Mannan:
A Tale of Vengeance
A Novel in the Chronicles of
Philip Williams
Jason Henry Evans
Table of Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Dedication
Author’s Notes
Acknowledgements
About the Author
Copyright
Chapter 1
Highlands of Scotland,
July1595
The cold fog glowed in the morning sun as lazy waves crashed softly against the rocky beach. In the background seagulls screeched and horses jostled. Men pulled nets groaning with sturgeon from small boats, while others gutted the little fish and lined them up on the shore. Boys ran around fighting the gulls off, protecting the precious hall from the night.
“It should be a fine business we do today, aye Mannan?”
“Aye,” Mannan replied curtly. “That it should.” He glanced at the man-child sitting next to him in his wagon. Ote always made Mannan nervous. He had spent many years’ shoowing boys away from his sister Deborah, and now she was going to marry one.
“Look,” Ote blurted out as he stood excitedly from his seat on the wagon. “That’s them. That’s the traders.” The fog lifted slowly in the highlands of Scotland, but even Mannan could make out the row boats crashing the waves and coming towards them. The trading would begin soon.
“Sit down, you idjit. You’re gonna spill your trade.” Mannan put a broad hand against Ote’s chest and forced him down. Ote’s eyes widened then fell to his lap as he frantically searched for his leather pouch. Grasping it, the boy sighed, bit his lip, and looked sheepishly at Mannan.
Just then they were both distracted by the whinny of Irish ponies some thirty yards away. Five men and a woman stopped their horses and dismounted. Mannan felt a lump grow in his throat as his heart pounded just a little louder.
“Who are they?” Ote asked.
“They,” replied Mannan, “are the Mickens.”
Ote took a bite out of a brown onion. “You’d think the McKenzie’s have no more land to parse out.”
“Quiet boy,” Mannan said. “Gossip is as swift as the wind. What our landlords do or not do is none of our concern.” He turned back to see the Micken clan make their way down to the beach. “Besides, we have one thing in common with them.”
“What’s that?”
“Like us, they escaped the violence and the famine. They escaped Ireland,” Mannan said.
It was all true. But the Mickens had no boats for fishing. They were more cattlemen and herders. Mannan smirked at the thought. Weren’t they all cattlemen back in Ireland? Pushing their great herds from valley to valley trying to find fresh grass for their cows? But that was a different time, a different place. The Highlands were now their home, for better or worse. Scotland may have been barren compared to Lienster’s green fields, but at least in Scotland no one burned your crops. No Englishman pulled your house down or hung you. Yes, food was scarce and the nights were cold, but at least a man could sleep safely in his bed. No. They were better off in the highlands of Scotland.
“Dirgood Mannan,” said one of the Mickens as he tugged his tam.
“God grant you good den, Diarmuid,” replied Mannan.
“You trade with this lot before?”
Mannan nodded.
“And he’s a fair one?”
“Aye. He is.”
Diarmuid nodded then turned towards the sea. He took off his tam and pulled his great hand through a mop of black, curly hair while he adjusted a saddle bag on his opposite shoulder.
As long as Mannan could remember someone came to trade for fish. He had only been a small boy when they left Ireland but he remembered coming to these shores and watching the trade. Fish for finished tools, Spanish wine, wool blankets and anything else that could be bartered.
“Good morning, Mannan.” It was the Micken girl. Riona was her name. She smiled coyly at Mannan as she rocked on her heels to and fro. She still dressed in the Irish fashion, as many of them did. A long liene with its great sleeves, bloused at its waist, made of home spun linen. Over it was the brat, a heavy wool cloak fastened with a simple pin for warmth. Riona’s brat danced and twirled in rhythm, snapping from her shoulders as she swayed. Even the brat could not hide her womanly figure—and she knew it, too.
“Good morning, Riona.” Mannan stood in his wagon and duffed his cap.
“I see your nets are full again,” interrupted Diarmuid as he marveled at the rows and rows of drying fish.
“They’re almost here,” Ote blurted out. The three large rowboats were closer now. So close that men would jump out at any moment to guide the craft to the beach. Mannan gave Ote another stern look. This time the gangly boy crumpled in his seat.
