She touched him again, stroking his puckered brow full of intensity and savage anger. “Dægan, you need to drink. Your body begs for water.”
She reached behind her and dipped a wooden ladle into the barrel of herbal water, readying herself to take on her combative husband. She then slowly tucked her arm under his head and lifted it slightly enough so as to pour the water between his parted lips, but it only spilled as he protested it. She readjusted his head and tried again, coaxing him to swallow as she poured, but the liquid sought more of his neck than his open throat.
Desperately, an idea came to her. She drank the water herself, keeping it within her mouth, and stroked him gently so as to near him. When he seemed to settle, she parted his lips with her finger and bent down to cover his mouth with hers. Like she had hoped, he didn’t fight the closeness. In fact, a sound of pleasure hummed from him as she let the drink gradually flow across his tongue and down his throat. His hands unclenched and he instinctively swallowed. Again, and again, she drank and took his lips, successfully giving him the fluids he needed.
“M’lady,” Tait interrupted as he drew the drapes of the carriage aside. He almost closed them back in thinking he had yet again barged in on his chieftain’s private affairs, but in seeing that Dægan lay lifeless, unmoved by the woman’s intimate kiss, he stared at her. “What are you doing?”
“Help me, Tait! Dægan’s fever rages and he is talking out of his mind. The only way he will drink is from my lips to his!”
Tait thought a moment and a pleasing smile embellished his face. “Interesting…Have you got enough in him?”
“Not enough to matter, I am afraid.”
Dægan suddenly tensed and blurted out, “Taka þú hvat þín hug fýsa ok brenna þú allan til aurum! Foera mér, mín broðúr!”
Tait raised a single peculiar brow at the familiar yet long-lost words of his Norse language, knowing at that moment, Dægan was quickly losing his grip on reality. He steered his horse closer to the opening of the carriage and reached in, feeling Dægan’s forehead. “Odin’s blood! He is on fire!” A thought rushed him, and his eyes widened with hope. “The river! We can submerge him and mayhap that will shock the fever from him.”
****
Piles of chain mail, armor, swords, kirtles, and helmets, all lay in the grass at the shoreline of the Shannon, as Tait and five other dedicated hirdmen stood at the edge, looking down at the cold river water. There were three men on each side, half brooding and fully naked, holding the makeshift gurney of oak limbs and embroidered velvet on which their chieftain lay. They all seemed hesitant, not quite ready to take the plunge, while Dægan still lay in oblivious sleep.
With Tait at one side, in the middle, he sighed and looked at the man to his left. “He is not going to like this, Gunnar. There will be a fight, you know.”
Gunnar studied Dægan’s injured body. “Aye, but he is right-handed. And you are on his left.”
Gunnar’s insight caught Tait slightly off guard as he realized he was surely the only one within striking distance.
“There is a brighter side, though,” Gunnar added.
“And what would that be?”
“If Dægan gets a hold of you, I would wager he’d sink like a stone if we let go, given he is tied like a mule deer to this contrived bed.”
Tait eyed the man sharply. “If Dægan gets a hold of me…you can be sure I will tell him who came up with that idea.”
****
Mara sat amid the forest cover, whilst the other men, Irish and Northman alike, lay like fallen autumn leaves dispersed on the ground, most already asleep with fatigue. She however, couldn’t sleep. Her mind was far too heavy with worry. And the length of time it was taking for Tait to return from the river was not helping matters.
“Is everything all right?”
Mara looked up, dazed and distant. “Aye,” she said as if more habitual, than true.
Breandán sat beside her. “You lie pitifully.”
“So I have been told.”
Breandán tried again, this time heading straight for the heart. “I know you love Dægan and you fear for him. But he is going to be all right. He is a strong man—stubborn, moreover.”
Mara happened to smile with that, remembering the show of mulish jealousy that Dægan had emitted on her behalf.
“I only hope I served you well.”
Mara looked into Breandán’s blue-green eyes, noticing the immense sincerity in them. “Of course you did.”
