The Emerald Isle Trilogy Boxed Set

by Vincent, Renee

  Breandán stood and walked down the narrow aisle of the ship, taking his place beside Domaldr at the steer board.

  Mara watched Breandán whisper to him and Domaldr turned to look at her, his eyes lustful and greedy. It must have been something crude for he laughed and patted Breandán on the back.

  She wanted to cringe at the thought of what vulgarity Breandán and Domaldr had shared about her—and how men could talk so, was beyond her. But that was not important anymore. Dægan was alive! She could breathe again and it was all because of one man—a stranger, as far as she was concerned—but a man who risked everything to keep her and Dægan from harm.

  Who was this man? And why did he care enough to put his life on the line for her? Of course, he was a clansman of the Uí Bhriúin Aí, but she had never met him before in her life. And to add another log to the fire, Breandán brought a gift—something Dægan would want her to see. What could it possibly be, and why did he feel the need to hide it?

  Mara waited a few moments more, making certain she was once again an insignificant passenger. That no eyes, especially those of Domaldr’s, gazed in her direction. She lifted the corner of the woolen blanket and there at her side, was the carved wooden king’s chest that Dægan had given her.

  ****

  I am sorry my visit must come to such a short end. See you on the other side, Brother.

  Dægan jerked and pulled at his wrists that were tied to the legs of the chair. He watched in helpless agony as Domaldr raised his sword above his head and brought it down hard and swift.

  In an instant, Dægan’s eyes shot open, his hands and ankles unbound. But his head pounded unforgivably, his ribs sharply aching.

  He looked around the large room and saw the Irish king sleeping in a chair at the foot of the bed, his right shoulder and chest wrapped in blood-stained linens. Dægan shifted beneath the blankets and groaned as his many aches became more prevalent to him. “Where am I?”

  Nevan opened his eyes. “My chambers. I thought it best for you to be here.”

  Dægan tried to sit up, his ribs keeping him from doing so. He gasped and held his side. “What happened?”

  “I really know not myself. From what I have gathered, you and your men cheated death.”

  Dægan barely remembered the fire. “My men…the mead hall… did they all make it out?”

  Nevan hesitated and answered simply. “Most of them.”

  Dægan closed his eyes and hung his head. “Tell me, Nevan.”

  “It seems that Steinar came out first, holding the archers’ attentions whilst the others had a chance to escape. We burst through their flank in time to save the rest from the fire, but—there was only so much we could do against a well-organized fleet. Your men were retching and gasping for their lives, and by the time they could tell us anything, your brother and his men had already taken to their ships and left.”

  Nevan watched the change in Dægan’s face—as if it were a shock for the king to know anything about Domaldr. “That is right, Dægan. I know ‘twas your brother. Amazing that I know such a thing, since you certainly felt no need to inform me yourself. I had the pleasure of meeting him face to face,” Nevan explained resentfully, looking at his wounded shoulder. “And had I known you had a twin, I would not have been so free in giving him your wife.”

  “You gave her to him?”

  “He said he was you. He said he was Dægan and I had no reason to doubt my own eyes. Mara ran to him and he kissed her. But until he held her at sword-point, we had no reason to suspect otherwise. And even then, we all had reserve in stopping him, for he was you! We tried to shoot the horse out from under him, but as you can plainly see, he is well skilled in sabotage.”

  Dægan voice rose to match his escalating anger. “You gave her to him!”

  “I did as I was told!”

  Dægan sprang from the bed at the king like he was never injured at all. He grabbed Nevan’s tunic, jerking him to a stand and shoving him against the back wall. “I told you to guard her with your life! With your very life!”

  “I tried, Dægan! I truly did! But I could not very well kill you! There are some things that give me reserve, and slaying a man I thought was a friend is a bit unsettling for me!”

  Dægan released the king’s collar and his memory whirled about him, like slivers of time, broken and random in his mind. He tried to piece it all together, from the time he left the peaceful mead hall, to the final moment Domaldr struck him in the head. Little by little, the shattered fragments of his memory slowly came back to him, starting with the two men who burst into his longhouse, the fierce struggle, and then his awakening to Mara crying with Domaldr at the forefront of it all.

  You know what this sword is to me? This is my suffrage and I shall take it along with Connacht.

  Dægan almost fell backward in recollecting Domaldr’s words, his motive like a slap in the face. He made haste for the door.

  “Where are you going?” Nevan asked, a slight sense of pity surmounting his voice.

  “Is it not obvious? I have to save Mara!”

  “‘Tis impossible,” Nevan corrected.

  “What do you mean impossible?”

  Nevan hated being this man—the one who had to divulge the rest of the devastating truth. “Your brother made sure you could not follow him. He looted and burned everything—your homes, your ships. There is nothing left. Even your livestock have been slaughtered.”

  Dægan gripped the frame of the door with both hands for support, like he had been kicked in the groin. He squeezed his eyes shut and clenched his fists, not wanting to hear anymore. He would kill Domaldr for sure! He would make it his life’s mission to find his twin, even if it took him the rest of his life. He would find a way to get off this isle and see that his brother would pay for this. Ten fold!