“What do you trade this day?” Mannan asked.
Diarmuid shrugged. “Cattle hides, some pelts, a wee bit of amber.”
Ote nodded while looking at the row boats. “Cattle hides do well,” he said.
Diarmuid eyed Ote, then peered into the back of Mannan’s wagon. “Confident, are you?”
Mannan shook his head. “We trade for basic things today. Broadcloth and blankets, livestock and steel.”
“Steel?”
“Aye, steel. One day we’ll have more horses and oxen. They’ll need shoes. We’ll need plows.”
The Mickens laughed. Diarmuid nudged Riona, who flinched. “I think I found you a husband.” He nodded at Mannan. “A man who thinks ahead.” The others laughed again. Diarmuid turned around, taking his kin with him as they walked to the row boats now ashore. Riona did not follow. She only looked down, her face a bloom of crimson.
Mannan wanted to say something to her, but their interactions were always awkward. It was a game they unwittingly played with each other. On the road, at Christmas & Easter, when the families bartered, and at Mass, too. There was a tension between them. Sometimes it was lovely, and made Mannan feel alive. Other times it hurt too much for words.
“Come on. They’re here.” Ote jumped down from the wagon and ran towards the boats.
Mannan returned from his thoughts. He looked at Riona, who stood motionless on the beach, looking at her shoes. Mannan climbed down, swallowed hard and walked to the Micken girl. He saw her dark brown eyes flash at him through her curly black hair as she turned away. Why didn’t she want to talk to him?
“Mannan!” A voice called out in a thick French accent. Three large boats jutted softly against the beach. The sailors jumped out and pulled the boats inland to protect them from the waves. Mannan had seen sailors of all kinds before but this time one stood out. His long leather cloak billowed as the thin man leapt to the beach in bucket boots newly oiled. “Mannan, mon ami!” The man opened his arms wide to reveal Venetian pants and a smart doublet — both in light blue with yellow trim and fancy gold buttons — as he strode towards Mannan. A cutlass dangled on his left hip. “It has been too long.” The jovial Frenchman grabbed Mannan by the shoulders and kissed his cheeks.
“Jesus, Honor,” Mannan said awkwardly.
Mannan clapped the Frenchman on the shoulder while thinking of Riona as she walked away. “Captain Honor, how do the
winds fair?”
Captain Honor grabbed Mannan tightly, cheek to cheek. His stubble scratched Mannan’s face as he withdrew from the embrace and shrugged. “The Lord gives the wind and takes it. But for me, I cannot complain.” Captain Honor looked down the beach. “Your nets have been fruitful, no?”
“Aye, they have.”
“Come, let us walk.” Captain Honor and Mannan strode the shore. Behind them the sailors walked a small distance away. Occasionally, the captain would turn to his men, point with his tan leather gloves and speak in rapid fire French. “I have brought everything you have asked for, mon ami. But I wonder,” Captain Honor paused to look around. “Do you truly wish to make this place your home?”
Every year Captain Honor asked the same question in a vain attempt to get Mannan to join his crew. Mannan sighed. “We don’t have many options. Do you know of any place better?”
The captain looked down. His mouth moved in silent speech, then suddenly stopped as he looked up and shook his head. “Warmer? Oui. Richer? Oui. Safer? No.” The two continued their walk among the drying sturgeon. “Come with me. I can use a good man like you. With your connections in Ireland, we could make good money.”
“I am flattered. But what about my family? My people?” Mannan asked.
“Are you so valuable that they could not do without you for a year?”
“If things weren’t so bad that the highlands of Scotland was the only refuge my people had, I would gladly go.” Mannan stopped to admire a screaming sea gull as it swooped up the discarded entrails of a sturgeon.
“Everywhere it is bad. Spanish soldiers sack Dutch towns. English pirates attack Spanish ships from Antwerp to Hispaniola in the Caribbean. In France, Catholics murder Huguenots while Huguenots reply with rape and murder in turn.” The captain shook his head in disgust. “The world has gone mad.” Suddenly the old captain’s eyes twinkled maliciously. “But a smart man can make his way in such times. I have seen pig herders become knights and gentlemen. I have seen clerks become barons.”
