Deirdre

by Linda Windsor

  PRAISE FOR LINDA WINDSOR’S HISTORICAL NOVELS

  DEIRDRE

  “Linda Windsor is one of the finest inspirational historical novelists out there today. Deirdre shines on all levels: story, writing, historicity, and message.”

  LISA E. SAMSON, BESTSELLING AUTHOR OF THE CHURCH LADIES

  “Linda Windsor takes her Irish saga series to a whole new level in Deirdre. I stayed up half the night with this exciting tale of love and adventure that explores the true love between God and man as well. Not since Redeeming Love has such a tale come along!”

  COLLEEN COBLE, AUTHOR OF WHERE THE HEART LEADS

  RIONA

  “Linda Windsor deftly weaves a tapestry of Irish myth and legend with the glory of knowing Christ, creating a masterpiece of medieval fiction. Riona is more than a novel, it’s an experience—a journey to a faraway time and place where honor and faith are lived out amid the clamor of swords. a glorious read!”

  LIZ CURTIS HIGGS, BESTSELLING AUTHOR OF BAD GIRLS OF THE BIBLE

  “With a lyrical voice worthy of the Isle of Erin, Linda Windsor’s Riona is a wonderful novel, peopled with memorable characters who will lay claim to your heart. I believe I could see the green hills and feel the kiss of mist upon my cheeks with every page I read.”

  ROBIN LEE HATCHER, CHRISTY AWARD-WINNING AUTHOR OF RIBBON OF YEARS

  MAIRE

  Linda Windsor provides readers with a lush Celtic saga sure to touch their spiritual soul with a promise of love both secular and religious. Maire is a breakout book sure to find its way to many a bestseller and reader’s keeper lists, creating a whole new sub-genre where a Windsor book is going to be the classic standard to achieve.”

  ROMANCING THE CELTIC SOUL

  “Linda Windsor’s talent for creating a faraway land and time is flawless.”

  ROMANTIC TIMES MAGAZINE

  “A captivating fictional chronicle of Christianity’s dawn in Ireland. Remarkable for its appeal as both a historical saga and inspirational novel Maire achieves success that few other books can boast.”

  SUITE101.com

  “This enthralling tale reveals God’s miraculous power at work and how His love conquers all. The thrilling finale will bring chills—as well as the assurance of God’s incredible omnipresence. A definite page-turner.”

  INSPIRATIONAL ROMANCE REVIEWS

  “Maire is an exciting work of historical fiction that brings to life the Celtic heritage mindful of the great Beowulf. The current story line is exciting and fast-paced, while centering on the conflict between Christianity and Druidism. Readers will want to read this tale even as they impatiently await the sixth-century (Riona) and seventh-century (Deirdre) novels.”

  MIDWEST REVIEWER’S CHOICE

  “Ms. Windsor’s writing is creative and informative to say the least. She captures the reader with her characters’ wit and charm, keeping them enthralled until the very last word.”

  ROMANCE REVIEWS TODAY

  “An exciting fictional tale of love, faith, and war … The plot is smooth from start to finish and holds the reader enraptured, unable to put the book down.”

  BOOKBROWSER

  NOVELS BY LINDA WINDSOR

  Along Came Jones (Spring 2003)

  It Had to Be You

  Not Exactly Eden

  Hi Honey, I’m Home

  THE FIRES OF GLEANNMARA SERIES

  Maire

  Riona

  Deirdre

  Dedication

  To my friends and anmcharas: Connie Rinehart, my stalwart critic who would accept nothing but my best writing, no matter how much I complained; Sue Coleburn, my champion and a true queen of hearts; my editors Karen Ball and Julee Schwarzburg, as well as the entire Multnomah staff, all who worked as a team to make Deirdre shine on the shelves for God’s glory. May He keep you ever in the palm of His hand as I keep you in my heart.

  Dear readers,

  In an effort to maintain historical accuracy, I’ve used several terms or mentioned historical figures that may be unfamiliar to you. You will find these explained in the glossary at the end of the story.