  He roared like a mighty bear and bolted.

  ****

  Dægan raced on horseback to see the damage done to his home, the condition of the wood from his burned settlement. Just like on the Isle of Man years ago, he was hoping he could salvage what was left to build at least one ship—if he could just get there in time!

  He kicked the horse to run faster, his ribs painfully moving and jutting between his skin and muscles, but he suffered through it, seeing the first sight of the burnt landscape. There was smoke where buildings and homes once stood, and embers and ash beneath it all. The ground was black and desolate. No grass, no flowers, no green pastures between the rock wall perimeters, just a barren strip of what used to be his beautiful home.

  He slowed the horse to a stop and carefully dismounted, holding his side as he walked across the scorched ground. In the distance, he could see his men gathered around several bodies that lay in respectful lines. He remembered how Domaldr had spoken so dismissively of his men, those who fought with their lives to protect this beach.

  Dægan grew sick, knowing his good friends, Steinar and Vegard, were amongst the many who’d died for him. His mouth watered, his eyes pooled, and his knees gave out. He stared in silence, his anguish at a height he had never known. Tears streamed from his eyes and he fell to the dusty ground, looking at the sky above him. If not for the taste of his salty tears and ash in his mouth, he would swear by the color of the clear sky that he was lost amidst a cruel dream, and the gods were glad of his despair, painting their pleasure in a sea of blue amongst warm golden sunrays. He closed his eyes, for the ironic beauty above him was like listening to the gods chatter and mock him. He swore he heard them, their joyous glee in rolling echoes.

  But he heard a voice. A low voice, calling him by name. At first he thought it taunted him, but then it drifted into a sweet whisper.

  Mara?

  He tried to call her name, to look around for her, but she didn’t come. Just her voice saying, You are but a lost sheep…wandering alone in the night, and He, as the Shepherd, will search for you until he finds you because he knows of the wolves on your heels. But never does He laugh at you. Never….

&nb
sp; “What do I do? What does He want me to do?”

  “Dægan.” Tait’s voice filtered in. “Dægan, wake up. Are you all right? You fell from your horse.”

  Dægan opened his eyes and the sun burst through. He tried to sit but his ribs pained him fiercely. He grabbed his side and searched the desolation for his wife. “Mara?”

  Tait shook his head. “Did Nevan not tell you?”

  “I heard her. She is here, Tait. She talked to me. She is still here.”

  “Nay, Dægan.”

  “I heard her!”

  “By the gods, you must have hit your head again, Dægan, because I assure you, she is not here. I saw her with my own eyes. Domaldr dragged her to his ship. I tried to swim to her, everyone did, but without our ships…”

  Dægan slumped in his misery, reliving every terrible moment over and over again. His wife gone, his men wounded and some dead, his home burned to the ground, and his longships destroyed.

  “What do we do now?” Tait asked.

  Dægan looked at his friend and somewhere amid his pointless grief he found a straggling gleam of hope. “Take me to the church on the hill.”

  ****

  “Of all the things that need be done, you want to do this?” Tait asked Dægan as he stood at the doorway of the small stone church.

  Dægan nodded silently.

  “You must have really hit your head hard, Dægan. The gods possess powers beyond our understanding, but I have never known one to build a langskip. I doubt this Christian one will either, for I have heard He only endows measurements for an ark.”

  “I am not here to ask for a langskip, Tait.”

  “Then why are you here?”

  “I know not that answer. The idea came to me, and so here I am.”

  “What are you expecting? The mighty hand of God to reach down from the sky and—”

  The church door opened and a monk in the common brown garb stepped forward, closing the door behind him. “I can assure you, it does not work that way.” He first eyed the Northman who spoke the nonsense, and then to the one with whom he was better acquainted. “Hello, Dægan. You have survived, I see.”

  Dægan stepped back and nervously dropped to his one knee, recognizing the monk who had married him the night before.

  “Stand up, son. We are equals in the eyes of God. Now what is it you want from me?”

  Dægan stood slowly, coddling his ribs. “I know not. When I came here, I merely thought I would be able to enter without—”

  “You want to come into God’s house?”

  Dægan swallowed hard at the crazy thought. “Aye, I do. Am I not permitted?”

  “God welcomes all—even you and your friend, but I have known what desecration your kind are capable of doing. I saw first hand that very destructive nature last night, and I will not let it happen at this place of worship.”

  Tait instantly drew his sword and charged forward, but Dægan blocked the way with his arm. “Put it away.”

  Tait spoke. “Dægan, you know we have never done such things to any church and I resent the suggestion that I am grouped with rouges like your brother!”

  “You are right. We have been judged and insulted in the same breath, but realize that in drawing your sword, you justify this man’s premature notion. Now put it away.”

  Dægan turned to face the brave cleric. “I came not to desecrate this house, nor do I wish to fight a man of the cloth to get inside. A voice told me to come here—a sweet, kind voice—that I thought was Mara’s. Perhaps, I am losing my mind…but I just…I thought….” He sighed. “I know not what I thought in coming here.” At that moment, Dægan slowly fell to his knees and hung his head in utter disappointment. “I wish I knew what God wants of me.”