Mannan laughed.
“It is true. I have even seen a young woman, of questionable morality, sleep her way into becoming a countess.” The captain looked at Mannan. “You would do well.” He looked around at the others. The scrawny and shivering fishermen. The wild Mickens and the other meager Irish who wished to barter and trade. “These people? I can do nothing for.”
A sharp wind crashed against Mannan and the others. “Is it so bad?”
“Violence is intoxicating. It gives the allusion of strength, of righteousness.” Captain Honor looked towards the sea. “Right now the world is drunk with violence.” He turned back and put his hand on Mannan’s shoulder. “You could navigate this world. You could step between the blows and while one man murdered his neighbor, pick both their pockets.” He looked passed Mannan again. “But these people? They would beg for mercy. Like the hungry wolf, violence consumes this world. These people would be sheep to the slaughter.”
“I cannot leave,” Mannan said.
“I know, Mon Ami. I know.” Captain Honor shrugged. “But it was worth the try, no?” The captain looked at the drying fish. There were three rows of fresh fish, lined for forty feet in front of him. “This is most acceptable. Do you have other things you wish to trade?”
Mannan’s lips curled into a smile. He looked at Ote, some twenty yards away, and nodded. The boy ran, all knees and elbows, thin like a crane. “Captain Honor this Ote. Soon we will be family.”
Ote leaned in for a bow and doffed his tam, which amused the captain greatly.
“Show him what you have,” Mannan said.
Ote pulled out a small pouch. His fingers stumbled over a knot he made in the worn leather. Ote gently poured out six pearls.
“Sacre Blue!” exclaimed Captain Honor while his eyes widened. “Where did you find these?”
Ote began to speak, but Mannan stopped him. “My soon to be brother-in-law is quite the pearl diver, is he not?” Mannan grinned now.
The captain picked up one of the pearls. The clouds and fog were lifting, so he hoisted the pearl to the sky to see it with more light. Suddenly his eyes narrowed on Mannan. “What is your price?”
The two men spoke, first cautiously. Then their speech sped up, then stopped. Suddenly they thundered words at each other, then the next moment they leaned towards each other and whispered. At one point Captain Honor bellowed. “No. Absolutely NOT,” and stomped towards his boats. Mannan ran around him and haggled some more. Finally, both men stood motionless, locked in a mutual stare. “Do we have terms, captain?”
A larcenous gleam twinkled in Captain Honor’s eyes. His stone-faced jaw cracked into a smile, then a laugh. “Oui, Mon Ami. We have terms.” The two embraced. Captain Honor’s eyes twinkled with delight. He suddenly turned and narrowed his eyes.
Mannan turned to see the Mickens standing some way off. “Captain, these are our neighbors. They have goods to share, as well.”
Captain Honor smiled and nodded before striding boldly towards the group. Diarmuid’s eyes darted back and forth as Captain Honor approached. Suddenly he dropped to a knee with his head down.
Mannan felt a rush of heat flush through him. Damn Mickens. An embarrassment all around.
Captain Honor chuckled.
“Get up Diarmuid, he’s not the Pope,” Mannan said.
Diarmuid got up and his face reddened with embarrassment.
Suddenly Captain Honor threw back his cloak and bowed to Riona. “Enchante,” he said as he took the girls hand.
“We have hides, captain. Good ones. You’ll see,” Diarmuid interrupted.
“Yes, of course. Show me,” the captain said all the while leering at Riona.
In return, Riona smirked and looked at Mannan. She turned and escorted Captain Honor to their horses which were loaded with cattle hides.
“If that frog touches my sister I’ll—”
“Easy Diarmuid,” Mannan said as he placed his hand on Diarumund’s chest. “He means nothing by it. It’s just his way.”
Diarmuid glared at the French captain. Riona, for her part, played the game and gave as good as she got.
“Go trade, Diarmuid.” Mannan clapped him on the back.