  Speaking of the glossary, the earthy speech with which I have Erin present the foreword, the glossary, and the bibliography is not reflective of the educated Irish, either by past standards or those of today. It is intended to effect the earthy speech of an old storyteller, or seanchus, and is reminiscent of that which filtered down through my grandmother from her grandmother, an uneducated mother of eleven. This lady supported her children as a laundress, surviving three husbands. I am proud to claim her as an ancestor. Like those who fled to Ireland in the dark ages of Western Europe, she was a brave, devout, and honest soul who came to America with a dream: building a better life for her children.

  Linda Windsor

  A FOREWORD FROM ME HEART TO YOURS …

  Dear anmcharas, ’tis a sheer delight to chew the proverbial fat with ye again as I look back at yet another time dear to me heart in the annals o’ my children: the seventh century o’ me Golden Age. Ah, what days those were. Me saints looked eastward, where their British kin held fast to the cross against the flood tide o’ Anglo-Saxon heathens. Driven into the hills o’ north and west Albion (the Scotland and Wales o’ today’s Great Britain), the Christian Romano-Britons bitterly struggled to muster and reclaim their lost land for Christ by the sword …

  But no sword, no matter how worthy its cause, could unify them like the Word o’ God.

  And so it is in this tale that, armed with this holy sword, Gleannmara’s Irish and Scottish Dalraidi cousins sally forth to Albion to clear the way for the salvation of Albion’s barbarian conquerers. They take with them a message that, instead o’ takin’ the edge off their weapons, softens the hearts behind them until there is no desire for the use o’ steel or spillin’ o’ blood. Faith, the likes o’ magic and miracle bring back stirrin’ memories o’ me own fifth century, when Christ first entered the hearts o’ me dear offspring. In a wink o’ the good Lord’s eye, the Britons—most of whom were educated upon Erin or Scotia Minor’s (Scotland’s) shores—are caught up in the fight for souls.

  The biggest threat, dear hearts, came from within. Me Celtic children, separated a century and a half from Rome and the church growin’ elsewhere in the world, enjoyed a spontaneous faith unencumbered by ritual and organization. ’Twas inevitable that the Celtic church and the Roman one would clash. Mind ye, I’m not takin’ a stand for one or the other, for both have withstood the test o’ time. Sure, one man’s meal is but a morsel to another. But Rome, ascribing to their interpretation of Peter and Paul’s vision, had built cathedrals and set into place rituals and decorum appropriate to the royal promise of Christ’s heritage, while me children lived in earthly example o’ the Savior Himself and Saint John.

  Fittingly enough, the clash was settled in a prayerful and peaceful debate among these saints in the Synod of Whitby. Oddly enough, ’twas decided by a Northumbrian king, who, at least in the service of his tongue, was a Christian. Let’s just say, Oswald didn’t want to offend God, just in case He was more powerful than the pagan gods Oswald hadn’t quite dismissed. Besides, he was gettin’ on in years and startin’ to fret about what lay beyond death.

  Oswald ruled for the Roman Church after hearing one of Jesus’ metaphors—the one where Christ intimates that Peter, upon whom the church of Rome was founded, had the keys to heaven. Now, friends, this was a time when images or metaphors carried more weight in winning pagan souls than talk o’ the Spirit. Even Christ Himself used stories to reach the common multitudes. And so Oswald decided if he wanted into heaven after his death, this Peter was the man at heaven’s gate with the keys, not Saint John.

  Thus began a controversy that centuries later divided the Christian church—the conclusion o’ which I
leave to the good Lord to lay upon yer hearts, for men far more faithful and learned than meself have never satisfied all, much to the sufferin’ o’ many innocent souls.

  But I say all this to paint a picture o’ the world at the time o’ me story, and of the Irish Celtic and Roman saints who united despite their differences to save Albion’s lost souls and abolish the sellin’ of captives into slavery. This is the century o’ me darlin’ Deirdre, the strong-willed yet faithful princess of Gleannmara, and her captor, Alric, a pagan pirate prince who knows she’s the key to an earthly kingdom denied him by his illegitimate birth. But what he knows not is she is the means to an eternal kingdom as well. And the key, dear hearts? Why, ’tis love.