“What I mean is, I hope you know I did it not solely for the reward and the recognition. I did it—”
“I know,” Mara interrupted. “I know why. And I hope you know your kindness and bravery will never be forgotten in my heart.”
Breandán simply smiled. “That means a great deal to me.”
They held each other’s gazes for a long time until Mara ultimately cleared her throat. “So, what will you do first as a noble clansman?”
“What I have always done. Hunt. I know it seems odd, but ‘tis what I love to do. ‘Tis all I know how to do.”
“Why not come with us?” Mara suggested.
Breandán smiled appreciatively, but knew well that he was the last person Dægan would want to see. “Thank you, but this is as far as I go. My place is here. Besides, I have cattle to look after now.” He followed his heart and took her hand in his, albeit a small gesture to which his mind screamed in opposition. “I pray the rest of your journey is safe. And hopefully, I shall see you again one day.” He lifted her hand tenderly and kissed her knuckles, saying, “I will never forget you, Mara. Never.”
****
Mara watched Breandán walk away, watched him disappear into the forest like the elusive trapper he was. And only then did she catch sight of Tait. Her heart skipped in her chest and she jumped to her feet, running to meet him.
As she neared him, she saw that his left eye appeared red and slightly purple, the makings of an intense shiner.
“I see Dægan has not lost all of his strength,” Mara said, trying not to laugh.
“Ah, you are a funny little one.” Tait retorted, biting his tongue. “Dægan is asking for you and he says he wants water. But not from a wooden ladle.” Tait fashioned a boorish grin on her behalf. “He insists you use your lips again.”
Mara’s eye’s widened. “I did that not as a means of stealing pleasure for myself, Tait!”
“I told him nothing. I am only informing you what he sent me to say.”
“Then he remembers?”
Tait rolled his eyes. “He is a man.”
****
“What is this I hear…you thirst for water?” Mara whispered as she climbed back into the carriage beside her husband.
The corner of Dægan’s mouth lifted in a smile, but he did nothing else in response. She touched his face, his neck, and then his arms. “The river did you good. Your fever has left you.”
Dægan raised a single brow high enough to open his lid. “You knew about this?”
“I am sorry, m’lord. But your fever was madly climbing. We were only trying to save you.”
“By drowning me in a river?”
“Aye, if that is what it takes,” Mara jested with him. “Just as it takes a kiss to make a man drink on occasion.”
“Hmm,” he moaned in delight. “I just might refuse to drink any other way from now on.”
Mara smiled and took his hand, weaving her fingers between his, before resting her head in the pocket of his right shoulder. She pulled the blankets up to his chin and said, “Sleep. We will be home tomorrow.”
****
Tomorrow came and by that afternoon, Dægan, Mara, and all of his men were loaded on the sixteen ships harbored in Luimneach, ready to make sail for Inis Mór. The Northmen sat doubled at the oars, rowing for all they were worth, to vacate the crowded harbor and drift down river. In due course, the sea opened her arms and welcomed them into her vastly enormous waters, kissing their bearded faces with a cool mist.
They withdrew their oars, their arms and backs cramping from the hard repetitive row, happily letting the power of the wind take over for the rest of the trip at sea. The sails ballooned above them, the ropes stretched and strained, and the knots twisted tighter. The large wood mast creaked like never before and what first seemed like godly aid from the sky, soon turned against them.
A hushed panic plagued every seaman aboard, as they watched the storm blow in from the southwest. There was no time to pray to the gods, for a menacing curse had been brought down upon the entire multitude of vessels. They were trapped amid their own ships, their very lives at the sea’s disposal.
The wind and waves picked up, tossing the warships as if they were mere driftwood. Lightning flashed like fibrous fury and the sky opened up its dark, cavernous mouth, scourging them with sheets of driving rain.
Tait held fast to the sternpost as the churning water splashed in over the edge and glided swiftly over the planks of the shallow hull, seeping into every man’s boots, bags, and chests aboard the ship.
“Drop sail, men!” Tait yelled, as the wind gripped the woolen fabric and almost tore it from its mast. He looked behind him, seeing the other ships fast becoming the ocean’s prize for undue strength, a few men already losing their lives to the fish as they were thrown from their seat. “Row men! Row! Or be claimed by the sea!”
