother lays here is because I have brought news of Eirik’s death. I ask that you watch over her like you would your own mother.”
“Happily, m’lord.”
Dægan removed the ring of keys from his mother’s brooch chain and stood to present them to the trustworthy thrall. “I am putting you in charge of the servants and the household until Mother is better. I ask that you also tend to Lillemor, for she, too, is mourning, and I will not have the time to see to her needs as I would like. She is with child, and must remain that way. If Lillemor loses the babe, ‘twill certainly take my mother, too. Command the others as you see fit and send for me when Mother awakens.”
Dægan took one last look at his sleeping mother. “She may not want to see me, but send for me anyway.”
“Worry not, m’lord. Odin will keep his watchful eye upon her.”
“If you learn anything from me, Kari, ‘tis this. There are no gods. If my mother lives, ‘twill be by your hand alone.”
The Emerald Isle Trilogy Boxed Set Page 15