  May it bless ye, each and every one.

  (Oh, and don’t be forgettin’ the glossary/reference in the back for help with names and terms strange to yer tongue, as well as tidbits of interest to them with a Celtic heart.)

  PROLOGUE

  Northumbrian kingdom of Galstead in the year of our Lord 657

  Alric of Galstead drove his noble steed toward the gates of the fortress where his mother lay upon her deathbed. The horse snorted, tossing its head and sending foam splattering back. It was lathered and weary. Much as he’d like to, Alric could offer no reprieve from the hard ride that had begun the moment his ship had put into port and he’d found the dread news awaiting him.

  He had to get there. He had to speak to his mother one last time, to let her know how much she meant to him before …

  Alric shuddered, reluctant to even think of the world, much less his life, without Orlaith. His mother was like the sun, nourishing to the body, heart, and soul—a peaceful refuge from the darkness of a daily existence riddled by treachery and war. Only with her did Alric feel truly at ease. It was unfair that she be taken so soon.

  Unfair! Unfair! Each pound of his heart screamed in protest. Surely it would shatter before he reached his destination.

  Nightfall edged out the sun on the horizon behind him as Alric cleared the city gates at a full gallop. The sentries hailed their young prince, but he paid them no heed, racing by the cluster of A-framed dwellings toward the one that loomed over their roofs ahead: his father’s royal hall. Yet it was not to this hall that Alric headed after handing his panting, sweat-soaked horse to a servant, but a small cottage near it.

  The cottage was no guest house, as were the others nearby. It had been built for its beloved occupant many years ago, after the birth of the king’s son. Even though Orlaith was King Lambert’s slave, she was no ordinary servant. She’d been a princess of the Dalraidi Scots to the north, captured by their Northumbrian enemies and purchased by Lambert the moment the Saxon king laid eyes upon her. His love for Orlaith was no secret—not to his queen Ethlinda, nor to the people. Some thought the king’s eyes shone a little brighter for Alric, the Christian slave’s son, than for his elder half brother, Ricbert, the legitimate heir to Galstead.

  Bracing himself with a deep breath, Alric approached his failing mother’s side. The fever that ravaged Orlaith’s body bled her face of color even as it bled her body of strength. She was as white as the fine linens on which she lay. Her eyelids fluttered and opened, as if she sensed his presence.

  “Alric.” His mother tried to raise her hand to him, but weakness would not allow it.

  Her golden hair was only beginning to silver. Surely this can’t be happening. Alric gathered the slender hand in his own. “Mother, I came as soon as we put in.”

  Orlaith drew in a shallow breath through her nostrils. “You smell of the sea. I believe it has bewitched you.”

  “It has. But you should rest. Save your strength.”

  “God will give the strength I need to say what I must.” She turned to Abina, who’d been her handmaid at the time of their capture. Lambert bought Abina for his lovely royal captive, but the two were more like soul mates than mistress and servant. “Leave us, dear friend.”

  Tears bright in her eyes, Abina gave her mistress a kiss on the forehead and rose to leave. “She’s held on for you, Son,” the stooped servant mouthed to Alric, her words less than a whisper.

  He nodded. The woman still acted like his nursemaid, though he was man now in his twenties.

  “Abina has a slight limp,” he said as he watched her leave.

  The surprise in his voice caused Orlaith’s lips to twitch. “None of us are as we were.”

  And he was away so much, he’d not noticed. His mother didn’t say it, but Alric knew the truth hovered at the edge of her mind … and his.

  “Seeking my fortune has blinded me to the changes,” he admitted. “But I don’t want a share of Ricbert’s birthright.”

  Lambert had told Alric to establish an estate on the seacoast, which he knew Alric loved. But that was a part of the kingdom the elder legitimate son would inherit and so, while it was a generous offer, Alric graciously refused. He determined to seek his own fortune, than either win or purchase the land. His son would have a legitimate birthright. No child of his would know the ridicule and contempt Alric had suffered.

  The very thought of it tasted of bile in his mouth.