◆◆◆
The trade lasted most of the early morning. Captain Honor shook hands with Diarmuid and ordered his men to load the hides into the boat. Other sailors’ unloaded steel tools, wool cloth, horseshoes and nails into Mannan’s wagon.
Ote’s eyes widened at the goods.
When everything was done, the sailors loaded the Micken’s horses with bags and small chests. Captain Honor offered his hand to Diarmuid. Diarmuid responded by grabbing the Frenchman in a great bear hug. When he released Captain Honor, he shook the Frenchman’s hand vigorously. Finally separated, the captain staggered over to Mannan. “Exuberant the Irish are, no?”
“Every man is happy the day he gets paid,” Mannan replied. “We will feast tonight, you and your men are welcome.”
“No, no. mon ami, I must be off with the tide. More trading to do farther south before I sail back to Calais. But I will return in two months.” He looked about to make sure no one could hear him. “I have some brandy we will share, oui?” The captain smirked.
That brought a smile to Mannan’s face. “Aye, two months.”
The two men embraced like brothers before Captain Honor began shouting obscenities to his crew in French.
“Mannan,” called Diarmuid.
Mannan turned.
The Micken stood dumbfounded. “Double. He paid us double what I thought.”
“Good,” Mannan said as he turned and mounted the wagon.
Diarmuid grabbed his arm. “Thank you, Mannan.”
“Don’t thank me, thank me ma. She suggested that the French might want hides,” Mannan said. He wanted to say more but caught a glimpse of Riona mounting her horse.
Diarmuid turned to see it, too. Then turned back. “Feast with us. Three days from now. Tell all your kin in t
he valley to come. We will host the MacOwens to say thank you.”
“There’s no need for that, Diarmuid.”
“Aye, there is.”
Chapter 2
Mirth followed Mannan and Ote as they made the late morning trek back home. The morning’s barter had gone exceptionally well for everyone. The thought of it made Mannan smile, an act he was no longer accustomed to. Ten years they had been in the highlands. The O’Neil rebellion between rebel Ulster lords and the English crown had gone for so long Mannan had no memory of peace. Every year more men were impressed by both sides to fight. Every year fewer of them came home. It was hard to plant crops or feed herds when both sides burned and pillaged, too. The violence never seemed to end.
As a small child, late at night, gathered around the hearth, Mannan and his peers listened to their mothers and fathers tell stories of the Second Desmond War when they thought their children were asleep. They whispered stories about the Earl of Desmond and his brother, James Fitzmaurice. They laughed softly about the portly Sir John Parrot who sat on an Irish pony waiting to duel Fitzmaurice in a soft Irish drizzle. Then the talk would turn to silence before a cousin or uncle would list all of their kin who died in that war. Then just as suddenly, his kin would sigh and smile in relief, praising the saints and god for the deliverance to the highlands.
The Highlands had a rugged beauty to them. Haunting mountains and unearthly valleys. Strange shaggy cattle and summer snows. It was an austere and dangerous place that would surely kill the foolish or lazy. But if a man was willing to work and willing to plan, he could scratch out a living here. With luck and a strong back, a man and his family could thrive. For the Irish who fled war and famine the choice was simple. A broken back and calloused hands or a burning home and starving children?
Mannan was only nine when he came to the Highlands of Scotland. His father had gone to war when he was eight and never came home. Although he could not understand, a young widow with two children was a target, so his mother made the choice to leave.
Those early years almost broke Mannan and his family. Bitterly cold winters and short wet summers. There was never enough food or wood in their hearth to keep them warm. However, little by little, fortune favored their labors. More neighbors came from Ireland every year. Homes were built, along with barns. Then one day Captain Honor and his ship, The Pink Maiden, arrived to trade for sturgeon. She would return every season with more goods as well as news from home. Today’s trade was the cream on top, in Mannan’s mind. As Mannan handled the reins of the horse, the morning clouds completely vanished and a warm summer sun seemed to confirm their blessings.
Mannan: A Tale of Vengeance: A Novel in the Chronicles of Philip Williams Page 1