  The holy man put a careful hand on Dægan’s shoulder, pitying the Northman in his humbled state. “Perhaps He just wants less of you.”

  Dægan eyed the monk completely baffled. “Less of me?”

  “Aye,” the monk said with a smile. “There was not much room for a mighty and wealthy warrior chieftain in His house…but perhaps there is now.” The priest pushed the door of the church open and walked away, leaving Tait and Dægan to themselves.

  “He is right,” Dægan muttered from all fours. “I was too proud to walk through this door.”

  “What?” Tait asked, pulling Dægan to his feet. “Are you listening to yourself? You have gone mad! You have lost all sense of reality! Mara is not going to magically appear because you crawl on your hands and knees to this Christian God! Do not lower yourself to this, Dægan! You are greater than that! You are Dægan, son of Rælik!”

  Dægan looked at Tait with weary eyes. “I am no one without her.”

  “You are no one with this God!”

  “And with all of our gods, too numerous to count? What am I then?”

  “You are a chieftain, Dægan.”

  Dægan shook his head. “I am lost.”

  “Fine. You are a lost chieftain, but a chieftain, nonetheless.”

  “Something tells me I should be here. It feels right. So what if I am wrong, Tait? Look around. What else do I have to lose?”

  “Your dignity.”

  Dægan scoffed. “There is nothing left of it either. Look at me! I am the weakest I have ever been!”

  Tait boldly stepped between Dægan and the church door. “Nothing is going to happen, you know this. You can walk in and out of this church a thousand times over and your home will still be in ashes!”

  “I am not asking you to come in with me.”

  Tait sighed and threw his head. “Do what you have to do, m’lord. Find what you think you need! But whilst you are in there, see if you can find Dægan. His people need him!”

  Dægan watched Tait walk away, his sword taking the brunt of his anger as he sheathed it. He knew exactly where his friend stood on the matter and by all accounts, it ran a bit deeper than just disappointment. But he had to do this, despite Tait’s well-founded objection.

  He slowly entered the church. It was quiet, dark, and peaceful. There was a table at the altar just like his place of worship in Hladir. There were wooden benches in straight rows, a large wooden cross with the familiar crucified carving, a few lit torches on the stone walls, and a single small window just below the east steeple. The air inside smelled of old wood and spiced incense, a scent he quickly grew to like as he took a seat in one of the neatly rowed pews.

  Dægan closed his eyes and listened. The silence was consuming and yet unnatural, as if he wasn’t alone. You are but a lost sheep….

  Dægan wanted to smile at hearing her voice so clearly in his head, but at the same time it made him utterly aware of the reason he was here all alone in an empty church, waiting for a miracle. Waiting for something.

  Aye, a miracle.

  As miracles go, it was probably a wonder he was even able to keep Mara for as long as he had. If it wasn’t the Irish themselves, or Rutland who aimed to keep them apart, his own twin was adding his hand in the treachery. His own flesh and blood!

  Dægan held his head, feeling the hammering pulse of his heartbeat in his temples so strongly that he thought he could no doubt hear it as well. Somehow, he seemed to prefer the quiet to the rhythmic beat of his heart, for it proved cruelly that he was still very much alive in this nightmare.

  Dægan groaned and leaned forward, resting his head on the bench in front of him. “I need my wife back,” he said in a whisper. “Help me get her back. Please. I know I am not a good man and I do not deserve her. But right now she needs me, for I know what my brother is capable of doing. I know he will hurt her. I know he will. Maybe I am not the man you intended her to be with. I can accept that. Strangely enough, I can even understand it. I am a wretched man. I have killed many men in my past, and truthfully, I will kill more to make my brother pay. But I will do anything to get her back. I will gladly trade my life for hers if that is what you want. I will lay down my life for her. Please, let no harm come to her! Please, please help me…”<
br />
  His whispers echoed around him, and settled in another deep silence. If he had felt a presence before, he surely did not feel it now as his words seemed to fall in vain. He wiped the trace of tears left on his face, almost embarrassed he had given them up so easily to an empty room of ordinary appeal.

  It was in that painfully silent moment that Dægan could hear the scornful words of Tait saying, “I told you so.” Tait would throw them like stones, not only in judgment, but also in hopes of knocking some sense into him. This was Tait, a man of obedience, but not without an impetuous tongue in the trade.

  Dægan stood to face the inevitable mockery head on, still struggling with the simple task of standing from the pain of his ribs. He shuffled to the door and opened it, enduring the sharp, brutal sun beaming in his eyes, as if it were another well-deserved punishment. He squinted, holding his arm to his brow as he exited the church.

  Tait rode his horse in front of Dægan, blocking the intensity of the sun with his back. “So what did the Almighty have to say?”

  Dægan ignored Tait’s sarcasm and mounted behind him, an effort that left him breathless. “Take me home,” he gasped. “My men need me.”

  “Ah, I see you found Dægan in there,” Tait said without compassion. “So was I right? Was the answer to your prayers like that of a sigh on a blustery day?”

  Dægan kept to his cold resolve and didn’t answer.