Tait looked behind him again, the sails of the other ships coming down in succession. They were fighting just as desperately for control as he was, yet the sea cared not for their helplessness. It fought back even harder, bitterly swelling and withdrawing beneath them. Tait twisted like a top, the seriousness in his eyes as plain as his grip on the steer board. “Row!”
Mara hovered over Dægan, clinging to him so as to keep him from sliding across the slick floorboards, taking the brunt of the ocean’s punishment in her face.
Tait looked down at her, his eyes as turbulent as the raging storm above him, his thick bear cloak whipping in the wind. “Hold on!”
Mara needn’t his command, for her fingers were dug deep into the dragon’s mighty breadth, anchored to the faith of the ship’s soundness. She squeezed her eyes shut and buried her face against Dægan. She prayed. She prepared for death—either by the vengeful sea or the crushing rocks of the approaching isle.
She cried. Harder now, for the ship jostled against a large wave and its prow lifted high in the air as the water pushed up from underneath. She lost her grip and was thrown against Tait’s legs, knocking him from the rudder and into the dense wood post of the stern, Dægan to follow. All three were crumpled against the ship’s hull, water pouring in around them.
Finally the sea withdrew and the ship took a nosedive, shifting the fallen men from the back to the front. Their only hope as they rolled across the hull was to grab hold of something nailed to the floor.
Mara caught hold of the mast chink in the center of the hull, as Tait and Dægan wildly skated past. Tait, being the more coherent, was able to grab one of the crossbeams and still reach out to snag his tumbling chieftain. Dægan moaned, his ribs crushing underneath him.
“Hold on, m’lord! I have you!” Tait shouted over the chaos of the wailing crew. He pulled with all his might and dragged Dægan closer to the keelson, another wave spilling in over the hull.
Dægan gasped and choked, unable to keep his head above the water until the rocking of the ship shifted the water away. He grabbed Tait’s cloak, shouting. “Forget me! Man the ship or we will all die!”
“I am not giving you up to the sea!” Tait shouted back. “Else we go together!”
Suddenly, a sharp screech from a woman’s voice sounded across the hostile gales. Tait and Dægan both jerked their heads in the direction of the cry, and to their surprise, Mara had crawled to the stern and was taking the steer board into her own hands. Once there, she reached down and grabbed a length of rope from the deplored mast’s rigging and tied herself to the sternpost.
“Come on, men! Get back to your post and row!” Mara howled above the sea. “Your chieftain needs you!”
Dægan tore his eyes from Mara and glared at Tait. “Get these men to row!”
Tait stood up, fighting the constant splash of water and tug of the winds as he dragged Dægan across the slippery strakes toward the rudder. Like Mara, he secured Dægan to the hull with rope.
Another wave billowed over the edge and Tait fell at Mara’s feet, winded and weak. “Give me the rudder!”
“Nay!” Mara shouted back. “I am no match for the sea! You take the oars! Get the men to row! The other ships are too near us!”
Tait quickly looked out through the sleeting rain and saw that one of Havelock’s ships was coming dangerously close to colliding with theirs. He sprung toward the larboard side and heaved his way to the closest chest, taking hold of a near-breaking oar.
Waves continued to hurl at him and his waterlogged cloak yanked him aside, pulling him from his seat. He ripped the cloak from his neck and threw it overboard, his anger becoming his fuel.
“Take your oars, men! Climb this miserable ship and row with me! Now, or we will die!”
The men heard him and started their arduous crawl over the ribs and strakes of the ship’s floor, helping each man beside them as they went. Tait reached out his arm and clasp hold of a fellow seaman’s forearm, pulling him to man the oar on the opposite side.
“Come on, men! Climb!”
One by one, the men made harrowing progress toward their posts and finally white-knuckled the oars. In gaining timing and strength in numbers, the oars delved into the merciless waters, as they were made to do, and strode out a force to be reckoned with.