  “Your birthright lies beyond the sea, my son. God has shown it to me.”

  Alric held back his response, not wishing to upset her. Her Christian God had allowed her to be taken from the royal womb of her home in the north. Pampered and loved as she’d been, she was still Lambert’s property.

  “It is not here in Galstead,” she went on, then shook her head wearily, the limp strands of her perspiration-darkened hair falling away from her ashen face.

  Alric needed no holy vision to know that. By law, his birthright would not be among his father’s people any more than it was among his mother’s Dalraidi kin. No, the only way he’d have a Celtic kingdom was to take it by force.

  Once King Oswald, bretwalda of Northumbria, chose the Christian faith for himself and all his subkingdoms, the newly baptized Lambert finally succumbed to Orlaith’s pleas that she and her son would visit her family and see that Alric was properly educated according to his noble bloodlines. It was not unheard of for Saxon princes to seek a universally esteemed Irish education. While Lambert’s belief in Oswald’s new Christian God was not that strong, his faith in Orlaith’s promise to return to him was.

  Orlaith’s family had received the returned princess and her son as Celtic hospitality demanded, but Alric and his mother were treated worse there than among the Saxon heathens. Alric’s sword arm grew stronger defending his mother’s honor than it had in practice. Soon his Celtic cousins dared not challenge him. He’d worked just as hard to surpass them in academic study, until his wit was as keen as his blade—

  “You are a prince, my son, and your true kingdom will be won by faith, not by the sword.”

  “Ah, the kingdom of heaven.” Alric tried to suppress the bitterness with which he usually responded to his mother’s sermons. For her sake, he hoped she would inherit that kingdom when her last breath was spent … unless her God rejected her the same way her family had. She deserved a place of honor for all she’d suffered. Although, even the cold grave was a relief from the broken heart he believed had sapped away his mother’s health and given this fever its lethal teeth.

  And it was her own people—Christians, no less—who’d broken her heart.

  “But God also revealed to me your earthly kingdom.”

  His mother’s hold on Alric’s hand slackened, but the light that shone in her eyes would have shamed the sun. Or was it fever? Still, the mention of an earthly kingdom reached through his drowning ocean of anger and grief and pricked his curiosity.

  “Oh?”

  “Its colors are the royal blue of a sky lighted by the moon and its full consort of stars.” She licked her dry, cracked lips to no avail. Death was drawing breath and water from her body by the moment. “And the gold of your hair.” She’d always marveled at his warrior’s mane with motherly pride.

  With a pang of guilt, he leaned closer that she might to
uch his hair once more as she had so oft in his life. He could give her that, even if words of comfort eluded him. Anguish had cut them from his tongue, holding him hostage. His mother was the only truly good thing he knew in this life. Her only ambition was to love.

  “And the symbol on the cloak I made for you. You will know it by that.”

  “Enough of kingdoms, Mother. Save your strength.”

  What did kingdoms or birthrights matter without her? Alric held her hand so that she could finger one of the natural curls that gave her such pleasure. She straightened it and let it go, smiling as it sprang back into shape.

  “My muirnait,” she sighed.

  Beloved. She hadn’t called him that since he was a weanling.

  “Always,” he assured her softly It felt as if stones enough to build a wall round his father’s kingdom had been laid upon his chest. There was so much he wanted to thank her for, so much love he needed to declare, but never had he known the right words to do so. The one thing he believed in could not be measured. But nothing could hurt so much and not be real.

  “And your earthly kingdom, Son, will be won by love.”

  Not this love. It was reserved only for his mother. Then there was the poet’s game to be played upon the fairer sex, or the mutual respect he and his father held for each other … but the love his mother spoke of—

  “I’ve seen her.”

  Alric’s furtive musings stumbled. This was something different from Orlaith’s Scripture-based prophecy, which was vague now and certain only after death.

  “Her namesake is sorrow, yet she will bring you great joy. Her chatter will be like birdsong to your heart.”

  He cleared his throat. “Have you a name?” Why he asked, he didn’t know. Certainly he didn’t believe these feverish mumblings.