With jaws locked, arms extended, and backs taut in the might and strain of the row, the warrior men propelled their drakkar through the tumbling tides, settling an even score with their aquatic foe. The sea had met her match and soon each of the sixteen ships dragged keel and crested on Inis Mór’s rocky beach.
Tait looked up from his hands, still clasped tightly around the oar, and into the frightened face of Mara, who was practically lying across the steer board. He smiled as he panted, sucking in air as if it were his last available breaths on Earth.
“Well done, m’lady,” Tait said before collapsing over his oar. “Well done.”
Mara glanced over the exhausted and water-beaten men within the ship, and was as proud as she could be of their bravery and fierce retention in the face of death. If not for their collective hellish determination, the sea would have had a colossal victory this day.
****
“Dægan! Dægan where are you!” Nevan shouted amongst the wreckage of beached longships and scattered men who lay about the shore. He ran from one ship to another, through spitting rain and knee-high waves, searching the dark empty hulls for his friend.
“Dægan! Say you are here!”
Tait lifted his head above the gunwale of his longship upon hearing the king’s voice. “Over here, Nevan! Bring your strongest!”
Nevan motioned for a viable crew of Irishman to follow and when they got to the correct ship, they climbed in, finding Dægan struggling like the devil to breathe, Mara beside him.
Tait dropped to his knees and ripped open Dægan’s white tunic exposing the tightly woven wrap around his chest that seemed to cause the trouble. The water from the ocean had shrunk the linens, squeezing his ribs so tightly he was forced to take shallow breaths.
Tait seized his dagger from his belt and cut the constrictive wrap from bottom to top, releasing the pressure around Dægan’s body. His relief came quickly, but as he drew in a desperate breath, it pained him more, and he grabbed his side, rolling to favor it.
Tait jerked Dægan’s hands away and rolled him to his back. Even through the pouring rain and dark of night, Tait could not miss the spurting of blood from his chieftain’s ribs. What air wasn’t escaping his newly punctured lung, was sifting within the vital organs of his chest, crushing his own heart with every breath he took.
Tait panick
ed. “Get him out of the rain! Come on! Help me pick him up!”
Nevan and a hoard of able-bodied men swarmed the fraught chieftain and lifted him from the watery hull of the ship, carrying him to the shoreline. Tait led the way, holding firm to Dægan’s injured left side, calling out orders to the others who started to loiter in helplessness. “Bring the tents from the langskips! Cut the sails if you must! Hurry!”
Tait looked down at Dægan, his frantic face spilling the awful truth of his injury, yet he offered a little white lie. “You are going to be all right.”
Dægan groaned, each breath being more painful than the last and each thought being that of dying. He tried to talk, but Tait hushed him.
“Sh…m’lord. Use your strength to breathe.”
“Where is Mara?” Dægan whispered.
“She is right here,” Tait replied, setting him gently to the ground.
Nevan immediately removed his long cloak and handed it to Tait. “Here. Cover him with this.”
With one hand holding pressure to Dægan’s open wound, he draped the thick cape over himself and his chieftain’s face, forming a small refuge from the rain until the others could dismantle the ship and mount a shelter of heavy pine and raw wool.
Mara slid beneath it too, covering Dægan’s shivering body with dry blankets she’d gathered from a warrior’s chest aboard the abandoned ship. “I am right here, Dægan. I am right here.”
Dægan labored to give her a smile and grabbed her hand, fighting through the pain of breathing. He closed his eyes in hopes his lids would keep secret his agony, but neither Mara nor Tait was that naïve.
Tait nervously checked the wound, finding his hand to be thickly covered with blood. The rain dumped upon them now. He cursed and tried to rub heat into Dægan’s arms. “Come on!” he cried forcefully at the men who’d only just started to erect the crude structure above them. “I need a fire! Someone build a fire!”
Tait’s voice, no matter how stern and dynamic it sounded, began to crack and quiver under the weight and burden of watching Dægan’s struggle. He cursed again, this time at Dægan whose eyes had closed.
The Emerald Isle Trilogy Boxed Set Page 34